by G. P. Taylor
‘Legends?’ Jago gasped as he stopped on a wide stone landing and pretended to look out to sea. ‘You mean ghosts?’
‘Sometimes they are the same – sometimes not. Around here they can mean anything.’ Henson strolled up the steps with the spade over his shoulder.
‘Don’t know if I believe in anything like that, can’t be frightened by what you can’t see.’ Jago panted as he followed on, wondering how a man who looked so old could walk so quickly.
‘They all say that. Mrs Macarty will cure you of your ignorance. A week of her cooking and you’ll be believing in the devil and all his works.’ Henson laughed again as he struck his spade into the earth at the side of the steps and then pointed up the hill. ‘There she is,’ he said earnestly, his voice stripped of all mirth. ‘Streonshalgh Manor. Not the happiest place in the world, but some would call it home.’
Jago looked up. The moon was forcing its way between the wisps of high clouds. They were now above the mist that filled the estuary as it rolled in from the ocean. In the steel-blue light he could see the rooftop of a large baronial house. A tall grey wall, breached by dark windows, reached up to a thick slate roof. To his left was an old church surrounded by a thousand gravestones. The last of the steps gave way to a path that wound its way through the tombs to a pair of iron gates. The Manor House looked cold, empty and unlived in. It was nothing like his flat in Old Nichol Street. There was no Mr Cresco, no radio and no mother. Jago tried to stiffen his trembling lip and fight back the sudden urge to cry.
‘Looks a nice place. I’m sure I will be very happy here,’ he said as he nodded to the man and gave a slight bow before walking on.
‘You’re really not frightened, are you?’ Henson said, looking at Jago as though he was measuring him for the size of his grave.
‘Frightened? No,’ Jago replied as he walked on, not wanting the man to know the truth.
‘House by the abbey ruins. Can’t miss it. Jack Henson. Gravedigger. Don’t forget. Curfew at midnight – don’t get caught – they’ll think you’re a spy. Remember my name.’
Jago looked back. The man stood defiantly at the top of the steps. His long white hair blew in the wind as he raised his hand in farewell.
‘Mad as cheese,’ Jago said under his breath as he clutched the cold iron gates of Streonshalgh Manor for the first time.
Four tall chimneys towered over the house and cast moon shadows on the ground. There was not one light at any of the twenty windows that Jago counted. He slowly pulled open the gate and stepped inside. His feet crunched on the cold gravel path that took him towards a tall statue that stood guard with sword and shield.
Jago ignored the look of its cold eyes as he walked up the steps and knocked on the door. The house seemed to tremble as he heard footsteps scurrying along the stone floor towards him.
‘Who is it?’ asked the voice from inside.
‘Jago Harker. I’ve been evacuated from London,’ he replied as he anxiously checked the tag on his leather coat.
He heard voices whispering inside as if they fought as to who would open the door.
‘Evacuated?’ said another voice as a small spy-hole was opened and someone stared out. ‘Jago Harker?’
‘From London,’ Jago added, only to make the confusion and hubbub worse.
‘He’s from London,’ said the indecisive voice.
‘London?’ asked another.
Then it came like the roaring of thunder at the start of a storm, shaking the nail studded door.
‘TO YOUR ROOMS!’ The voice billowed angrily. ‘Every one of you. What have I said about going to the door? You never know who could be there.’
Jago heard hurried footsteps running away. He stepped back from the door and gripped his case with both hands as he waited.
A bolt was slid, then another and another. The lock was turned with a great key that churned in the workings as it clicked each tumbler one after the other.
The vast brass handle moved slowly. Inch by inch the door opened and a shard of paltry candlelight flooded out.
‘It’s me, Jago Harker,’ he said before he could see what monster was on the other side of the door.
‘Mr Harker, how nice to see you,’ said a prim and neatly pinnied woman of meagre height with a bright smiling face. ‘You have travelled far to be with us … Welcome.’
Jago looked beyond her to see if someone else was hiding in the shadows, someone more gruesome than the woman who stood there now.
