When We Were Warriors

by Emma Carroll

5

  To make matters worse, the front door was wide open. Though Stan and Maggie flew after her, the little sausage dog was too quick, bolting straight outside into the sunshine. By the time they reached the front steps, there was no sign of her anywhere.

  ‘Great.’ Stan ran a hand through his hair. ‘Now what?’

  Maggie’s bottom lip started to tremble.

  ‘No crying, Maggot,’ he warned her.

  ‘But if I haven’t got Lobelia then my dare won’t even count,’ she wailed. ‘We have to have proof. Clive said so.’

  And Clive’s a chump, thought Stan angrily.

  The gardens were huge. To the left were lawns, to the right trees, hedges, flower beds full of roses and wildflowers. And after that, a path leading to a wicket gate and the woods beyond. Finding a small dog out here would be like searching for a dropped penny on a pebble beach.

  Yet suddenly Maggie yelled, ‘There she is!’

  Sure enough, about a hundred yards away, darting between the hedges, was a small brown shape. Maggie jumped up and down. ‘Lobelia! Coooo-eeee! Come here, good girl!’

  Though the shouts practically deafened Stan, Lobelia ignored them. They quickly lost sight of her again. Stan tried not to think about Miss Barrington waking up to find her dog missing. Or that when he finally caught the little rat, he’d have to pick her up somehow. He really didn’t have Maggie’s confidence with animals.

  Meanwhile, the sound of yelling had brought Lalit back across the lawn to the house. He was carrying what appeared to be a croquet mallet.

  ‘I was coming to ask if you wanted a game,’ he said.

  ‘My sister will,’ Stan replied quickly before Maggie could object. ‘Just don’t let her do any more dares.’

  Following Lobelia’s trail was relatively easy. Being so stumpy and low to the ground, she flattened the grass with her belly as she went. Very soon she was back in Stan’s sights, but by heck, she could move. Running as fast as he could, Stan still didn’t stand a chance of catching her.

  ‘Come here, you little worm!’ he cried, wiping the sweat from his face.

  The more he shouted the more Lobelia thought it all a wonderful game. She even had the cheek to stop every so often, wag her tail, then, just as he made a grab for her, bound off across the garden. It was so frustrating.

  Stan would’ve given up there and then if it wasn’t for Maggie. He’d already disappointed one sister: he wasn’t about to let the other one down. Besides, Being outwitted by a sausage dog wasn’t a thing to be proud of.

  Having done a good few laps of the garden, he now – rather gratefully – found himself in a cool, shady spot surrounded by hedges. They were the tall, clipped kind that rose up like dark green walls, and seemed to soak up noise. The air, for being so still, felt softer too. The dog had disappeared again.

  Stan walked on, trailing his fingers over the leaves. Up ahead, the hedges forked, one path veering left, the other curving to the right. He wasn’t sure which way to go. Lobelia’s belly-tracks had long since disappeared, so perhaps it would be a better idea to go back the way he came. But when he turned around, the hedges looked different. There were other hidden paths he’d not noticed before, and the hedges themselves seemed to block out the light. If this was one of those garden mazes, then he was lost.

  The only thing for it was to keep walking. Stan turned back, sticking to the path he was on and following it to the right. He prayed he’d find Lobelia up ahead.

  Rounding the corner, he stopped.

  ‘Woweee!’ Stan stepped back and gazed upwards.

  It wasn’t the dog he’d found but an enormous statue of an angel. He’d seen similar ones in church graveyards, all floaty-looking with big feathery wings. Only this one was so huge, he had to tip his head right back to take it all in.

  The grave, so the writing on it said, was Christopher Edward Barrington’s, known as Kit. He’d died in 1871. With that surname, he had to be a relative of Miss Barrington. And, Stan guessed, probably the same Master Kit in whose bedroom the boys slept.

  Reading the dates beneath the name, he did a quick bit of maths. Poor Kit had only been fifteen when he died, nearly the same age as June. It was hard to imagine her – loud, full of life, annoying – being dead.

  The quiet between the hedges felt eerie, suddenly. Gooseflesh spread up Stan’s arms. The stone angel stared down at him, blank-eyed and yet at the same time as if it could see right inside him.

