The Ghostly Past

Chapter 3

The first night in a strange place is often unsettling. Clara found herself unable to sleep for hours after unpacking her clothes into the wooden wardrobe and filling a few of the little cabinets in the duck egg blue room. So many questions rattled around her brain, about Max and the village and the creepy man in the darkness. And why had Max been roaming around anyway?

Finally, she fell into sleep and fretful dreams.

It was hot, incredibly so, the kind of heat she had only experienced when travelling in the south of Europe, that dry, arid feeling. The ground beneath was smooth stone, pale and shiny, limestone blocks. They were all around her too and she could hear metalwork and horse's hooves and voices shouting and laughing.

As she walked down the narrow street, shuttered windows on either side, she reached a short flight of steps onto the wall.

At the top, she leaned over to a spectacular view of rolling fields and dry ground. There were scattered settlements in the distance, but the land looked so empty. It was a citadel, she realised as she groaned into wakefulness at the pinging of her alarm.

She felt cold and bereft, lying in an English house, almost as if she'd been torn from somewhere she belonged. Shocked at the violence of emotion, she sat up, her skin icy cold and covered in goosebumps.

Mrs Barker was already up by the time she had showered, dressing in a new shirt and tailored skirt for the occasion. "Bacon and eggs, dear?" The lady asked. "I've made enough."

"Thanks." Clara grinned, taking a seat in the spacious stone kitchen. "This is kind of you."

"Think of it as an apology. I've got some business in the village this morning but I can drive you up to the academy if you like?"

The food was delicious and she accepted the lift this time without qualms, shaking off the unusual feelings her dream had aroused.

The Cantabile Academy was situated in beautiful grounds, a few miles from the village, surrounded on two sides by trees on a curve of the forest. Its gardens were expansive and beautifully manicured, with a painted bandstand she noted as Mrs Barker dropped her in the car park.

It looked like a French villa and the nerves kicked in as Clara took hesitant steps towards it. The imposing academy was made of a pale brown stone, huge glass windows sparkling, each with shutters the colour of terracotta swung wide open as if in welcome. Bright blue pots of plants were scattered at the entrance. Further away, in the grounds she knew was a big block of flats as an accommodation building where most of the students lived.

A young man, twirling drumsticks in his hand came up behind her, laughing as she paused. "New student?" He chuckled. He was slim built, maybe twenty six, with shaggy light brown hair and hazel eyes, set in a face of freckles. "It's okay to be nervous. This place is kind of intimidating until you get to know it." He took her by the arm before she could protest, pulling her through the open doors.

Music of all kinds floated out towards her, Gershwin and Bach, a girl singing Wicked and hip-hop.

"What are you studying? You must be good to get a place here."

"I'm not, I'm..."

"Ah, Miss Fitzroy!" A warm voice called down from the marble staircase. Finally a face she recognised. It was Warren Ford, the Headmaster of the Academy. She had met him on her visit several months ago for her audition. "Welcome to the Academy. I see you've met James Carew, our current percussion assistant."

"I haven't evolved to the level of percussion teacher yet, you see?" James was laughing, "Although that's what I spend most of my time doing."

"You're a teacher?" She asked, surprised. She thought she'd be the odd one out on the staff.