A spooky tale as the lord of the manor poses as one of the living dead
THE Boys slunk up to the front door of The Manor and tried the bell, their leader stepping gingerly forward to jab porcelain button with as much bravado as he could muster. His effort prompted nothing they could hear from behind the massive door with its Gothic brasswork. Certainly there was no response other than the mocking caw of a raven as it flapped from its perch on the ornamental battlements high above them and disappeared into the swirling mist.
‘Try knocking,’ hissed The Boy at the back, pointing at the hefty lion’s head knocker which glowered out at all comers.
‘You try knocking,’ the leader hissed in peevish reply, making way at the front of the group for The Boy who had been at the back. The Boy who had been at the back pulled up the lion’s head with more trepidation than intent. It slipped from nervous fingers and swung down with surprisingly frictionless ease, producing a loud bang. Cue nervous laughter from The Boys and continuing silence from within. The Boy who had been at the back was poised to repeat his effort when at last the sound of approaching footsteps could be discerned, followed by the clanking of chains.
The door finally creaked open and the lady of the house in all her lofty magnificence looked down at the gaggle of giggling callers.
‘Can Medders come out to play?’ The Boys in ragged chorus asked this vision of stern disdain. ‘Not today,’ the lady of the house responded firmly, watching them turn and retreat from view before she closed the door, once more shutting out the world…
Hermione padded across the hall in slippered feet, still blinking at having been summoned at such an early hour. A girl really could use a Saturday lie-on, she muttered to herself as she made her way into the kitchen to brew herself some tea. Come to think of it, a girl really could use a husband who would ease her into the weekend by making the first cuppa of the morning. Common chivalry demanded that the man in her life should be first out of the scratcher on her day off.
She made it up the stairs and into the bedroom without spilling a drop before resting the steaming mug on her bedside locker. She threw back the duvet, ensuring that the man in her life received a stiff wave of cold air before she jumped in beside him. She plumped up pillows and sat up in the bed, holding on to her tea and looking sideways at the unmoving lump beside her.
‘That was The Boys, just in case you were wondering. I really don’t know how you could just lie there when they nearly had the door battered in with their knocking.’
‘I have back-ache, sweetest.’
‘Which reminds me, I am sure I told you before Christmas to get an electrician to have a look at that bell. There hasn’t been a cheep out of it in months.’
‘Arhhh.’
‘Yes, and I know full well that you have back-ache. It’s not surprising that you have back-ache, a man of your age hauling bags of manure like that. You should know better.’
‘Arhhh.’
‘Anyway, the The Boys wanted to know if you could play golf. At least I assume it was golf they wanted you to play. They were wearing the most outlandish costumes.’
‘Arhhh.’
‘Why did they have to call in person anyway? Surely even men of your age must be able to set up a WhatsApp group.’
‘Arhhh.’
‘I would say that they are wasting their time. There will be no ball struck this side of lunch-time with that fog out there.’
I really did have back-ache, by the way. I probably should not have been hauling the manure. We do actually run a WhatsApp group for the Saturday morning golf group but I had the backache, as previously mentioned. I left my phone overnight in my trousers and the trousers were on the chair while I was in the bed – unable to move because I had the back-ache. So I could not reply to the messages on the WhatsApp.
A little sympathy would be nice.