2006 - Wildcat Moon (6 page)

It must lead down to Skilly Beach, somewhere opposite the old Boathouse where mad Gwennie lived…

He’d read about secret passages and stuff in history books; they were usually used by smugglers or priests, hidden away in the olden days.

A gust of wind rattled the chapel again. The floorboards moved beneath his feet.

This was real interesting but he needed to get out of here quick before the whole bloody chapel blew away with him in it.

He stepped out of the cupboard and closed the door.

It was lighter in the chapel now. The moon was directly in line with the glass window above the altar and it was lit as if by a spotlight. The colours of the glass in the window were astonishingly beautiful and Archie was bathed in a rainbow light. He looked like Joseph in his coat of many colours.

He must have stood there five minutes or more when a cloud blotted out the moon and the chapel was thrust into darkness.

That was it. He’d been brave enough. All he wanted to do now was to get out of the spooky place, hurry home and snuggle down in his bed.

He unlocked the chapel door, opened it just a crack and peeped out into Bloater Row.

It was dark, the wind as wild as hell and he saw with dismay that the lights were out in the Pilchard Inn.

Damn and blast.

Nan must have closed up early and that meant that his father would already be at home.

Hell’s bells! He would have pulled across the bolts on the front door. Archie was locked out.

He tried to think fast but panic was dulling his thoughts. He couldn’t stay outside all night in this weather; he’d freeze to death by the morning. But where could he go? He’d have to go back into Hogwash House and stay the night in there.

Then he stared in absolute terror. There was a shadowy figure outside Hogwash House, someone looking to the left and right as though they shouldn’t be there. They were trying the door of the porch. Burglars.

Ghosts on the loose.

Benjamin got up out of his grave.

Suffering starfish!

He could see the figure moving around inside the porch.

He could hear the rattle of keys or, more likely, the clanking of chains.

He must be imagining it.

He blinked, shook his head. When he looked again there was no sign of anyone. It was just his nerves making him jumpy, he was all to pieces.

He stayed very still, sure that he could hear another noise, someone or something breathing heavily nearby. There was someone hiding in the shadows not far from where he stood.

The place was alive with ghosts and ghouls and God knows what else.

A spasm of fear rattled up his backbone.

He ducked back into the chapel, locked the door with a shaking hand and then backed away.

Moments later he thought that he heard the sound of someone trying the door…

Holy Jesus and all the saints of heaven protect me.

A rat ran across the floor, brushing against his foot.

Frantic with fear he crossed to the cupboard, slipped his good leg over the wooden panelling and felt for the first step on the narrow staircase. If he could climb down the steps to the beach at least he could hide. He climbed cautiously down, one foot in front of the other…

He slipped, clutched out wildly at the slimy walls and saved himself.

He took another step downwards into the dank, salty darkness. And another.

Then he fell.

His calliper clattered against rock and for a moment he felt as if he were flying, hurling downwards into the darkness.

For a fleeting moment he was surrounded by stars and then he felt the water sucking him under.

Deep, deep icy water.

Too deep for a boy who couldn’t swim to save his life.

It was almost pitch black in the woods but old Gwennie didn’t need a light to find her way through. She could navigate her way by the feel of the trees, the gnarled oak and the horse chestnut the outline of the tiny gravestones in the animal graveyard.

She moved slowly, surely, until she came to the edge of the woods and then she stepped out onto the moonlit lower lawns.

Killivray House loomed up eerily before her. A light was on downstairs in the drawing room and another upstairs in the nursery.

She crossed the lawn as quietly as a cat, climbed the steps that led to the rose garden and hurried through. She crept across the top lawn, taking pigeon steps along the terrace as she made her way towards the drawing-room window.

She stood in the shadows of the old house, watching the huge moon, listening to the roaring of the wind in the trees; the swirling of the leaves across the gravel drive; and the creaking of the ancient eaves in Killivray House.

Then she peeped through the window.

Margot Greswode was sitting hunched in a high-backed chair, an empty glass in her hands and her eyes closed, although Gwennie could tell that she was not sleeping.

It was the first time she’d seen Margot Greswode up dose and in the flesh. She looked the worse for wear, her lovely face was flushed and streaked from crying and her pretty hair bedraggled. By the looks of her she’d had a good skinful and please God she’d sleep tonight.

Gwennie stood there for some time looking intently at the woman and then she made her way back across the terrace and on down to the summerhouse from where she could keep a watch on the house.

The summerhouse was unlocked and the door rattled noisily as she stepped inside. She shivered now for it seemed even colder inside than out. She breathed in the damp and decay that was all around her; the place hadn’t been used for years. The gingham curtains were gone from the windows, scraps of rotten material hung there now and cobwebs covered every surface. The broken door on the cast-iron stove hung on one hinge and creaked in the draught. Cracked picnic crockery lay under layers of grime on a lopsided shelf.

She clasped her hands tightly together and recalled a summer’s evening here a long, long time ago.

The air was soft, heavy with the heady scent of honeysuckle and herbs. Beyond the windows the sky was streaked with crimson weals. Wood burned in the stove and steam rose from the kettle. The cracked leather couch in the corner was bathed in the last of the sunlight and dust motes fizzed in the air. There were yellow poppies drooping in a chipped blue vase and a wasp was busy in a box of windfall apples.

She had watched him approach, making his way across from the house. She could still hear the sound of his feet on the gravel, the profile of his face as he passed the window and the sound of the door opening like an intake of breath.

He had stood for a second, framed in the doorway, the pale moon rising like a halo behind his head.

Then the feel of his arms around her, the smell of his warm skin and the first ever touch of his soft lips on her neck.

She remembered the call of the haughty peacock from the lower lawn and then suddenly a squirrel chattering angrily at them through the window.

The sound of their laughter ringing out.

