Chapter 2
Barnstead Oak is a small town in the shadow of the Howgill Fells in Cumbria. Tourists tend to pass it by, heading further up the M6 towards the Lake District fells, and local industry of the past has long gone. The town left behind is a mixture of solid Victorian stone buildings and unusually sympathetic modern housing, with tree-lined roads and views up towards the hills. The planners have managed to retain the character of the old town, if not its wealth. Now it is known for its weekend market in the old Market Square, and Barnstead Oak School, a once successful boys boarding school, now struggling.
If you walk a hundred yards up the hill from the school the Headmaster’s House is in a quiet spot looking away from the town towards the river. For several months Jake and Alex couldn’t move into the house while builders stripped out old partitioning to take the house back to its original layout and renovated plumbing and wiring. Now they have moved in, there remains some decorating and furnishing to do, and Jake has taken a month off work to do this. On the day they moved in Alex walked through the house slowly, taking pictures with her iPhone. Some furniture came with the house, but the rooms were mainly empty, ready for her to imprint herself on them.
“Alex, have a look at this.”
Jake stands in the sitting room looking at the wall. It has been stripped back to the old plasterwork and there is a clear outline of an old wooden door frame that had been plastered over.
“There was an outside door here, leading onto the terrace.”
“That’s interesting, it would have made more sense than having to go through the kitchen. I wonder why they bricked it up. Do you think we should reinstate it?”
“I don’t know. Let’s have a look outside”.
They go through the kitchen door onto the terrace and look back at the sitting room wall. There is no sign of the door frame; at some point in the past this part of the wall has been rendered. Jake runs his hand over the rough surface, frowning. “I don’t know why they did this, it doesn’t fit with the rest of the house. I guess it was added when the door was blocked up. To replace the door we’d have to redo the whole wall.”
“Let’s leave it for now,” says Alex. “We’ve got enough to finish off without starting more building work. I want to be able to start living here properly. We’ve both got to go back to work at the end of the holidays.”
“Yes, you’re right. How are you doing upstairs?”
“Oh, fine. Slowly. I’ve had enough for today, I’m going to stop for a cup of tea.” She yawns. “You woke me up last night. I heard you moving around.”
“Yeah, I meant to tell you earlier. It was really strange. I thought I heard something and I came downstairs. I could hear music, the sound of someone playing the cello.”
“Really? Did you leave the radio on?”
“No, It sounded as if someone was playing in the house; I don’t think it was coming from outside. It was just a solo cello, really beautiful, but sad. Not a recording – the playing was disjointed, as if someone was improvising or experimenting.” He pauses at the recollection. “They were playing Danny Boy. It was really moving; I thought they were playing it for me.”
“You must have imagined it,” Alex says, looking up. “No one would have brought a cello up here. And there are no neighbours.”
“Yes, very strange. But it was beautiful playing.” He pauses. “Perhaps one of the teachers who lived here was a musician. Perhaps the house remembers his playing. I feel as if the house is reacting to all the work we’ve been doing.”
Alex looks at him, and then at the wall she is standing next to, and she puts her hand against it, smiling. “I know what you mean. I can feel the house waking up; it has been neglected for too long. I think it has been waiting for us; at night I can hear the house breathing. Remembering its past.” She turns back to the wall. It is warm to her touch, and she speaks into it. “Don’t worry, we’ve nearly finished. You can settle down again.”
She grins and looks back at Jake. “When was the conversion done?”
“I don’t know. I was told that the house was built by the first headmaster, but I don’t know when it stopped being used as his house; it would be interesting to find out. Someone at the school must know the history. I’ll call the agent, I think the person dealing with the sale was the school business manager, Claire somebody, but I never spoke to her directly.”
A couple of days later Jake and Alex walk down the hill to the school. Barnstead Oak school is on the side of the hill overlooking the town, an imposing building built out of the local reddish brown stone but dulled over the years to an institutional mud colour. It thrived in the past on teaching the sons of rich industrialists and lawyers from Manchester and Liverpool; but fashions change and a succession of headmasters who were good teachers but poor salesmen led to a decline in admissions, and over the years it became harder to hire the quality teachers required to keep up the Oxbridge entry figures. It is the summer holiday and there is no one about, but they have been directed to a side door and when they ring it is answered by a woman in her 40s.
“Hi. You must be Jake and Alex. I’m Claire, the school business manager. Do come through.”
As she talks she leads them along a corridor through what is clearly the administrative part of the school. The decor is cheap, modern and functional, the building in need of some maintenance work. Her office looks out of the back of the building across a yard used for parking and towards a modern classroom block and hills behind.
She offers them coffee, and fusses around making it, chatting as she does about the weather, and how nice it is to have some fresh faces in the area. She settles down with the coffee and a couple of KitKats found in a drawer.
“Did you move everything in OK? I know the house was in a bit of a mess; you’ve taken on quite a project there. How can I help you?”
“It’s all fine, thanks. We wanted introduce ourselves, since we are going to be neighbours,” Jake says; “and to thank you for your help sorting out the sale. We are very happy with the house, you’ll have seen we have started some renovation, but the building work is mainly done now. There won’t be any more builders coming after the end of the holidays.”
