Arnie Jenks and the House of Strangers (2 page)

Arnie watched solemnly from the porch as the coach, belching exhaust fumes, rumbled off unevenly down the drive, carving out potholes as it ploughed on towards the main road. Connor mouthed “bye” to him from one of the back windows through the gaps made clear by the fast beating rain; moments later he was a speck on the horizon.

Looking up at the edifice of the house, creaking and bowing under the weight of thick crumbling stone strangulated by ivy, Arnie ducked the spurts of water from the already overflowing drainpipes above where a gargoyle with the face of a demon screamed grotesquely. He shivered and drawing his blazer tight over his bony shoulders nipped back inside, heaving the front door shut.

His search to find somewhere cosier than Mr Silverthorne had suggested brought him to a nook, set back behind the stairs, partially draped in a pair of floor to ceiling, thick tapestry curtains somewhat worn and frayed. Arnie nestled into the comfy tub chair he found there and pulling some squashy cushions over his knees, snuggled down.

The low lights in the hall glimmered softly as his eyelids became heavy and his breathing slowed. He drooped his head and drifted into sleep.

*

Arnie awoke with a start as the hall clock struck 5pm. He had been dozing for well over an hour. There was complete silence everywhere. Where was his aunt? he wondered, rubbing and blowing on his blue-tipped fingers to restore some feeling. At least it's stopped raining, he thought, and getting up he stepped over to the window.

What greeted him was a blanket of thick, crisp, untouched snow several inches deep stretching as far as he could see. Flakes were still falling. Reality hit him like an axe.

‘How am I going to get home now?' he muttered. ‘I'm trapped!'

Spotting an avocado-green telephone sat squat on a pile of old newspapers, he picked it up and tried to make a call.

‘Terrific,' he said, tapping the object for signs of life. ‘Probably haven't paid the bill. Now Dad, if only you'd given me a mobile like everyone else, this wouldn't be a problem!' he cursed, as a sudden chilly wind tickled him. He shuddered, flicking his head and urgently peering into the dimly lit distance. The house seemed to grow very dark all of a sudden.

‘That's odd,' he whispered, ‘the lights have gone out. Must be a power cut.' He looked again down the long corridor, but apart from a single candle flame that stood guard on a side table – all was black.

The long squeak of a door hinge straining paralysed him. He stared ahead, gripped, unwilling to move, as the lightest of feet padded their way effortlessly towards him. His spine tingled. An outline of someone began to form, drawing closer and closer – but he could not see who it was.

‘Hello? Mr Silverthorne?' he tried, but the words stuck in his throat. By the time he cleared them away ready to call out a second time, the figure had swept up the candle and slipped into the shadows.

Arnie moved tentatively and lightly on the balls of his feet through the hall, following the direction of the disappearing footsteps, avoiding the temptation to look around in case he saw something he didn't like.

He passed the pictures of the lady in green and the cloaked fugitive diving into the priest hole that he and Connor had fantasised about earlier, and took the turn into the servants' corridor, which eventually led him to the top of the staircase leading down to the kitchen. Then he saw an assortment of clothes hanging on a hat stand.
The sight of his cold breath made him reach out to a thick overcoat. Pulling it on and hugging himself inside, he descended below.

At the bottom of the steps he hesitated, searching for a light switch, before noticing the soft rosy glow from a pair of gas lamps bathing the space in front of him. As his eyes became familiar with the layout of the room he heard the scraping of chairs somewhere off to his right.

Hiding behind a pillar, he spied not one but two strangers moving around a table set for dinner. The figure he had seen in the corridor moments earlier snuffed out the candle flame and stood for a moment checking his watch against the hands displayed on a portly wall clock. It was not Mr Silverthorne but a man in his early fifties, Arnie guessed. He appeared clean shaven with scraped back oiled hair, wearing an old-fashioned dark suit and tie, coupled with a waistcoat into which he fumbled the return of his time-piece.

‘His Lord and Ladyship have gone up early and won't be requiring anything more tonight,' he pronounced. ‘I've turned the upstairs lamps off for now except those in the bedroom corridors, in case Master Edward needs to visit the little gentleman's room.'

A plump woman around the same age nodded to him, as she adjusted her apron and navigated a white hat over a haystack of tightly-controlled grey hair. ‘Lily. Hurry along now!' she barked. ‘I don't want them vegetables to get cold.'

