Arnie Jenks and the House of Strangers Read online

  Arnie raised himself onto his tiptoes and straining, reached out with his right hand onto the ledge that hung proud over the top of the door. He flailed about, panting and grunting, edging himself along until suddenly his middle finger touched a hint of cold metal. He tickled gently and it moved a little towards him. And that is where it remained.

  ‘You!’ said a voice authoritatively.

  Arnie lowered himself down and gingerly turned round. In front of him stood the gaunt figure of a man, who appeared to Arnie to be very old, gripping a silver topped black cane. His eyes burned silently while his jagged face twitched above the right cheek.

  ‘I was looking for a secret hiding place,’ Arnie said meekly.

  ‘Well, if it is behind that door it stays hidden.’ The old man tapped his cane lightly on the carpet several times. ‘What lies inside is not for public view.’

  ‘Ok,’ said Arnie reasonably. ‘In that case – I will have to pretend to have seen it and make the story up.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure a young chap like you has a very vivid imagination.’

  ‘Yeah, guess so,’ said Arnie, a little embarrassed. He paused. ‘Is there a secret hidden in there?’ he dared to ask.

  ‘I’m not telling,’ the old man said mysteriously.

  ‘I’ll take that as a maybe?’ tried Arnie, putting on his most endearing face.

  ‘You can take it anyway you like, but what’s inside that room remains private.’

  Arnie opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘So off you go now,’ said the man quietly.

  ‘Sure.’ Arnie sidled away across the landing. As he turned onto the stairs, he risked a quick look back but found himself alone.

  A whistle blew.

  Arnie bounded down the stairs two at a time, reaching the hall to see his classmates wandering in from all sides.

  ‘Ten minutes everyone – we’ll soon need to be on our way,’ said Miss McGarry, standing at the front door waving frantically to the coach driver, as Miss Pink counted up all the pupils she could see.

  ‘Any luck?’ said Connor, beetling up as Arnie hunched down onto the bottom step.

  ‘No – never got in there,’ he huffed.

  ‘Got in where?’ said Miss McGarry suspiciously, veering across towards them. Connor slunk away.

  ‘I’d hoped to discover a priest hole,’ Arnie said, lowering his eyes.

  ‘Well, you set yourself a tough task there,’ she consoled him. ‘Those craftsmen were very ingenious back then and unless you knew the trick of how they were concealed you would be very unlikely to spot them.’

  ‘Oh yes – but you see…’

  ‘Never mind,’ she interrupted, ‘you can invent one. It’s the storytelling that counts as much as the facts I sometimes think, though don’t let the Headmaster know I said that!’

  Arnie sighed and, securing his rucksack over his shoulder, got up and slouched towards the exit.

  Miss McGarry stopped him. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The bus?’

  ‘No, no, no – you are being collected from here.’

  Arnie looked blank.

  ‘I’ve had a message from your form master. Your aunt has rung to say she’s coming to pick you up and take you home.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Arnie, slow to cotton on. ‘But my dad’s meant to be collecting me from school.’

  ‘Something about him not being back until tomorrow?’ Miss McGarry remembered.

  ‘Oh, yeah – he’s been working away all week.’ Arnie looked down at his shoes. ‘He promised to be back in time for the weekend though.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it must be necessary,’ his teacher said sympathetically. ‘And as your aunt doesn’t live a million miles from here, it suits her to drop by.’

  Miss McGarry checked her watch. ‘Should be due sort of…nowish.’

  Arnie shrugged. ‘Her timekeeping can be a bit crap.’

  ‘I’m sure she won’t be long,’ his teacher assured him, looking over his head as the other school children started making for outside. She tooted urgently on her whistle and they sped up.

  Arnie tried to follow, but she signalled for him to remain where he was.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘You mustn’t wait out there, far too cold. The wind’s got up – it’s bitter!’

  ‘But can’t I sit on the coach?’

  A fork of lightening crackled across the horizon briefly, punching life into the bruised sky.

  ‘We need to get going. I don’t want to risk being late back and these country lanes can be treacherous in the rain.’ Miss McGarry pointed to the thickening clouds closing in around them.

