Hobbling into the kitchen, flanked by George and Annabel, Gran smiled at my mum’s quizzical gaze.
‘What happened?’ My surprised mum placed the drained potatoes on the table before she dropped them.
‘I was rescued from solitary confinement in a small place. I dropped my stick on the floor. That loo of yours is so low, I couldn’t stand up. These three helped me out, thank goodness, but the lock will need fixing, I’m afraid. I was rattling it so much that it fell off.’
My dad groaned. ‘Another bloody job…and I suppose you’d like a new raised toilet seat, Dorothy?’
‘Oh well, yes, thank you Albert.’
My mum distracted her from Dad’s annoyance. ‘I’ll get you a mince pie with your tea eh? Thought I’d bake an early batch so I could perfect them by Christmas.’
‘Don’t forget a drop of brandy, eh? I’m really shook up, love. You have got brandy haven’t you, or whisky?’
‘Well, actually not yet, we’ll get some later.’ She glanced back at Dad. ‘Won’t we, dear?’
‘I expect so, if the snow doesn’t come; the forecast is for overnight, another problem with this isolated spot and a rough track outside.’ Poor Dad sounded tired.
Mum sighed and watched him go into the kitchen.
‘He gets a bit on edge, Mum, with everything we have to do and fear of losing his job an all, but at least he’s not limping.’
Dad shouted back: ‘There’s some whisky.’
There was no hesitation from Gran. ‘Oh that’ll do fine, but if it’s a single malt, I’ll have it separately, dear.’
Mum and Dad exchanged amused looks, but Mum then looked concerned. I heard her whisper to Dad, ‘Hope she hasn’t become a serious drinker.’ She giggled. ‘Oh well, it is Christmas.’
Mickey was excitedly wagging his tail, circling Gran and looking into her face, all doe-eyed.
‘Hello, Mickey, it’s so lovely to see you. Do you like this house, then?’ She always spoke to animals as if they’d answer her back.
Mickey cocked his head on one side then the other and gave the hint of a whimper as she gently massaged his ears then, noticing him watching her eat and salivating profusely, she sneaked him a bit of her pastry.
She was smiling at George while she dropped a few more crumbs for Mickey.
‘I’ve not seen you before, young man.’
‘I’m George.’
‘Hello, George, I’m very pleased to meet you but so sorry that you had to meet me in a lavatory.’ George smiled as she went on. ‘Do you live nearby?’
‘Well, not really. I live about three miles away. My mother brought me today.’
‘Oh, you’ve got a car? You are very lucky, not many of us can afford a car. Albert’s car is very old and not too reliable. He should be looking for another one.’
‘Not something else, dear mother-in law,’ Dad groaned.
‘Hardly anyone had a car when I was a young girl and now quite a lot of people are buying these televisions. A lot of money, they are.’
‘Don’t ask me to buy one of them!’ Dad snorted.
‘Times change so quickly. I bet everyone will have a television and a car in the future, you’ll see.’ She swallowed her whisky in one gulp. ‘Any more whisky, Albert?’
Dad’s face was a picture. He muttered something under his breath as he went back into the kitchen with her empty glass, but luckily Gran and Mum were too busy talking to hear him.
I looked out of the window. It was too dark now to do any more digging and soon George’s dad, Arthur, would come to pick him up. In fact, there he was. You knew it was Arthur because he knocked in a rhythmic style, the same five beats every time, followed by a miserable expression on his face.
Gran opened the front door and introduced herself.
‘Err, it’s Arthur, missus,’ he introduced himself. ‘George’s dad.’
‘Yes, hello, come in, Arthur.’
George went ahead of me as we both heard his dad arrive.
‘Found any more treasure, have you?’ he asked his son.
‘What treasure?’ asked Gran. I got the impression from her raised chin and scrutinising expression that she didn’t quite like him.
‘Oh, haven’t you heard, love? They found a goblet, I reckon it’s a goblet anyway. Lots more where that came from, I wouldn’t wonder, in a house like this.’ His head did a sort of half circle as he looked all around the hall and up towards the galleried landing.
