Writing for Fun
October 2020
The Big House (part 1) 'Behind Closed Doors' - Pete Norman
Sunday is the best day of the week – of this Thomas was convinced.
Sunday is a day of rest. Sunday is the only day of the week when he did not have to pass through the gates of despair into the pit of hell for his 14 hour shift. First coined by his best friend, Michael this expression had been adopted as common parlance with the workers in the Barnoldswick Cotton Mill – the grown ups as well as the children.
Michael had also coined many other expressions as well, which were shared secretly during their lunch period – out of earshot of the Overlookers, who were at a loss to understand what children could possibly find to laugh at in this hell hole. However, if they were ever to solve that riddle then a sound beating would have swiftly followed.
Sunday is also the best day of the week because on Sunday mornings Thomas was able to squeeze his body into a small tin bath in the scullery and wash away the grime of the past week with carbolic soap. Being fourth in the family pecking order to use the bath, the water was always murky by the time he got to it and it was never very warm but it always readied him for the ritual enrobing, in the only decent clothes he possessed, so that he could look presentable in church.
For many years now he had been forced to endure the rock hard wooden pews and the endless monologues which Father Bartholomew Crudgington – a rather portly vicar – delivered with fire and enthusiasm every Sunday, stopping only when a large proportion of the congregation had slipped into a state of torpor.
Thomas had fought in vain to master the unpronounceable words and tuneless melodies of the hymns and in the end had resorted to the simple solution of mouthing something vaguely resembling the words, with apparent fervour, which had saved him from the vicar’s wrath for some considerable time.
However, he was more than happy to endure the pain of these services because afterwards, when the families had shaken the vicar’s hand and made their way home, he would remain behind for Sunday School class.
There were several other children who shared the class with him but the only one he cared about, the one who was his reason for living, was Florence. At ten she was a year younger than him, for which he cared not a jot because she was beautiful, funny and as bright as a button. Thomas loved her with a passion.
However, the verger always ensured that they were placed on opposite sides of the room in order to prevent distraction while the vicar tried his very best to instil into their indolent brains the magic of letters and numbers and the rules of good behaviour.
Thomas always strove for perfection – mostly in order to impress the lovely Florence – and he was always top of the class. As a result he was singled out for additional tuition in ‘gentlemanly conduct and etiquette’ at which he also excelled. However it never once occurred to him that this diligence was about to prove to be his downfall.
One Sunday, as the congregation left the church the vicar asked Thomas’s parents to wait behind. Once back inside the quiet of the church Father Crudgington informed them that he wanted to talk to them about Thomas.
Mrs Carter turned on her son with undisguised fury on her face but the vicar held up his hand. ‘No, no, no, no, no, Mrs Carter. Thomas always works most conscientiously and he is exceeding all expectations and I believe that now is the moment for him to put his fine efforts into practice.’
The Carters stood in stunned silence as the vicar explained. ‘Lord Dallimore is seeking a suitable valet, manservant to assist his son and heir, Montague and he has asked for my assistance to find a suitable candidate. I have informed him that he could do no better than to employ young Thomas here.’ He patted Thomas on the head. ‘And I have undertaken to bring him to Crossmore House without delay.’
Mr Carter opened his mouth to speak but his wife cut in, ‘He’s already got a job and we needs the money like.’
The vicar smiled. ‘Mrs Carter I am confident that the remuneration will far exceed that which he is currently receiving from Barnoldswick Mill and the working conditions will be significantly more amenable. Now, with your consent I propose to take him for interview this very afternoon.’
Mrs Carter opened her mouth again but the vicar cut in quickly, with a certain degree of desperation, ‘You need not trouble yourselves, madam, I am certain that just the two of us will suffice.’
Thomas had only ever seen the Big House from a distance and he had never paid it more than scant attention as he knew that the type of people who lived inside it were a different species of human being and he knew that there was no possibility that their paths would ever cross his . . . until today, however.
