‘Not that I remember,’ Orla said. ‘Nobody mentioned this was hidden away in the basement.’
‘That’s a shame. The man who owned the place before you didn’t really live here at all. He had a bit of work done on it, but he spent most of his time in Italy. I don’t suppose he knew it was here either.’
Bill took a closer look at it, a frown of concentration on his face. ‘You know, there is someone who might know a bit more about this.’
‘Who, Bill?’ Orla asked.
Bill pursed his lips, looking as if he wanted to keep the information locked inside them.
‘Cranbrook. Ernest Cranbrook. Local historian. Used to live in The Saltings – the big house by the quay – but moved inland after his wife died.’
‘Have you a number for him?’ Luke asked.
‘No, but I know where he lives. We could take a chance and call round. But I should warn you . . .’
‘About what?’ Luke asked.
‘He’s a little . . . What’s the polite way of saying it? Eccentric.’
Orla smiled. ‘That’s okay,’ she told him. ‘I totally get eccentric!’
‘You’re okay going, then?’ Luke asked her.
Orla nodded. She could feel her heart racing, but knew it was with excitement about finding out more about the castle as it was about nerves in leaving its safety.
It didn’t take long for the three of them to leave the castle. A short drive in Luke’s van took them to the tiny hamlet of Sidbourne, with its fine flint church and a huddle of houses overlooking a green.
‘It’s that one there,’ Bill said, pointing to a red-brick cottage with a wonky chimney and an overgrown garden.
‘Ah,’ Luke said.
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ Bill said, shaking his head in despair. ‘Before his wife died, she was a passionate gardener. The Saltings was always immaculate. But it was all left to go over after she passed. Used to drive Mildred Smy nuts. She was always banging on doors, trying to get people to keep their gardens neat and tidy. “For the greater good,” she’d say. I think she was relieved when Ernest sold up and moved out here.’
The three of them got out of the van and Bill walked ahead, opening a gate that was only half on its hinges and heading up a path made of brick but which had disappeared under a sea of weeds long ago. Bill tutted.
‘Breaks my heart. I should come out here and take it in hand.’
He approached the front door. Luke followed next, with Orla behind him. She had grabbed a favourite hat at the last minute but had decided not to hide behind sunglasses.
Bill rapped on the door, which was sun-bleached and had flaking paint. Orla noticed net curtains at the windows which were decidedly grubby. Or maybe that was the windows. Or possibly both.
Bill knocked again and, when the door opened, a curly-haired man wearing tiny round glasses stared at them. He was probably about the same age as Bill, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Whereas Bill always looked completely present and alert, this man looked a little glazed and vague, but his smile was a welcoming one.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘Ernest? It’s Bill. From Lorford.’
Ernest frowned. ‘Bill . . . Wilson!’
‘That’s right.’
‘Always loved that name. A good rhyming sound. Bill Wilson!’
Orla smiled.
‘And these are my friends – Luke and Orla.’
They both came forward and shook hands.
‘Good to meet you,’ Ernest said.
‘Orla owns the castle now,’ Bill went on.
‘Does she, indeed?’ Ernest’s small eyes lit up behind his glasses.
‘Actually, it’s that we’ve come to talk to you about.’
Ernest nodded, his smile still in place, but didn’t make a move to invite them in.
‘Can we – er – come in?’ Bill tried.
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive me. Where are my manners? Come in. Come in!’ He opened the door wider and they all entered a dark, narrow hallway lined with books, only there weren’t shelves or bookcases – only the books themselves, stacked in teetering, tottering piles. Orla glanced at Luke, whose eyes betrayed his amusement.
As they walked down the hall, Orla noticed a door open into a room on the left which, like the hallway, was full of books. These, though, looked a little more organised, sitting on shelves. There was also a single wooden chair and a telescope. That was all.
‘This way,’ Ernest said, leading them into what, in a normal home, might be a sitting room but was yet another room full of books. ‘There’s a sofa in here somewhere,’ he told them, obviously aware of what the room must look like to visitors.