  ‘Stuff this for a lark,’ Stan muttered to himself.

  Hurrying in what he hoped was the direction of the house, he found the right way surprisingly quickly. It was a joy to be out in the warmth again, to feel the sun on his face.

  Passing the flower beds, he heard a snuffling behind him.

  ‘There you are, you toerag!’ he cried, as Lobelia trotted past like butter wouldn’t melt.

  This time he managed to grab her.

  ‘Don’t you dare bite me,’ he warned, holding her at arm’s length.

  She wagged her tail, wriggling furiously like a caught fish until she managed to land a lick on his nose. It tickled, making him laugh.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said, cradling her like he’d seen Maggie do. As Lobelia closed her eyes blissfully, even Stan could see she was about as savage as a baby mouse.

  On the lawn, he found Lalit playing croquet alone.

  ‘What on earth have you got there?’ he cried.

  ‘Miss Barrington’s dog: my little sister’s contribution to the dare game. Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘She went off with your other sister,’ Lalit replied. ‘The bossy one.’

  Stan grimaced. ‘Thanks. I’d better go and find them.’

  Almost immediately, back at the house, he ran into June. She was sitting on the stairs, combing her hair. Maggie was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where’s Maggot?’ he asked.

  ‘Upset,’ June replied. ‘Something about a dog she says she got from the East Wing, but it ran away and now no one will believe her.’ Then her eyes snagged on Lobelia. ‘Thought you didn’t like dogs.’

  ‘This one’s quite nice, actually,’ Stan admitted.

  She laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh, either. ‘Oh, I get it. That’s the dog, isn’t it? The one Maggot’s upset about?’

  ‘She’s called Lobelia,’ Stan tried to explain. ‘And she’s a right little—’

  June interrupted. ‘You’re going to take her straight to Clive, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why would I do that? It’s Miss Barrington’s dog, not his.’

  June rolled her eyes irritably. ‘Because of the game. You’ve found Maggot’s dog and now you’re going to claim the dare for your team.’

  ‘No, I’m not!’ Stan didn’t like how she was twisting things around.

  ‘Good.’ June resumed her hair-combing. ‘You wouldn’t want to choose Clive Spencer over your own sisters, would you?’

  ‘Actually, I’d be on your team if you’d let me.’

  ‘You’re a boy, Stan. That’s not how it works.’

  ‘But I’m your family,’ he told her. ‘And we don’t have to tell anyone.’

  He felt stupid, pleading with his own sister. But to his surprise she put down her comb.

  ‘I s’pose we could …’ She sucked in her cheeks, thinking it over. ‘Tell you what, I’ll give you a trial. But you’ll have to do the dares.’

  ‘I will,’ he replied, a bit too eagerly.

  ‘And you promise to be brave?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Because we’re going to win this game,’ she warned him. ‘We’re going to wipe that smug look off Clive Spencer’s face and stuff it in his back pocket.’

  It might have been a threat, or a truce. Only time would tell. In the meantime, June insisted he hand over Lobelia as proof of Maggie’s dare.

  *

  At supper, Clive was so unnaturally quiet Miss Potter asked him if he was sick.

  ‘The score’s one–nil to us,’ June whispered to St
an, which explained it. ‘Don’t get too excited, though,’ she warned him. ‘There’s still two more dares to go.’

  6

  That night Stan awoke with a start. Through gaps in the curtains, moonlight shone in, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he was able to make out the other boys’ beds. They were arranged in three rows of four, the best spot being near the window where Clive and his chums slept. At that moment, he was glad not to be on his own. His earlier encounter with Kit Barrington’s grave had spooked him. Not to mention what Sadie had told them about her strange night-time visitor. But now he had promised June he’d be brave, he’d have to start acting it. Easier said than done.

  As he rolled over in bed, Stan felt the wet patch.

  ‘Oh no!’ he muttered.

  There was no mistaking the cold clammy sheets or his soggy pyjama trousers. Being in a room with eleven other boys didn’t feel so reassuring, suddenly. He couldn’t bear it if any of them found out he’d wet the bed.

