2006 - Wildcat Moon

by Babs Horton

  Archie grinned and moved a little closer.

  “You like cricket?” the old man asked, nodding at the ball in Archie’s lap.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never played it.”

  “You never played cricket? That’s a crying shame.”

  “I’ve got a bad leg,” Archie said, nodding down at his calliper.

  The old man looked down at Archie’s leg and winced.

  “That’s damn bad luck. I’m the same,” he said. “Lost this bugger in 1914.”

  He tapped his right leg with his knuckles and Archie flinched at the sound of old bones on wood.

  “Gangrene. Took it off at the knee and later the whole bloody thing. Anyhow, whytt you buy a ball if you can’t play cricket?”

  “I don’t know. I liked the colour, I s’pose, and I liked the feel of it.”

  “Great game, cricket,” the old man said. “Used to be a big game of cricket here at Nanskelly every summer in the old days. Nanskelly School versus the village boys.”

  “Did they play against the girls?”

  “No. It were a boys’ school in the old days. The Villagers was a team made up of young lads from Rhoskilly and the Skallies and they used to play the Nanskelly boys.”

  “Did they ever win?” Archie asked.

  “Couple of times. The Headmaster, Mr Fanthorpe, was a nice fellow, cricket mad he was.”

  “Did you ever play?”

  “Course I did. I had two good legs then. Bit of a fast bowler in them days.”

  Archie looked up at the old man with wonder; he couldn’t imagine him ever being a boy, he was so ancient.

  “Tell you what, son, finish your grub and well take a walk out to the pavilion, show you a bit of history.”

  Archie ate his cake, swallowed down his tea and then followed the old man.

  As they walked through the hallway the old man said, “See, these floors here was all laid by Spanish craftsmen. Need restoring now but in the years gone by they reckon this were a real palace of a place.”

  Archie looked down at the shabby tiles and shrugged. It didn’t look much like a palace now.

  The door to the sports pavilion was stiff and with much puffing and pushing the old man managed to open it.

  “Wood expands in the damp weather, see, that’s what makes the door stick. Come spring ifll free itself up. Bit like me, I stiffen up in the winter then come the spring it’s like the Almighty has dripped a bit of oil in my old joints.”

  They stepped inside the pavilion and stood together looking at the racks of worn hockey sticks and moth-eaten shoe bags dangling from rusty hooks. There was a sprinkling of snow on the floor beneath a hole in the roof.

  “We used to change in here. Not that we had bugger all to change into. Us lot used to have the arses hanging out of our trousers and we went barefoot most of the time in the summer. The Nanskelly boys were proper gents, had all the clobber, white shirts and flannels and proper boots.”

  The old boy opened a door to the right and stepped into a large room sparsely furnished with a few rickety tables and chairs arranged as if it were a cafe.

  “This is where they used to serve up the teas after the game. Lovely grub it were. Huge scones with great dollops of cream and jam. Cream puffs as big as a babby’s head. Sandwiches, apricot tarts and all sorts. Used to think we was in heaven. We never had a penny to our names in those days.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Archie said, his mouth watering.

  “There you go, look, up there on the wall. That’s me up there. Eighteen ninety-seven.”

  He pointed to the far wall where a brown board hung precariously on a bent nail.

  Archie screwed up his eyes and read the faded gold writing on the board;

  Nanskelly v Villagers 1897.

  Villagers won.

  Player of the Match: William Dally.

  “Was that you?”

  “Course it were me. Told you I was a dab hand with a cricket ball.”

  Archie read on down the list.

  He stood transfixed when he came near to the bottom.

  Nanskelly v Villagers 1899.

  Nanskelly won.

  Player of the Match: Charles Lewis Lloyd Greswode.

  “Was that Old Mr Greswode who used to live at Killivray House?”

  “That were he. Tidy cricketer he was. Spiteful little bastard though.”

  Archie looked at the next entry, then stood spellbound, almost breathless with excitement.

