‘My name’s Mr Westhrop. I’d like to make a withdrawal from a deposit box. It’s in the name of Thomas Farrell I believe. Here’s the key.’ Mr Westhrop pulled Thomas’s key from a small pocket in his light grey waistcoat and placed it on the counter. Although Thomas had been reluctant to give Mr Westhrop the key, he knew he’d be careful with it. Unlike his daughter, Mr Westhrop wasn’t prone to mislaying or forgetting things. Jessica, on the other hand, seemed to lose something every day.
The clerk seemed to eye the key as if it were some strange creature he’d never seen before. He didn’t touch it. ‘Excuse me, I’ll get someone who can show you to the box.’ He stood up and disappeared through a door behind him.
Less than a minute later an older man, dressed somewhat like Mr Bartholomew, appeared on their side of the counter. ‘Hello, Mr Westhrop?’ He greeted them with a surprisingly warm smile. ‘You’ve a safety deposit box key I believe? May I see it?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mr Westhrop handed him the key from the counter.
The man examined the key. ‘Ah, yes. One of the old boxes.’
‘If you’ll follow me, please?’ the gentleman said, leading them further into the bank. He took them through a door and then a corridor that ended at a large desk behind which stood a secure-looking door.
‘Excuse me one moment,’ he said as he pressed a few keys on a small computer that sat on the desk. He looked up. ‘Thomas Farrell?’
‘That’s me,’ Thomas said.
The clerk dropped his eyes to look at Thomas with one eyebrow slightly raised. ‘Oh, I see. Do you have some identity, young man?’
Thomas looked back at Mr Westhrop.
‘Here you are,’ Mr Westhrop replied for Thomas, pulling what looked like a letter and certificate from his jacket pocket. Thomas caught the words Adoption Papers at the top of the letter. He’d seen them before, when he was six if he remembered correctly. Mr Westhrop had got them out to provide evidence to Thomas that he wasn’t their son. It had been something Mr Westhrop had done with great care — care in the sense that he wanted there to be no misunderstanding on the facts of the matter.
The clerk scanned the documents and gave them back to Mr Westhrop. ‘Well, let’s proceed.’
He moved over to the door and, ignoring the security guard, punched in a few buttons on the keypad next to the handle. The door opened and Thomas and the Westhrops were ushered through to a room lined with small metal panels, each with its own keyhole. The clerk searched the panels and before long found what he’d been looking for.
‘Here it is,’ the clerk said ‘safety deposit box two-hundred and six.’ He inserted the key into the box and turned it. It clicked and the clerk pulled open the small door.
Thomas was just tall enough to see inside. It lay empty except for a brown envelope and a small cloth-wrapped bundle. The clerk stepped aside, still holding the door, and indicated to Thomas to remove the contents. Thomas reached in and pulled out the fist-sized bundle with one hand and the envelope with the other. The cloth was tattered and dirty and the object inside round and hard. The envelope bore similar words as the one that had held the key. It read:
To Master Thomas Farrell.
But it was, to Thomas’s surprise, not written in the same hand. He could tell. He had studied the other envelope’s words, followed their curves and lines with his eyes every night since Mr Bartholomew’s visit, until sleep had taken him.
Mr Westhrop, looking somewhat disappointed, thanked the clerk, as did Mrs Westhrop. Jessica, however, didn’t thank anyone because she was too busy staring at the bundle in Thomas’s hand, no doubt trying to imagine what it could be.
As soon as they’d left the bank Mr Westhrop took the bundle and envelope from Thomas, telling him he’d keep them safe. Once back in the car, Mr Westhrop handed the bundle and envelope back to Thomas. Thomas held them, one in each hand, while Mr Westhrop continued to look at him. ‘Well, let’s not be all day about it.’
Thomas nodded and put the envelope on his lap. He would’ve liked to open them in private, but it seemed Mr Westhrop wasn’t going to permit that. He was lucky Mr Westhrop allowed him to open them at all. But he hesitated to unwrap the bundle, though he didn’t know why. Dismissing his unfounded fears, he quickly removed the layers of old cloth from the object within — and promptly dropped the latter when he saw what it was.
