Interiors within interiors

I gave up trying to poem this today and thought I would just tell the story anyway and work on a poem perspective another time. It is absolutely true. - the backstory is that the old Manor Farm House in the village was sold a few months ago and new people moved in. I have spoken to them in the lane and in the pub etc and in the course of a chat was invited for coffe last Thursday. The mansion is one of 2 remaining manor houses in the village, but this one dates back to 1624, is mainly early 19th century though and has been immaculately restored inside to regency style proportions and decor. The other mansion is a wreck, thoroughly architecturally abused but remains mysteriously behind its screen of trees like Sleeping Beauty's castle. This was the first time I have been in the Manor (Which was a a large farm house once upon a time- the farm buildings and barns etc have been converted into rather nice homes in the last 20 years or so.

Anyway, here is the 'stick it all down and sort it out later' story.

Interiors within interiors

February light strikes sharp and incisive through Georgian glass panes in the sash windows, slashes Sarah's artwork on the easel.Inside a Yorkshire pub by gas lamp she explains). I think it has a Rembrandt-ish quality. The sun shafts slide from her cornfield hair, pool on cold marble floor-tiles, interiors within interiors, Like a Dutch painting by de Hooch.

Polite talk on sofas in a room with freesia and lilies in vases. Shy connections developing, building bricks of new friendships. Sarah and Henry are architects Sarah's perspectives contradict expected sterotypes.

Suddenly she leaps to her feet. 'See here, where we keep the DVDs? It was once was a priest hole. A tunnel led under the lane over to the church,'She led me through a gap without a door in a corner of the room. It exited into another room, a step down. A small sash window looked out onto a narrow path bounded by a hedge on the lane side of the house, the north east corner of the building. I thought it unlikely but kept my own counsel. There are tales of tunnels in the village, but the purpose is indeterminate- smugglers, catholics, who knows.I do not think this was an area where the Roman Catholic faith held much following.

'Do you feel ghosts? Are you a person sensitive to the supernatural' she asks as if offering me more coffee or commenting on the weather. I shrug, 'sometimes' I venture warily. 'Let's see if you can guess which are the haunted rooms.The lady who lived here before wouldn't go in them.' Her face holds mischief. 'I am abouut as sensitive as a lump of concrete.' She says, 'I never feel anything at all'.'

Child-like, ,she patters through high -ceilinged elegance, and pauses in a cosy snug. She asks if I feel anything here. I reckon that the room had a lower floor level at one time.She is surprised, says she was told there had been a cellar once but it was not there any more, or they could not find it, maybe it had been filled in. I had heard that at one time this building had been the farm house with a cottage attached for the mother in law, and then it had reverted back to being a large house. I asked if this was part of the cottage. It was. 'The haunted rooms are over these,' she says, 'shall we go up?' I nod. she says, 'I am going to disorientate you. Follow me.'

I don't take a lot of disorientating at all, ' I replied and trotted obediently after her, trying to take in the fabulous building as we went. .

Her green shod feet flash on polished floorboards, original wide ones. We run the grand staircase, down back stairs, up again, through bedrooms, bathrooms, dressing rooms, libraries, landings, and unspecified spaces with white painted floorboards. All appears to flow, in a kind of open plan, as I do not have the impression of corridors. At length, Sarah opens a little door where three stairways meet. It is a very small L shaped room, smooth plaster painted in magnolia, sash window looking over the lane to the church.

In my head a door slams, a child's locked -in distress seizes my senses, my eyes are sore, my throat tight with despair. I feel I can make no more sound, yet there is also an aura of acceptance, peace and security. I push the door closed, look from the window to the churchyard.

Sarah is watching me 'what? what?' she looks as if she will tear a reply from my soul.

I tell her. She pales, her eyes dark pools of indigo.

'This was the nursery. That wall,' she knocks her knuckles on magnolia plaster and produuces a hollow souund, 'is recent,' We go into the next room where dimity print covers a pretty iron frame couch beds. 'In 1853, three Feaster children died of diphtheria or smallpox in here within weeks of each other. They are buried in the family plot exactly where you gazed, but the goosebumps- howEVER could you know- there was a hatch up ther into a small attic room, now plastered over, behind which was a child's punishment chair. They used to puut children up in such places in chairs like that when they had been naughty.'

I did not know about any of this. It seemed , however, as it all should be. Those who lived live on in another plane of dimension, sometimes we see through the chinks in the screen.

'Another coffee and chocolate Leibnitz?'

'Mmm yes please.'

Somewhere, in the house

the ghost children played

hide and seek.

I knew Sarah heard them too.