Writer's Life by Eric Brown Page A

deny myself the opportunity of discovering the truth.
    By the time I emerged from the tunnel of shrubbery, the rain had abated, and the sun appeared from behind the clouds. Edgecoombe Hall stood before me, presenting an even more inimical façade for being so theatrically bathed in sudden sunlight.
    I braked the car and remained inside for long minutes, aware that I was gripping the steering wheel as the survivor of a shipwreck might cling to flotsam. My pulse hammered at my temple, and sweat soaked my shirt.
    I climbed from the car and approached the Hall, unsure now the time had come whether to knock on the main door or try the side entrance.
    There was no sign of another vehicle: perhaps, I told myself, he had not yet arrived.
    As I stood, momentarily paralysed by indecision, I heard a familiar sound from within the building.
    The high joyous trill of a young girl's uninhibited laughter issued from the dour precincts of the Hall, a sound as golden as the sunlight without.
    I attempted to peer through those windows not obscured by ivy, but what little I could make out of the interior was lost in shadow.
    Then the great timber front door opened, and instantly the girl's laughter ceased.
    He stood upon the top step, smiling down at me—and again I received the impression of great age and amiability.
    "Mr Ellis, Daniel—splendid that you could make it."
    His face was thin, his hair gun-metal grey, and though there was about him a suggestion of infirmity—in the slight stoop of his frame, as opposed to his ramrod posture of yesterday—yet he seemed to glow with a lustrous vitality.
    I found myself saying, quite unrehearsed, "Who are you?"
    He smiled, not at all put out by the question. "Daniel, I think you know that by now, don't you?" It was almost a laugh.
    I cleared my throat, began, "You... are you-?" I halted, unable, for some reason, to bring myself to say the name.
    He came to my assistance. "I am Edward Vaughan Cunningham-Price, to give me my somewhat long-winded title."
    I opened my mouth to speak, but remained inarticulate.
    He smiled. "Would you care to come inside?"
    I stood rooted to the spot, quite unable to move.
    At last I said, "What happened in '96, and before that, in the Great War?"
    He considered my question. "In '96 it was necessary for me to move on, and likewise before that in 1916-"
    "How," I said, hearing my words as if from a great distance, "... how old are you?"
    He nodded, as if this were a perfectly reasonable question. "I am one hundred and seventy-eight, Daniel."
    He peered into the sky; a cloud scudded across the sun, suddenly darkening the Hall. "I think rain is on the way. You'll catch your death if you remain out there. Do come in."
    He stood back and gestured with an outstretched hand for me to enter. He was the epitome of genial hospitality, and for some reason it came to me that, despite everything, I could trust him.
    I mounted the steps one by one. At the top I paused, facing him. "How is that possible?" I murmured.
    He laid a hand on my arm. "Daniel, that is what I came here to explain. Please, this way..."
    He turned and walked into the Hall. I followed him across the chessboard tiles, down a long corridor towards the back of the house. From time to time he made comments over his shoulder about the weather, and asked me if the drive up had been pleasant, as if such mundane smalltalk might put me at ease.
    A part of me expected to see the laughing girl dancing in delight somewhere in the Hall. And yet, at the very same time, some intuitive part of my consciousness knew that she would not appear.
    We passed though a double glass door, and for a second I thought that we were stepping outside: then I found myself in a vast conservatory, quite denuded of vegetation.
    I looked around, bemused. I had expected to be shown something—I have no idea what—but the great glassed-in area was empty.
    Cunningham-Price moved to the centre of the floor and stooped, lifting the ring of a trap-door