The Secret of Crickley Hall (20 page)

'Most of my life, missus. Since I were twelve years old. Never got on with school, an' in them days 't'weren't unusual for a lad to start work at that age. Not down in these parts, anyway.'

He sipped the hot tea and smacked his thin lips in appreciation. 'I likes it strong,' he remarked appreciatively. 'Proper cuppa tea, this.'

Eve was still staggered that Percy, who must be in his late seventies if not early eighties, had spent so many years in the one job. She quickly gathered her thoughts.

'You said you look after St Mark's cemetery too?' she asked.

'The graveyard, yers. I make sure it's kept neat an' tidy, 'specially roun' the back, even though it don't get many visitors.'

'That's where the children are buried, isn't it? My husband saw the small graves.'

Percy fell silent. He looked down into his tea, the cup in one hand, saucer in the other and held under the cup as if to catch any drips.

Eve persisted. 'The children came from here, didn't they? They were all staying at Crickley Hall when they drowned, weren't they?'

Percy's face became grim, set like stone. His eyes pierced Eve's suspiciously and she instinctively pulled back an inch in surprise.

But those old faded eyes soon softened again; now they were full of sadness.

'The poor little mites were sent down to Devon durin' the last world war. 1943 they come here. Late summer. People in London thought the Blitz were over, didn't wanna send their kids away, split up the families, like. But the authorities knew better. They knew the bombin' weren't over yet and they wanted the young 'uns out of harm's way. The evacuees that came to Crickley Hall had no choice anyway—they was all orphans, y'see.'

He fell into silence once more and a distant look came into his eyes. Eve thought tears might appear in them, but the old man was made of sterner stuff. His eyes refocused on her.

'What makes yer ask about the kiddies, Missus Caleigh?'

There was more than just curiosity in the question: Percy seemed anxious.

'I… I just thought it was so sad,' she answered. 'All those poor children… drowned. I wanted to know more about them.'

What else could she tell Percy? That she—and Cally, Cally saw them too—had seen the children's ghosts? That they were haunting Crickley Hall? Surely he would only scoff, think her mad. Eve could imagine the word spreading round the harbour village—there was a madwoman living up at the Hall, thought the place was haunted. It seemed a close-set community, one where all kinds of rumour might start. It had been bad enough that morning in the shop, asking for a psychic's card, the odd looks that the shopkeeper and her husband had given her when she took it from them. The locals would think her eccentric, at the least. And who could blame them.

He drank more tea, then seemed to come to a decision. 'If yer wants to hear about it, then all right, I'll tell yer.'

And so Percy Judd told Eve the heartbreaking story of the evacuees from London who had come to Crickley Hall in the late summer of 1943.

•

'A course the Blitz were over by then,' Percy told Eve, 'but as I says, the gov'mint knew better. They knew the Germans weren't finished with their bombings yet an' the gov'mint wanted to get as many children outa London as possible. Lotta parents wouldn't hear of it though—they thought the worst was gone—but kiddies in orphanages had no say in the matter. Those that came to Crickley Hall shoulda got away from the city long afore, but I's'pose the authorities had trouble findin' 'ccommodation for 'em until this place come up.

'Gov'mint were right, en' all. Krauts sent over them doodlebugs in '44—"buzz bombs" some people called 'em, but V-1s was their proper name—an' they created havoc in London an' along the Kent flypath. But our eleven evacuees came afore that happened, much good it did 'em in the long run.

'There were six boys an' five girls, only two of them related: Gerald and Brenda Prosser were brother and sister. The eldest boy were twelve years old, though he were big for his age an' looked older too. His name were Maurice Stafford, a gawky unlikable lad, an' the eldest girl, eleven years old, were Susan Trainer. She played mother to 'em all, but especially to Stefan Rosenbaum, who were only five, the youngest of the lot. He were from Poland and didn't understand much English.

'Poor little mites, they was,' said Percy. 'All they come with was the clothes on their backs, cardboard suitcases with a change of clothes, I suppose, an' their gas-mask boxes hangin' roun' their necks. They looked happy enough when they arrived, chatterin' an' excited as they got off the bus that'd brought 'em from the station. Didn't last long though, that happiness.'

Eve listened intently as the story went on…

Percy told her that the children's guardians and teachers, who were also from London and new to the area themselves, were brother and sister, Augustus and Magda Cribben.