‘Careful, it might be valuable!’ Mr Westhrop barked.
A glass sphere, a little larger in size than a golf ball, now rested on the backseat of the car between Jessica and Thomas. But it was what it contained that had made Thomas drop it, for suspended in its centre hung a snake, or something that looked very much like one.
Jonathan Westhrop held out his hand. ‘Give it here.’
Thomas picked it up gingerly and handed it over.
‘Hmph,’ Mr Westhrop grunted, examining the snake-like creature within, ‘nothing more than some family heirloom I’d guess. Probably worthless.’
Mrs Westhrop eyed it with a look of disgust as her husband dropped it back into Thomas’s hand. ‘Open the envelope then.’
After hurriedly putting the glass orb back in the cloth, Thomas put it down between his legs and opened the envelope. Inside he found two sheets of paper. Jessica’s eyes played upon them, clearly as eager as Thomas to know their contents.
Mr Westhrop tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Well, what does it say?’
The front sheet consisted of a short letter, but it wasn’t from his father. He read it out:
Dear Thomas,
I have been instructed by the representative of your late father’s estate to provide an education for you at Darkledun Manor, School for Gifted Children. I am glad to inform you that this has been paid, and a place is open to you as of your eleventh birthday. A sum has also been arranged to compensate any legal guardian(s).
I enclose all necessary details regarding Darkledun Manor, which you should show your legal guardian(s) without delay.
Yours Most Sincerely,
M. Trevelyan, Head.
Darkledun Manor
Before he could look at the details to which this Mr M. Trevelyan referred, Mr J. Westhrop had grabbed them along with the letter.
Jessica sat forward, eyes bright, not a hint of weariness in her appearance. ‘What’s it mean?’
‘It means,’ Mr Westhrop began with that familiar look of glee in his eyes, ‘that your good mother and I will finally have some compensation for our challenges over the last few years. Which is, of course, quite right and proper.’
But Thomas, lost in thought, didn’t hear Mr Westhrop. When younger, Thomas thought his father might visit one day, but when the visits never came Thomas began to accept that his father was no longer alive. Thomas may not have remembered what his father looked like, but he did remember the feeling of strength that emanated from that distant figure in his memory. He knew his father would’ve visited if death hadn’t robbed him of that opportunity. The confirmation of it comforted him in a way; if his father had still been alive, Thomas wouldn’t have understood why he’d never come to see him. That would have been true abandonment. The invitation to the school gave him hope. The writer of the letter, or this ‘representative’, must’ve known his father. At long last he was going to find out who his father really was.
Jessica turned to Thomas. ‘The name sounds a bit sinister.’
Thomas looked at Jessica. ‘What? “Trevelyan”? It doesn’t sound sinister to me.’
Jessica shook her head. ‘No, the name of the school! Darkledun Manor.’
‘Well, that’s good fortune,’ Mr Westhrop said, as he finished studying the sheet attached to the letter. ‘Everyone wait here, I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
Mr Westhrop took fifteen minutes, not ten. He returned seemingly quite pleased with himself even though he’d taken five minutes longer than expected. ‘I’ve just been on the phone to this Mr Trevelyan and have arranged for us to stop by on the way home.’
As the car pulled off, Jessica started rummaging through her bag, but Thomas paid little attention to her. This was all rather sudden. He was going to meet Mr Trevelyan. The thought that this man might be able to tell Thomas more about his father sent his heart racing, though whether with excitement or fear of the unknown, he couldn’t tell.
‘Dad?’ Jessica asked just as Mr Westhrop turned onto the main road.
‘Yes, Jessica?’ he said.
‘I didn’t know there were special schools for gifted children.’
Thomas looked at his adoptive sister. He hadn’t picked up on that. Why had he been invited to a school for gifted children? There was nothing special about him.
‘Obviously this,’ — Mr Westhrop waved the invitation to Darkledun Manor in his hand — ‘was extended without any personal knowledge of Thomas. I think they’ll still take him. After all, it’s already paid for.’
Jessica ignored the remark. ‘If Thomas goes to this school, how will he get home each day? I think it might be very late when he gets in. And you know how he gets lost so easily. Maybe we can meet him somewhere?’