  ‘But…’ he squealed, his voice peaking like a piccolo, ‘…I have to stay here on my own?’ He grimaced at Connor, who was hanging about in the doorway trying to see what was going on.

  ‘Miss?’ Connor twitched.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute, hop on the coach,’ she ordered, as a distant rumble of thunder echoed somewhere not that far away. Connor jumped nervously and without a second thought scurried to where his transport lay, engine revving angrily.

  Miss McGarry turned back to Arnie. ‘Anyway, there is no way that I’d leave you here by yourself.’

  His eyebrows rose like a question mark.

  ‘Ah – hello there!’ she said breezily, her gaze shifting.

  As Arnie clocked the approaching figure, his jaw dropped.

  ‘May I introduce you to a Mr Silverthorne, a most respected governor of our school,’ said Miss McGarry, reaching out a hand. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said the old man returning the greeting.

  Miss McGarry seemed to blush, as he held her hand for a while longer than seemed comfortable. He then turned to address Arnie.

  ‘Though the majority of my time is mainly spent attending to legal matters for Lord Martlesham, and today I am here doing just that.’

  ‘Mr Silverthorne has kindly agreed that you may wait here until your aunt arrives.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said softly.

  ‘I trust Arnie will behave himself in the meantime and not get in your way,’ said Miss McGarry sweetly.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be no trouble,’ the old man smiled.

  Arnie bit his lip.

  ‘Say “thank you” Arnie,’ Miss McGarry implored.

  ‘Thank you,’ mumbled Arnie shyly.

  ‘This young man and I have already met as a matter-of-fact.’

  ‘Really?’ said Miss McGarry, looking down her nose.

  Arnie sucked his teeth.

  ‘He wasn’t…running about was he?’ she said concerned.

  Mr Silverthorne stared straight at Arnie. ‘He was searching…’

  Arnie coughed nervously, sensing a gentle warning in Mr Silverthorne’s tone.

  ‘…for clues to a secret and where in a house like this, one might still lie hidden,’ Mr Silverthorne concluded, tapping his cane twice, staccato-like.

  Arnie avoided glancing in his direction.

  ‘Oh well, another time perhaps Arnie?’ said Miss McGarry, slightly relieved.

  ‘Perhaps…’ said Mr Silverthorne vaguely. ‘Now,’ he said changing the subject abruptly, ‘these lights here in the hallway do work after a fashion but the rest of the building is less well equipped when it comes to illumination. So I think right here will be the best place for you to wait,’ he said, indicating a hard bench next to an empty fireplace.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Arnie resigned, as a figure emerged from a far room and stepped across the passage into another.

  ‘Ah that will be his Lordship. I must go.’

  Mr Silverthorne smiled, nodding thoughtfully, as he turned and slowly drifted away into the murky depths of the house.

  A wonky sounding horn blasted in from outside.

  ‘That’ll be for me. Must get going, look at that truly dreadful weather!’ Miss McGarry shook as thunder reverberated overhead. ‘See you on Monday Arnie – have a good weekend!’


  Clutching her collar tight she slid out through the front door, head bowed trying to avoid the first splats of rain. Upon reaching the coach she turned back with a brief wave before climbing on board and disappeared from his view.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Unexpected Visitors

  Arnie watched solemnly from the porch as the coach, belching exhaust fumes, rumbled off unevenly down the drive, carving out potholes as it ploughed on towards the main road. Connor mouthed “bye” to him from one of the back windows through the gaps made clear by the fast beating rain; moments later he was a speck on the horizon.

  Looking up at the edifice of the house, creaking and bowing under the weight of thick crumbling stone strangulated by ivy, Arnie ducked the spurts of water from the already overflowing drainpipes above where a gargoyle with the face of a demon screamed grotesquely. He shivered and drawing his blazer tight over his bony shoulders nipped back inside, heaving the front door shut.

  His search to find somewhere cosier than Mr Silverthorne had suggested brought him to a nook, set back behind the stairs, partially draped in a pair of floor to ceiling, thick tapestry curtains somewhat worn and frayed. Arnie nestled into the comfy tub chair he found there and pulling some squashy cushions over his knees, snuggled down.