My gran’s head cocked to one side. ‘Really?’
Arthur looked a bit embarrassed and hurriedly said good night, ushering George into the car.
Later that evening, Gran stopped me at the bottom of the stairs just before I was about to go up.
‘Is that true, Tom, about a goblet?’
‘Err…Gran, are you going to your room? I’ll show it to you but it’s all a secret.’ Once in the front bedroom, I brought the goblet to show her. She looked amazed.
‘Tom…this is worth something, I’m sure. I’ll buff it and make it shine. This needs to be valued.’
‘You will keep it secret, won’t you, Gran?’
‘If it’s a secret, how come Arthur knows about it and not your dad?’
‘George obviously told him. Mum and Dad…don’t believe any of what I say. There are ghosts here, Gran, I’m sure. I haven’t seen him properly but I know he’s a hooded figure; might once have been a priest. Then there’s voices, low voices, more like whisperings and last week, I found a box in the tunnel…’
‘Ghosts? A priest? A tunnel?’
Had I said too much? Would it scare her?
‘There’s a long shaft, right next to the chimney which goes into a tunnel under the house. So technically the ghost isn’t in the house, but somewhere under it.’
‘Wait…how do you know this? How did you get into a tunnel? Tom, you had better not be playing games with me.’
I hesitated. ‘I’m not playing games, Gran. I climbed into a passage that runs behind that cupboard.’ I pointed to the cupboard in her room. ‘It seems there a lot of passages, secret ones: priest holes. That particular one goes to the back of my room.’
Her eyes rested on the cupboard. ‘That cupboard? In this room? My room? I’ve got to sleep in here, where a man might come through that cupboard: a hooded man? Have you lost your mind, Tom?’
I couldn’t help but chuckle. Typical Gran reaction.
As I stared at her, she fished inside her bag and swigged a large gulp of whisky from a hip flask. I was at a loss for what to say next but just managed some reassurance.
‘We’re on to it, Gran. George and I think it’s a sad spirit and so does the man in the newsagents in the village.’
‘He knows about a ghost in this house?’
‘Yes, his friend used to live here when they were kids and some eerie things happened. Not only that, Gran. There’s a weird big bird here, a raven and sometimes he swoops really low and tries to peck you; like he doesn’t want you here. The man in the newsagent said the bird was some sort of curse. The boy was starting to find out what happened when his family had had enough and they moved away.’
‘Hmm. I’m not surprised. Come to think of it, your Uncle Charles said strange things happened on a particular night—Midsummer’s Eve, I think it was—but, ah, Charles was always on the rum!’
‘Gran…that’s also what the man said: “It all happened on Midsummer’s Eve.”’
Gran now looked very worried. ‘What all happened? What did he mean? Didn’t you ask him?’
‘Don’t think he knew properly. We don’t know, but George and I—and maybe Annabel at times—want to find out. The other thing is, there may be another way to get into the tunnel. When we got you out of the lavatory, we were digging and Annabel struck something hard. I think we may be on to something, but we need to keep digging.’
‘Don’t dig deep holes, Tom. It could be dangerous.’
‘Don’t worry, Gran.’
*
Over dinner, G
ran had hardly been able to contain herself. I knew she wanted to spill the beans. Mum had commented on how quiet she was and Gran had looked at me as if wanting permission to disclose everything I had told her. I subtly shook my head.
When the table was being cleared, she came close to me. ‘I can’t take my eyes from the cupboard Tom. My whisky flask needs replenishing, ’cos of what you have told me; it helps me sleep. It’s difficult to keep all this secret, not to be telling your mum and dad. You must.’
‘Not yet, Gran.’
*
A stick had been placed where we last started to dig, in case there was more snowfall.
I thought that this must be a trapdoor of some sort. At one end it appeared to be lower, as if it had started to sink at some point. Whenever Gran saw me, she quizzed me on our progress. But one day, Mum heard her whispering.
‘What are you whispering about, Mum?’
