ABOUT THE SHADOWS OF TARNSIDE HALL Escaping from her drab life in post-war Manchester, Eleanor Barfield questions her instincts when she first sets eyes on Tarnside Hall. Brooding over its secrets, the home of Dr. Levens stands remote and forbidding on the Coniston Fells, warning Eleanor to come no further. An exciting new job and luxurious living prove too much of a temptation: Eleanor embarks on her role as the doctor’s secretary. Winter closes in. The shadows of Tarnside Hall decide it’s time to play with the new arrival.
CHAPTER 1 November 30, 1954 “Congratulations, Miss Barfield! It gives me much pleasure to say that you meet my requirements, and the position is yours, if you’re happy to accept?” I clasped a hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp of shock, tinged with a hesitancy that I couldn’t rationalise. “You have doubts, Miss Barfield?” I found my voice. “Of course not!” I lied. “I’m delighted to accept. Forgive me; you took my breath away with your sudden decision.” My companion, soon to be my employer, snapped his fingers in the air, an imperious action that summoned a footman who had earlier served us tea and angel cake on this sullen November afternoon. Later, much later, the act of indulging in such a confection at my first encounter with masked malevolence would strike me as incongruous, to say the least. “Our business has reached a satisfactory conclusion. Miss Barfield will stay to finish her tea, but I must depart for my train to the North.” The footman, immaculate in green and black livery, glanced at me, his eyes flicking towards my blouse, noting, I’m sure, that not daring to afford new, I’d turned the collar and cuffs. In that brief moment of condescension, I identified the cause of my intrusive doubts. Agreeing to meet in the visitors’ lounge at Foresters in Albert Square, long-buried memories had surfaced as soon as I stepped over its polished threshold. Memories of thirty years’ past, of clutching my mother’s hand as she entreated similarly disdainful staff to summon my father from the seclusion and exclusion of the gentlemen’s club. Back then, we progressed no further than Foresters’ neo-Gothic entrance hall. This was thirty years later, 1954, and attitudes had softened: under close escort, women were permitted brief excursions into this one, designated room for visitors. The contempt of the footman suggested that such laxity in the name of progress was an abhorrence, an attitude
that my late parents would probably have shared. His palpable dislike of my presence had caused my misgivings, I reasoned. “Your coat and hat, sir.” Now suitably attired in a Chesterfield coat and homburg, ready to face the abrasive chill that would greet him outside, my companion stretched out a gloved hand. “Goodbye, Miss Barfield. Until next week.” “Goodbye, Dr. Levens. And thank you,” I said. The strength of the doctor’s handshake impressed me, having incorrectly equated his emaciated frame with muscular frailty. “Your stick, sir.” “Thank you, Barnes.” Dr. Levens took hold of the proffered stick, and that small action explained a matter about which I had been too polite to enquire. During my interview, Dr. Levens had neither removed his dark glasses nor referred to them, but this detail, coupled with the white cane he now clutched, led me to deduce that my new employer was blind. The tension in my shoulders slipped away from me; unlike the all-seeing Barnes, Dr. Levens cannot have observed the shabbiness of my gabardine suit and faded-blue Juliet cap. Dr. Levens corrected my misconception immediately, however, by declaring, as he removed an envelope from his coat pocket, “I see a little, but my eyes tire easily and by evening, my vision is reduced to mere shadows. These glasses help to combat the pain I suffer during daylight hours, the result of an injury I incurred at Passchendaele.” As he smiled at me, grey parchment-like skin stretched across his face, and I couldn’t help thinking how old age begins to outline the skeletal form of man, as if in readiness for his ultimate resting place. “Now, please humour an old and grateful man by accepting this small gift. As I have already explained, Tarnside Hall is draughty, cold, and isolated. It would be wise to invest in suitable clothing to help combat the harshness of a winter in Lancashirebeyond-the-Sands.” I took the proffered envelope, thanking the doctor once more as he left. His stick tapped a rhythm on the parquet floor, like a bird pecking seed from a tin lid, a sound with which I was to become very familiar in future weeks. Conscious of the ever-
derisive Barnes, I settled back in the leather armchair, requesting a fresh pot of tea to relieve me of his tiresome presence. I opened the envelope and read what transpired to be a letter of introduction, in which Dr. Levens instructed that I choose as many garments as I anticipated I might need from the Ladies’ Department at Kendal Milne, and charge them to his account. I glanced at my watch: Kendals, the most exclusive shopping emporium in Manchester, was no more than five minutes’ walk from Foresters. I could easily catch a later tram to my lodgings in Chorlton. With two hours’ shopping at my disposal, I would equip myself fully, both for the position of secretary for a retired biologist now committing his life’s work to memoirs, and for the rigours of winter in the North. Barnes returned with the tea. “A change of plan,” I said, offering a sweet smile as consolation for the inconvenience to which I had put him. “Please fetch my coat for me. I’m leaving immediately.” Barnes stared at me. His appraisal was unnerving as his eyes raked over me. Perhaps I was too plain to gain approval, or perhaps my auburn hair was too vibrant for these austere surroundings. I tucked a stray curl underneath my hat. “Certainly, madam. You’re younger than the other ladies whom Dr. Levens appointed. I hope you last longer.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After twenty-five years of living and working in rural Cumbria, Van Andrew relocated to the South West of England in 2014, where the sorrowful cries of seabirds have replaced the sweet chorale of songbirds. Unseen forces have directed her into writing ghost stories, and “The Shadows of Tarnside Hall” is her first novella to be published. Van views the world through sepiacoloured glasses. A devoted collector of graveyards, she is working her way through the Magnificent Seven of London. Her thoughts are interred on her website: www.vanandrew.com: “Corner of the Eye”