Re-read Elizabeth Jenkins’ short story, On No Account, My Love yesterday. Published in 1955, it’s short, well-written ghost story, ideal if you like creepy atmospheric writing rather than full-on horror. It’s about a young woman who visits the now-empty house in which her grandmother – a battleaxe, according to family lore – ran a girl’s school, with the proverbial rod of iron. There are hints that the young woman possesses untapped mediumistic tendencies, as yet untapped, and while there she is keen to a connection with the matriarch, whom she never met.
It might be a bit tame for modern tastes, but I really like the tone of the story, which is one of those tales that’s ideal for a rainy winter’s afternoon when the shadows are getting longer. (I know spring is on the way, but it didn’t feel like that yesterday with all hail hammering on the windows.) Its also about getting in touch with the past and facing up to preconceptions – and also maybe about the potential danger of trying to take peek ‘behind the curtain’. If you get a chance to read this story, I hope you like it as much as I do.