  Nanskelly v Villagers 1900.

  Villagers won.

  Player of the Match: Thomas Gasparini Greswode.

  “Thomas Greswode! Why did he play for the villagers?”

  “He was asked, of course.”

  “But the other one, Charles Greswode, he played for Nanskelly?”

  “That’s right. Both the boys were at school here. They used to be educated at Killivray but came here after the tutor at Killivray had a fall-out with Mr Greswode and left. Charles was Captain of sports or whatever they called them in those days. He got to pick the school team that played against the villagers.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Good old-fashioned jealousy, son. Like I said, his cousin Thomas was at Nanskelly School too. Lovely lad he were, sunny temperament, no side to him. Charles Greswode didn’t pick his cousin Thomas ‘cos he were too good a player, would have taken the shine off himself.”

  “But that’s not fair.”

  “Life ain’t fair, lad, so don’t ever go believing it is.”

  Archie sighed. Benjamin always used to say the same thing.

  “Well, Charles Greswode thought he’d got all his own way like he always did but then it all backfired on him,” the old man said with a chuckle.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, Mr Fanthorpe, the Head, he was a fair-minded man. Said that if Thomas wasn’t playing for Nanskelly he was entitled to play for the villagers seeing as he was a local boy.”

  “Blimey.”

  “A corker of a game Thomas Greswode had even though he were only young. Best left-handed bat I ever saw. Made eighty-nine with two sixes and a handful of fours.”

  Archie’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. He didn’t understand much about cricket.

  “Even though it were donkey’s years ago I can see his face now when Mr Fanthorpe presented him with the cup. Chuffed to bits he were. We carried him shoulder high all the way back to the Skallies, we were that proud of him.”

  “He died not long after, didn’t he?” Archie said suddenly.

  William Dally nodded, “Never got to make old bones sadly.”

  “He drowned, didn’t he?”

  “He did and bloody tragic that were. Awful waste of a young life. He had a natural way about him, young Thomas, not like the rest of the bloody Greswodes.”

  Archie saw a tear prick in the old man’s eye as he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Mr Fanthorpe was real cut up about it, we all were. But he blamed himself for a long time after.”

  “Why?” Archie asked.

  “Apparently, Thomas came out to see him one day, must have been a few weeks after the match. The school had broken up for the holidays. Young Thomas was in a terrible state.”

  “Why?”

  “The Lord only knows. But Mr Fanthorpe wasn’t here.”

  “So why did Mr Fanthorpe think it was his fault?”

  “Thought if he’d seen Thomas he’d have been able to talk to him. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone back out in his boat.”

  “And was that the day he drowned?” Archie asked.

  “No. It were the following day. The old gardener came here to the pavilion. Found Thomas here where he’d slept the night.”

  “What happened?”

  “The gardener sent him packing. Told him to get home else his uncle Mr Greswode would be angry.”

  “But he didn’t go home?” Archie said sucking in his breath.

  “No, he didn’t He never went back to Killivr
ay. A couple of hours later he were gone for ever.”

  “He drowned off Skilly Point, didn’t he?”

  “He did, poor devil; must have rowed out way past Skilly Point and the boat were found days after that Eventually he were washed up on Skilly Beach ‘bout three weeks later. It was Master Charles that found him. I never liked him but that must have been a hell of a shock.”

  “Why do you think he didn’t want to go back to Killivray?”

  “No idea, son. Had a tiff, argument or suchlike, I spect. You know what kids are. No one ever knew for sure, it were just a terrible accident”

  “You don’t think he meant to drown himself?” Archie asked.

  “Good God no! He were always full of the joys of spring. Had his whole life ahead of him. Whatever makes you ask a daft question like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anyhow, not long after, Mr Fanthorpe closed the school.”

  “Because Thomas Greswode drowned?”

