We do miss him. Who could forget the sound of His Grace’s cane swishing through the air, then the thwack of firm discipline? Happy days.
I’ll always remember the startled look on his face as the coffin lid was plopped into place. Risus sardonicus, perhaps, although I prefer to think he was simply surprised to be taken before his time. We’ll never know why that trapdoor was left open. Apparently it was a 20 foot drop before His Grace landed on Mrs Allthorpe from H.M Revenue & Customs. In a just world she’d have broken his fall. Instead it appeared for a moment as if we’d have to bury them in the same coffin … they were so – how shall I put it? – “intertwined”. All that was left of her handbag revealed a packed lunch of Patum Peperium sandwiches and a Letter of Demand from the tax office. In life, His Grace loathed both. Like his ancestors, he was a good hater. Unlike them, he couldn’t hide from the rapacious Tax Man, or in this case, Woman.
You can’t imagine, Sir, how the staff reacted to the news you’d bought this property. “Incredulous” is not the word. Of course, some of the junior maids knew of you and your wife. You a singer, she an actress. We’re doubly blessed. Or, given your two divine children, quadruply. The old aristocracy replaced by the new. It’ll be a short, sharp learning curve, no doubt.
I’m glad you asked. I’ve been here for 45 years, the last 30 as His Grace’s valet. What a blow it was when he decided to sell the manor to appease some Government Jobsworth’s threats over unpaid monies. It was His Grace’s clever idea to rebrand the property from its original name, Grimm Hall which had become so associated with The Curse. You haven’t heard? A silly, local myth that the owner of this property always dies violently. “Chudleigh Manor” is so much more approachable, don’t you think, Sir? You could weave it into the other scribbles on your sleeve tattoo. How very on-trend and I’m certain that style of tattoo won’t be dated in, say, five years.
Madam, I can assure you that your son was here a moment ago. Just keep moving through the hall and don’t look back. Oh, the little scamp, crouched behind the tapestry. Indeed, he’s a little pale. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. You did, Master James? In that case don’t dawdle, it could be the last your parents see of you. Hear of you is another thing. Quite often the screams echo around the grounds for minutes afterwards. And now your mewling is scaring your sister.
Come everyone, let’s meet the staff. Ideally they’d have been lined up outside to allow you to “run the gauntlet”, as His Grace would’ve put it, but Northamptonshire’s driving rain spoilt that fun. Oh, dear, just two. Where are the others, Donald? Really? It seems a little early to start drinking, but it does steady the nerves.
Nevertheless, let me introduce Donald who’s been gamekeeper here for decades. A handy soul with an Over-and-Under shotgun or sharp hunting knife, although we do keep him clear of the liquor cabinet. And this is Cook, or to be formal, Missus Velveteen, who’s been with us on weekday parole since January. What Cook can do with a pheasant that’s been hung for two weeks is quite startling, and you can barely taste the lead shot residue. We were hoping that Cook would finally be available seven days a week but it appears those additional assault charges are going to stick.
Keep up, Master James, you’ve fallen behind again. Something pulled at your jacket? Technically that could be “someone”, but how does one describe a non-corporeal being? Let’s look at who it might’ve been. The portraits filling these walls are very revealing. Possibly it’s the Duke who fought on both sides in the English Civil War or going back even further, the ancestor who sided with the rival Yorkists and Lancastrians in the Wars of the Roses. In terms of mischievousness, it’s hard to go past His Grace’s forebear who in the 16th Century built a priest hole to hide Catholic priests from Elizabeth I’s men then turned the Papists in for the reward money. Such a lark.
No, the front door is definitely shut. That icy draught sighs through the manor all-year-round, a bonus at the height of Summer – which in this district is from August 9th to the 11th.
Iwas wrong, the door is open. No, Sir, I won’t be offended if you join your family, although I’d hurry if I was you. Madam appears to be having trouble getting the car key in the ignition.
All gone. That was quick. Another success, Your Grace. That’s the fourth buyer we’ve seen off this year. Cuddleigh Manor is yours again. Yes, it’s a shame I can’t pour you a cognac to celebrate but the last time we tried, the liquor soaked the carpet. Still, there must be some advantages to being a ghost.
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Copyright © 2015 GREG FLYNN