Bill came forward and moved a heap of newspapers and notebooks. There were so many notebooks, all of differing sizes, and Orla couldn’t help noticing that the ones that had been left open were full of neat, tiny writing in blue ink. Luke and Orla helped, carefully taking an armful of the books away, placing them on the floor.
‘Ah – there it is!’ Ernest said with a winning smile once the sofa was revealed. ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw it. Do please sit. Can I get you anything? What is it young people drink these days? I’m sure I could find a teabag of some description.’
‘Oh, no – really,’ Luke quickly interceded.
‘No need to go to any trouble,’ Orla agreed, secretly dreading what Ernest Cranbrook’s kitchen looked like and not wishing to consume anything that might come out of it.
‘We were just hoping for a bit of information,’ Bill began as he sat down on the sagging sofa. ‘Orla – would you like to tell him what you’ve discovered?’
‘Yes,’ she said, sitting next to Bill as Luke examined a couple of old prints on the mantelpiece. ‘We’ve uncovered a rather unusual carving in the basement of the castle. What used to be the dungeon. It was covered up. Luke’s just found it. It’s carved at the bottom of an arch and looks pretty old.’
‘And what does it depict?’ Ernest asked.
‘Well, I think it might be the Wild Man,’ Bill said.
‘I had a feeling you were going to say that,’ Ernest told him, nodding to himself as he moved across the room towards a precarious tower of books. ‘Now, then – where is it? I know it’s here somewhere.’
Orla glanced at Luke again and they exchanged a bemused look. Did this man really know where all his books were? It seemed unlikely and yet there was a decided purpose about him and, sure enough, he pulled a book out with a triumphant cry. ‘The Wild Man of the Sea! A Tale of the Suffolk Coast.’ He handed the old hardback with the ripped cover to Bill, who flipped through it before handing it to Orla. It was a grubby-looking tome with pages that were yellowing and mottled, but there were some very good illustrations inside of green men, hairy beasts and something that bore a striking resemblance to her very own Wild Man.
‘Could we show you our Wild Man?’ Orla asked him.
‘At the castle?’ Ernest said.
‘Yes.’
‘We could take you there now,’ Luke said, on his feet in an instant. ‘That is, if you’re not doing anything.’
Ernest smiled. ‘My dear man,’ he said, taking his round glasses off and polishing them with a hanky pulled from his pocket, ‘I haven’t been doing anything for the last seven years.’
Chapter 17
While Orla’s first experience of taking a trip in Luke’s van had been absolutely terrifying, Ernest Cranbrook’s was one of great joy.
‘Well, I say! This is exciting,’ he said from the back seat, where he sat next to Bill. ‘I haven’t been to the castle for years. Not since I was a boy and we’d sneak into the garden at night. Remember, Bill?’
Bill gave a funny little cough.
‘What’s that, Bill?’ Luke asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
‘Just boy stuff,’ Bill said elusively.
‘We used to go scrumping, didn’t we, Billy?’ Ernest said with a chuckle. ‘Apples, pears, cherries – you name it!’<
br />
‘There was an orchard?’ Orla asked.
‘Long gone,’ Bill said.
‘What a shame.’
‘Indeed,’ Bill said.
‘Used to fill our bellies in there,’ Ernest confessed just as they reached Lorford.
Luke was still chuckling to himself as they drove through the market square, pulling into the castle’s driveway a moment later.
One Ear was thrilled to see the new arrival and made sure every pocket of Ernest’s waistcoat was sniffed and prodded in case there were hidden biscuits. Then it was down to business. Down to the basement.
‘What a treat this is,’ Ernest kept saying. ‘A real treat!’ His pink cheeks glowed with anticipation as they descended the spiral stairs in a slow single file. One Ear, eager not to miss out, followed at a sedate pace.
‘Well, here it is,’ Luke announced as they reached their destination.