  As quietly as he could, Stan untucked the top and bottom sheet, and peeled off his trousers. Over by the window, Tommy turned over in bed. Stan froze. Once he’d started snoring again, Stan yanked on his school shorts, grabbed the wet sheets and legged it out of the room. He stopped at the top of the stairs to think. All he had to do was find where the clean sheets were kept and dump the wet lot in the laundry. It couldn’t be that difficult.

  Stan crept down the stairs to the hallway. Despite it being a warm night, he felt suddenly rather cold. A prickling sensation came over him, as if he was being watched. Sadie’s story flared up in his brain again but he pushed it aside, remembering his promise to June.

  In the dark the door to the servants’ quarters looked the same as all the others, but felt fuzzy to the touch, like it was covered in carpet. The door opened on to stone steps, which led to a passageway. Stan took a deep breath. He wasn’t scared, exactly. He just wished he’d brought a torch.

  Down in the servants’ quarters, the only light came from little high-up windows. Ahead of him, all along the passage, moonlight fell in silver patches on the floor. Stan took it as a sign – a reassuring one – that he was heading in the right direction for the linen cupboard.

  The first room he came to was the kitchen. He’d never seen so many pots and pans in one place, nor a dresser so big it covered the entire wall. It’d take a whole army to run a kitchen like this. And all just for Miss Barrington.

  June said she’d never want to be a maid. No young person in their right mind did these days, apparently. Better jobs were to be had in shops or factories, which was why so many big old houses were being divided up into flats or knocked down completely. Sad when you thought about it.

  Through a pair of glass doors, the passage went on. And on. A whole other house seemed to exist down here, one that was bare and practical, like the engine of a giant machine. Stan started to worry he’d get lost again. The wet sheets, bundled up against his chest, smelled unpleasant. He needed to find a washtub and a linen cupboard – and get a wriggle on too.

  Thankfully, a few doors down he found the laundry room. In it was a sink, an enormous mangle, and what looked to be an old copper for doing the wash in. On the floor were buckets: filling one with water, Stan stuffed the sheets and pyjama trousers in to soak. It was a relief to be rid of them. Now all he had to do was find some clean bedclothes.

  Out in the passage, the moon had lost its brightness, making it hard to see anything but the dark shapes of doorways and the grey stone floor. Stan could almost feel the weight of the house’s thick old walls pressing in on him. Despite his best efforts, he was soon thinking about ‘ghosts’ again. It wasn’t exactly hard to, down here, on his own. He told himself not to be a chicken. In old houses like this someone was bound to have died over the years – Kit Barrington had. It didn’t mean Frost Hollow Hall was haunted.

  The corridor came to an abrupt halt. Two cupboards faced him, which looked as promising for storing laundry as anywhere had. Inside the first were pails and fusty-smelling floor mops. It took a good heave on the handle to open the other. The smell coming from inside was damp, old – a bit like this whole house smelled – only strong enough to catch in Stan’s throat. Stacked inside the cupboard were boxes, a fair few of them too. Disappointed not to find any sheets, he was about to shut the door when he noticed the top box wasn’t properly shut. Something gleamed inside.

  Reaching into the packing straw, he felt books, a biscuit tin, and then something cold, like metal. Stan lifted it from the box. It seemed to be an ice skate, the leather old and dry, the blade rough with rust. The boot was for a largish left foot. Checking the box again, he couldn’t find the other boot to make up the pair.

  That didn’t much matter, though. He was suddenly thinking of the dare. If he gave June the skate, it’d be proof that he’d been down here, in the servants’ quarters. He didn’t have to be completely honest about what he’d actually been looking for. As far as he knew, no one else had gone below stairs yet, especially not in the dead of night. It’d put them ahead in the game, two–nil. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Forgetting sheets, he stuffed the skate inside his pyjama shirt and hurried back to the green baize door. He was almost at the top of the steps when he heard a thumping noise, then voices in the hallway. The dogs started barking. Footsteps tap-tapped across the marble floor.

  ‘I don’t know who it is, Sylvia, so stop clinging on to my arm.’ The voice was Miss Potter’s. ‘The only way we’ll find out is by opening the door.’

  7

  Bang bang bang!

