any small extra comforts at will. Apart from the main sitting room there were three other, utilitarian rooms, including a small dressing room that also overlooked the river and in which I resolved that I would sleep.
Threadgold had disappeared, clumping off down the stairs without a word to me. I heard a door bang somewhere far below.
I resolved to write to the school, accepting the offer of the rooms, and already planned to move my things out of theCross Keys Inn, if possible, the following day, for in spite of the emptiness of the remainder of the house, and the unattractiveness of its caretaker, I knew that I could be settled at last; Number 7, Prickett’s Green would be a home to me.
I went back to the window, and saw that the light had now completely faded from the sky.
And then I knew that, when I looked downwards, I should see him, and knew precisely where he would be, huddled close under a lamp. I felt my skin prickle, as though every one of my senses had become more acute. I waited. The house was deathly quiet.
I was not afraid, not on this occasion, though I began to be agitated. More than anything, I felt a sadness and some strange, close affinity with the boy.
Why I had realised the truth at this moment, I did not understand, but I accepted it at once, and was in no doubt, although nothing like it had happened to me in my life, and I knew precious little about such matters.
He stood, pale, ragged, utterly still in the circle of lamplight and as I stared directly at him he raised his head, turned his face up to me, his eyes seeking mine out. And so we stayed, as if frozen in some other time and place, I, James Monmouth, in the dark, upper room of the house, and the ghost of the boy in the cold street below.
And then I did become afraid, with a strange, very calm fear that so chilled me as almost to stop my blood in its course. I was bewildered too and yet still drawn to him as by an invisible beam of almighty strength. The look he gave me was so full of anguish and misery, of desperation and pleading, and of a sort of blame, too, so that I felt not angry and irritated with him as before but deeply guilty, as though I had known and betrayed him. I knew that there was no earthly point in my leaving the window and the house and running down the path and over to him, for when I reached the lamp he would certainly be gone. Icould say nothing, ask nothing. Yet there was something I should surely do for him, his appearances meant as much, I was certain. But what? How? And how might I discover?
Lights from a barge, moving down river, sparkled on the water. I followed it out of sight and then brought my gaze slowly back. But he had stepped out of the bright ring, and was gone.
I bent my head for a second and closed my eyes, and most earnestly and urgently prayed for guidance and protection.
Two days later I had arranged for my trunks to be collected from the shipping company’s warehouse and moved out from the Cross Keys Inn – from where I was bade the most cursory of farewells – and into the rooms at Number 7, Prickett’s Green. Within a few days I had purchased some extra pieces of furniture and linen, arranged with Silas Threadgold to have breakfast brought up each morning and found a good coffee house half a mile’s walk away, where I could eat my evening dinner. The weather continued cold, bright and clear and my spirits remained high.
I did not see the boy again and indeed, with some curious extra sense I seemed to be developing, knew that I would not. All was open, cheerful and unremarkable. I was too busy about my domestic matters to think much at all of Conrad Vane but I planned to settle myself and then to travel down to the school and spend some days there, making a start on my work.
I acquired a desk and chair which I placed in one window and a wing armchair which I drew close up to another and, seated at one or other of them, I spent many hours during those first days simply watching the
Threadgold had disappeared, clumping off down the stairs without a word to me. I heard a door bang somewhere far below.
I resolved to write to the school, accepting the offer of the rooms, and already planned to move my things out of theCross Keys Inn, if possible, the following day, for in spite of the emptiness of the remainder of the house, and the unattractiveness of its caretaker, I knew that I could be settled at last; Number 7, Prickett’s Green would be a home to me.
I went back to the window, and saw that the light had now completely faded from the sky.
And then I knew that, when I looked downwards, I should see him, and knew precisely where he would be, huddled close under a lamp. I felt my skin prickle, as though every one of my senses had become more acute. I waited. The house was deathly quiet.
I was not afraid, not on this occasion, though I began to be agitated. More than anything, I felt a sadness and some strange, close affinity with the boy.
Why I had realised the truth at this moment, I did not understand, but I accepted it at once, and was in no doubt, although nothing like it had happened to me in my life, and I knew precious little about such matters.
He stood, pale, ragged, utterly still in the circle of lamplight and as I stared directly at him he raised his head, turned his face up to me, his eyes seeking mine out. And so we stayed, as if frozen in some other time and place, I, James Monmouth, in the dark, upper room of the house, and the ghost of the boy in the cold street below.
And then I did become afraid, with a strange, very calm fear that so chilled me as almost to stop my blood in its course. I was bewildered too and yet still drawn to him as by an invisible beam of almighty strength. The look he gave me was so full of anguish and misery, of desperation and pleading, and of a sort of blame, too, so that I felt not angry and irritated with him as before but deeply guilty, as though I had known and betrayed him. I knew that there was no earthly point in my leaving the window and the house and running down the path and over to him, for when I reached the lamp he would certainly be gone. Icould say nothing, ask nothing. Yet there was something I should surely do for him, his appearances meant as much, I was certain. But what? How? And how might I discover?
Lights from a barge, moving down river, sparkled on the water. I followed it out of sight and then brought my gaze slowly back. But he had stepped out of the bright ring, and was gone.
I bent my head for a second and closed my eyes, and most earnestly and urgently prayed for guidance and protection.
Two days later I had arranged for my trunks to be collected from the shipping company’s warehouse and moved out from the Cross Keys Inn – from where I was bade the most cursory of farewells – and into the rooms at Number 7, Prickett’s Green. Within a few days I had purchased some extra pieces of furniture and linen, arranged with Silas Threadgold to have breakfast brought up each morning and found a good coffee house half a mile’s walk away, where I could eat my evening dinner. The weather continued cold, bright and clear and my spirits remained high.
I did not see the boy again and indeed, with some curious extra sense I seemed to be developing, knew that I would not. All was open, cheerful and unremarkable. I was too busy about my domestic matters to think much at all of Conrad Vane but I planned to settle myself and then to travel down to the school and spend some days there, making a start on my work.
I acquired a desk and chair which I placed in one window and a wing armchair which I drew close up to another and, seated at one or other of them, I spent many hours during those first days simply watching the
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