HUNSTANTON HALL
 

By Sir Christopher White,Bt.
Excerpt from his book-
"Shadows In Between"
 

Why stay with rows and horridness? It was different in the country. There were the nice things...the Great House and the space. Secret mystery rooms to be explored. The towering trees, sometimes almost still and gently breathing, sometimes swaying, whistling, rushing. The waters of the moat that tied the Great House with a luscious, minty-smelling, watery ribbon protecting it, and the punt that made another, Neverworld, come true with its paint and tarry smell, nosing through the weeds and lilies so he could dangle fingers in, and sometimes touch a sleeping fish. In these things there was peace. It was awfully difficult to choose from all the nice things and sweet, exciting feelings.


Perhaps the Great House was the most precious. Big...like forever, and none of them lived in it. They were so busy with the rows, or lying in a darkened room somewhere, that they never asked him where he went. He didn't have to ask them. He was free from them with all this exploring to do and all these places...the whole never-ending loveliness his own! He was King and slave, Peter Pan and Captain Hook, and Christopher Columbus and Robert Bruce, or anyone he liked, just when he felt like it.


He never used the door on the stable side. They went in that way, to get things and talk about the good old days or fight over which things "must be sold." They were always "having to be sold," the things...like his bike even. That was sold because they had to buy the square green bottles that made rows. He didn't care much...it was a girl's bike anyway. That back door was the wrong door...too close. They knew too much about the things in there, which made it pointless to go in. It was kitchens anyway and cupboards full of china and knives and forks and bits of silver, ordinary things. He quite liked smashing plates and throwing glasses at the wall. It was what they did to keep the rows going. That bit excited him. It was naughty. They could smash everything, and no one seemed to mind a bit! He had to do it secretly, and got a nice feeling of being naughty and them not knowing, and of what they'd do to him if they caught him at it.


No, not that door. There was a special door; an ivy-covered door with rusty hinges, broken lock, seeming tightly closed. This was his door. It was extra-special because it fitted him. It wasn't very tall, and when he pushed it, creaking inwards, he could pause beneath its arch and feel quite big and strong and grand.


Inside lay his world of twilight otherness, glimmering lit through lichened, leaded, window panes. Odd shafts of sunlight, dancing dust, that cut across the hall, and had always changed their places by the time he left the house.


He knew it all so well, he didn't need the silly sunlight to find his way. It was his world and he recognized its every object, its hugeness, and its tiny hiding places. He knew them all and loved them as he loved the blue-lit, kindly Lady with the baby in her arms who guarded him at night.


The hall was tall as churches and full of silent men in armour and dead clocks. He used to make the dead clocks come alive by lifting the little hammers in their backs and dropping them on the coiled springs inside that quivered and made them chime. Oh! that sound was almost good enough to eat! He could have danced at the oily metal smell inside their works, wrinkling his nose to get the best of it. It was always there, but best every time when first he opened the little door. That's why he always closed the back-doors of clocks, to keep the smell stored up for next time.


After the clocks, his playroom as though waiting for him, all laid out. It had a pointed ceiling and eight sides. You had to look ever so carefully to see where the door was once you were inside. It looked just like the other walls. He loved pretending he didn't know the secret sliding catch; then he would be there for always within the pagoda house, more tall than him and big enough to sit in dreaming of adventures and somewhere-elsenesses. It was a beautiful, perfect, carved wood miniature pagoda.


There were so many super toys in the playroom, and dolls in silky dresses and the biggest pedal bi-plane in the world...big enough to fly in, he was sure, with grey paint and black crosses on its wings and tail. It had a row of dials in the cockpit and a pair of goggles that fitted ever so well, much better than the silly Mickey Mouse gas mask they tried to make him wear in London when the rockets rumbled and the whole world shook. Somehow the Mickey Mouse thing belonged to London...to someone else.


Here everything was his. There were even clothes to dress up in. Kilts and turbans and jewels and furs that smelt all musty like chest of drawers paper. The furs wrapped him gently tight; so soft, they didn't even tickle. So many things to do here; so much time, that he didn't have to do them all at once. He could decide on this or that and leave something lovely and mouthwatering for any time.


They never came in here. He could sit and hug himself inside the pagoda house, listening to the silence and smelling the smells of unmarked dust and timelessness. He could do battle in his aeroplane or rock himself to Ghent or Aix on Dobbin. Dobbin the rocking horse, so tall he had to scramble up his stand and cling on very tight to get on top.