  “No, lad. Mr Greswode, Charles Greswode’s father, gave him notice to quit Nanskelly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The Greswodes owned Nanskelly back in them days. They fell out after Thomas died and that was that. He was a vindictive old bugger, Mr Greswode, like most of the family.”

  “That’s why there were no more matches then?” Archie said, looking up at the board.

  “That’s right. End of an era. Fair broke Mr Fanthorpe’s heart having to close Nanskelly. Greswode sold the house and a family lived here for a good many years. Then, lo and behold, Miss Fanthorpe and Miss Thomas came back from abroad and started up the girls’ school.”

  “I see.”

  “Miss Fanthorpe, she’s Mr Fanthorpe’s daughter, ‘course he’s long dead now, God rest his soul.”

  Archie thought about the letter that Benjamin had left for him. What was it he’d said?

  There’s a couple of old biddies over at Nanskelly School who would do you a good turn if you were in need.

  The old man interrupted his thoughts, “Anyways, that’s enough of all this maudling talk. Come on, then, we’d best be getting back or your folks’!! think you’ve gone missing.”

  “They won’t. They’re queuing up for fortune-telling.”

  “Good for them. That Miss Thomas has a way with her telling fortunes. She can see into the future, they reckon.”

  They walked together back across the lawns in silence and stopped at the front door.

  “If you’re ever up this way again, call in for a chat. I’m mostly round and about, most probably find me over there near the potting shed,” He pointed away to the left.

  “Thanks,” Archie said.

  “I could tell you plenty of tales about the past Not many lads like listening to old men talking, but you do, you’re different. I could do with a bit of male company once in a while. I’m surrounded by bloody women most of the time.”

  Archie watched William Dally walk stiffly away, whistling to himself as he went.

  Romilly had never had so much fun in all the ten-and-a-half years she’d lived. Her face glowed with radiance and her eyes were bright, and she could not keep the smile off her face.

  She and Madame had walked the length and breadth of the Killivray grounds and then they’d had the most marvellous game of snowballs. Romilly had never played snowballs before. It was such fun! They played until they were both covered in snow and their noses were pinched and blue with the cold.

  Eventually when Romilly was completely exhausted she had sat herself down on a log. She clapped her hands together to knock the encrusted snow off her gloves and rubbed her eyes. She smiled up at Madame shyly and her teeth chattered noisily.

  Madame turned away for a moment to wipe the steam from her spectacles and then turned and smiled back.

  “That was fun, wasn’t it, ma petite’?”

  Romilly nodded enthusiastically.

  As they walked together towards Killivray House the snow began to fall again and dusk settled gently around them.

  They slipped quietly into the dark and silent house like conspirators.

  In the hallway Madame said, “Hurry now and take off your wet things and I will put them to dry. While you put on some dry socks I shall check on Nanny Bea.”

  Romilly took off her coat, hat and scarf and sat down to remove her galoshes. Then she went slowly upstairs. She grinned when she heard loud snoring coming from Nanny Bea’s room. Madame was right. Nanny Bea would not be able to tell anyone about their wonderful walk in the snow.

  She went into the nursery and fetched a dry pair of socks and sat on the bed to put them on.

  She heard Madame come upstairs and go into Nanny Bea’s room but there was no sound of any talking.

  Madame poked her head round the nursery door. “Nanny Bea still sleeps like the baby. I am going to prepare some supper. Do you want to help?”

  Romilly shook her head and thought that Madame looked a little sad. “I am so tired after our walk,” Romilly said, yawning.

  “Then you must rest for a while. I will call you at seven o’clock.”

  “Thank you,” Romilly said and she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.

  Madame left the room and made her way downstairs. Romilly waited until she knew that she was safely in the kitchen and then she took a candle from the bottom drawer of the tallboy, along with a box of matches, and made her way stealthily to the attic stairs.

  Nan unlocked the door to Hogwash House and stepped nervously inside.