For a few moments, all was quiet as Ernest bent double to examine the carved figure, his small eyes squinting and widening and his mouth muttering something only he could hear.
‘What do you think?’ Luke asked at last. Orla had been watching him and had seen his nervousness. He was even keener than her to hear about the carving, perhaps feeling a kind of kinship with it for having discovered it.
‘Yes, we’d love to know,’ Orla said.
Ernest stood back up to full height and gave his curly hair a ruffle as if dislodging his thoughts.
‘Interesting. Very interesting!’
‘Yes, we know that,’ Luke said, clearly getting irritated now. ‘But what is it exactly?’
One Ear gave a bark, as if agreeing that the time had come for a full architectural disclosure.
‘I would say that what you have here is twelfth century,’ Ernest said quietly, each word calm and measured now, his earlier excitement having abated somewhat.
‘The castle’s twelfth century, isn’t it, Orla?’ Luke asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Exactly so,’ Ernest said. ‘Is it the only one of its kind?’
‘I haven’t come across any others,’ Orla said, ‘and I’ve had a pretty good look around.’
‘Me too,’ Luke said. ‘This was the only section boarded up so, unless there’s any hiding behind plaster, I’d say it’s a one-off.’
‘I think you’re right.’ Ernest fell silent again, stepping forward and reaching a tentative hand towards the carving and gently touching the flowing hair upon the strange creature’s head. Orla noticed that Ernest was still wearing a wedding ring and, remembering that he’d lost his wife some years ago, felt a weight of sadness in her heart that there was so much loss in the world.
‘What are you thinking, Mr Cranbrook?’ Orla asked gently, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.
‘My first thought was that it was a wodewose.’
‘A what?’ Bill asked.
‘Wodewose. A wild man of the woods,’ Ernest said. ‘But they were carved in the fifteenth century. They’re popular figures on fonts around the county and were thought to be mythical creatures in the same vein as wyverns and the like, although some believe them to be real. Early man in all his innocence. Or depravity – depending on how you look at things. But this is different. It’s earlier and the figure isn’t holding the club that wodewoses usually hold and, although his body is covered in hair, there are scales too – see.’
Everybody moved forward to look.
‘I thought they were scales,’ Orla said as she peered closely, observing the rounded shapes which covered the legs and arms of the figure.
‘I didn’t notice those before,’ Bill said. ‘You think he’s some sort of merman from the sea, then?’
‘It would certainly fit in with the legend of the Wild Man of Lorford and, as far as we know, the creature – whatever it was – was brought here to the castle after he was captured in the fishermen’s nets.’
‘He was here?’ Orla said, eyes wide.
‘Yes, and not treated well, it’s said. He was tied up, hung upside down and tortured.’
‘Oh, how horrible!’
‘They were trying to make him talk, but he had no language,’ Ernest went on. ‘He was more beast than human, they said. Ate raw fish, squeezing out the blood into his mouth before crunching them, bones and all.’
‘Nice!’ Luke said.
‘No different from One Ear,’ Orla pointed out. ‘What happened to him?’
Ernest removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes before cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief again.
‘It’s thought that they soon tired of the Wild Man. Not getting any answers from him, they released him into the river. It’s said that he stayed close to the shore for some time, as if not wanting to leave the company of men, but then he disappeared into the depths of the water from whence he’d come.’
‘And you truly think this is him and that he was actually here in this very room?’ Orla asked.
‘I do, and contemporary to the story too, which is particularly exciting.’
Bill scratched his head. ‘Aren’t there some wild-men-type things on the church font?’
‘Wodewoses,’ Ernest said. ‘It would be worth you paying a visit to compare them to this fine fellow of yours. I’ll warrant they don’t have his marvellous scales.’
‘Could we go there now?’ Orla suggested. ‘To the church?’
Luke looked surprised by her suggestion to leave the castle twice in one day, but readily said, ‘We could stop there before taking you back home, Mr Cranbrook.’
