The boy squinted at the house. Tall, built of weathered stone with ancient stone windows filled with puckered glass. Four wide steps led to a heavy front door with a great brass knocker which caught the moonlight filtering through the surrounding trees. Little windows dotted the long grey roof. He narrowed his eyes further. It was hard to tell in the shadows, but it seemed these windows had bars, giving him the impression of a row of large bird cages.
‘Here’s your case.’ The lady who had brought him here stood beside him, gesturing at his small cardboard case. ‘Come along now. It’s late, and I haven’t eaten yet.’
She took his hand – hers was cool and smooth – waited briefly for him to pick up his case, and stepped quickly to the door. She let go of his hand to twist the massive handle, and the door swung silently open. She walked inside, half-turned to see if he followed her.
The boy hung back, peering into the entrance hall. Either there was no electricity here or the lady didn’t use it. Candles gleamed in sconces high on the stone walls, their flames throwing flickering shadows on the wooden floor in the draught from the open door. The space was much bigger than any the boy had seen, with a ceiling so far up it was lost to the night. At the far end, a grand staircase disappeared into blackness. Yet, with all this to fill, the only decorations were the tightly packed paintings lining the walls. Every one of them was a of a child, boys and girls, and all about the same age as the boy.
He hesitated further. His thoughts went to the barred windows in the high roof.
‘Don’t stand there gawking,’ the lady said. She walked back to the doorway, took hold of his arm and pulled him inside. ‘An early night for you, you need to look your best tomorrow.’ She smiled and the smile did nothing to ease his unformed worry. ‘You’ll love your room,’ she told him. ‘It’s way up in the roof, so in the morning you’ll be able to look out across the forest, perhaps see the cottage where even now your parents are eating well with the gold I gave them.’
Yes, the gold. And the promise she would care for him as if he was her own son. The relief on his stepmother’s face that she no longer had to feed and clothe him. The anxious glint in his father’s eyes, his silence, knowing his wife was right.
The boy backed away. His case was still outside as if it had been brought along merely as a prop, a fake case, never needed.
‘Oh, don’t be shy, little boy,’ the lady cooed, but her eyes were hard. ‘You’ll be just fine here, Hansel, I promise.’
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The boy squinted through thick-rimmed glasses at the house before him.
Not at all what he had expected to find after the long train journey here.
His aunt had led him to believe it would be a place of sunshine and happiness – a refuge from all the trauma he had experienced this last six months after his parents were killed in a car accident.
However, it wasn’t like that at all. Rather dark and foreboding in the evening light as he made his way towards the giant oak front door and rang the bell.
He could hear the sound reverberating inside for the longest time before a gaunt, tall old man dragged the heavy door open and peered outside.
“Yes?” he inquired.
“Mmmy name is Thomas,” the boy stammered. “I’m here to see Mrs Gertrude. She is to look after me.”
“Come in,” the old man grated. “Follow me,” he beckoned.
Suitcase in hand, Thomas obediently trudged in his footsteps through a dark hallway until at last they reached a kitchen with a single light burning.
A comely old woman dressed in an apron, bonnet on her head, was standing at a huge stone sink, peeling potatoes.
She turned to greet the boy. “Hello, Thomas. I’m Mrs Gertrude.”
Thomas nodded and moved to shake her hand, wet from her exertions.
“You’ll love it here,” she said. “There’s plenty for a young boy to explore and the school where you will be going is not far and no doubt you will soon make plenty of friends.”
Thomas was relieved to hear that life might soon return to normal after the hell he had experienced for the past few months.
“Now why don’t you just sit yourself down at the table while I finish preparing dinner and you can tell me all about your train trip,” Mrs Gertrude said.
The old man busied himself tossing more wood on the stove as Mrs Gertrude turned once more to her vegetables.
Thomas drew a deep breath and began to describe his journey from the time he climbed aboard the train at Victoria Station in London.
His first impressions of his new home were not all that favourable – but maybe his aunt had seen it at a different time and perhaps it would look better in the daylight.
He certainly hoped so.
Sounds like the beginning of a novel…
I don’t think his future looks too bright. I just get this feeling (LOL)
You reckon?