  It was freezing in the house and already the smell of damp was strong in the air. She shivered, thinking that she wouldn’t want to hang about long in here.

  She climbed the steep stairs and stood for a moment on the landing, listening. The boards creaked beneath her feet and the house seemed to sigh around her.

  She turned the handle of the door to Benjamin’s bedroom and stepped inside.

  The room was large and, though dusty, was clean. There were few signs of its last occupant.

  The ceiling was sloping, ancient black beams stark against the white plaster. The floorboards were shiny with age and uneven, partly covered by a square of rush matting. There was a large rocking chair next to the fireplace, the grate was already filled with wood and just needed a match putting to it.

  There were no ornaments in the room, no clocks or clutter on the mantelpiece. There were no pictures on the wall except for a framed sampler hanging above the bed.

  Nan smiled as she read it.

  Usually they said boring old things like GOD IS GOOD or BLESS THIS HOUSE. This one said, SHUT MOUTH NEVER CATCHES FLY.

  That was typical of Benjamin.

  There were a few clothes of his hanging in the wardrobe but not much else; it seemed as if he’d had a good clear-out before he’d died. No personal bits and pieces anywhere.

  She walked down the stairs and went into the kitchen. There wasn’t a lot to sort out in the way of possessions in here either, and yet she was sure that there’d been a very fine dock on the dresser, one that would have been worth a pretty penny. Benjamin had lived simply here in Hogwash House and hadn’t accumulated a lot of clutter in his lifetime. She’d have to come back soon and pack up the rest of his things.

  Suddenly she was quite sure that she was not alone in the house. She felt her body go rigid with fear as she smelled a faint but definite whiff of tobacco. Then she heard the click of the front door as it closed softly.

  She hurried out into the porch and looked up and down Bloater Row. There was no one around, but then she heard the door of Bag End close. Walter Grimble! What the hell was he up to? Sniffing around where he wasn’t wanted. She went back and locked the front door, pocketed the key and then left. She hurried along Bloater Row and let herself into the Pilchard Inn.

  Up in his bedroom, by candlelight Archie Grimble wrote to Romilly Greswode, dipping his pen into a pot containing his mixture of invisible ink and trying to keep his invisible handwriting neat.

  He
told her all the things that he’d found out about Thomas Greswode from William Dally up at Nanskelly and Mr Galvini’s aunt from Santa Caterina but it didn’t seem to add up to very much. Still, maybe she’d be able to tell him what she had found out and if they pieced their information together, then maybe they’d get to the truth like real detectives did..

  Bate Norton—

  Downstairs the wireless was playing and dance music drifted up the stairs. His mammy loved to listen to music.

  Sometimes when she thought she was alone in the house she danced backwards and forwards, round and round, holding a broom for a partner. When he was littler he used to stand on her feet and she whizzed him around too.

  He heard the outside door open suddenly and the porker came into the house, puffing and panting as though he’d just run a mile.

  Downstairs the music of the wireless was soon drowned out by the rumbling noise of arguing.

  Archie knew that the porker would be wheedling for money so that he could go to the Pilchard and fill his fat belly with ale. He crept out onto the landing and listened.

  “What do you expect a man to do? Sit here on my arse listening to music all bloody night with a wife who barely speaks?”

  “You find fault with everything I say if I do speak.”

  His mammy’s voice, softer, tired sounding.

  “Some great entertainment we have here. The boy barely talks to me, just sits staring at me like I’m some kind of halfwit.”

  “You hardly speak to him, Walter, and if you do you’ve barely a kind word to say to him.”

  “What are you doing putting your coat on?”

  “I promised to go down to Periwinkle House and do some ironing and a few bits and pieces for the old dears.”

  “Why can’t they do their own ironing? Pair of stuck-up bitches!”

  “They pay me well and I enjoy their company.”

  “So I get to stay here and mind Archie while you’re off gallivanting.”

  “Hardly gallivanting, Walter.”

  “Where is Archie?”