Friday, March 5, 2010

The Squire


The Squire lived an extravagant lifestyle in his stately mansion surrounded by his horses and stables and his large apple-tree orchard. Manicured rose-gardens were nestled between a maze of stone footpaths each with their own fish pond. The cobblestone driveway stretched for a hundred yards to the front gates. He hosted lavish garden parties and fox-hunts on church holidays for England's upper crust, by special invitation only. That's the way it used to be one hundred years ago. The Squire fell upon hard times. He lost his wealth through bad debts and obsessive gambling and had to declare bankruptcy. It was rumoured that he walked into his apple orchard with his cigar, a bottle of whiskey and his twelve-gauge shotgun - and blew his head off.


My friends Geoff, Cooper and I were adventurous young boys and it was a school holiday. We knew that if we were to go over the rucks; through the forest and the swampy dead-wood and then the apple orchard, we would arrive at the rear-side of the Squire's deserted mansion. We wanted to find evidence of the poor Squire's demise. Two hours later we were at the mansion. The windows had been boarded shut and rusty chains and padlocks secured the doors. We could, however, peak through the cracks of the boarded windows. We saw furniture covered with blankets and a magnificent spiral staircase. Some boards on the third level were loose so we scrambled up a drain-spout and pulled them off with our bare hands. We climbed inside. The floorboards squeaked when we walked so I suggested that we remove our running shoes in case someone should hear us.

My heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to bounce out of my chest. Geoff and Cooper felt the same. We tip-toed quietly to the spiral staircase and descended to the main foyer where there was a grandiose library and a huge coal fireplace. A heavy chandelier hung menacingly over our heads. I saw a metal ring mounted above the mantlepiece so I pulled it. It made a scraping noise inside the wall. We figured the Squire used it to summon his servants in the old days. We visited the banquet hall, the kitchen and the servants' quarters. The rooms on the second floor were bare but looked like guest rooms. After satisfying our curiosity, we returned to the third floor and headed towards the same window we had come through. Suddenly, we heard the loud scraping noise inside the walls, again. We looked at each other in shock. “Someone is pulling the ring on the fireplace”, I whispered. “Let's get out of here!” said Cooper. “Not before finding out who it is”, I said.

We could not believe our eyes. It was the Squire dressed in black riding boots; brown britches; a green tweed jacket and a white silk scarf around his neck. We saw nothing above his neck. He was carrying his head under his arm - and we were gone in an instant! We flew out the window, down the drain spout, through the orchard, the dead-wood and the forest; then over the rucks to our home. We didn't stop and we never looked back. We got home breathless. We were scratched and cut all over from running wildly through the thorn-bushes. How would we explain this to our mothers?

We made a pact! We swore, by crossing our hearts and hope to die, that none of us would ever reveal what we had seen, to anyone, for the rest of our lives. It was kept secret and sacred until now. I am the one to break the pact - by sharing this adventure with you.


Originally written February 20, 2010





2 comments:

John Evans said...

Author's Note

“rucks” is the term used for a mountain of dumped spoilage and heapage from decades of colliery operations in the area over sixty years ago. Surprisingly, it's not an eyesore. It has retained its orange and blue tint over the years but it's now mostly overgrown with foliage of all kinds. It's a great place for kids to go play cowboys and indians.

Anonymous said...

you have broke the pact,you must now go to bed with your eyes wide open,lock your bedroom door.

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