Mr Westhrop looked at his daughter in the rear-view mirror with what Thomas thought an expression of impatience. ‘Jessica, Darkledun Manor students don’t come home every day. It’s a boarding school.’
Thomas hadn’t heard of one of those before. Did they make boards there or was the school itself made of boards?
Seeing the confusion written on the two small faces in his rear-view mirror, Mr Westhrop went on. ‘A boarding school is where students sleep overnight. They don’t come home at the end of each day or even at the weekend.’
Jessica seemed a little concerned. ‘You mean if Thomas goes to this Darkledun Manor we won’t see him again until he’s an adult?’
‘Thomas will come home in the holidays, Jessica.’ He didn’t seem particularly pleased about the idea from the way he spoke. ‘Now, no more questions. I have to concentrate on the directions. We don’t want to delay. The longer we do that the longer we’ll be driving in the dark on the way home. And you both know what that means.’
They did. It meant Mr Westhrop would have to do something he didn’t like doing: turning on the headlights. He would often mutter when he saw other drivers with their headlights on before the street lamps were lit. ‘They’re wasting their batteries!’ he would say, shaking his head in disapproval.
Jessica tried to fold up the map she’d been looking at, but wasn’t having much success. She seemed agitated. She eventually left the folded map next to her on the seat, where it promptly expanded open again. Thomas paid little heed to Jessica though; he was, after all, going to see a man who might know something about his father.
— CHAPTER THREE —
The Headmaster of Darkledun Manor
It wasn’t far to Darkledun Manor. After leaving the main road from Selkirk they headed west along a much quieter road that eventually came to follow the course of a river. A few minutes later the road headed toward the river and they crossed a bridge. It was at this point that Thomas saw a sign that read Carterhaugh Forest. He looked at Jessica, but her head was turned the other way. She didn’t seem very interested in her surroundings or the tourist information anymore. In fact, she’d said very little since leaving Selkirk, which was very unusual for her. Perhaps the trip had tired her out.
After crossing the bridge, Mr Westhrop pulled the car over and consulted the map. Pulling back out again, he turned down a lane that led into the forest. About a mile down the lane he turned off down another smaller lane marked with a wooden sign upon which Darkledun Manor — 2 miles had been painted in black handwriting. The trees became denser as they journeyed down the lane, so much so that Thomas was unable to see anything but a wall of green from the car window.
Eventually the lane ended at a pair of large iron gates. The one on the left bore the word Darkledun at its top, wrought in iron and painted white, and the gate on the right sported the word Manor. Mr Westhrop drove through the open gates and parked in the small dirt car park that lay just inside of them. It was empty apart from several bicycle sheds filled with bikes of many colours and sizes. Thomas and the Westhrops piled out of the car, Jessica (unusually) last.
They stood at the bottom of a small, flat-topped hill upon which sat a large manor house with a broad, squat tower at one end. A cobbled path led up the incline to the sizeable front door. They approached the school somewhat warily, especially Mrs Westhrop who appeared concerned she might trip on the cobbles. Thomas walked behind the Westhrops, staring up and taking in the details of the place. Jessica trailed behind, sparing only the odd glance at the school. The door had a bell, not an electric bell but a brass one about the size of a child’s head. Attached to the top of the bell was a small black arm from which hung a long chain made of some dark metal.
Mr Westhrop tugged on the chain cautiously. From the expression on his face it looked as if he expected something to break. The bell above rang, and the chime echoed through Darkledun Manor’s empty grounds. A moment later the door opened and they were greeted by a lady not much taller than Jessica. Thomas guessed her to be in her middle years. Her long, dark brown dress clung tight to her waist, a perfect complement to the short, dark brown hair that left her neck and ears exposed.
‘Good morning. I am Miss McGritch, the Housekeeper of Darkledun Manor. You must be the Westhrops?’ she said in a voice as austere as Thomas had ever heard, but with only a hint of a Scottish accent. The short lady looked at each of them. Her eyes rested last and longest upon Thomas.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Mr Westhrop replied.
Miss McGritch smiled slightly and beckoned them in. ‘If you will follow me, I will take you to the Headmaster.’