He was in his early forties, a cold hard man, a religious zealot and disciplinarian, who ruled the children with a rod of iron. His sister, a plain, stone-faced woman of thirty-one—'Looked older,' remarked Percy, 'looked much older than her years'—was equally harsh with the children.

Augustus Cribben, whose middle name was Theophilus, had been deputy headmaster of a London school for boys that had been closed because most of its pupils had been evacuated to other parts of the country. Magda had been one of his teachers. Other than that, very little else was known about the couple and the only person in Hollow Bay that Cribben engaged with was the vicar of St Mark's, the Reverend Horace Rossbridger, who admired the guardian for his dedication to the Lord and the firm control he had over the children in his charge.

Percy, who as a lad was the gardener-cum-handyman to Crickley Hall, even then taking care of the house and grounds whether it was occupied or not, had tried to befriend the children when his daily duties took him inside the house, but Cribben had soon forbidden any fraternization between Percy and the children lest they be distracted from their own duties. That hadn't prevented Percy from observing, though.

Within a matter of days the children had changed from happy, vociferous youngsters into wary and quiet creatures, afraid to do anything that might incur Cribben's or Magda's wrath. They had come to live in a regime so strict that it seemed to have broken their spirit. Punishment for anything Cribben deemed misbehaviour was severe, Percy learned. Their daily diet was porridge and a cup of water for breakfast, mincemeat, boiled potatoes and cabbage for lunch, cheese and an apple for their supper, all of which might have been fine, if limited, but Percy had seen for himself the meagre portions each child received. While they were not conspicuously undernourished, they soon lost any ounce of fat they might have had before, and their robustness was drained from them.

Inside the house they had to go about in bare or stockinged feet despite the damp coldness that always clung to the rooms no matter what the season. As well as saving on shoe leather, this also avoided 'excessive' noise. Augustus Cribben apparently suffered mightily from migraine headaches.

Nor were the evacuees allowed to play with toys that were sent by the various charitable organizations that regularly supplied orphanages and schools in poorer areas with clothes and books as well as playthings. Toys were put away in the attic storeroom next to the children's dormitory, almost as if their proximity was meant to torment—or test—the boys and girls.

'We found them,' Eve informed Percy, glancing at the old-fashioned spinning top that sat between them near the edge of the kitchen table. 'Gabe discovered it in the attic. As you said—hidden away in the storeroom next to the dormitory. My God, they've been there all those years.'

Percy studied the colourful toy, and there was sorrow in his gaze. A moment or two passed before he said, 'S'been no proper family here since to take any interest. No kiddies who might've had fun with things like that.' He sighed, and to Eve he seemed to shrink a little. The old man went on with his story.

'I remember seein' all the evacuees together once, marchin' down to St Mark's for Sunday service. September, it were, and the weather had turned cold. They was in pairs, holdin' hands like, the little 'uns trottin' along to keep up, girls in brown berets, the boys wearin' overcoats either too small or too large, none fittin' properly. All of 'em had gas masks hangin' across their chests, even though there were little chance of gas bombs in Hollow Bay. I still recall how quiet they was, not like ordinary kids who'd be laughin' an' chattin', some of 'em skippin' mebbe. Like they was when they first arrived. No, they was all silent as the grave, sort of… sort of…' He searched for the right word. ' .. cowed, if yer know my meanin'. Like they was afraid to enjoy themselves.'

Percy shook his head sadly at the memory. 'Cribben were up front, leadin' 'em, Magda fetchin' up the rear, watchin' out for any mischief the kids might get up to along the way. Maurice Stafford marched with her at the back, a tall boy, like I say, who looked older than he were. For some reason he was treated different from the others by the Cribbens. A tattle-tell, he were, I found out later. Told on the other kids if they did anythin' wrong. A big kid all right, but skinny, awkward-lookin'. I remember him grinnin' at me as he passed by, cocky with it, a great black gap in his grin where a tooth should've been. He weren't liked by the other kiddies an' there were a reason for that. Teacher's pet, he were. An' sly, very sly. A sneak. I found out about that when Nancy came to teach at Crickley Hall'

He came to a stop again and Eve wondered if he were picturing this Nancy in his mind. He seemed far away, lost to another time.

'Tell me about her,' Eve gently prompted and the old gardener collected himself, clearing his throat, stiffening his shoulders.