‘Oh…Alice…just asking Tom if he’s got a girlfriend. He’s that age now, he could have a secret lady.’
That was a good one for Gran; I was impressed. ‘I told her I have several, Mum.’
‘Oh that’s nice,’ Mum said, disbelieving of course, and went back to the kitchen.
Then, later that same evening, there was an early snowfall. It was only mid-November but it had been unusually bitterly cold. I was on my way to my room, when I spotted Gran napping in the hall chair.
We were both startled by the front door being flung open. Dad appeared, in a very bad mood.
‘That’s it! All finished! The mine is closing for good. Not making any money so we all have to be on the bloody scrap heap.’ He stormed upstairs, straight past me without acknowledging me, but yelled down to Mum. ‘Now your mother will have to help pay these bills or we move house again, something bloody smaller.’ He slammed the bedroom door behind him.
By this time, I was at the top of the stairs. I looked down. Gran was standing at the foot of the stairs, having been joined by a worried-looking Mum.
I will never forget their faces as they stood and stared at me. We had been learning about the Second World War at school and their expressions reminded me of a passage that Mr Wilson had read out, reciting the words of Neville Chamberlain announcing that Britain was at war and showing us pictures of stunned people as they listened to the radio.
‘It’s going to be all right, you know.’ Gran said to her daughter, before giving her a big hug.
‘But you knew it might happen, Mum.’ I said.
It didn’t seem to help. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’ll put the kettle on.’
That’s it, I thought. Put the kettle on, it solves all sorts. Tea and whisky.
That night as I lay in bed, I realised I wasn’t as much concerned about Dad losing his job, but at not yet finding the other tunnel entrance. I suppose, at sixteen, the implications of being broke with a large house to maintain just didn’t register.
My dad walked around as if he were wading in treacle, his head low and his face set in a glum expression. He stopped joking or even talking very much but did get irritable and started to grow a beard.
Everything was an effort; the puffing and sighing became tedious. He didn’t have the heart to get interested in Christmas preparations and was miserable to be around.
One morning at breakfast, Gran offered to give him money for petrol to take her into Chesterfield.
‘Why don’t you call on Alice in the library and pick yourself a book, eh?’ said a cheery Gran.
Dad shot her an indignant look. ‘Why do I want to read a book?’
‘You’ve never given yourself the chance to read properly, have you? Your generation left school early and started work, then there was the war of course, but now you have the time. I know you’re looking for work but just go in and have a browse. You might find something of interest. Tom can go with you. It’s half term after all.’
*
While Gran ambled around the shops, I accompanied my dad to the library. Mum saw him, ‘Oh, Albert, glad you’ve come in. I’ll make us a cup of tea. It’s nearly my break. Why don’t you go over there in the quiet part and I’ll be over in a jiffy.’
Dad moseyed around, glancing at the books on the shelves. I stayed with him, wanting to know what he was interested in.
‘What am I doing in a library, Tom, for God’s sake?’’
‘Books can be really interesting, Dad. Keep looking.’
Then something grabbed his attention: the word Becton, on the narrow spine of an old book.
All the books in this section were old and now he read a sign above the shelves: Local History and Folklore.
He picked it from the shelf and flicked through the pictures, stopping as he noticed a very old, yellowed photograph of our house. He sat down and noticed the words: Thought to be haunted.
He slowly mouthed the words again out loud. ‘Haunted.’ Then it became a question: ‘Haunted?’
‘Albert!’
Dad almost jumped out of his skin. Mum came to join us with a tray of tea.
‘The boss said she didn’t mind if we didn’t linger too long. We’re not busy but I will have to get up and see to people if there are any queries,’ warned mum. ‘Found yourself a good book?’
‘Actually I have, yes. There’s a picture of our house. Look. It says it’s haunted.’
They looked at the picture with interest. ‘Oh, what a shame.’ Mum announced. ‘You can’t borrow this one, dear, it’s for reference purposes only. Complete rubbish about the hauntings, anyway. We haven’t seen a thing. It’s probably accurate to say that the house was much larger in its original state but the ghost thing is laughable.’
