by Sylvia Waugh
Poopie watched them for some time. He looked round the bus and then decided that his father was the most likely to know the answer to the question he just had to ask.
“What are those wooden posts for, Dad? They’re set up like street-lamps, but they’re just bits of wood.”
Joshua looked back at him and said, “They’re for when it snows.”
It was a brief enough explanation, but it was clear what he meant. They all shuddered as they thought of a coming winter cut off in snow so deep that even the road could be totally lost under it. And Comus House would only be reached by following markers protruding from drifts of snow . . .
As they came to a very wide curve to the right where the narrow road was going uphill quite sharply and whatever was round the bend was masked by hedgerows, Albert called out to them, “We’re nearly there. The house is up on your right just after the bend.”
The first thing they saw as the bus rounded the corner was a white wooden gate. From it a steep, steep path of about a hundred steps cut into the hillside led up to a distant house.
“There’s a marvellous view of the moors from up there,” said Albert proudly, “and hills miles and miles away.”
Sir Magnus woke with a jolt as the bus stopped in front of the gate. He looked at the steps. The house at the top of them was so far away that it was no more than an outline.
“That is impossible,” he said. “Totally and absolutely impossible.”
“I just stopped to let you have your first view of it,” said Albert hastily. “We don’t use the steps. Nobody ever uses the steps.”
“Are you thinking of hiring a helicopter?” asked Magnus.
Albert gave a nervous laugh.
“Don’t worry, Sir Magnus, there is a much easier way in. A little further on there are some big double gates leading to a cart track that takes us up into the garage. I’ll drive right up there and then you have just a very short way to go on a level path to get to the house itself.”
“Well, let’s get a move on then,” said the old man impatiently. “We’ve seen your view. Now let’s get up to the house and stop hanging around for nothing.”
16
Comus House
THE FRONT OF the house was very long and totally flat without a gable or an ingle to relieve the monotony of windows. It was constructed of dull red brick and definitely early Victorian. Ivy grew up the walls, not lushly but in a straggly, weary way. The whole building was sombre and sooty-looking, like a grim prison.
“Wuthering Heights,” said Soobie as he looked up at it.
“Bleak House,” said Pilbeam.
“Very bleak house,” said Appleby with a groan.
“It looks haunted,” said Wimpey. And at that moment a large, black bird flapped noisily up from the roof.
“You said it was built of stone and had turrets . . .” began Poopie, looking accusingly at Appleby. He had imagined towers and battlements, a castle almost. This drab, austere building was a real disappointment.
“It was just a story, Poopie,” said Appleby. “You all enjoyed it. I can’t help it if you are too gullible. Soobie didn’t believe me. Neither did Pilbeam.”
Miss Quigley, standing with Googles in her arms, looked annoyed and embarrassed. She had believed in the Jacobean house with the family portraits and the music gallery. She felt cheated. So, to a lesser extent, did Tulip and Vinetta.
“Albert never contradicted you,” said Vinetta.
“He wasn’t listening.”
Albert wasn’t listening now either. He was standing on the doorstep with the key in his hand. It was a huge key, a regular town-gaol type. The door was stout and deeply studded.
“Come on then,” said Sir Magnus, leaning heavily on his cane, “let’s get inside.”
Albert put the key in the lock.
“I don’t come here very often,” he said apologetically. “Nearly everything is under dust sheets. It’s a bit . . . well, you’ll see what I mean soon enough.”
The large door creaked open. They entered cautiously. The hall was dark and musty. The door swung shut behind them, and although it was still bright outside and quite warm, there was a winter chill on the inside air and a deep darkness in every corner.
“I don’t like it here,” said Wimpey quietly. She gripped Pilbeam’s hand.
“We could try switching the light on,” said Granny Tulip. She glanced at Albert.
“The electricity’s on,” he said. “All the services are on, even the telephone. I saw to that a week ago.”
Soobie, who was nearest, pushed down the switch. Two of the three bulbs in the ceiling lamp were working. The light shone on the oak-panelled hall, dark and heavily varnished. The carpet that ran up the middle of the stairs was held in place by thick brass rods. Everywhere looked dusty.
Albert talked. He talked a bit like a tour guide as they all stood in the centre of the hall looking bewildered.
“The house dates back to the early nineteenth century. One of my ancestors was a mine owner. No sign of a mine now, no pit wheel, no mine-shafts. The whole area is given over to sheep farming these days. It’s a big place. The families were big then and they had servants, some of them living in.”
“Elegant,” said Appleby.
“Not specially,” said Albert. “Labour was very cheap. We were never a really posh family – just a bit better off than others.”
As they walked through the rooms on the ground floor, the whole family felt dismayed. Vinetta gazed in silent horror at the huge kitchen with its old fire range and its deep, chipped, discoloured sink. A clothes pulley with thick wooden slats and wrought-iron brackets stretched the length of the ceiling. There was a washing machine. An electric washing machine. But it belonged to the generation before last, or even earlier! A heavy hand-wringer hung down at its side. There was a tap on the front for the emptying of it. In its day it had been a step forward, its motor swirling the clothes around much more efficiently and with much less effort than a hand-held poss-stick. It could claim to be a very good agitator. It was still a good agitator! It certainly agitated Vinetta.