‘Is Mrs Macarty here?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said with a smile that reminded him of a smug fat toad he had once caught at Rotherhithe.
‘I have been told to ask for her and give her this,’ he replied as he handed the woman the envelope.
She held up the candle and looked at the writing and then turned it over and admired the map drawn by Bradick.
‘You did well to get here on such a dark night, Jago. Bartholomew Bradick is not the best at giving directions. He works in the world of train lines and feels no need for roads,’ the woman said as she looked over his shoulder into the night and sniffed the air. ‘Best you come in.’
‘And will I meet Mrs Macarty?’ Jago asked.
‘You have,’ she replied. She stood aside and gave him her hand in welcome to the house. ‘I am Mrs Delphine Macarty.’
Jago stepped inside. The house was all he expected it to be. Every wall was panelled with oak, every fireplace stained with wood smoke. He stood in a grand entrance hall. A long staircase led off to an upper floor. A small fire burnt in a blackened grate. Dust covered most of the flagstones. Three small faces peered down from the landing above as Jago was led towards what smelt like the kitchen. Mrs Macarty was quick-footed; her long skirts polished the stone floors as she walked.
‘A wonderful place,’ Jago said without meaning it as he followed on.
‘I am glad you think so. This will be your home until the end of the war – whatever the outcome. The War Office was insistent you came here. I can’t understand why as you look far too old and are far too tall. I only hope I have a bed long enough to fit such a gangly creature,’ she said. The charm she had first given him now appeared to be vanishing.
‘I am six foot and fifteen years old,’ Jago insisted, hoping it would make a difference.
‘We are a society of orphans – one ceases to be an orphan at sixteen and, according to these papers, you at least have a mother,’ she said dryly as she led him along a dark corridor.
‘My mother is dead. She was killed in a bombing … yesterday.’
Mrs Macarty stopped and turned to face him. She looked up and sighed as she held the candle to his face.
‘I am glad to see you are beyond tears. You either hated her every fibre or have mourned enough on the train from London. I do not like tears. I have never cried myself in these last forty-five years since my own parents died and will have my orphans do the same. Crying, Jago, does not make the man.’
She inspected his face again with the candle, looking for any trace of a tear stain.
‘It was a long journey,’ he replied as he took a breath. ‘I will try to be a good example for you.’
Mrs Macarty smiled at him. It was genuine and warm.
‘I am beginning to like you, Jago,’ she said as she pulled at her long silver hair and twisted a lock in her fingertips. ‘I think I will change your room. You are a lad who could do with a view and a window that doesn’t shut so as to let in all that good sea air. I might even be able to find a few pieces of coal for your fire.’
Jago tried to look as though he appreciated her words. He could see her eyes flicking like a snake’s tongue across his face, as if she looked for something that she could not see.
‘It would be welcome,’ he said slowly with a nod of the head. He noticed the peculiar pig-nose shoes that stuck out from under her long skirt.
‘I knew you were a gentleman. I could tell it from the way you knocked at the door and stood your ground. It has been a long time si
nce we had a gentleman around here.’ She shouted the last words as if she wanted all those listening upstairs to hear her. Mrs Macarty leant towards him slowly. ‘There are those who may be jealous about the room you are to have, Jago. It hasn’t been let for many years. Don’t let them frighten you with rumours.’
‘I shall only believe what you say, Mrs Macarty,’ Jago replied warily.
‘Good, good,’ she said as she whispered close to his face. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get unnecessarily … worried. You better follow me. I will bring you some soup later before you sleep. Must be tired with all that travelling … and grieving.’
Jago thought he had heard her giggle as they took to the back stairs. She led on quickly as he feet skipped over the bare boards to the landing above. A long corridor led to three dark oak doors that stood side by side.
‘It is a fine place, Mrs Macarty.’ Jago said as he saw her take a key from her pocket and open the door farthest away.
