Night-time Comes to the Old Hall – a short story by Jefny Ashcroft

The clock has just chimed nine and out here in the countryside I am all alone. But I feel safe enough. It’s July. There’s still light for me to look out and see the sheep, the neat hedges, and, nearer the house, our knot-garden. But no people. Every other soul in our household is out enjoying themselves – many miles away – at the fair.

Although I sit here comfortably enjoying my reading I’m aware of time passing. My uncle promised that he would not stay late in Wolverhampton. I’m sure he meant that promise when he made it but Uncle Toby is at best a weak old vessel. And when he has indulged in a little liquor.…

Wait! What was that? That creaking above the stairs. A breeze playing in the gables?

In the morning, when everybody left, the sun burned strongly and there wasn’t even a puff of wind. Now, with evening creeping on, the breeze is rising and the cloud is building. It would serve them right if they all got soaking wet!

I know it’s wicked to be so unkind and crabby but when I heard the clock I suddenly felt resentful. Why did Uncle Toby desert me like this? Why give every serving girl and lad their freedom to enjoy the pleasures – rustic and silly yes, but pleasures none the less! – of the fair, but not me? Well there’s my answer I suppose. He called me ‘too well-bred, too delicate’ to enjoy such coarse antics.

What a hypocrite! If it’s so vulgar and petty why does he stay so long there? Very soon – I begin to feel a little anxious now – l'll be justified in lighting a candle. My dear uncle won’t like that! Toby often talks of the man in the play who says 'there’s husbandry in heaven their candles are all out'. He tells me that those are his favourite words in all of Shakespeare! That he applauds that famous writer for appreciating the cost of good candles. What a grasping old miser my uncle can be!

Well (to hell with his cheeseparing!) very soon now, I will be forced to burn several just to find my way about the house. He’s left me defenceless and lonely – like some human guard dog. A cheap guard dog! Well now I must move before I find myself sitting in darkness. I’ll use this stub I have to light my way. But any new candles I fetch will be best beeswax not those stinking tallow ones!

My room is rather isolated at the top of the house and sometimes at night I feel a touch uneasy. Our Old Hall is a big place and in the past has held more people than met the eye. There were once priests who hid under the floorboards. When the people who lived here were Catholics and were persecuted for their beliefs. And, our old King Charles, who died last year – he – when he was much younger – he hid here too.

Priest holes like ours at Moseley have protected quite a few over the years. Some of them, like the king, survived and lived long but others went on to die awful deaths. By staying true to their beliefs. I can remember hearing that about eighty years ago – after the infamous Gunpowder Plot – some of them were hung, drawn and quartered: hideous, agonising ends. And that was far too near our home for my liking. At High Green in Wolverhampton – where they’ve all gone to make merry!

As I move carefully towards the door, feeble light in hand, a morbid thought strikes me: what if those souls have never left our district? What if they still roam the countryside looking for vengeance?

Foolish, foolish thoughts! Childish nightmares that a grown woman should not entertain. No. No ghosts here at the Old Hall!

I may not believe in ghosts but I am concerned about my soul. I’m not the best-tempered or grateful of nieces and I wonder if I’ll deserve Heaven when it comes my time. I’ve often wondered when that will be. If perhaps it will be sooner than I’m expecting? What if some evil person tramping the countryside – seeing the house unlit and empty – decides to break in?

I keep hearing little creakings and rustling. It’s only the wind again. But now, with wax dripping onto my hand from the shrinking candle-stub, I realise that it is now properly dark. And still they have not returned!

Perhaps – just as a precaution – I could light lots of candles. Put them all over the house. To create the impression I’m not alone. Yes. There’s a good idea! No one will know I’m trapped, unprotected in here if they see the house ablaze with light. No one would trouble a busy, bustling household!

So I’ve lit three for the upper rooms facing out over the lane and I’ll just go carefully down the stair to the parlour and place two there and then perhaps another over the porch … But no. This is silly! Think of the cost of all these unnecessary lights. I can see that Uncle might be rightly angered by such extravagance. So – quickly now – I better put them all out again!

I run upstairs, my stub guttering and threatening to fail on me. And then I hear noises again. I hurriedly blow out the three candles I lit on the top floor. Oh the snitch! And I cautiously peer out the window. Surely I can’t be spotted here in the dark. Well I can’t see anyone outside the house but I can hear something, or somebody, directly by our great front door. There is a quiet metallic clinking. Like a sword jingling on a man’s belt!

I know we have a gun in the house. An old one. The kind they call a blunderbuss. If I can find that then I can perhaps use it – if I have to – to defend myself from this criminal.

I start down the stairs again, my heart banging hard, legs shaking. But just as I reach the floor where the cupboard is – the one with the gun in it – my light goes out and … oh no! I slip and hurtle, clattering loudly, to the very bottom of the stairs.

My ankle complains bitterly. Have I broken it?

Despite myself I call out anxiously: “Who’s there?”

A muffled voice calls through the thick panels: “What was that noise my dear? It’s only me. Come ahead to keep you company. Left the rest of 'em behind. Dancing!”

Uncle Toby! He has finally returned.

He flings the door wide in a blinding rush of lantern light. I groan.

"My dear! My dear! What happened? Are you hurt?"

"Yes uncle. I am indeed!”

"But what caused you to fall?" I glare at him furiously.

"You did, you silly man!" I spit. "You and your wretched penny-pinching over the damned candles!"

Jefny Ashcroft 14.03.24