At least Dad still looked interested. ‘What are these priest holes dating back to the late sixteenth century?’
Gran walked in and looked over dad’s shoulder. ‘Can’t find much in the shops. Oh…you’ve got a book about Becton Manor, your very own house, how about that?’
Dad nodded then, breaking his words into manageable syllables, he slowly read out: ‘And mani-fest-ations on Midsummer Night’s Eve?’
Gran looked at me quizzically. Now we might have to tell the tale.
‘Oh dear Albert…that’s what Uncle Charles said, but I thought he was simply on the rum. Don’t worry, there are things they can do – there are exercises to get rid of spirits.’
‘Exorcisms, Gran.’
‘What?’ Dad sighed. He’d had enough of ghost talk. ‘I’m off, hearing all this about where I put my head at night is just making me feel worse.’
Mum was irritated. ‘Albert, it’s high time, you drove Mum and Tom back before the traffic builds. Enough of this fantasy nonsense.’
But Gran had another browse on the way out and noticed books on antiques. She chose one which had pictures of Tudor goblets, except the word used in the book was ‘chalice’.
She remembered the markings from when she’d polished the goblet I had found, the stem featuring a barley-twist design, and looked for a similar picture. After a couple of books, she found one giving approximate values at auction and then her eyes widened. She beckoned me over to read it:
The majority of chalices from the Tudor period, as this one is, were destroyed following the Dissolution of the Monasteries in 1530. The chalice is silver but the Latin inscription has been worn down so is illegible. The base has a tongue and dart decoration around the rim of the foot. The stem is of a barley twist design. There is a band of arabesque engraving around the rim. Various inscriptions refer to the ‘blood of Jesus Christ’.
Approximate value: £1,500.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.
‘Are you two coming?’ asked Dad impatiently. She nodded and then turned to me. ‘Tom, if that story about Midsummer Night’s Eve is true, we have about six good months. Because, by the sound of it, when that time comes, Becton Manor may not be a nice place to be in.’
Chapter Sixteen
Spring 1598
Mary remained unconscious, prayers held every morning and e
vening to beg for her to recover. The earl sat one side of her bedside and his son on the other.
‘Will she ever greet me again, Oliver, in her beautiful red dress? She is desperate to get to court, you know. I don’t know why. She prefers to run wild and free, like Sabre. She watched you all the time as you were growing up. She so wanted to join in your games, to be strong, climb trees and catch butterflies and moths.’
A tear escaped from Oliver’s pooling eyes.
‘Yes, father. She was better than me at catching insects. So quick.’ They managed a weak smile but neither could sustain it.
Lady Charlotte did not stay long away from her bedside. She now joined them, occasionally giving way to loud wails. ‘I cannot bear this, William. I cannot bear it.’
Oliver sobbed. His mother hugged him close, before he suddenly broke from her clutches and ran from the room.
Frances stood at the back of the room in attendance. She wanted to run after Oliver but knew she must stay where she was in case her mistress needed her. Lady Charlotte sat opposite her husband.
She and the earl each held a delicate white hand in theirs. Then Mary suddenly called out in a piercing shriek: a banshee from another world.
Her body writhed and struggled with God-only-knew-what. Blood, mixed with spittle, oozed from her tightly clenched teeth. Urine dripped onto the floor after the sheet could no longer absorb it, and the bedhead rhythmically creaked at the strain of her tormented frame.
‘Tell Henry to fetch the physician, now… Now, I said!’ Charlotte screamed at Frances. The horrified housekeeper was jolted into action.
‘Yes, my lady.’ She turned and ran down the stairs. The earl was helpless. He knew the physician could not help her.
As suddenly as it had started, it stopped. She was lifeless: her lips blue, her body mottled.
For a moment, Lady Charlotte’s astonishment froze her to the spot, staring with anguish at her beautiful daughter. Mary’s chest no longer rose and fell. She slowly stood and shook her daughter’s shoulders, protesting vehemently at this sudden end.
The Curse of Becton Manor Page 13