He had never given any thought as to how big the house actually was but as he walked up the wide driveway beside the vicar he could see that it was indeed very large – not quite as big as the Mill, perhaps but then he knew that nothing could ever be as big as the Mill.
He was entranced by the weird animals lining the roof and along the guttering and the sun gleaming on a wall filled with an unimaginable number of windows; he tried to count them but he failed twice and had to give up.
The huge door was opened by a dour man in a smart grey suit. His face was impassive as he said, ‘Father Crudgington, what a pleasure to see you, sir. You are expected.’
‘Thank you, Harringay. This is master Thomas.’ He eased Thomas through the door and into the entrance hall.
The hall alone was bigger than his own house and looked amazing. There were gigantic pictures covering almost all of the white marble walls and the spaces between were filled with the heads of antlered stags. Two suits of armour stood to attention guarding the passageway into the building.
Thomas had always prided himself on his ability to cope with everything that life could throw at him but his jaw dropped open at the bizarre sight and the vicar had to lean down and whisper, ‘Close mouth, Thomas, close mouth.’
Harringay led them through to the Library, which was even more grand than the hall but in a darker, more imposing way. Looking around the vast room Thomas could hardly believe that there were this many books in the whole world.
Behind the enormous desk sat a white haired old man dressed in a red velvet jacket and a red spotted cravat. He had a dead, dispassionate expression on his face – just like the Overlookers at the Mill. Thomas hesitated but the vicar took his arm and eased him across towards the desk and said, ‘Milord, might I present to you master Thomas.’ Then he glanced down at the skinny youth and pre-empted the inevitable next question. ‘He is eleven years of age.’
Lord Dallimore looked him up and down. ‘11, eh? – almost a man,’ he gestured towards a carved wooden chair and the vicar sank gently down onto the soft leather.
The interview was a formality, it was clear that the Lord had absolute confidence in Father Crudginton’s judgement and, seeing that Thomas was well presented and impressed with his good manners, the vicar’s recommendation was accepted without question.
He pressed a button on his desk and the door opened. Harringay led Thomas away to ‘introduce him to the house’.
Thomas was led through a labyrinth of passageways, some of which were beautifully carpeted and adorned with stained glass and pictures of long dead people, much like the stags in the hall. Some of the passageways, however, were plain and stark. As they walked he was bombarded with information about the family history and the etiquette of the household and his part in it. Harringay also named each room in passing and took great pains to inform him which of these rooms he was permitted to enter and which he was strictly forbidden to enter unless specifically requested.
As they passed one door, which was somewhat smaller than the rest, Harringay did not name it, he merely said, ‘No one is allowed to enter that one.’ Thomas glanced back – he wondered what could be possibly be behind that door that was so secret. He loved mysteries and would have stayed to consider the secret – but Harringay had moved on and Thomas obediently stayed beside him, making a fruitless effort to try to absorb all of the information. The house was so big that he knew that this would take him some considerable time to master.
The final room they entered was modest and sparsely furnished: a wooden cabinet, a chair and, in the corner, a small bed. This, apparently, was his own room and he could scarcely believe it – it was twice the size of his bedroom at home and the bed looked far more comfortable and he did not have to share it with an irritating younger brother who snored and talked incessantly and always used the chamberpot noisily.
Neatly laid out on the bed was a simple uniform, which he was instructed to change into without delay.
Thomas quickly complied and then he tested out the bed, which was absolutely perfect. Left to his own devices for the first time in this emotional maelstrom he was finally able to take stock of his position. He knew that he did not belong here with these posh people and he also knew that he would be required to live here, far from his family and friends and far from the beautiful Florence. However, he also knew that this house was not the Mill and he was already beginning to contemplate a workplace without the strident whining and clattering of the machinery.
Harringay returned a few minutes later and he was led back to the family rooms on the first floor and along to the door at the far end, on which he knocked with exaggerated politeness and waited for permission to enter.