Standing there together in the gathering darkness, waiting for the soft fall of night…

What a fool she’d been for thinking that anything could come of it or that it could ever have worked out between them. It was the arrogance and innocence of youth, she supposed, those headstrong days when everything seemed possible if only you wanted it badly enough. They’d loved each other with a passion, but they were poles apart a huge void of class and culture between them.

It was doomed from the start and they should have known better, should have put an end to it, but they hadn’t and as a result lives had been blighted.

The light went out in the drawing room of the house and a few minutes later a light was switched on in an upstairs bedroom.

Gwennie watched, waiting impatiently for the light to go out when suddenly Margot Greswode appeared at the window. She stood with her nose pressed against the pane, the palms of her hands pressed against the glass like a woman in despair, a woman desperate to escape.

If she was that unhappy all she had to do was come down the stairs and walk out into the night. But perhaps it wasn’t that simple for her?

Gwennie watched the woman, tried to feel some sympathy for her but she couldn’t, she didn’t have it in her to feel anything other than hate and scorn for the Greswode family.

Margot Greswode remained at the windowfor some time and then suddenly she stirred herself, closed the curtains and soon the light went out. There was only the faint glimmer of a night light in the nursery now; the rest of Killivray House was in darkness.

Gwennie waited until she was sure that everyone was asleep, then she made her way round to the back of the house. She tried the kitchen door but it was locked. Taking a sheet of newspaper out from her pocket, she worked it underneath the door. Then she took out her penknife and stuck the blade into the lock and wiggled it around.

After a few moments the key slipped from the lock and fell onto the paper. She bent down and carefully pulled the paper towards her. The gap at the bottom of the door was just wide enough to allow the key through.

She picked up the key and let herself into the house and crept through the once familiar rooms to the hallway.

If she hadn’t caught sight of her reflection in the mirror of the hallstand she could have fooled herself into thinking mat time had not moved on, that she was young again and full of hope. She glanced with disdain at her reflection, at the stoop-backed woman who looked back at her, a wizened old crone, eyes bright with a hint of madness.

The house had barely changed in all the years since she’d last been here, except for the absence of the animals of course. What a madhouse it had been!

The carpets were worn now and the furniture jaded but still the silver dock tinked in the drawing room and the old stag stared patiently from his place on the wall.

She climbed the staircase one step at a time. The fifth step still creaked as it always had. The stuffed bear at the top of the stairs looked down at her enquiringly, as if to say, you’ve taken your time coming back.

The nursery door opened with the tiniest of clicks. She stepped inside the room and looked around her. The rocking horse still creaked in the draught and the dying embers in the fire glowed brightly. A one-eared teddy bear sat on the window seat eyeing her balefully. A dolls’ house had replaced the wooden fortress of the old days and on the clothes-horse there were girls’ clothes now.

How she had loved this room once. She’d always thought it would be a wonderful room for a child to have as its own. She’d hoped that one day her own child would wake in such a room as this.

She bit her knuckle to batten down the sob that was rising. Then she made her way on tiptoe towards the bed where the child lay sleeping.

The girl lay half in and half out of the covers as though she had slept restlessly. Her eyelids flickered and her mouth twitched into a fleeting smile.

So this was Charles Greswode’s granddaughter!

The child whimpered and Gwennie backed away from the bedside. If she awoke now she would be terrified to see an ugly old crone staring down at her like something from a nightmare.

The girl snuggled further under the covers.

Gwennie moved closer.

She wouldn’t harm a hair of the child’s head of course, even though she was a Greswode. She just wanted to see her out of curiosity. She’d never dapped eyes on the girl in all the time she’d been living in the Boathouse. Poor little maid was kept like a prisoner.

She drew closer to the sleeping girl and smiled with delight This child wasn’t anything like Charles Greswode or his son Jonathan to look at. Thank God! She didn’t take after her mother much either. Apart from the long hair she was the very spit of Thomas Greswode when he was a boy. She even had the small star-shaped birthmark on her neck. Gwennie ached to reach out and touch the silky hair, trace the outline of that determined little chin and stroke the soft downy skin on her cheeks. No matter that her father was determined to keep her away from the world, this child had spirit and he wouldn’t be able to keep her down for ever.

In Nanskelly School Miss Eloise Fanthorpe stood in the upstairs study looking out as dawn broke. The storm had blown itself out during the night and now the sea was calm beneath a sky streaked with a pink and golden wash.

She turned away from the window and smiled to herself as her eyes rested on the large, framed photograph that hung above the fireplace.

It was of a group of men standing outside an ancient house deep in the French countryside. Her father was in the photograph and on his left was a small fellow not much bigger than a dwarf but with a gigantic moustache that curled up almost to his eyes. He was holding a baby in the crook of his arm, a baby looking straight into the camera, eyes enormous with surprise. On her father’s right stood a nun, smiling brightly.

She looked closely at her father’s face, the sweet whimsical smile that belied such a brave heart, particularly where children were concerned. He was standing there, a frail old man although looking so vibrant, so alive and yet, a few weeks after this photograph was taken, he was dead.

She stirred herself suddenly. All this reminiscing wouldn’t get her jobs done. She crossed the room and settled down at her desk to write the letters she’d meant to finish last evening.

She picked up her pen, dipped the nib into the inkpot and began to write;

Nanskelly School,

Linketty Lane

Near Freathy

 

Dear Mrs Greswode,

 

Thank you for your enquiry regarding a place for your daughter Romilly at Nanskelly School. The entrance examination takes place in May of each year and if successful your daughter would be able to join us in September 1960. There are several scholarships of full fees available for those girls gaining a distinction in the examination…

When she had completed the letter she put it into an envelope, sealed it and added it to a pile that she had written earlier. Later she would ask William Dally the gardener to walk down to the village and post them.