Sometimes he would just sit and play in his thoughts, and wait until the shadows came. Other times he'd slip the secret catch and go towards the stairs.


What stairs! What great, carved darkwood lions guarding them...great jaws open and shields between their paws. Lots of steps, not steep, but very wide and echoey. He would touch the lions a little to see them shine and talk to them in whispers. They were fierce lions, much bigger than him, but friendly, allowing him to pass through, up past the mighty paintings on the walls. He would tiptoe up because of echoes, until halfway, when something troubled him. It was another picture, of another lady...very old and sad, but with such eyes he was afraid; if fear is feeling cold and being unable to move in case you caught those eyes. He had to stop and wait, his indrawn breath in little flutters, begging "Please!"...his chest thumping so he could hear it in his ears...and then rush past.


This lady owned the house, he knew, and hated people coming there. Except him. She would allow him, if he was quick and didn't look into her eyes. He would run the second flight of stairs because his back was to her and he could feel the eyes following him. Once around the lions guarding at the top, she couldn't see him anymore and he was safe. Somehow, though, he knew she was there, and "upstairs" was more like being shown things rather than exploring for himself.


In one great room, all white covers nearly, there was a favourite smell...of roses. He knew its secret, though its pleasure always made him frown a little with questions like, "Why?" Questions he wouldn't think of asking them. They'd spoil it all and have to "come and see," perhaps even find his secret door and stop him coming in and "breaking things." He never broke anything up there. He knew it all belonged to the lady, and she might stop him going there. He was sure she would. They were so alike, he and she, in their love of places, private places.
The secret of the roses was a giant bowl with slant-eyed people on it, and a lid with slits in. When he lifted up the lid, there it was, in the thin dry leaves and petal buds, all dead. That was the puzzle, and the wonder. How could dead things be like the live ones in the garden, and smell as strongly and dizzily as the evening rose he sometimes sat by in the yew-tree garden by the lake?

 

No answer ever came, and in the end, he just accepted things he couldn't understand, like murmurings in empty rooms. There were different feelings in different rooms. Changed light and altered quietnesses. The gigantic Priest's Room had a middle feel; was like the centre of the circle, a place of balancing before strange cut-off worlds, a balancing of strength and beauty, where he lingered often. He was almost too shy to come and too loath to go away or through. He loved that room more passionately than any other. The colours, pinks, greens and golden thread, still shimmering, though old and long forgotten. Tapestries glowing on dark, dark paneling. The giant postered bed, so vast and soft. He liked the softness round him, the peace and softness of being in it, behind the heavy curtains. It made him like a prince. He'd wriggle off his clothes and melt, just him, into the silky covers, cool and free, and giggle a bit at the thought of what they' say, then cry a little till he dreamt about the soft cool clouds. Good dreams, always, here.
It was funny, but, always in the Great House, he went one way. Somehow, he went deeper and deeper. From the Priest's Room, with its free feeling, he would pluck up courage to cross the tiny vestibule beyond...so dark, so unwelcoming, so strangely dead. Yes, it was of things like ivory birds in ivory cages and odd carved heads on the dark carved chimney piece, devil's heads or goats, not happy but waiting things. On, on he had to go, through, away, beyond...to the bird rooms.


Tier on tier of birds and animals in glass. Here too, a smell that lingered, eyes that stared, not seeing him. Some broken, some just sawdust, tatty fur and feather slow-falling to the floor like sand in hourglasses, turned for the eggs he had, with Cook, at breakfast-time. He smiled always when he thought of Cook, her bustling and her ways; and how she laughed and chatted and got his eggs just right, so they didn't need "their noses blowing." Yes, Cook was different. She, a stranger, had no rows. Just did, and kept "her place" she said. He liked "her place;" for he knew her cottage was her place. Everything inside was clean and bright and small, like his pagoda, but not closed in. Oh! And the special buns she made for him! They were always "just out of the oven," if he called for tea, which could be anytime. You could sniff their sweetness as soon as you reached the garden gate. Cook was nice, despite the stickleback and tadpoles he shared with her, alone, through trust. Cook was nice. What was her name? Was she a Richardson, a Twiss, a Dale, a Finch; a? They knew they liked each other, he and she. Best of all, she didn't ask him nosey questions, but waited for him to tell, if he should want to, which of course, he did.