  Stan cowered as a light flickered under the door. Thankfully, they weren’t coming for him. The door Miss Potter was talking about was the front door. Someone was hammering on it mightily hard too. The dogs’ barking had turned into a manic, high-pitched shrieking.

  Stan opened the servants’ door a tiny crack, pressing his eye up against it to see what was happening. The lamps were all on. The hallway looked grand and impressive, and not remotely haunted any more.

  Miss Potter was now standing on the doorstep.

  ‘What the devil do you want at this hour?’ she cried. For all her bluster, Stan could hear the wobble in her voice.

  ‘Sylvia’ hovered behind, thin and nervous in her dressing gown. He guessed she was the famous Miss Barrington, since in her arms, squirming to get down, was Lobelia.

  Please don’t let it be spies out there, or Nazis, Stan thought, excitement and terror making his heart thud. Old Tilly might be able to see off a German, but he couldn’t imagine these two or their sausage dogs putting up much of a fight.

  Miss Potter’s tone changed to one of surprise. ‘Oh! We’ve got a bit of a situation, have we? You’d better come in, then, all of you. Chop chop!’

  Within moments the hallway was full of soldiers, around whose ankles the dogs were now wriggling and whimpering for attention. Though Stan only counted about fifteen men, they were as solid and as broad as oak trees, and wearing smart beige-coloured uniforms with funny hats that sat on their heads at a crazy angle. As if to make the point, the man in charge took his off very politely.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, in a deep drawling voice, ‘forgive us for intruding on you in the dead of night.’

  ‘Good grief, American soldiers!’ gasped Miss Barrington, clutching her dressing gown to her throat.

  Stan’s eyes were on stalks. He’d only ever seen Americans on the cinema screen and loved how they always knew the right thing to do. He loved the accent too, and hearing it out in the hallway now made Miss Barrington’s proper cut glass way of speaking sound as if she should be a presenter on the radio.

  He eased the door open a fraction more.

  ‘Ma’am,’ the man in charge said again, ‘my name is Colonel Bagatelli.’ He had dark, slicked-back hair and a moustache so thin someone could’ve drawn it on with a pen. ‘I’m afraid our driver here, Johnson …’ he thumbed at the person standing rather guiltily behind him, ‘he took a wrong turn on the
main road, and now our truck is stuck in a ditch, just outside your gates.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Miss Barrington gasped. ‘No one’s hurt, I hope?’

  ‘No, ma’am, though the truck’s leaking oil and is gonna need fixing.’

  ‘My father has a farm horse. He can pull your truck out—’ Miss Potter began.

  ‘Tomorrow, Edith,’ Miss Barrington interrupted, then smiled at Colonel Bagatelli. To be fair, he was movie-star handsome, and it was clear as day that she’d noticed. ‘You’re welcome to stay here tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ The colonel gave a little bow, then ordered his soldiers to take off their boots. They did this in a flash – all except the driver, Johnson, who was gazing up at the paintings and the chandeliers. He was dark-skinned – darker than Lalit – and, like the other soldiers, was muscular, tall and handsome. Yet the way he stared about him, almost damp-eyed with emotion, got Stan thinking about what Tilly had said, about boys showing their feelings.

  Bet he’s never seen anywhere like this before, either, Stan thought, remembering how he’d been dazzled by the house when he first arrived. Actually, he still was. There was something strange, something magical about Frost Hollow Hall. Something he couldn’t quite explain in words. He could feel it, though, like a tingle under his skin.

  Meanwhile, as the late-night visitors headed for the library, something caught Miss Potter’s eye on the stairs.

  ‘You, girl!’ she barked. ‘Get back to bed at once!’

  Stan cringed: he wasn’t meant to be out of bed, either. Pretty soon the Americans would want sandwiches and cocoa, and when Miss Potter went to the kitchens, she’d find him hiding behind the door.

  So, once it was safe to do so, he made a break for it and crept out into the hall. From the library came the sounds of chairs being dragged across the floor. On tiptoe, and keeping a tight hold of the ice skate, he sprinted up the stairs. He found June in her nightdress, sitting near the bannister at the top.

  ‘Crikey!’ he gasped. ‘Was it you Miss Potter just shouted at?’