‘I haven’t had time to clean. I was going to put you in with the other boys – but you are almost a man and perhaps you will need a room of your own,’ she said as she twisted the tag on his coat and read his name several times under her breath. ‘Very well. I will leave you to it. Soon be breakfast … the soup can wait until then. It would be best that you get some sleep.’ Jago had been looking forward to something to eat, Mrs Macarty had obviously not. She slipped the blackened iron key into his hand and was gone from the room. ‘Breakfast at seven – the smell will lead you to it,’ she laughed. ‘Matches in the pot by the window.’
Jago found the matches and lit the candles on the mantel and then pulled the thick red curtains. They did nothing to dampen the chill breeze that crept in through the gap under the bay window. As he did so, Jago was sure he could hear voices on the landing outside. They chattered eagerly to one another as their childlike footsteps scurried quickly over the bare boards. He quietly crossed the room and opened the door. The corridor was empty, all but for a blue Dutch plate on which were laid sweet biscuits and what looked like cheese. To the side of the plate was a matching cup filled with tea.
‘Thank you,’ Jago said as he looked for any trace of the giver.
There was the echo of laughter and then the slamming of a door. All was quiet.
In his room, Jago ate the cheese and looked out of the window across the churchyard to the sea below. He would have called any man a liar if a day ago they had said he would be in such a place as this.
Outside Streonshalgh Manor, the statue of the gladiator was frozen in time, his long, bronze sword pointing towards the church. The moon shadows ran quickly out to sea, the clouds blown by the fresh wind.
As Jago sipped his tea and thought of Old Nichol Street and Mr Cresco, he heard the sound of clattering hooves. On the road, in the shadows of the ruins of the old abbey, were four dark horses with funeral plumes. They regally dragged a black hearse with glass windows. Six men walked slowly behind, each one dressed in a long purple coat. The deathly cortège turned into the churchyard and there it stopped.
Jago looked on as Jack Henson appeared from behind the gate and pointed across the churchyard. The coffin was taken from the bier and carried away to the shadows of the church.
Suddenly, a bell rang in the house.
‘All in bed!’ shouted Mrs Delphine Macarty.
[ 4 ]
Black Strackan
HE LAY ON THE TALL four-poster bed for almost an hour. Each column of wood reached up to the ceiling like a burnt tree trunk. The chiming of the church clock kept him awake and aware of the time. The house creaked and moaned as the timbers cooled. It was a house of numerous noises, some fearful, others not. Jago counted the footsteps along the corridor that went to and fro on tippy-toe. It was as if everyone in the house came to his door and listened. He was expecting at least one of them to knock and ask to be invited in but no one did.
Mrs Macarty continued to shout instructions from far away. She captained Streonshalgh Manor from her wicker chair by the fire in the kitchen and appeared to have the ability to know when a child was out of bed. She would call each miscreant by name, then in a shrill voice command them to return immediately to their room. Eventually, the house fell silent.
Jago still could not sleep. He wrapped himself uncomfortably in the over-blanket. Propped up by the stiff pillows, he watched the candle flicker on the mantel. There were too many dark corners for him to feel welcome. In the half-light, the furniture appeared to move with each jitter of the candle flame. Shimmers of light ran back and forth against the dark, carved panels. Each was caught menacingly in the corner of his eye. The heavy curtains moved slowly from side to side like the heaving chest of a sleeping beast. It was so unlike his home and the small, neat room next to his mother’s. There was nothing familiar here, nothing matter of fact. It was a room that conspired to frighten him, as if it wanted to tell him all that had gone on years before.
Jago did not believe in ghosts. They were just the creatures of Mr Cresco’s imagination, and in all his tales of haunting they were soon and easily vanquished. Now, as Jago lay on the bed, wrapped in the blanket, he began to wonder.
Cresco had said that houses had memories. That in some supernatural way, they could retell all that had gone on before.
‘Some people call it being haunted, Jago,’ Cresco had once said excitedly when they had finished listening to the news on his wireless radio. ‘People expect the ghost to be in human form. They want a man to appear with his severed head under his arm and wail like a banshee. That is only in fairytales. But, in my old country, the ghost that could terrify you more than any other was the house itself. To see a spectre appear is one thing, but to live within it is another.’