Mrs Westhrop’s high-heeled shoes clattered noisily on the stone floor of the sunlit entrance hall as they followed Miss McGritch. The Housekeeper walked so prim and proper and straight-backed that Thomas thought she must have practised long and hard with a book or two on her head.
Facing him, Thomas saw stairs leading up to another level, but they didn’t take those; instead they went left and the Housekeeper led them down a couple of featureless corridors, and past a number of doors all marked with a number and letter such as 3A and 5B, until at the end of the last corridor they arrived outside a door upon which were affixed the words Headmaster’s Office.
Miss McGritch knocked and an enthusiastic, but not-at-all Scottish, voice answered. ‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘The Westhrops, Headmaster,’ Miss McGritch replied curtly.
‘Well, ‘blige me, they were quick! Do show them in!’ the other responded from inside the room.
The Housekeeper opened the door, stepped inside and indicated for them to enter. Thomas walked into a room not much bigger than the Westhrops’ living room. A large desk, upon which rested an old red telephone, sat beneath two tall windows that looked out onto a forest of lean trees. In front of the desk stood a man of average height and build, though a little portly around the waist, with grey hair that hung long enough to cover his ears but was entirely absent from his crown and forehead. He wore a grey tweed suit and a shocking yellow tie with black spots, which didn’t go at all with the purple shirt beneath. The man’s round face and blue eyes were full of vigour despite him being, as far as Thomas could guess, about twenty years older than Mr Westhrop. He held a monocle to his eye as if examining them all in minute detail. After a few moments, the balding man dropped the monocle and it swung down to his tie. Thomas could now see it was attached to a thin silver chain that hung around the man’s slightly chubby neck.
‘Hello, it’s jolly nice to meet you all! I’m the Headmaster, Mr Trevelyan.’ He moved forward as he spoke, and then shook them all enthusiastically by the hand, starting with Mr Westhrop and ending with Jessica; this seemed to lift the latter’s spirits enough to make her smile briefly. After having them all sit down on some rather comfortable orange chairs dotted around his desk, Mr Trevelyan opened a cabinet next to a water dispense
r and pulled out a tray of glasses which he placed on his desk. He then took a jug of juice from the same cabinet as well as a plate of fairy cakes. He gave the latter to Mr Westhrop who, not having a sweet tooth, passed them on to his wife. Mr Trevelyan, meanwhile, filled the cups with juice.
‘This must be a little strange for you,’ Mr Trevelyan said after handing out the drinks and seating himself behind his desk.
Mr Westhrop nodded his head and forced a smile. The Headmaster’s accent was hard to place, but Thomas thought it must have been from somewhere in England rather than Scotland.
Mr Trevelyan took a sip of juice. ‘I’m sure you have many questions, as will Thomas most of all of course.’ When no one responded the Headmaster carried right on. ‘I can have Miss McGritch show you around. It’s all quite modern — electricity, lights, that sort of thing.’
Thomas looked up from the yellow-topped fairy cake he’d just bitten into. He couldn’t imagine a building without electricity, even though his own bedroom-loft barely possessed it.
Mr Westhrop frowned. ‘No, no. I’m sure it’s quite all right.’ He pulled his small calculator from his inside breast pocket. ‘Your letter mentioned some financial matters?’
If he was shocked at Mr Westhrop’s frankness, Mr Trevelyan didn’t show it. Thomas stole a glance at Miss McGritch who stood behind them. Her face was hard to read, but Thomas thought he caught a glimmer of disapproval flicker across it.
‘Yes, of course. Miss McGritch, perhaps you’ll take the children on a quick tour? If that’s all right?’ Mr Trevelyan looked to Thomas and Jessica, and then back at Mr and Mrs Westhrop.
Mr Westhrop gave an indifferent nod and Miss McGritch led Thomas and Jessica out of the room. Thomas took a look behind him before he left the office. Mr Westhrop was fiddling with a piece of paper and his gold Swivet, Stibbard & Waverly pen. The Headmaster, or so it seemed, flashed a boyish grin at Thomas before Miss McGritch closed the door.
The Serpent in the Glass (The Tale of Thomas Farrell) Page 3