She must be the cook, thought Arnie, as a whiff of something savoury wafted through the air. His tummy rumbled and he rubbed it hard to try and make it stop.

‘Coming Mrs Bowers,' said a thin voice, which was soon followed by the arrival of a pasty-looking girl, who struggled in with an overloaded tray. Lily reached the table just in time to plonk down her load and manhandle the sprawling range of bowls and dishes into position as other people arrived behind her. The first: a girl with a sour expression dropped some serving spoons with a clatter as she leapt to save the gravy boat, which shook perilously close to spilling. The second: a stocky man in a grey and yellow uniform carrying a peaked cap, sat down with his back to Arnie. The cook glared at him as he unbuttoned his coat allowing his stomach to roll over the top of his belt like a water balloon. Finally, a gaunt willowy boy with a pale, pockmarked face sidled in through an unlit doorway and slunk into a chair.

‘His master's boots shiny as a new penny, I hope Robert?' said the man at the far end of the table.

‘Yes Mr Dawson,' replied the boy, ‘and his riding pair too, just in case he calls down for them.'

‘Is that polish under your nails?'

Robert twitched and curled his fingers underneath his knuckles.

‘Straight after supper Robert,' said the man disapprovingly, as he surveyed the others around the table.

The boy nodded, and pulling forward his glass began to pour himself some water from a black and white patterned jug.

‘Sarah, wrong serving spoons – these are only for upstairs!' the cook spluttered, ‘the ones with the straight handles are what we use – in the
other
drawer. Will that girl never learn?' she grumbled, as the young maid collected up the evidence of her mistake and retreated back into the scullery. ‘And have you taken that broth up to Rose?' she called after her.

‘Still poorly?' said Mr Dawson.

‘Something going round I shouldn't wonder,' said the cook, flicking her eyes to the man on her left as he offered up his plate and helped himself to a heap of vegetables.

‘Hold on, Mr Fellows – not so many. Just because you have a posh new title don't mean you can be getting above yourself.'

‘Chauffeur isn't posh, Mrs Bowers.'

‘Well, it's French! That's all I'll say on the matter.'

The chauffeur stifled a chuckle and put back a couple of carrots.

‘And how's that new mechanical toy of yours?' she challenged him, prodding a potato with a skewer. ‘Broken down again has it?'

‘It's called a Star Benz motorised car,' said the stocky man proudly. ‘And – no – it's actually running rather smooth, kind of you to ask.'

‘Won't last,' the cook said unimpressed, rolling her fish eyes at him, as the meat, sizzling and bursting out of its skin was placed in front of her by the hapless Sarah, looking decidedly flustered.

‘It is progress, Mrs Bowers,' said Mr Dawson, picking up a long knife and double pronged fork. ‘However much we dislike the concept we cannot fight it. Motor vehicles are here to stay. The days of horse and cart are sadly numbered.' He moved forward to carve.

Arnie coughed, but smothered it quickly with the back of his hand. Robert looked up and around.

‘And those horrid fumes are good for the lungs are they?' the cook retorted. ‘I'm sure the master really enjoyed being stuck in the middle of town watching you fiddle under the bonnet while all and sundry looked on!'

‘Engine just got overheated that's all,' Mr Fellows explained by way of an excuse.

‘And in the winter, wheels sliding all over the place…real dangerous I say,' she persisted.

‘And a horse has never fallen I s'pose, in all the years we've known them?' the chauffeur replied, mimicking her voice.

‘No it hasn't!' the cook glared.

Mr Fellows smiled as a new arrival placed a bowl of Brussels sprouts in front of him.

‘Ouch, that's hot!' he said, pulling his hands away sharply. He looked at the young girl, who appeared not to notice.

‘You wanted me to do that, didn't you Emily? If
I
see you before you see me…' and he made a playful lunge, but the girl had moved out of his way to the other side of the table.

Arnie's stomach gurgled again but this time louder. He moved back, hoping that he hadn't been heard, but he got caught under a lamp casting a slim shadow along the floor.

‘Mr Dawson!' said young Robert, pointing him out.

Everyone looked round.

Arnie shuffled forward. ‘I'm sorry to interrupt, but I didn't know there were any other people in the house. No one told me.'

‘What are you doing down here?' Mr Dawson said accusingly.