This room was much larger than Thomas’ own room and beautifully furnished. In a large wing backed chair beside the window sat a young man – only a handful of years Thomas’ senior. He was dressed casually but his casual clothing made Thomas’ own Sunday best look like rags. Harringay was dismissed with a slight inclination of the head and then he turned towards Thomas. ‘I am Montague Dallimore and you must be Thomas.’ As the door closed he smiled. ‘Don’t look so frightened.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Do sit down.’
Thomas was thrown into confusion – he had no wish to lose his job before it had begun – and he remained standing, with just a slight shake of his head.
Montague laughed. ‘Do sit down, please, Thomas. You can forget all of that nonsense Harringay has preached to you – that applies only outside these four walls, where you must, of course, always conform. However, within this room you are my own personal valet and I am the one who makes all the rules in here and I think perhaps we can conduct ourselves with a little less formality, don’t you?’
With some uncertainty Thomas finally sat.
‘Now, officially your duties as my personal manservant are to tend to my every need, to clean my room, to see to my clothing and ensure that my entire day goes smoothly from the moment I rise to the moment I retire to my bed.’
Thomas smiled, not only because he thought it was expected of him but also with relief that Montague appeared far less terrifying than his father.
‘However . . . there is one further arduous task that I shall need you to assist me with. However, first I must first ask you a very important question.’ He paused. ‘Can you keep a secret? Can I can rely upon your absolute discretion? Absolute?’
Thomas nodded his head and crossed his heart.
Montague grinned. ‘Then there is something I need to show you.’
He led Thomas down the most unbelievably grand staircase to the ground floor and along to the ‘secret room’. Montague took a very large and ornate key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. With a final glance at Thomas he opened the door and beckoned him to enter.
Thomas had thought that he had seen everything, that the world could not possibly get any more amazing. The room was filled from wall to wall with an elaborate model railway. He sleepwalked forwards and picked up a small green locomotive from the track. He studied it with fascination for a few minutes, tracing a thin layer of dust with his thumb before placing it very carefully back down again.
Montague said, ‘That is the Hardwicke – Precedent Class – a ‘2-4-0’ – the pride of the LNWR. Beautiful, isn’t she?’
Thomas nodded without answering, his mind was away with the fairies. He was trying to take it all in, the stations, the bridges, the tunnels and even the tiny tin models of the people who occupied this strange world.
Montague stepped up beside him and picked up the Hardwicke. ‘But she is so very dusty. Everything in here is so dusty . . .’
Thomas whispered, ‘I would be proud to dust it for you, sir. I would be very, very careful, I promise.’
Montague put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you would . . . but you must never forget that this is our secret alone. You must never tell anyone – you see it would be considered by many to be inappropriate for the Heir Apparent to trifle with what one might consider to be a child’s plaything.’
Thomas was ecstatic. He was granted access to the key and he spent every waking moment that he was not otherwise employed in this room and after a week their secret place was unrecognisable. He had cleaned and dusted and polished until everything gleamed and at Montague’s request had already prepared a list of improvements he had considered.
A few weeks later he was unlocking the door to the secret room when he saw Montague in animated conversation with Father Crudgington. He hesitated, it would be inappropriate for him to approach them but he was anxious to thank the vicar for his help. Montague saw him and beckoned him over. ‘Thomas, I have to go to London for a few days – on my father’s business, you understand.’ he smiled and tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘So I leave you in complete charge of our little . . . secret.’ He smiled. ‘Should you require any assistance then, if you can get a message to Father Crudgington, I am certain he will help you in every way possible.’
The vicar leaned forwards and whispered, ‘I know, you see, Thomas. I am privileged, on occasions, to be permitted to assist Lord Montague with his purchases.’
After Montague had left the vicar said, ‘You will wait right here with me for a few moments, Thomas. You might find that it will be to your advantage.’
Puzzled, Thomas waited beside him and in a few minutes he heard a familiar voice. Thomas saw two people approaching and his heart nearly stopped. Harringay had an uncharacteristic smile on his face as he gestured towards the beautiful young lady beside him. ‘Master Thomas, might I introduce our new chambermaid – you might call her Florence.’