The birds and animals were beautiful, but too sad for the child, who passed them by, and pushed a door which led into his treasure trove...the armoury. Suit upon suit, all jumbled up; swords and spurs, chain-mail, halberds, flintlocks and pistols. Helmets of all sorts. Some were still set up as people, like downstairs, but mostly they were stuffed in old trunks, hung on walls, or just dumped onto the floor. Just dumped for him to play with. He usually tried on breastplates, much too big and heavy. He fingered the swords and bayonets and drew them from their scabbards; some rusty, some shimmering still, with silver-chasing on their blades. The scent of steel and ancient leather excited him; so, he went from one to the other, trying them and choosing those he liked the best. He'd rub them on his pants to make them warm, then smooth the smoothness of the gleaming wood and metal down his cheek. He'd smell their smell. Good enough to eat, like all good smells.


Probably, the most exciting, real, romantic history-thing the Great House had to offer, was the spiral staircase, leading up onto the great, flat leaded roof and battlements and towering, twisty chimneys; or otherwise, right down into the moat. The last steps down, all green and slippery with sweating, slimy weeds and velvet moss, the sound of water, lap-lap-lapping, echoing...gentle, trickling sounds that slow streams have under bridges, welcoming, coal-green and a scent of mint a little too.


On the roof, he played for hours that went like pocket money, with real swords and real armour. He fought battles with every child's real enemies. Battles he won because, if he lost, there wouldn't be any story left. He let them throw him, nearly, from the battlements, or, thrust him part-way down the spiral stairs. But, always, in the end, he'd kill them, and stand with beads of sweat and victory thrill beneath the swirling great red bands of golden lions that topped the flagpole on the highest turret of the house. He was the "King of the Castle" and no one cared or knew.


They would be chattering or having rows way, way outside, while he played at Heaven, alone, but happy, never having died.
When the shadows came , and shimmery sunbeams moved to corners of the roof, he returned through all those rooms, quite unaware. Down the stairways, not seeing the lady with the eyes, leaving lions and the eight-walled paradise, and out into the evening. To the low-flying birdsong and the nighttime perfume of the flowers he went; closing his little door and covering it for next time's secret visit.


It was then that they would call his name, and he would go, most slowly, to the call, hoping Grannie would be there. He'd think of nothing, but like an animal, he was alert for angry sounds, for rows. If he heard them he would hide, maybe in the stables with his rabbit, "Showboy," right behind the heavy loose-box door, until they, in turn, became afraid, weeping; no longer screaming threats, but begging him to come. That way the rows couldn't touch him. Only their exhausted remains of love could win. Embraces, kisses; harmless things, then prayers together. God bless everyone! More gin and chattering and cursing rows, but all amongst themselves. He was safe in bed, with Grannie whispering "Night night, darling" His reply, "night, night, Grannie, see you when the bombs fly." Very soon, door ajar, the blue light flickering on the lady with the child, and dreams.


Much to love and live for in that world that was so definitely permanent, so much...his. Things to do, not just dream about.


In the gardens way beyond the lake he had his own garden, full of pretty things, behind a giant hedge and wall. It was difficult to find, if someone didn't know where to look. The entrance was just big enough for him to squeeze through unseen. He would pull the branches back and make room for Grannie, though. She would help him dig and plant the seeds and bulbs; tell him their names and how they'd be when they grew up. They played a while sometimes, and the best of their games was hunting fairy necklaces among the fallen leaves in autumn, a game his mother had taught him in the Park in London. That smell of leaves and laurels always made him shiver, it was special... extra strong. Grannie never stayed too long. She'd give him a little hug and say, "Must go, now , Darling, see you soon," and leave him with lots more adventures and things to do. She understood about pretends.


The gardeners were his friends, and let him wander through the giant, heavy-scented greenhouses. Sometimes they would pick the best nectarine, peach or bunch of grapes for him. But often, even better, they let him steal them for himself, and then be awfully angry and chase him with a stick and shout of how they'd "lam" him when they caught him, which somehow they never did! He always got away. He knew the secret holes in hedges, disused potting sheds, and trees with branches which could cover him. He loved their angry cries, for these were proper people, who knew what fun it was not to be caught, how exciting to be chased and keep the prize, to drive sharp teeth into luscious rich-ripe fruit, and smell the taste and feel the velvet smoothness of the skin. Afterwards, they laughed and ruffled his hair with their great rough hands and called him, "proper little bugger," which he liked.