It was then that he had asked Cresco if his stories were true. The man had sighed and looked to the fire and covered his mouth with his shaking hand.
‘Some people run away from that which they can see, others from that which is invisible.’
Cresco never spoke again that evening.
Jago mulled the words over and over. The thought of a house being a ghost had become even more real. The room felt oppressive, as if it argued with itself and didn’t want him to be there. Half asleep, he thought of his mother and wondered why she had wanted him to come to this place.
Footsteps walked the landing outside his room. They were heavy and slow and he knew they were not those of the children or Mrs Macarty. As they came closer, he pulled the blanket higher to his face and feigned sleep. They stopped outside the room. Jago listened. The handle turned slowly and the door creaked. He held his breath and for a moment opened his eyes to see who was there.
Staring at him through the half-open door was a man who held a lamp in one hand and a set of keys on a large ring in the other. He cowered under the doorframe to look in. Jago had never seen anyone so tall or with giant like hands. Their eyes met as the man shone the lamp into the room.
‘Sent to see if you were asleep,’ the man said in a voice that bubbled in his throat.
‘I was,’ Jago replied with a yawn as he saw the man look about the room as if he was seeing it for the first time.
‘Some might say you are lucky to be in here – others might not,’ he said. He stared at Jago through sunken eyes that were set in a wolf-like skull.
‘My mother wanted me to be evacuated here and this is where I shall be,’ he replied, watching the man edge further into the room.
‘Didn’t bring much with you,’ the man said as he looked at the leather bag by the window. ‘Would have thought evacuees would bring all they needed. We don’t have enough to keep you in clothes.’
‘I have enough,’ Jago replied.
The man laughed. His face broke into a smile as he tapped his dirty work boots on the floor.
‘Tallow!’ screamed Mrs Macarty from the room far below. ‘Leave the boy to sleep.’
‘Sleep – that’s what she wanted me to see. But you’re not …’ he said plainly as he stooped back through the door. ‘
I will come back, later.’
When Tallow closed the door, Jago got from the bed and slipped the key into the lock. Then he took his bag and placed it against the door.
‘Don’t want him in here again,’ he said under his breath as the curtains moved with a sudden gust of wind that rattled the hem weights on the floorboards.
Jago went to the window and looked out. The night was darker. The moon burst in and out of the clouds as the wind gusted against the high towers of the abbey’s ruined arches. In the precinct by the churchyard, the coach and four stood just as he had last seen it. The horses held themselves stiffly against the breeze as their funeral plumes blew in the wind.
Jack Henson came from the shadows of the church. A man in a long purple coat handed him an envelope. Jago could see it flap in his hand before he quickly put it inside his jacket. Henson stood there, arms folded, and watched the men climb back on to the carriage and drive away. Jago hid his face between the curtain and the wall so he could not be seen. Hen-son turned and looked up at the house. It was as if he was examining each of the twenty-one windows that covered the facade. Then, without warning, he looked straight at Jago and waved before stepping back into the shadows.
Footsteps came again along the landing. Jago could tell that it was Tallow coming to check if he was asleep. The door handle turned.
‘You asleep?’ Tallow whispered in his bubbling deep voice, loud enough to wake the dead.
‘Asleep,’ Jago replied.
‘Good,’ Tallow said, and to Jago’s amazement he walked off, satisfied that he could tell Mrs Macarty that Jago now slept. His feet trudged as he went.
Jago sat on the bed and looked at his leather case. It was all he had of his old life. He still could not understand why Bradick had taken the photograph of his mother from him. He reached out and slipped the case from the door to his bed and began to unpack everything.
In the dim light he found two clean and neatly ironed shirts, four pairs of socks, pants and handkerchiefs. They were all pressed and starched into precise squares. The socks were ironed and folded into shape. He searched the bag for something from his mother. Deep within, under a pair of trousers, was the parcel from Cresco. Jago had forgotten it was there. Somehow it felt different, heavier than he expected for something so small. He laid it on the bed and began to unwrap it. When he had removed four layers of newspaper, he found a note. It was written by Cresco, and he could hear his words leap from the page.