The Dream Weavers

the cottage’s owner, that he had come here to find the peace and seclusion he needed to finish writing his book, ever conscious of his impending deadline, but since the first day he had opened his laptop and, coincidentally, begun work on the chapter about Offa’s Dyke, the voice had been there, calling.
That night she came again. He woke with a start, conscious only of the sound of her voice so close outside and of the absolute emptiness of the cottage. Sitting up, he stared round the bedroom in the dark as downstairs she began to bang on the front door. She was sobbing bitterly.
Turning on the lights as he went, he ran down the stairs and dragged the door open. No one. Stepping onto the terrace, he shouted into the cold mist, trying to see her, but there was no sign of anyone there; nothing but the empty swirling whiteness.
He waited until morning to ring his landlady. It wasn’t only the physical chill of the place. It was that the cold went right through his bones to his very soul. This had to be sorted.

1
Bea arranged to meet Simon in one of her favourite coffee shops in Church Street, almost in the shadow of the cathedral, round the corner from her home. They had never met before, but she spotted him at once, hesitating in the doorway, looking round. His glance swept over her, moved on, then came back. She wondered what sort of person he was looking for. The one he saw was a woman of middle height, her hair wavy, mid brown, no make-up, but undeniably attractive, with clear skin and large grey-green eyes. She raised a hand and he nodded, threading his way between the tables towards her.
She half expected him to be embarrassed. People usually were when they talked about ghosts; embarrassed or dismissive or scared, but he seemed calm and humorously resigned.
‘Mrs Dalloway?’
‘Beatrice, please. Or better still, Bea.’
He smiled. ‘I’m Simon.’
The waitress brought their coffee and Bea studied him surreptitiously as the girl set out their cups. He was tall – he had had to bend his head beneath the low beams as he crossed the room – with a hearty outdoor complexion, a sturdy tweed jacket, tousled blond hair and hazel eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would have had him down as a local farmer, certainly not the London academic Chris had described. Age: indeterminate. Probably much the same as her.
‘I expect Christine has filled you in on my problem,’ he said when the waitress had gone. ‘When I rented the cottage, she never mentioned a ghost.’
Bea found herself grimacing. ‘I don’t think, to be fair, she knew there was one.’
Chris, one of Bea’s staunchest and best friends, had bought the small tumbledown building several years ago. With the help of her husband, Ray, she had done it up to be the most perfect retreat.
‘I have heard a great deal about her tenants over the years, and as far as I can see if they find anything at all to gripe about in what must be one of the loveliest holiday lets in the country, a ghost has never been one of them. So, what makes you think there is one?’
He pushed the milk jug towards her. ‘I don’t. That was her idea.’ He gave a sudden grin. It lit up his hitherto rather solemn face. ‘When she couldn’t think of any logical explanation for the voice I’ve been hearing, it was the only thing she could suggest. Being the perfect landlady, she knew at once who to turn to. I could hardly offend her by telling her it was a ludicrous idea. I take it you know the cottage?’
Bea nodded. ‘I’ve been there a few times.’ She was trying to suppress her sense of excitement. She was intrigued.
‘And you didn’t ever feel anything amiss when you were there?’
‘No, but then I wouldn’t necessarily have done so. I wasn’t looking for a problem.’ She thought for a minute. ‘I’m not sure if you know anything about my rather unusual job, Simon, but presumably Chris filled you in, or you wouldn’t be here. I don’t walk around the town seeing ghosts wherever I look, all touchy-feely and other-worldly. Nor do I do exorcisms. There is a very competent deliverance team here in the cathedral who will help you if that is what you require. Or there is a psychic Druid who lives over in the Black Mountains beyond Hay who can perform an equally good service if you choose to take that route. I trained with him myself a few years back. I myself work as a freelance practitioner.’
For a moment he looked dumbfounded. ‘So, what do you do exactly?’ he asked at last.
The touch of amused scepticism in his voice brought her up short. Taking a deep breath, she reined in her enthusiasm. ‘I deal with situations that other people consider frightening: the darkest corners of old houses, the sudden banging of doors, the creak of floorboards, the shadows thrown on a wall from an unseen presence. I go to houses that are uncomfortable, find out why and remove the irritant. It may indeed be a ghost,’ she glanced up at him with a rueful smile, ‘but often it’s no more than a draughty corner, or it may be something in the underlying geology of the land; it may be something simply sorted by what people call feng shui; it may be underground water or an unhappy tree or an unfortunate choice of wallpaper, or sometimes merely a difficult neighbour.’
She had spent years training to deal with whatever arose, to rule out the obvious, to produce a screwdriver, to ring a plumber and, occasionally – very occasionally – to speak to lost souls, to reassure the newly departed and guide them gently on their way, to work with shadows and echoes and re-enactments from a past not as long gone as it should be.
He rubbed his