‘Wonderful idea,’ Ernest said. ‘And thank you so much for showing me this jewel. It’s the most marvellous thing!’
As they left the castle, Luke sidled up to Orla.
‘Two trips in one day?’ he said.
‘I know. I simply can’t help myself!’
He laughed. ‘It’s great.’
She smiled, feeling the joy that this new-found freedom was giving her.
Orla had never been inside the church before; although she’d photographed the ancient building many times, she’d always done it from the shaded footpath, where she could remain unseen by anyone who might just happen to be around. But she entered the building now with Luke, Bill and Ernest and made her way towards the font, which stood proudly on an octagonal base carved from pale stone.
‘Look at these!’ Luke cried. ‘They’re just like our chap at the castle.’
‘Well, not exactly,’ Ernest said, bending to examine the four wild men depicted on the staves of the white stone font. ‘They’re three hundred years younger, for a start.’
‘And they don’t have our Wild Man’s scales. They’re all hair,’ Orla pointed out, noting the wavy lines carved into the stone.
‘Exactly so,’ Ernest said. ‘Quite a different beast altogether. These are the wodewoses or wild men of the woods. Yours is the Wild Man of Lorford, I think we can be quite sure of that. It may well have influenced these ones – legends often pass through the generations via architecture, but I have a feeling that these wild men are something else. More akin to the green man stories.’
‘You know, I’ve never really looked at these,’ Bill said. ‘Or the lions.’
Orla looked at the finely carved lions that flanked the wild men. There were four each around the base of the font, making a wonderful display with their thick manes and regal faces, which were almost smiling at them through the centuries.
‘One does tend to take the gems on one’s own doorstep for granted,’ Ernest said.
The men talked some more, but Orla found herself turning away from the font and walking towards the altar. A shaft of afternoon light lanced through one of the stained-glass windows, throwing pools of colour onto the stone floor. Orla stood in the middle of the rainbowed silence, berating the fact that she had never seen it all before. She would have to come back with her camera and capture some of its beauty. Not for Galleria, of course, because it would give too much away. The pictures would just be for herself – for the joy o
f capturing a moment of loveliness and for preserving it for ever, much as the sculptors had done with their lions and wild men carved into stone.
‘Orla? I’m going to run Mr Cranbrook home now. Coming?’
Orla looked up at the hammer beam ceiling, the intricate carving of the rood screen and a pair of brass figures that she just had to get closer to, and knew she wasn’t ready to leave yet.
‘I’ll walk home,’ she told Luke.
‘You sure?’
She nodded, and Ernest Cranbrook came forward and took her hands in his.
‘Thank you, my dear. It’s been so much fun! You will let me know if you uncover any other treasures now, won’t you?’
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ she promised him, watching as they all left, Bill throwing her a nod and smile. And then she was left in the silence.
The church was about the same age as the castle, Orla had read. She could feel the kinship of the two buildings, and a sense of pride swelled inside her that she owned one of them. She couldn’t help feeling a little guilty, though, that her special home wasn’t open to the public so that they could enjoy the delights inside it as they could with the church, but that couldn’t be helped, could it? Orla could think of nothing worse than a stream of people coming through her front door.
It was funny that Orla should have such a thought because, a few days later, she noticed a couple of people outside her front gate.
‘Do you know them?’ Luke asked her as he joined her by the window.
‘Of course not.’
‘Shall I see what they want?’ he asked. ‘They’re probably just tourists wanting a picture.’
Orla wasn’t convinced and shrank back from the window as Luke left the castle. When he came back, he wasn’t smiling.
‘What is it?’
‘They want to see the Wild Man,’ Luke told her.
Orla frowned. ‘How do they know about that?’
Luke shrugged. ‘I don’t think Ernest would’ve said anything, would he? Bill probably mentioned it to Margy, but surely she wouldn’t go telling everyone private details about your home to the whole village.’
The Beauty of Broken Things Page 20