Saint Ninian
A GHOST STORY
I came back that Christmas Day by Church Road, so called because at the end of it stood the parish church of St Ninian. Snow and a bright blue sky lengthened the short afternoon. I was alone. I had expected to be alone for the rest of the day. The odd tourist might still peek through my gate and across the garden at the lake, but given that the forecast was for more snow later in the day, it was unlikely. I had stoked the fire before I left, and I expected when I got back the interior dusk of the cottage to be glowing warm with its heat. Although by no means an actual Cotswold cottage - it was a smallish dwelling – it had been referred to as such by everyone from the estate agent to the binman.
Mary and I had spied it when we were first together, and even when she left, after making it clear that I was unworthy of her, I went ahead, with some mistaken notion that she would retract her judgement, and bought it.