'Nancy—Linnet were her surname, Linnet like the little bird—Nancy were nineteen years of age. Pretty thing, she were, delicate like, but strong in herself, if yer knows my meanin'…'

Like the eleven evacuees at Crickley Hall, Nancy Linnet was also an orphan who had been raised in an institutional home in the suburbs of London. She had left the home at the age of sixteen to dedicate her life to teaching and aspiring to educate underprivileged children, especially those who were orphans like herself. She had jumped at the opportunity to teach the orphans at Hollow Bay.

'Nancy had ringlets that shone like bright copper down to her shoulders,' Percy told Eve, 'an' merry hazel eyes, an' she had freckles on her cheeks that made her look like a twelve-year-old. Well, we sort of took a shine to one another, me an' Nancy. Oh, I knew she were too good fer me an' I used to think the only reason I stood a chance with her were 'cause she had a withered arm. That didn't spoil her beauty fer me, not one little bit, but other lads in them days… Well, there were a different attitude towards disfigurement then, only by the time the war were over an' all them pilots an' sailors an' soldiers come back with burnt-off faces an' missin' limbs, people started to get used to such things. Not entirely, though—some people nowadays still can't abide other people's afflictions, but I s'pose there's no changin' that.'

He gave a mournful shake of his head. 'Anyway, we struck up a friendship—a courtship yer might say—an' through her I got to know more about what was goin' on in Crickley Hall, things I hadn't seen fer myself…'

The children's routine was stringent as it was inflexible. They rose at six every morning, weekends included, and made their own beds before washing and dressing; they had breakfast, then attended assembly in the hall where Cribben led them in prayer; by eight o'clock they began lessons in the large drawing room (it was also their dining room), which had been furnished with desks that had fold-up benches attached, a teacher's table with drawers, a coloured tin globe of the world that stood on a sideboard, and a blackboard and easel. Their lunch was at twelve o'clock and only lasted twenty minutes, after which they were each given chores to do around the house: sweeping, dusting and polishing (scrubbing floors on Saturdays), cleaning out the fire grate and re-laying the fire in the sitting room and for the Cribbens alone (despite the constant chill that hugged the house because of the underground river it was built over, the boiler was never used to heat the big iron radiators). Lessons resumed at two and finished at six. They were free to read books in the dormitory until seven (no games were allowed), when they had supper. Bathtime after supper, each of the children bathing on alternate evenings, more assembly prayers in their nightclothes, then bed, lights out by 8 p.m.

Nancy herself lodged in the harbour village, and she arrived at Crickley Hall promptly at 7.45 a.m. every day for lessons, leaving at six each evening.

'It were the punishment dealt out to the kiddies that upset Nancy so much, the beatin's Cribben gave 'em, sometimes with a leather belt but more often with a stick. Nancy was a quiet little thing, but it distressed her the way the orphans was treated. She remonstrated with Cribben more 'n once, but she were frightened to go too far in case she got sacked—couldn't bear to leave the children, she couldn't, in case they was treated worse when she were gone. One time she did go see the vicar, old Horace Rossbridger, to complain about the Cribbens, but he were too much an admirer of Augustus Cribben to listen to her. Told Nancy to go back to work an' mind her business. But I think Nancy resolved to do more about it, but I don't know what.'

Eve regarded Percy. 'What do you mean? Surely—'

He waved a hand at her as if in despair. 'I was conscripted into the army roun' that time. I'd turned eighteen an' the Forces needed every man and lad they could get.'

(Eve quickly did the maths. My God! Percy was eighty-one!)

'We kep' in touch by letter, Nancy an' me, but her letters stopped comin'. Las' one I got from her said she'd made up her mind an' were goin' to the authorities to tell 'em what were goin' on at Crickley Hall. I carried on writin' to her, but nothin' ever came back after that. So I got in touch with her landlady at the lodgings an' she wrote back tellin' me Nancy had quit her job and gone away. Magda Cribben turned up one day at the lodgings and informed the landlady that Nancy was returnin' to London that very afternoon an' needed the rest of her things. Magda didn't explain any more, jus' collected Nancy's few clothes and left with 'em. Nobody heard from Nancy agin'. She were hardly known down in the village anyway and it were wartime—people comin' an' goin' all the time. Nobody bothered to ask questions.'