Misselthwaite Manor

hen the ship arrived in England, Mary was met by a stern-looking woman with grey hair. She wore a buttoned-up blue woollen overcoat, with just the hint of a scarf at the neck, and had a leather handbag over her arm. She looked Mary up and down and, from the way her forehead crinkled, Mary had a feeling she didn’t approve of what she saw. ‘My name is Mrs Medlock,’ she announced. ‘I am Mr Craven’s housekeeper and you are to come with me.’

Mary was reminded of a word her father had once used to describe the elderly aunt of a colleague. Formidable, he had called her. Yes, formidable is just what Mrs Medlock is, thought Mary. But she reminded herself that Mrs Medlock was just the housekeeper – a servant – and so had to do what the family told her to do.

Remembering her decision not to be a child any more, Mary met Mrs Medlock’s gaze. ‘Very well,’ she said coldly.

Head held high, Mary followed Mrs Medlock to the train that was to take them to Yorkshire. As the whistle went and it started to puff along the rails, clouds of steam shooting out from its funnel, Mary became aware that Mrs Medlock was studying her.

‘Well, you’re a plain little piece of goods, aren’t you?’ Mrs Medlock said in her Yorkshire accent.

Mary puzzled over the words, trying to work out what they meant. I think it’s her way of saying I’m not very pretty, she decided. Mary didn’t mind the comment because she didn’t consider herself particularly pretty either. She didn’t have the long golden hair of a princess in a storybook or the jet-black hair and enchanting brown eyes of the Indian girls in her ayah’s tales. She was small and skinny with hair the colour of a conker. Her skin was pale, her inquisitive hazel eyes almost too large for her face. Her words are true, Mary thought, but what a strange thing for a servant to say.

She turned and stared out of the window.

Opposite her, Mrs Medlock settled herself more firmly in her seat. ‘Now I don’t know what you’ve been told, girl,’ she began with a warning note in her voice, ‘but don’t be expecting luxury at Misselthwaite. It’s not the house it was.’

Her eyes grew distant and for a moment Mary had a feeling she was reliving the past.

‘When the young mistress was alive, there was a full household staff, a stable of horses, grand balls, but that’s all changed now.’ She tutted indignantly. ‘Those army savages! They turned the house into a hospital during the war. Brought the wounded, the dead and the dying. They set up camp in the garden and kept their sick in the ballroom. Quite took over the place and now there’s no knowing what to do with the house. They left it a wreck!’

Mary didn’t say anything.

Mrs Medlock clearly expected more of a response. ‘Well? Don’t you even care?’

‘Does it matter whether I care or not?’ said Mary bluntly.

Mrs Medlock’s eyes narrowed. She gazed at her for a long moment. ‘Well, you are an odd duck, aren’t you?’

Mary’s initial dislike of the housekeeper intensified and she turned to look out of the window again, not wanting to talk to her any more. Mrs Medlock sniffed and got out a book to read.

As the train headed north, Mary continued to gaze out. England was so grey! Rain slanted against the train window. Sodden fields stretched in all directions, cows and sheep hanging their heads in the downpour. It was so different from the bright sunshine of India. There the rain was as welcomed as a longed-for guest, making flowers burst into life and fresh green buds push their way up through the parched soil.

On and on the train went until they pulled into a station and transferred to a car driven by an unsmiling, gruff man. As they drove away from the station, Mary fell asleep. When she woke up, she saw an endless expanse of grey on either side of the car. She had never seen anything like it. ‘Is that the sea?’ she asked as she looked at the clouds swirling across the top.

‘The sea! What a foolish thing to say, girl. Out there are the moors,’ snorted Mrs Medlock. ‘Be sure to stay inside when the mist is rolling or you may not find your way home.’

From her tone of voice, it sounded as if she didn’t think that would be a bad thing. Mary’s lips tightened. She had the strong feeling that Mrs Medlock didn’t want her at Misselthwaite any more than she wanted to be there. Well, she can stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of hers, she thought fiercely. All I want is to be left alone.

They drove on and on along the narrow strip of road that cut across the moors, past heather, sheep and wild ponies. Occasionally, through the shroud of mist, Mary thought she saw the glow of orange and red flames flickering weakly and once she was sure she caught sight of a group of raggedly dressed people trudging beside a pony and cart, but, as she looked more closely, the mist closed in and the shadowy figures vanished from sight.

It seemed as if the journey would never end, but finally they turned down a long drive. Parkland stretched away on either side until it merged with the moors. At the end of the drive was an enormous stone manor house with sharp turrets silhouetted against the twilight sky. A single weak light shone out of an upstairs window.

‘There it is,’ Mrs Medlock announced with a touch of pride in her voice as she looked at the dark, forbidding fortress of a house. ‘Misselthwaite.’

As the car swept through the gates, Mary noticed a robin perched on one of the pillars. For a moment, it seemed to look straight at Mary and then it flew away.

The car stopped. Mary gazed up at the vast house and felt a shiver run through her. It looked like the kind of place where ghosts and phantoms walked at night.

‘This is your home now,’ said Mrs Medlock. ‘Thanks to your uncle’s kindness.’ She fixed Mary with a stern look. ‘Now, when you see him, you’re not to stare, girl. Do you understand?’

Mary was puzzled. Why ever did Mrs Medlock think she would stare at her uncle?

Mrs Medlock went on. ‘He’s suffered enough, poor man. And now to see you, looking the way you do … No.’ She shook her head as if that would be too much. ‘A shadow, that’s what you’ll have to be at Misselthwaite, girl. Just a shadow.’