“I couldn’t use that,” she said, horrified. “I could get seriously wet.”
“They would need cheap labour,” said Tulip in her usual forthright way, “and lots of it.”
She removed a dust sheet from the piano in the lounge. It was an amazing object with bulbous legs and a candle-holder projecting either side of the music stand.
Wimpey found an old coffee-pot on the sideboard. It was a grey jug, rough like the bark of a tree. White boughs and branches twisted around it. Up one side climbed a boy, his brimmed hat lying behind him, obviously making his way towards a bird’s nest. The other side of the jug showed the end of the story. The grinning boy was on his way down carrying the hat, full of chicks, in his hand. The mother bird with a worm in her beak was looking for her babies.
“Can I have it?” said Wimpey eagerly, wrapping her mittened hand around the bough that formed the handle.
“Oh, no!” said Albert, leaping to the rescue. “That belonged to my great-great-great-grandmother.”
Poopie was lying under the piano, trying to play it from the inside. Albert watched them all anxiously, worried about what would happen next. The legs of the piano were screwed in, he remembered, and one of them was definitely loose!
Joshua looked at him kindly. He knew, oh how well he knew, that his family were a bit overpowering at times.
“We’d best sit down,” he said firmly. Dust sheets were removed from armchairs and sofas. They all slumped into them and fell silent.
“This used to be the drawing-room,” said Albert, trying to make conversation. “Funny how many names one room can have – lounge, sitting-room, drawing-room, parlour. This one was always called a drawing-room. When I was little I used to wonder who used to draw here.”
He was talking on and on to cover the uncomfortable silence. Then even he ran out of words.
Sir Magnus cast his black gaze on ever
ything and everyone in the room.
“What a state of affairs!” he said at last. “Out of the frying pan into the fire!”
Albert looked mortified.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am sorry.”
“You thought that just because we were rag dolls anything would do for us,” said Sir Magnus.
“That’s not fair,” said Vinetta. “Albert has done his best. He was very good with the neighbours at Brocklehurst Grove. He has gone to the bother of driving us all the way here. If we haven’t the gumption to make the place habitable, then we can’t blame him. He did warn us that it would need renovation.”
“Some of these things will be worth a lot of money,” said Tulip, astute as usual. “Whatever changes we make we’ll have to be careful not to damage anything of value. And items like that jug should be locked away.”
“I could make a go of the gardens,” said Joshua. “If Poopie and I spend the next two weeks out there you’ll not know it for the same place when we go home.”
Tulip looked at him sternly.
“We won’t be going home, Josh,” she said. “This will have to be home now and we must make the best of it.”
Joshua looked stubborn.
“I am going home in time for work at the end of my holidays. You can all stay here whilst the business of the Grove is sorted out. I will live quietly at home in our own house and keep an eye on things.”
“How will you get there?” asked Poopie. The minibus had to be returned next day. Albert planned to use public transport, walking a mile and a half to a bus-stop on the moor road. Such an alternative was not open to the Mennyms. They could never travel on an ordinary bus. It would put them in much too close proximity with human beings.
“I’ll get there,” said Joshua doggedly.
Tulip accepted his decision and knew that a means to get him home would have to be found. It was, after all, not such a bad idea. Someone should watch their old home, no matter what the outcome. Niggling at the back of her mind there was also the matter of the codicil. Chesney’s will had left the family what was intended to be only a “life” interest in the house: “For however long Sir Magnus Mennym and/or his son Joshua Mennym should continue to reside in the said property”. After which it would ‘devolve’ to another branch of the Penshaw family.
“You will be there to sign that form when it comes,” said Tulip. “You will be able to confirm in all honesty that you are still in residence.”
In the meantime, they should get on with making Comus House a bit more comfortable.
“We won’t spend too much money on renovations till we know the worst,” said Tulip, “but we can all buckle to and do some cleaning and polishing. It’s amazing what a difference soap and water can make!”
Appleby gave the room a look of pity. Once Granny Tulip buckled to, there was no stopping her!
“First,” said Tulip, “I’ll get a room ready for Granpa. He’ll still have his work to do and he needs his rest.”
Magnus nodded his approval. Within a very short time he was ensconced in a four-poster bed in the best front bedroom. Under Tulip’s guidance, Joshua had removed the dusty drapes ready for washing. An ancient but functioning Hoover was used on the carpets, and its single weighty tool attachment sucked the dirt from chairs and curtains. Tulip supervised and directed. The family worked with a will. Appleby and Pilbeam limited their efforts to their own bedrooms, but that still gave them plenty to do. Poopie and Wimpey fetched and carried. Joshua and Soobie were the workhorses, moving heavy furniture, reaching high shelves, climbing ladders and generally doing whatever Tulip commanded. Miss Quigley kept Googles by her till she had made the nursery clean enough. Then she left the baby sleeping in her cot and went to help Vinetta. Vinetta worked harder, faster and longer than any of them. She also accepted as her lot the burden of sorting out squabbles when the same piece of equipment was needed in three rooms simultaneously. There weren’t enough buckets and brooms to go round. The solitary Hoover was as precious as gold.