‘Nothing really,' said Arnie, ‘though…I am kinda starving…so…'

‘He's a beggar!' shouted the cook, ‘Mr Dawson!'

‘What?' said Arnie thrown. ‘I'm not!'

The cook folded her arms and snorted, as Mr Fellows stood up abruptly and cleared back his chair. Mr Dawson leant forward and inspected Arnie.

‘Under your coat – is that school dress?'

‘Yes,' said Arnie.

‘Ah,' said Mr Dawson, relaxing and laying down the carving knife. ‘That explains it. We
had
been told to expect a friend of the young master but as it was getting late presumed you would not be here until tomorrow.' Mr Dawson adjusted his cuffs and took a pace back from the table, standing straight as though he was now on duty. ‘Mrs Bowers, everyone – this is the young gentlemen…Master?'

‘Arnie,' he said.

‘Arnie…what?'

‘Arnie Jenks.' His face wrinkled. ‘Look – do all of you really work here? There seem an awful lot considering…'

‘What on earth is he saying Mr Dawson?' said the cook, placing her hands on her hips as if ready to do battle. ‘Of course we are employed here! What else does it look like?'

‘I should go and announce you upstairs,' Mr Dawson said, seeming to ignore Arnie. ‘The young master may still be awake.'

‘Announce me?' said Arnie, baffled.

‘I can't think how we could have missed hearing the bell – did your carriage not deliver you to the front door?'

‘Carriage?' Arnie shifted uneasily.

‘I must apologise,' Mr Dawson continued, ‘we shall send a letter to your father.'

‘My father?'

‘Well, yes. It is not done for young masters from respectable homes to be left abandoned like an orphan on his first day at the workhouse. You might have come to some harm.'

‘No – I'm fine. You see, I'm waiting for my aunt but I don't think she is going to get here because of the snow…'

Arnie stopped. He looked round. The table, the glasses, the serving dishes, the clothes they were wearing, the wall clock. They were all of an old traditional design. No plastic sauce bottles, bar stools, toasters or microwaves anywhere. He turned and looked into the kitchen: the cooker sat on its haunches like a huge tank around which heavy metal pans awaited clearing and washing. A creaky boiler bubbled steam. ‘They look like they're made of cast iron,' Arnie said out loud, his eyes widening.

‘Hasn't the young man seen an oven before?' said the cook exasperated.

Arnie gawped at them. Slowly, his face brightened and then he smirked. ‘Oh! I get it! You're actors!'

No one replied. They just stared.

‘Playing out how life was in olden days,' he said confidently. ‘You're not servants at all are you?' he offered. ‘You've all got other jobs – this is a sort of hobby? Though why you'd come to a place like this dump…' He shot a sidelong glance at the wheezing boiler. ‘I don't remember that thing from when I was down here earlier today…and thinking about it – why weren't you here too?'

The young girl who had delivered the sprouts stepped forward.

‘Well, I'm not sure what you're about, but I'm not acting anything. Miss Emily Buck, the under-house parlour maid to Lord Richard and Lady Beatrice Martlesham and their son Edward is what I am. And you're standing fair and square in the servants' parlour along with members of the domestic staff, who work here at Shabbington Hall.'

Arnie's neck reddened as he struggled to take this in.

‘And what year is it supposed to be then?' he said haltingly. ‘1900?'

Emily didn't hesitate. ‘Yes, ‘tis as a matter-of-fact,' she said mildly. ‘But there ain't no snow. Not in May.'

Arnie held Emily's gaze, as he felt blood rush to his head and a dryness fur his mouth. Finally she blinked, breaking the spell that bound them.

‘You're pretending!' he croaked, ‘I'm not really here at the beginning of the
twentieth century. How could I have done that? It's impossible! It's crazy!'

‘It's true,' said Emily.

‘Do you think he might be overcome?' said the cook. ‘Looks a little flushed – understandable – he's only a lad. Shy are you?' she smiled.

‘Yes – good idea, Mrs Bowers. Emily let some air in will you please? And young man you might take off that coat – it's been a very warm day,' said Mr Dawson, unclipping his own collar.

Emily slipped over to a far door and threw it open. The outside was dusky – the sky streaked with dull brown and orange and patches of sulphur grey. The ground sprouted grass and the surrounding cobbles were shiny and new. No sign of a carpet of snow anywhere. Arnie tensed up, backing away into a corner and felt the shape of something familiar poke into his side. Instinctively he pulled out his iPod and jamming in his earphones he pressed play.