Mary had no idea why the way she looked might upset her uncle, but, before she could ask, Mrs Medlock was already leading the way up the stone steps to the iron-bound, oak front door. Mary followed her into the huge entrance hall. Portraits of stern-looking ladies and men frowned down from the walls and a wide central staircase led up to a landing with a huge window. It couldn’t have been more unlike the bright, airy villa she had lived in in India.

‘First things first,’ said Mrs Medlock, marching over to a brass light switch on the wall. ‘We’re fully electric.’ She pulled the switch down. The huge glass chandelier in the centre of the hall lit up briefly, but then there was a fizzling sound and the lights went out again. Mrs Medlock raised her eyebrows. ‘But that doesn’t mean it always works. So, if you’re needing the facilities in the night, take a lamp. Secondly, the master is a widower and on his own. He has promised you will have someone to look after you soon enough, but in the meantime don’t you be expecting there’ll be people to talk to you because there won’t.’

Standing in the cavernous hall, Mary refused to be daunted. She lifted her chin. ‘I need no entertaining. I am not a child.’

She felt a stab of satisfaction as she saw the housekeeper blink in surprise. Mrs Medlock turned and led the way up the grand staircase. On the first landing the staircase split, heading off in opposite directions. Mary followed her down a long, gloomy corridor.

‘This house is six hundred years old,’ said Mrs Medlock as the corridor twisted and turned past endless closed doors. ‘There are near a hundred rooms. You’ll be told which ones you can go into and those you’re to keep out of, but until then you’re to stick to your rooms and your rooms only. Is that understood?’ Mary nodded. ‘You may play in the grounds outside, but no exploring the house.’ Mrs Medlock gave her a warning look. ‘No poking about.’

Mary met her gaze. ‘I assure you, Mrs Medlock, that I have no interest in “poking about”.’

‘Hmm,’ Mrs Medlock sniffed and stopped beside a door. ‘This is you,’ she said, opening a door to a bedroom. Mary went inside and Mrs Medlock quickly shut the door behind her. She heard the housekeeper walking away, her boots tapping on the floorboards.

Looking round the vast room, Mary felt very small. There was an iron bed with a thin cover and one thin pillow. Next to it was a bedside cabinet with a single lamp. The floor was just bare wooden boards with a couple of threadbare rugs, and the walls were covered with fading wallpaper painted with trees and birds. There was a huge window with long, heavy curtains on either side, a small fire burning in the grate, and an old rocking horse and a battered toy chest.

So this is my new bedroom, Mary thought, looking round at the shabby, old-fashioned things. No, I will not cry, she thought fiercely as she felt her throat tighten. She wondered about her uncle. She had thought she would be introduced to him when she arrived, but maybe he didn’t want to see her. Mrs Medlock’s words had certainly given her the impression that he hadn’t wanted her to come to Misselthwaite.

No one wants me, she thought, her heart swelling with a desperate loneliness. No one likes me. Everyone probably wishes I had died in India.

She took off her boots and coat and got under the thin embroidered coverlet of the bed, drawing her knees up to her chest. She thought of India – the sunshine, the bright red and yellow orchids that bloomed after the rain, the monkeys in the trees, the ripe mangoes; Daddy swinging her round in his arms and calling her his little monkey; her ayah smiling fondly at her, happy to bring the little Miss Sahib whatever she wanted.

I want to go back, Mary thought longingly. To my home, to the sunshine and the flowers. I want to wake up and see Daddy and Ayah and for this all to be a terrible nightmare.

A little voice piped up inside her. But it isn’t a nightmare. It’s real and it all happened because of the wish you made …

No! She didn’t want to think about that.

Staring hard at the embroidered flowers on the coverlet, Mary made herself imagine they were real flowers, vibrant and sweet-smelling. As her imagination began to work its magic, they seemed to brighten and grow in front of her eyes, moving, bending, sweeping her far, far away …

Mary was back in her garden in India. It was part dream, part memory from a year ago. She ran towards the palm tree, her legs pounding. She’d climbed it the day before. For the first time, she’d got up it by herself and now she wanted her mother to see. She wanted her to be proud of her! Glancing back at the villa, she saw her mother walking along the veranda, one hand on her forehead, her head bowed.

‘Mother! Look, I’m climbing!’ Mary shouted, starting to climb up. Higher and higher she went. ‘Mother? Look, please!’ Her voice rose as she glanced round, hoping her mother had seen her triumphant climb. But her mother was walking back into the house. She hadn’t even glanced in Mary’s direction …

Mary woke up in the dark, feeling unhappy and cold. Her eyes darted around. Where was she? As she spotted the shadowy rocking horse and the enormous stone window, it all came back to her. Of course. She was at Misselthwaite Manor. Someone had been into her room, taken away her coat and boots and shut the curtains while she’d been asleep – Mrs Medlock maybe or a maid?

Mary shivered, wanting more blankets. In India she had always had a bell by her bed and, whenever she had rung it, her ayah had appeared. But here there was no bell. ‘Hello?’ she tried calling. She raised her voice. ‘Hello?’ But her words just rang out in the eerie silence.

A high wail from somewhere in the house made her jump. It sounded like a child, but there were no other children here in the manor house. Was it a bird or an animal maybe? Mary heard the noise again. Swinging her legs out of bed, she padded inquisitively to the bedroom door. The sound seemed to be coming from a floor above the one she was on. Perhaps it was her uncle. She listened, head on one side. It didn’t sound like a grown man. A worrying thought struck her. Could … could it be a ghost?

A shiver passed over her skin and for a moment Mary wondered if she should just stay in her room and ignore it. But her curiosity got the better of her. She had to find out what was making such a dreadful noise.

Gathering her courage, she left her room and set off along the gloomy corridor.