“No, don’t worry about us. Parents and visitors don’t come past that way, you do what you like.”
“What we really wanted,” interrupts Alex,”is to ask if you know anything about the history of the house. It’s called the Headmaster’s House, but was converted into bedsits. We are trying to recreate some of the original house. Do you know when it was converted, or why? It would be nice to know a bit more about it.”
Claire looks at Alex, as if noticing her for the first time. “Your accent, are you from around here?”
She smiles. “Yes, I was born in the town, I’ve lived here all my life. But I’ve never been into the school before, a bit above my status. I teach down at the primary school.”
“Oh yes, of course. So you persuaded Jake to move here. It’s a nice town, although quiet. I think we are the main attraction now.”
“I work in Carlisle,” says Jake. “I’m a solicitor there, and it’s not far to drive. I don’t do property law, and I know the conveyancers went through everything before we exchanged contracts, but if there is anything that you can tell us that would be really interesting.”
“I’m afraid I’ve only been here a few years, and I don’t know much about the school history. I do know that the house was built by the first headmaster, Edward Price. Most of the money to build the school came from a local industrialist, and some local charities put up the rest. The school opened in 1885. Price paid for the house himself I think, but he was quite young at the time and I don’t know where his money came from. His family lived there until he retired. It carried on being the Headmaster’s house and part of it became offices for the Head and his secretary; so I suspect there have been a few changes to it over the years.
“In about 1990 the school was expanding and needed bedsits for single masters. It was much more common then for schools to provide accommodation for teachers, especially boarding schools. The Head at the time was single and didn’t need such a large house, so the school bought a smaller house just down the road and the Headmaster’s House was converted. Now we don’t have so many staff living in, and frankly we needed the money, so the trustees decided to sell.”
“It’s really the older history that we’re interested in,” says Alex. She looks at Jake, who shakes his head a fraction. “There are a couple of old features that it would be good to find out more about.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know any more. But I’ve got a box of old papers that the solicitors sent back to me after the sale went through; they said they were old documents that were not relevant to the legal ownership. I haven’t had a chance even to open the box yet. And we have a part time archivist, but he’s away for the summer. There may be records there. Term starts next week; but I’ll have a look and see what I can find for you.”
“That would be really kind of you,” says Alex.
“The other thing that might interest you is the chapel. Not the main church in the town, the old school chapel. If you follow the road past your house, further up the hill it curves back on itself and there’s an old chapel. It was originally in the school grounds, and there’s a shortcut to get there across the playing fields. It was once used by the school for regular services; but it has been independent of the school for a century or more. You can’t see it from your house because the hill gets in the way, but it’s not far, and it’s a nice building. Quiet. The vicar in the town keeps an eye on the place, they have a couple of services there every month. I can recommend evensong if you like that sort of thing.”
Jake and Alex walk back up the hill and follow the road past the house. It isn’t much more than a track, there’s only room for one car and the surface is uneven with cracks and holes in the surface. After a few hundred yards it levels off and rounds the shoulder of the hill, and there is the old chapel. The ground has hollowed out to allow a stream to run off the hillside, and the chapel sits quietly, surrounded by a neat well-kept graveyard. It is sheltered and partly hidden from view by a row of large old yew trees. There is an old flagpole in one corner, and an old glass covered frame with some out of date notices.
The chapel is closed, and they walk around the graveyard and sit for a minute on a bench at the side of the building. You can’t see the town from here, but you can see a small lake further down the valley and across to the hills in the distance. It is warm in the sun, and Jake closes his eyes.
He realises that there is someone else there with them, he can sense someone standing a few yards away in the porch of the chapel. He looks up but he can’t see anyone, they must have gone into the building. He stands, stretching his back, and walks back to the chapel door.
“Was someone here? Did someone go in?”
The door is still locked. Alex looks up at him, surprised. “No, I didn’t see anyone”.
“I’m sure there was someone here.”
Jake pauses. He realises that his heart is pounding, he can feel sweat prickle on his back. He walks around the side of the building, and then returns and tries the door again. It is hot, and he feels lightheaded. He looks at Alex. She looks unfamiliar, as if he hasn’t seen her for a long time. There’s a haze around her. He shakes his head to clear his vision. She is still sitting on the bench, looking at him with a puzzled expression.
“Are you OK?” she says. ” You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”
Jake takes a step towards her, and puts his hand on the church wall for support. Again he is sure that there is someone else with them, he can hear their breathing, in time with his own. He closes his eyes, forces his body to relax, and counts to ten. When he looks up Alex is still looking at him, the same look of concern.
“I must have stood up too quickly; the heat perhaps. I could have sworn there was someone else here.” And he looks at her again, and walking over, touches the side of her face, her warmth grounding him.
She reaches up with her hand and stands up. “Stop mucking about,” she says. “Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s go back to the house.”
They walk back down the road. Jake hears a footstep next to his, but he doesn’t turn to look; and all the way to the house someone is shadowing alongside him.