The Macbeth Prophecy by Anthea Fraser

of course, would be at the height of the holiday season. Having been in lodgings for years, we’d decided to look for a flat but Barrowick estate agents held out little hope of our finding one. We were on the point of leaving yet another office when the man we’d been speaking to suddenly said, “Hang on a minute!” and spoke into the telephone. A moment later a girl brought in a file and laid it on his desk.
    â€œThis came in only this morning and we haven’t had time to type the particulars but it could just be what you’re looking for: a self-contained flat at the top of a house in Ash Street. How would that appeal?”
    I was already on my feet. “When can we see it?”
    â€œWell, it’s not officially on the market yet. Apparently the owner’s brother-in-law and family will be there for another month. I don’t know if they’re thinking of letting it long-term, mind. You’d have to sort that out for yourselves. Would you like me to phone and try to make an appointment to view?” Which was how we found Rowan House. It was a tall, three-storey building in traditional Applethwaite stone and it stood in large gardens at the corner of Ash Street and Fell Lane. The Staveleys welcomed us cautiously.
    â€œWe weren’t really expecting anyone so soon; we only phoned the agents this morning. Still, since you’re leaving in a day or two, my sister-in-law says you’re welcome to go up and have a look. It’s self-contained as you can see. We had a staircase built outside, so they’d be completely independent.”
    The flat, as we knew at once, was ideal. The original attic windows had been enlarged to frame magnificent views down towards the lake and the whole effect was light and airy. There were two bedrooms, a fairly large sitting-room, and bathroom and kitchen. Since the other Staveleys were emigrating to Canada they were proposing to leave their furniture which, as Philip and I had none of our own, was a further asset.
    Back downstairs, we talked terms with Mr and Mrs Staveley. They had intended to let the flat for the holiday season and then find permanent tenants in the winter, but since barely six weeks would elapse between the present family’s departure and our own arrival, they were prepared to hold it for us. Once again, things had gone our way.
    It was only later that it struck me as strange that, with nothing settled regarding our careers, Philip and I had been confident enough of our return to pay a deposit on the flat. Perhaps, though we were unaware of either its significance or its potency, Janetta’s “Macbeth prophecy” had already taken hold of us. Subconsciously, we were not prepared to relinquish the promises made.
    I remember very little of the last term in Swindon, but one incident sticks in my mind since it was less than comfortable. On the day I received a letter from Mr Sedgewick inviting me for an interview, I could contain my exuberance no longer, and broke into the general conversation in the staff-room with my news.
    â€œIsn’t it the most incredible luck?” I continued jubilantly. “My brother and I will be together again, and in such lovely surroundings! It’s a most attractive place, all narrow, twisting little streets and courtyards, with the lake at the bottom of the hill and the Gemelly Stone Circle at the top. And you know my passion for ancient monuments. I can potter around to my heart’s content, while –”
    â€œJust slow down a minute, Matthew,” John Dobson interrupted at last. “Are we to gather from all this gobbledegook that you intend to leave us?”
    â€œMost certainly I do – at the end of this very term!”
    â€œIt might be kinder to be less enthusiastic at the prospect!”
    â€œSorry, but to be brutally frank, I can hardly wait! Philip’s already applied for a post there, and I’m off for my own interview next