  The low lights in the hall glimmered softly as his eyelids became heavy and his breathing slowed. He drooped his head and drifted into sleep.

  *

  Arnie awoke with a start as the hall clock struck 5pm. He had been dozing for well over an hour. There was complete silence everywhere. Where was his aunt? he wondered, rubbing and blowing on his blue-tipped fingers to restore some feeling. At least it’s stopped raining, he thought, and getting up he stepped over to the window.

  What greeted him was a blanket of thick, crisp, untouched snow several inches deep stretching as far as he could see. Flakes were still falling. Reality hit him like an axe.

  ‘How am I going to get home now?’ he muttered. ‘I’m trapped!’

  Spotting an avocado-green telephone sat squat on a pile of old newspapers, he picked it up and tried to make a call.

  ‘Terrific,’ he said, tapping the object for signs of life. ‘Probably haven’t paid the bill. Now Dad, if only you’d given me a mobile like everyone else, this wouldn’t be a problem!’ he cursed, as a sudden chilly wind tickled him. He shuddered, flicking his head and urgently peering into the dimly lit distance. The house seemed to grow very dark all of a sudden.

  ‘That’s odd,’ he whispered, ‘the lights have gone out. Must be a power cut.’ He looked again down the long corridor, but apart from a single candle flame that stood guard on a side table – all was black.

  The long squeak of a door hinge straining paralysed him. He stared ahead, gripped, unwilling to move, as the lightest of feet padded their way effortlessly towards him. His spine tingled. An outline of someone began to form, drawing closer and closer – but he could not see who it was.

  ‘Hello? Mr Silverthorne?’ he tried, but the words stuck in his throat. By the time he cleared them away ready to call out a second time, the figure had swept up the candle and slipped into the shadows.

  Arnie moved tentatively and lightly on the balls of his feet through the hall, following the direction of the disappearing footsteps, avoiding the temptation to look around in case he saw something he didn’t like.

  He passed the pictures of the lady in green and the cloaked fugitive diving into the priest hole that he and Connor had fantasised about earlier, and took the turn into the servants’ corridor, which eventually led him to the top of the staircase leading down to the kitchen. Then he saw an assortment of clothes hanging on a hat stand. The sight of his cold breath made him reach out to a thick overcoat. Pulling it on and hugging himself inside, he descended below.

  At the bottom of the steps he hesitated, searching for a light switch, before noticing the soft rosy glow from a pair of gas lamps bathing the space in front of him. As his eyes became familiar with the layout of the room he heard the scraping of chairs somewhere off to his right.

  Hiding behind a pillar, he spied not one but two strangers moving around a table set for dinner. The figure he had seen in the corridor moments earlier snuffed out the candle flame and stood for a moment checking his watch against the hands displayed on a portly wall clock. It was not Mr Silverthorne but a man in his early fifties, Arnie guessed. He appeared clean shaven with scraped back oiled hair, wearing an old-fashioned dark suit and tie, coupled with a waistcoat into which he fumbled the return of his time-piece.

  ‘His Lord and Ladyship have gone up early and won’t be requiring anything more tonight,’ he pronounced. ‘I’ve turned the upstairs lamps off for now except those in the bedroom corridors, in case Master Edward needs to visit the little gentleman’s room.’

  A plump woman around the same age nodded to him, as she adjusted her apron and navigated a white hat over a haystack of tightly-controlled grey hair. ‘Lily. Hurry along now!’ she barked. ‘I don’t want them vegetables to get cold.’

  She must be the cook, thought Arnie, as a whiff of something savoury wafted through the air. His tummy rumbled and he rubbed it hard to try and make it stop.