Everyone remained as before but stared blinking unbelievingly at the black object he was clutching.

‘No – no – no!' Arnie moaned, as a blast of rock music jangled his senses. ‘This is not happening!' and contorting his face painfully tight, he wished hard.

He counted to ten before he dared look towards the table. Seven pairs of eyes were still staring across at him.

Shoving his iPod back into his pocket, he started to jabber.

‘You…don't…don't…really…mean…this. Do you?'

Mr Dawson didn't speak but moved across to join Emily who had risen from her chair and now stood the closest to Arnie.

‘These props and things…they can't be real,' Arnie said quietly, his mind spinning. Then he saw something and smirked. ‘This'll prove it!'

He dashed over reaching a rectangular wooden board attached to the wall ahead of him. On the front were pinned three small boxes; two shiny brass bells gleamed on the top one, a circular funnel stood out from the middle box and at the bottom, an earpiece on a loose cord hung from a hook.

‘I bet it'll just lift off,' Arnie pronounced. ‘Like this.' He teased the machine by pulling and wiggling his fingers in and behind searching for some leverage. But it was firmly screwed on and wouldn't budge.

‘Would you kindly take care, that equipment has only recently been installed and cost a great deal of money,' Mr Dawson said, removing his glasses and waving an advisory finger. ‘It's come all the way from America you know – very sensitive – I don't think you should touch it. If you wish to communicate with your father,
please
allow me to call the operator for you.'

‘I tried the phone upstairs but it didn't work so I doubt I'll have much luck contacting anybody on this antique,' Arnie said, picking up the earpiece and rattling the cradle. Mr Dawson looked anxiously at him.

‘See? Dead as a dodo. It's just pretend – as I thought!' he called back to them.

A tiny high-pitched voice seeped into the air. Arnie looked down and realised he was still holding the receiver. Nervously he raised it up to listen as simultaneously he moved his head towards the hole in the middle, directly in front of him.

‘Hello?' he said, struggling to comprehend.

After a brief pause his answer came. ‘Caller, are you there?' The woman at the other end of the conversation sounded impatient.

Arnie shook his head with indecision.

‘What number do you require?' the clipped voice crackled again.

Arnie stared into the telephone dumbstruck.

‘If you do not wish to place a call then please replace the receiver,' the voice chimed.

‘I would like to call my Aunt Lavinia Bailey,' he said, without thinking twice about the thought that had just entered his head.

‘Do you have a number?'

Arnie grimaced. ‘Um…ah…' he said, racking his brains.

‘I do need the number caller.' The voice was very insistent.

‘She never has her mobile on,' he struggled, ‘so it'll have to be…'

‘A mobile number? What is that?'

‘Um…doesn't matter,' he mumbled, as a globule of perspiration dribbled down his nose.

The operator continued regardless. ‘I need the name of the exchange and the local number.'

‘Well,' he said slightly flummoxed, ‘I think it starts 03…'

Emily interrupted softly. ‘Excuse me; I think she might be asking for the name of the town where your auntie lives.'

‘Name of the town?' he repeated.

‘We are
Martlesham
12 and so it is wherever she is,' said Emily.

‘Oh. I see – yes – well…'

‘Caller, if you do not need this line then kindly hang up, I have other customers waiting.'

‘Hang on, I'm trying to think…'

‘I will have to cut you off if you continue to hold.'

‘Greylock…' he stammered.

‘And the person's number?' the operator enquired a little less harshly.

Arnie looked across to Emily who watched him curiously.

‘267525,' he mumbled.

The operator's voice returned. ‘You have given me too many numbers. I require up to three.'

Arnie was thinking hard. What did she mean? Then he recalled the excitable Mr Warbles lecturing them on the history of telephone boxes that once sat on every street corner and every village green. “There weren't many around in the early days…very few in domestic homes and business premises
…
”

Emily willed him on with an encouraging smile.

‘Maybe you could try 525,' said Arnie finally.

There was a further pause before the voice returned.

‘I have nothing higher than 88 – I'm sorry.'

‘I dunno. How about 25 then,' he snapped, imitating the haughty operator.

The voice returned. ‘What you are asking for is not a private number, I'm afraid.'

