A place of shadow

A massive place, this historical building. It was originally owned by the church, now it is a boarding school for naughty boys. A place where parents can safely ignore their responsibility to their offspring, and then, later in the child’s life, blame the school for all his faults, crimes and whatnot.

The main block has 2 floors and an attic level, converted to bedrooms for unruly boys. Each floor has 6 to 8 rooms. It is situated in the English countryside, not far from the border of Wales, in Herefordshire.

The surrounds are 26 acres of wooded boyish pleasure, hilly paths to slide down, bracken to hold onto and smoke, blackberries to gorge on, edible chestnuts and conkers. Everything made special for boys 8 to 13 - except the shadows.

Shadows, so many shadows. And sometimes, on occasion, when a boy strays alone, farther from the house, they move with a rustle and creek, reaching out to grab slim and bony arms, to snag a misplaced foot, and send crashing, gasping to the ground, breathless with sudden fear.

But that’s in the safer daylight, now past by 2 hours.

On the ground level of the school, after passing through the quiet main reception area (on the left the headmaster’s office, on the right the administration office) is a grand staircase, rising regally to the first level. Six bedrooms play out upon this level, traversing the circumference of the stairwell. Six doors, all the same colour, only 3 will be occupied later in the night. They speak of past hero’s, air aces from a bygone age, shown to all by a hand-made wooden plaque on each. Douglas Bader, “Cats-eye” Cunningham say two. Other dead heroes similarly enshrined.

Above the well of the stair, high above and straight up, you can see panels, not really windows, that can be opened to let in light through hidden glass. When they are closed only stray beams flashlight in. And create shadows, which, to young children, hide monsters large and small. Monsters waiting for the unwary – monsters - the things of eight year old nightmare. The shadows of the past.

To the left of the staircase, on the ground level, lays the communal (for the children) shower room – three showers one toilet. Another place where shadows lurk, waiting the right time to leap out on an unsuspecting child, lathered but not yet clean, unprepared and lost in the dreamy warmth of the spray, to let slip on hard tiles, cracking heads, breaking fingers or arms as they flail wildly, screaming to scare the dead.

Opposite the stairway a door leads to the sitting room. There, a baby grand piano sits in all it’s black glory – like a shadow itself, promising midnight delights of Fur Elise for the sleeping children. A roaring fire in winter, roasted chestnuts, marshmallows and hot chocolate drinks to warm the coldest cheeks. Today, still and quiet.

One cold winter night earlier in this year, 6 children and 3 adults slept a sleep of un-shadowed innocence. At the ungodly hour of one, all were awoken when the Beethoven melody “Fur Elise” began to play – the music coming from this room. All the residents rushed from their rooms and down the staircase, bursting into a totally empty room to hear the last dangling notes - a mere bagatelle to a minor, woken in the middle of the night. But that was then, now it is quiet here too.

Passing the sitting room, the door into the dining room, able to fit 26 children and 6 adults comfortably. No shadows here, only filling and stodgy pudding desserts, roast meats, potato, turnips and swedes – enough to scare the shadows of sensible diets.

Further on, left then right, the senior boy sleeping cells, opposite the kitchen where Mrs C. hustles and bustles over boiling pots and a smoking oven, while Mary, the scullery maid (and Jill of all trades), just bustles … and moans about her, alcohol induced, sore head.

Turn around and go back, left then right, back to the wood balustraded stairs and raise eyes up. Above sits the unseen second level, reached via a narrow staircase and door. To the left, the bell room. Where the maid, dissatisfied with 19^th century life and servitude, tied the bell rope around her alabaster neck and jumped out of the window and, as she died, ringing the bell loudly to gain entry for her spirit. On windy winter nights, laying in the bed above the bell, feet and hands stretched out to the very corners of the bed, trying to stay warm with no movement, her deathly screech is still heard by fertile minds, to scare the living daylights and disturb fleeting sleep.

Looking out that same window, a rising embankment can be seen, covered in rarely trimmed bracken and long grass, too steep to climb, offering no escape or comfort to troubled minds.

On the very top level, the attic as it once was, now teacher bedrooms, a solitary child wanders and wonders - alone, fearful of the many shadows, the half seen shades, the scratching nails on glass and wood.

Sent to find something, he treads warily, standing still as a creaking floorboard announces his presence to the shadows.

He firmly tells his imagination “This is not real,” but his imagination snaps back with a snarl, that causes him to start.

Out of the corner of his left eye a phosphorescent shape seems to follow him, he thinks he sees her long dress, her cowl covering her head … and does there seem to be glowing eyes? He intones “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s …” the whisper broken off as a sudden high-pitch squeal shatters the quiet and tears though his chest. He wants to run but knows he can’t. Perhaps, if he stands perfectly still, she will miss him.

“The lady in white” he mutters quietly, so as not to be heard by her.

She does nothing.

He knows where the room with the box in it is, he’s been here before, but never alone. Just around the next corner to the right and straight ahead. He’s ready to go on. She hasn’t moved.

Come to think about it, the squeal sounded exactly like the squeal when he’d opened the door leading to this passage. He thinks “I probably didn’t close it properly and it’s swung on it’s own, yeaaaah, that’s it. Phew”

His next step hesitates mid-stride as the whisper touches his ear “Hello Ronnie” it’s sibilant gasp freezing his blood and limbs.

Suddenly all the shadows seem to rush to the roof, no sound except a steady, measured footfall from behind – the white lady gone! In front, a sudden shadow grows slowly and towers over him.

“Ronnie, didn’t you hear me?” calls out the familiar voice of Miss G the sports mistress as she steps into view, shining her torch carefully to avoid Ronnie’s eyes.

The shadows are gone, the fear subsides, all is well … until next time.