Oh, yes, there were mazes, too. Giant yew tree avenues, all dark, except the little poison berries and a little sunlight sudden shaftening here and there. But, that was in the daytime. Night was different, strange, made the skin tingle up his back, a different shivering, the noises freezing him. The place somehow alive with others watching him all the way, never in front, just aside; and a little, just a very little, behind - in the darkness. Suddenly he'd have to get out of there, leave the chill of eyes he couldn't see, the feel of smothering. Out, sometimes into moonlight, smiling, welcome. But sometimes, like the rushing clouds that made him fear the horrid "All-Clear" sound, in London, when the bombers went away. He couldn't choose the way the moonlight was because, when he found himself out there at night, he'd walked there sound asleep, sweating, clammy in the dark cold. They didn't know, he didn't tell. "He's telling lies again" they'd say, and lock his door to stop him being bad. "For his own good," "He must be taught," was what he heard them say. It was funny, but, they always spoke about him as if he wasn't there, like farmers talking about a pig before they slit its throat. He didn't care really, but they were silly. Everyone knew, he thought, that animals can understand. They understood, like he did, by the feeling no one speaks, like the wild-eyed Lady on the stairs, and the secret of roses in dead petals.


He didn't think he minded waking up outside at night. It happened quite a lot, so much so in fact that it was almost ordinary. "Another waking dream" he called it to himself. In fact, when the moon was smiling, he'd have adventures in the secret passage underneath the gardens, or have a midnight feast of nectarines. The greenhouse smell was extra strong at night and it was exciting stealing them. He had to guess which ones were ripe by stretching up and feeling them, the ones that dropped into his hand as he touched them were the best.
On smiling nights, he would slip into the boathouse where the punt was moored and sail...that's what he called it...into the night. Those times were real adventures. Water in the dark was magic stuff. The sound of slap-slap-slapping underneath him and plants that seemed to have a light inside; the stronger, wet-mint smell than daylight has. This was the work of spells. He never felt the cold. It was all too good for that. There were bits of the moat so shallow, you could push the punt across them. Others deep, deep enough to go on down forever. Those were the dark, cold bits. He could always tell, and anyway, he knew them off by heart. The best adventure was slipping off his nightdress and sliding off the stern until his feet sank into the soft warm mud, and he could feel the water all around and float behind the punt with its tarry painty smell. He felt the ferny underwater weeds stroke over him, fondling him and twisting the silver chain around his neck. He was a fish, quite free of weight, and part of what they live in. Maybe, these times were quite short, but, there was no one there to tell him so, or to remind him that he couldn't swim. The strange thing is, he probably did swim then, whilst yet unable when they tried to teach him on the beach. When he was alone, the thing that they called "Time" wasn't there. Everything was as long as he thought it was, like days and nights long even! Mostly, he was so busy that one time ran into another and it was all one great adventure that never stopped and never would. Not just time either. Why not numbers too? Catching hundreds and hundreds of stickleback or newts was far more fun than two or three. The two three he took to Cook, for her inspection, were only to prove the point. Pirates by the thousand bit the dust, and Hook, his age-old enemy, was kicked along the plank a dozen times with that sure hope and knowledge that he would somehow live to fight another day.


He didn't know how old he was, or care. He felt the same always. The smells were there, the punt, his secret door, though, sometimes, he thought it was a little smaller than before. He guessed that he was quite old; not as old as them, for they were truly the ancient of days, but quite old. Grannie never changed either. Perhaps they were sort of "in-between people" like in between the lady with the flickering blue light, and the others, who had rows and talked about money, selling things, drink and "What was good for him."