‘Oh,' said Arnie disappointed. ‘What is it then?'

‘It is where the constable lives.'

‘Well that can't be right,' he said to himself, ‘that proves you can't connect me after all…this is just a game…' Arnie froze suddenly seeing a flash of his aunt's house in his mind. He had grown to love her rambling, secluded front garden, where he played with her cats that nestled where the rickety picket fence was torn, hidden from the outside world by its twisted climbing plants. On the navy blue front door, a sign above the letter box read – “The Old Police House” – and further up a date laid into the key stone, 1889. The year the house was built. His aunt had lived there all her life inheriting from her father, it having been passed down through two generations before that.

‘Are
you wishing to speak with the police?' the operator continued, breaking into his thoughts.

‘Yes…yes…perhaps I do,' he said cautiously.

‘Hold a moment caller. Putting you through now.' Her voice was replaced by a series of short clicks before someone picked up at the other end. The words were pummelled by static, though he knew it was a woman trying to make herself understood. The line finally cleared and the voice tried again.

‘Hello?'

‘Auntie?' he searched carefully.

‘Are you in need of help?' the voice replied with some concern.

Arnie knew then that it was not his Aunt Lavinia. It didn't sound anything like her.

His face fell and the tendons in his toes unclenched.

‘Sorry, no. I must have a wrong number.'

‘You realise you have rung the police and so I have to be sure. Are you in trouble?'

‘No idea really…I'm a bit confused…'

‘Oh?'

‘I've made a mistake. I thought I was calling someone I knew – my Aunt Lavinia Bailey. Sorry,' he repeated, and his hand drifted towards the cradle to cut off the call.

‘There is no Lavinia Bailey here but there is a Louisa Bailey.'

Arnie recoiled as if he had just been stung by a wasp.

‘I'm sorry, what did you say again?' his voice quivered.

‘I'm
Louisa
Bailey, if that is of any help to you. Who is it that is speaking?'

‘Arnie Jenks.' He shuffled nervously.

‘Do we know each other?'

‘No, I don't think we do. I must have the wrong Bailey,' he said slowly.

‘I think you may have. But how funny to have picked us out of the hat like that and we have only had this telephone for such a short time. Real coincidence eh?'

‘I'm sorry to have disturbed you,' Arnie mumbled, a little stunned, ‘I really have made a mistake.'

‘Well, if you are ever up this way then do call in. It would be nice to put a face to you.'

‘Yes, I may do that Mrs Bailey,' said Arnie, hardly absorbing what she was saying.

‘Just call me Lou. Everybody else does,' she said.

‘I'm sorry to have wasted your time,' he said quietly.

‘That's all right love, no harm done. Goodbye.' The line went dead.

‘Bye,' said Arnie, slowly replacing the receiver. He could see her now in his mind. The face of a cheery woman dressed in her Sunday best smiling out from an aged photograph hanging beside his Aunt Lavinia's chair. His great-great-grandmother – Louisa Bailey.

He looked down catching the sight of his watch. It read 9pm and then the month: May – just as Emily had said. He stared up at the audience around the table.

‘You're really
not
actors are you?' he asked solemnly.

Emily shook her head gently.

Mrs Bowers butted in. ‘I'm not sure what to make of all this. But one thing that's clear is my food is about to spoil! Are we going to eat it or not?'

‘Never mind food!' shouted Arnie. ‘I want to know what's going on here!'

The clock on the wall started to chime and a stiff breeze blew up from nowhere circling the room like on a very blustery day. The lightly coloured plates and saucers high up on the kitchen dresser started rattling dangerously, before being whipped up and spun into the air.

Arnie and Emily reacted at once dashing to catch the falling china. But they tripped and collided tumbling over onto the floor as the pieces smashed and scattered all around them.

As the last strike of the hour sounded out and the wind died away, they found each other clutching the same fragment of a bowl. The gas lamps glowed brighter for a second before suddenly blowing out, collapsing into darkness.

Slowly, daring to open his eyes, Arnie saw the reflection of the moon splashed across the wall like paint being thrown. His watch face glinted and he looked down. The month read February.

‘How did that happen?' he said, dropping the broken china.

A small cry from across the room made him jump.

Emily was now standing alone by the table – her hands held up to her face.

Arnie followed her stare. Everything was bare and all the people had gone.