The Girl in the Scrapbook Carolyn Ruffles (read an ebook week txt) 📖

It turned out that they'd been trying to press the dial, rather than turn it, as that was what they did at home. This set the tone for the duration of their stay. Nothing was good enough or, rather, nothing was the same as it was at home. When they moaned that there were no Yorkshire puddings with their Christmas lunch and it just was not the same without them, Jennifer felt like throwing the turkey at them.

The only good thing that happened over Christmas was that they obviously couldn't see ghost girl who had wafted through the living room at different times on Christmas Day. If the cottage was haunted, other people seemed to be unaware of it - reassuring for the business, if not for her state of mind.

After the Carters, Jennifer had been especially anxious about the arrival of a young mum and her three-year-old son. She had gone to great lengths to childproof the cottage and had scoured charity shops looking for a selection of toys for him to play with. Great Chalkham was not the sort of place which would usually attract a young woman alone with a child in January and Jennifer wondered at their choice and how they might wish to spend their time. When her car had pulled up, she had actually felt butterflies in her stomach as she prepared herself for the worst. She need not have worried. Emily was charming, polite and eager to shower her with compliments and her son Alex, so shy and serious for a three-year-old, was adorable. After the biscuit fiasco, she found herself relaxing and enjoying looking after them. There was something about Emily, so slender and wistful looking, which made Jennifer feel protective of her. She had jumped to the conclusion that Emilyhad parted from Alex’s father and had needed to get away from painful memories in the marital home and it was only later, when Emily had spoken about Adam, with such warmth in her voice, that Jennifer had been forced to re-evaluate. Even as they'd chatted and laughed so amicably together throughout the evening, she was still thinking that something did not quite add up. There was some kind of mystery attached to Emily’s visit here, she was certain of it.

Then ghost girl had appeared and all her previous thoughts had been blown out of the water. Emily could see her too. What’s more, she'd been able to see her all her life. Once this had been established, Emily had fetched a leather-bound scrapbook and proceeded to tell her story. They had sat long into the night, poring over the photographs and debating theories. By the time they said goodnight, they'd come up with a plan. Firstly, they would telephone Angela Carr, the Chalkham resident who had been compiling information about the village’s past, and, if possible, pay her a visit. They would then have a pub lunch at the Fox and Hare and ask Jill Riddleston if she knew any older villagers who might be able to help. Jeremy Willis and the Blakes, whom she had met at the quiz night and who had run the post office for thirty years, were other candidates who might be able to provide some information.

From the moment she'd found out about Emily’s quest, Jennifer had been determined to help. The fact that she owned a haunted cottage and had seen proof that the ghost had once been a real person, with a husband and son, was enough incentive but she was also hooked by Emily’s story and, indeed, by Emily herself. The young woman was striking to look at – a heart-shaped face, lovely smile, gorgeous, curly, strawberry blonde hair – but there was something about her eyes which was quite compelling. They were an unusual colour, almost green, and fringed with long lashes, extremely beautiful, sparkling with good humour and yet there was something else, a sense of yearning hidden in their depths. Now she thought about it, the ghost girl, Molly, had the same eyes, except hers held the infinite sadness of a tragic life. Their colouring and build was similar too, she realised, although Emily was taller and her hair was a much lighter shade. It was definitely a possibility that the two could be related.

With that thought, she closed her eyes but found that her brain was still whirring. There was something else niggling her, something about Emily’s mannerisms which struck a chord but which she was unable to pin down, something that felt familiar and somehow comforting. Maybe that was why she felt so drawn to her and why already she felt like she had known her for years. If only she could think what it was …

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By ten o’clock the next morning, Emily, Jennifer and Alex were heading down School Road on their way to visit Angela Carr. When Jennifer had phoned her earlier, she'd been thrilled by their interest and very keen to show them what she had. Even better, she was free that very morning. Jennifer could not help but feel optimistic and, judging from the barely concealed excitement in Emily’s face, she felt the same.

Angela Carr lived in a detached cottage not dissimilar to Jennifer’s except that it was larger, with two storeys and had lots of modern details. It was in pristine condition, with an immaculate, thatched roof and pink, painted walls but it also boasted aluminium-framed windows, a glossy, white front door and an expensive security system which were clearly twenty first century.

Angela herself was a large, square-jawed woman with short, iron grey hair and a bulbous nose. She was dressed in a baggy, beige, woollen jumper and a tweed skirt. Her voice had the loud, booming quality of a woman who was used to giving orders and getting things done.

‘Come in, come in,’ she bellowed. ‘Leave the child’s pushchair there. It will be quite safe, I’m sure. No, don’t take your shoes off. Follow me. I’ve got all the photographs in the