Mind you, they did have what they called a "birthday party" for him, saying he was seven. Seven what anyway? There had been seven candles on a cake which they said was his; so, perhaps they were right. He never could be quite sure with them.
He hated the party. They'd got hundred's of other people, like themselves, with children like themselves to be "your friends." They all talked loudly and giggled. He didn't want friends...not like them. None of it mattered, though, because the big ones all had a row over the green bottles, and one of them tripped and fell into the cake. They threw the plates at each other, and smashed everything up. He left them in the middle of it all and hid in the stables with his rabbit. He stayed there all night, or, at least, until they'd stopped screaming and threatening to "thrash the daylights out of him". He went back later, when they were certain he had fallen into the moat and been drowned. He went back for the sloppy hugs and kisses...and the tears,
Prayers, then...he didn't know who God was, but, thought he must be awfully important if he could make them all so quiet and different. God was the only person who never seemed to be there, not even at the rows! The boy thought that, maybe, he had a sort of invisibility cloak, so you couldn't, actually, see him; but, he was there, all the time, keeping and eye on things and tidying up; rather like Cook, but with a bigger "place" to keep. That was as far as his thinking went, thinking made his brain hurt. Much nicer to just let things happen as they did when he lay in the punt, twiddling his fingers in the water weed.
Things were different. Not all at once; but, really different. Wrong!


Other people came, and went. He heard their voices saying things like "The boy's father wants...," "duty to the child...," "good strict boarding school...," "he's quite wild..." "the court will decide who shall have him..." "unsuitable company..." "bad influence..." They were strong talks. Smooth voices. All of a sudden he was afraid. Cold ice fear! There was a packing of trunks, new clothes, and worst of all the talk of selling. This time not selling things as they usually did, but the unbearable, the selling of the house. His house. His world. His child's animal knowledge told they would take it all away, everything he loved. Just as though it were a bicycle, a girl's bike even.
The last times visiting of everywhere; drinking every smell and the thousand other special things; of just being there, and free and happy and belonging with his whole, whole heart. This last time came, as they said, "all things will," to an end. Perhaps he understood time then, because it went too fast. They sought him out one day beside the evening rose in the yew tree garden by the moat. They didn't call, or shout. Just picked him up and took him to the waiting car.


Out, out through the lion-guarded gates, away from all the things, and from the only people that he cared about at all.
They took him to the city, where the rockets did not crash, nor the sparkly lanterns tinkle and blink, anymore. They said it
was only "for a little while," then he would be home again...even Grannie said it. They took him to the Court of Chancery, where he waited in the cold, arched stone building for the Judge, who would ask him with whom he wished to live. They said he would, they promised.


He never saw the Judge at all. Late on the third day of waiting in the coldness of that court corridor, they told him. "The Judge has decided that you must go and live with your Aunt Betty...for a little while. They promised...just a little while. Even Grannie promised. Aunt Betty came to that strange hotel in Holborn, to stake her claim. They had a little car, a Ford Anglia. He traveled in Grannie's car, an Armstrong-Siddeley limousine, with Grannie. It was like a visit to somewhere strange, but, just a visit. They had a little house surrounded by a wall, with a great gaunt factory looming overhead.


He looked around and turned to his Aunt Betty and said, " Thank you so much, it was lovely visiting you." He ran to Grannie, who looked quite helpless, and then the Aunt grabbed him and whispered "No, you're staying here. You're ours now."


"Grannie! He howled.


"Just for a little while, Dearest. Just for a very little while."


He screamed and kicked. No chance. Grannie's car drove away, so slowly, but so surely.


And he wept. This was the end of everything.


When a little while had gone, like years, he asked Aunt Betty, "When can I go home?" "When can I go to Grannie and my home?"


She went all stiff, her face flushed with rage. Her eyes bored into him like angry rows. "You'll never go back. You're staying here for ever. That house is sold. You'll never see her again!"


"But, why?" He whispered.


"Because she is a filthy, evil old woman!"


Something died in him. Suddenly he understood the rows. Even loved the rows. A little pause, and then he screamed from deep, deep down.


"You bitch!.You bloody bastard bitch. You bitch, you bitch, you bitch. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"


The beating that she gave him, screaming, kicking, scratching, cursing, whether at that moment or later, gave him peace happiness. The smell of suburbs, Brobat, closing in. Let her hit him always. He would always hate. Come rows, dear rows!
He was a row now, a screaming row, mad and happy. Like Mr. Hitler and his bombs. Like flying bottles and the crashing rockets.


"Bad blood!" They said. "Disastrous marriage." "I've never been so shocked!" "Must be taught." "For his own good."


He heard them. But the child was peaceful now. Floating backwards, smiling, radiant to his home; to the little door, the secret passages, the lady with the child. To Grannie's arms and voice; to his nakedness among the waters of the moat, and to that far off scent of roses...everywhere.




 

"Hunstanton Hall"