  ‘Coming Mrs Bowers,’ said a thin voice, which was soon followed by the arrival of a pasty-looking girl, who struggled in with an overloaded tray. Lily reached the table just in time to plonk down her load and manhandle the sprawling range of bowls and dishes into position as other people arrived behind her. The first: a girl with a sour expression dropped some serving spoons with a clatter as she leapt to save the gravy boat, which shook perilously close to spilling. The second: a stocky man in a grey and yellow uniform carrying a peaked cap, sat down with his back to Arnie. The cook glared at him as he unbuttoned his coat allowing his stomach to roll over the top of his belt like a water balloon. Finally, a gaunt willowy boy with a pale, pockmarked face sidled in through an unlit doorway and slunk into a chair.

  ‘His master’s boots shiny as a new penny, I hope Robert?’ said the man at the far end of the table.

  ‘Yes Mr Dawson,’ replied the boy, ‘and his riding pair too, just in case he calls down for them.’

  ‘Is that polish under your nails?’

  Robert twitched and curled his fingers underneath his knuckles.

  ‘Straight after supper Robert,’ said the man disapprovingly, as he surveyed the others around the table.

  The boy nodded, and pulling forward his glass began to pour himself some water from a black and white patterned jug.

  ‘Sarah, wrong serving spoons – these are only for upstairs!’ the cook spluttered, ‘the ones with the straight handles are what we use – in the other drawer. Will that girl never learn?’ she grumbled, as the young maid collected up the evidence of her mistake and retreated back into the scullery. ‘And have you taken that broth up to Rose?’ she called after her.

  ‘Still poorly?’ said Mr Dawson.

  ‘Something going round I shouldn’t wonder,’ said the cook, flicking her eyes to the man on her left as he offered up his plate and helped himself to a heap of vegetables.

  ‘Hold on, Mr Fellows – not so many. Just because you have a posh new title don’t mean you can be getting above yourself.’

  ‘Chauffeur isn’t posh, Mrs Bowers.’

  ‘Well, it’s French! That’s all I’ll say on the matter.’

  The chauffeur stifled a chuckle and put back a couple of carrots.

  ‘And how’s that new mechanical toy of yours?’ she challenged him, prodding a potato with a skewer. ‘Broken down again has it?’

  ‘It’s called a Star Benz motorised car,’ said the stocky man proudly. ‘And – no – it’s actually running rather smooth, kind of you to ask.’

  ‘Won’t last,’ the cook said unimpressed, rolling her fish eyes at him, as the meat, sizzling and bursting out of its skin was placed in front of her by the hapless Sarah, looking decidedly flustered.

  ‘It is progress, Mrs Bowers,’ said Mr Dawson, picking up a
long knife and double pronged fork. ‘However much we dislike the concept we cannot fight it. Motor vehicles are here to stay. The days of horse and cart are sadly numbered.’ He moved forward to carve.

  Arnie coughed, but smothered it quickly with the back of his hand. Robert looked up and around.

  ‘And those horrid fumes are good for the lungs are they?’ the cook retorted. ‘I’m sure the master really enjoyed being stuck in the middle of town watching you fiddle under the bonnet while all and sundry looked on!’

  ‘Engine just got overheated that’s all,’ Mr Fellows explained by way of an excuse.

  ‘And in the winter, wheels sliding all over the place…real dangerous I say,’ she persisted.

  ‘And a horse has never fallen I s’pose, in all the years we’ve known them?’ the chauffeur replied, mimicking her voice.

  ‘No it hasn’t!’ the cook glared.

  Mr Fellows smiled as a new arrival placed a bowl of Brussels sprouts in front of him.

  ‘Ouch, that’s hot!’ he said, pulling his hands away sharply. He looked at the young girl, who appeared not to notice.

  ‘You wanted me to do that, didn’t you Emily? If I see you before you see me…’ and he made a playful lunge, but the girl had moved out of his way to the other side of the table.

  Arnie’s stomach gurgled again but this time louder. He moved back, hoping that he hadn’t been heard, but he got caught under a lamp casting a slim shadow along the floor.

  ‘Mr Dawson!’ said young Robert, pointing him out.

  Everyone looked round.

  Arnie shuffled forward. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I didn’t know there were any other people in the house. No one told me.’

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ Mr Dawson said accusingly.

  ‘Nothing really,’ said Arnie, ‘though…I am kinda starving…so…’