They did not clean every room. Comus House was a very long building, built on three floors with attics above. The attics were little rooms with windows tucked under the eaves. In former times they had been the servants’ sleeping quarters. It was a mean house for all its size, very dark with narrow, twisting passages and misshapen rooms. The Mennyms took over the first two floors on the south side. The only exception was the library which Soobie, with his infallible instinct for such things, found along a narrow passage that detoured round two unused rooms before reaching the north corner of the house. As they cleared the rooms they needed to use, the family felt as if they were camping out. It was not the same as occupying a whole house.
It took two days of hard work to make even their chosen part of the house fully habitable.
At the end of the second day, Vinetta collapsed into an armchair and said, “I feel like a wet rag.” Then she went off into a fit of giggles that alarmed her teenage daughters so much that they raced to the back of the house to find Joshua.
“It’s Mum,” said Appleby, “I think it’s been too much for her. She’s going mad.”
By the time they had dragged their father to the drawing room, Vinetta had fallen fast asleep. Joshua gently took the duster from her hand, put a cushion behind her head, and made her comfortable.
17
The Stables
“THIS USED TO be a well – years and years ago, long before I was born. They had it covered over because a child once fell in and was drowned.”
They were out in the yard at the back of the house – Albert and all the younger members of the family.
It was a huge yard. The well was near the high rough-stone wall that separated the Penshaw property from the land beyond. It still had the appearance of a well, a cylindrical brick stump with a slab of concrete covering the top.
They all looked at it and shuddered.
“That’s what you said,” said Wimpey, looking at Appleby. “In the bus. Remember. You said about the well and the little girl who drowned.”
“It wasn’t a girl,” said Appleby without any hesitation. “It was a boy.”
Albert looked astonished.
“You’re right,” he said. “It was a boy. How did you know?”
Appleby shivered.
“I don’t know,” she said. “When I try to be psychic it never works. But sometimes things come to me out of the blue. I don’t like it. Pretends are better.”
Pilbeam felt protective towards her sister.
“It’s just a coincidence, Appleby,” she said. “Don’t worry yourself about it. If we make a lot of random guesses, some are bound to be true.”
Appleby didn’t look convinced.
To one side of the yard was a building that had once been the stables and had also served as a garage in later days.
“Let’s look over there,” said Soobie. He felt clumsy and uncomfortable and out of place. Sometimes even a sixteen-year-old can feel quite old.
The sky was overcast. The day was sultry.
“I think it’s going to rain,” said Albert as they walked towards the stable door. Within seconds, heavy drops began to fall.
“It’s just a shower,” said Albert as they hurried inside. “We’ll wait in here till it stops. We’d get soaked if we tried to cross the yard.”
The stable had no windows, only shutters which were closed. Some daylight came through the ridges in the wood. Albert went to a shelf where lamps and things were kept. They were safety lamps like miners take with them down the pit. Albert found all he needed to get three of them alight. Then the stable became well enough illuminated for them to look around. No horses, of course. No cars. Up the centre was a wooden plank staircase leading to a hay-loft. Towards the back were the remains of what might have been stalls for the animals. The floor to the rear was made of well-worn stone slabs. At the front it had a covering of concrete.
The only object of any interest was an old motor scooter, a sturdy-look
ing beast with a double seat, a large storage compartment at the back and a broad panel like a shield at the front. Draped over the handlebars was a heavy, well-padded helmet.
“I’d like a go on that,” said Soobie surprisingly. Soobie of the armchair, the melancholy Mennym, was actually showing a flicker of enthusiasm.
“I don’t see why not,” said Albert. “It’s pretty ancient, belonged to my father, but it still works. I had it out last summer.”
The rain stopped. Albert checked the vehicle and poured some petrol from a large can into its tank.
“It won’t take you far on that,” he said, “but a few spins round the yard should be all right.”
“That’s all I had in mind,” said Soobie. How wonderful it would have been to ride away on it, to eat up the miles! But Soobie had had more than forty years of facing up uncompromisingly to his own distressing limitations.
“Put the helmet on,” said Albert, without considering whether in his case such protection would be necessary.
Soobie did so, and he ceased to be a blue Mennym, especially when he pulled on the large leather gloves that he had found folded up inside the helmet. The blue-striped suit looked incongruous, as if its wearer had come out in his pyjamas, but Soobie did not know that (and would not have cared anyway). He got on to the seat of the scooter.
“I’ll show you how . . .” began Albert, feeling a bit anxious.
“No need,” said Soobie. “I can ride it. No problem. All clear everyone. Chocks away!”
With that he rode off round the yard, up to the far wall, circling the well, down past the back of the house and along the gravel path that led to the stable again. As he passed the watchers at the stable door he raised his left hand and waved briefly, then continued for another circuit.
“Can I have a turn?” asked Poopie.
“You’d be too small,” said Albert. “It takes a bit of handling. Soobie is quite a solid fellow. He looks as if he were born to it.”
Albert by now was totally at ease with the Mennyms. Born to it . . . born knowing . . . born at all . . . were all as one. It wasn’t important.
