The wall led us to one of the gatehouse towers; and inside it, opening on to the staircase, was the door to the gatehouse room.
"Thank the lord this isn't spoilt," said Father as we went in.
"How I could work in this room!"
There were stone-mullioned windows looking in to the courtyard, as well as the ones at the front overlooking the lane. Father said they were
Tudor;
later in period than the gatehouse itself, but much earlier than the
house.
We went back into the tower and found the steps of the circular stone staircase good enough for us to go up higher -once we were crawling
into the darkness I wished they hadn't been; Father struck matches but there was a dreadful black moment each time one burnt out. And the
cold, rough stone felt so strange to my hands and bare knees. But when at last we came out on the battlemented top of the tower it was worth it all--I had never felt so high in my life. And I was so triumphant
at having been brave enough to come up. Not that I had had any choice; Rose had kept butting me from behind.
We stood looking down on the lane and over the fields stretching far on either side; we were so high that we could see how the hedges cut them up into a patchwork pattern. There were a few little woods and, a mile or so to the left, a tiny village. We moved round the tower to look
across the courtyard garden -and then we all shouted: "There it is!" at the same moment. Beyond the ruined walls on the west side of the
courtyard was a small hill and on the top of it was the high tower we had driven so long in search of. It puzzles me now why we hadn't seen it when we first came through the gatehouse passage. Perhaps the
overgrown garden obstructed the view; or perhaps we were too much
astonished at seeing the house to look in the opposite direction.
Father dived for the staircase. I cried "Wait, wait!" and he turned and picked me up, letting Rose go ahead striking the matches. He
guessed the bottom of the staircase must come out in the gatehouse
passage, but Rose used the last match as we reached the archway on to the walls; so we went back along them to the bathroom and down the nice little front staircase of the house into the hall. Mother was just
coming through the front door to look for us, dragging a cross, sleepy Thomas--he never liked to be left alone in the car. Father showed her the tower on the hill--we could see it easily once we knew where to
look--and told her to come along; then dashed across the courtyard
garden. She said she couldn't manage it with Thomas. I remember
feeling I ought to stay with her, but I didn't. I raced after Father
and Rose.
We climbed over the ruined walls which bounded the garden and crossed the moat by the shaky bridge at the south-west corner; that brought us to the foot of the hill-but Father told us it was ancient earthworks
and not a natural hill (ever since then we have called it the mound).
The turf was short and smooth and there were no more ruins. At the top we had to scramble over some ridges which Father said must have been
the outer de fences This brought us to a broad, grassy plateau. At the far end was a smaller mound, round in shape and very smooth, and rising from this was the tower, sixty feet tall, black against the last flush of sunset. The entrance was about fifteen feet up, at the top of an
outside flight of stone steps. Father did his best to force the door
but had no luck; so we didn't see inside the tower that night.
We walked all round the little mound and Father told us that it was
called a motte and that the wide grassy plateau was a bailey; he said all this part was much older than the moated castle below. The sunset faded and a wind got up and everything began to look frightening, but Father went on talking most happily and excitedly. Suddenly Rose
said:
"It's like the tower in The Lancashire Witches where Mother Demdike lived." She had read bits of that book aloud to me until I got so frightened that Mother stopped her.
Just then we heard Mother calling from below; her voice sounded high
and strange, almost despairing. I grabbed Rose's hand and said: "Come on, Mother's frightened." And I told myself I was running to help Mother; but I was really terrified of being near the tower any
longer.
Father said we had all better go. We climbed the ridges and then Rose and I took hands and ran down the smooth slope--faster and faster, so that I thought we should fall. All the time we were running I felt
extremely frightened, but I enjoyed it. The whole evening was like
that.
When we got back to the house, Mother was sitting on the front
door-step nursing Thomas, who had fallen asleep again.
"Isn't it wonderful ?" cried Father.
"I'll have it if it takes my last penny."
Mother said: "If it's to be my cross, I suppose God will give me the strength to bear it."
Father laughed at that and I felt rather shocked. I don't in the least know if she meant to be funny-but then, I realize more and more how
vague she has become for me. Even when I remember things she said, I
can't recall the sound of her voice. And though I can still see the
shape of her that day huddled on the steps, her back view when we were in the car, her brown tweed suit and squashy felt hat, I can't
visualize her face at all. When I try to, I just see the photograph I have of her.
Rose and I went back to the car with her, but Father wandered round
until it was dark. I remember seeing him come out on the castle walls near the gatehouse -and marveling that I had been up there myself. Even in the dusk I could see his gold hair and splendid profile. He was
spare in those days, but broad-always a large person.
He was so excited that he started to drive back to King's Crypt at a
terrific pace -Rose, Thomas and I simply bounced about at the back of the car. Mother said it wasn't safe with the roads so narrow and he
slowed down to a snail's pace which made Rose and me laugh a lot.
Mother said: "There's reason in everything and Thomas ought to be in bed." Thomas suddenly sat up and said: "Dear me, yes, I ought," which made even Mother laugh.
The next day, after making enquiries, Father went over to Scoatney
Hall. When he got back he told us that Mr. Cotton wouldn't sell the
castle, but had let him have a forty years" lease on it.
"And I can do anything I like to the house," he added, "because the old gentleman agrees I couldn't possibly make it any worse."
Of course, he made it very much better--whitewashing it, unearthing the drawing-room paneling from beneath eight coats of wallpaper, pulling
out the worst fireplaces, the false ceilings, the partitions in the
kitchen. There were many more things he meant to do, particularly as
regards comfort--I know Mother wanted some central heating and a
machine to make electric light; but he spent so much on antique
furniture even before work at the castle began that she persuaded him to cut things down to a minimum. There was always a vague idea that
the useful things were to come later; probably when he wrote his next book.
It was spring when we moved in. I particularly remember the afternoon we first got the drawing-room straight. Everything was so fresh- the
flowered chintz curtains, the beautiful shining old furniture, the
white paneling--it had had to be painted because it was in such a poor condition. I was fascinated by a great jar of young green beech
leaves; I sat on the floor staring at them while Rose played her piece
"To a Water Lily" on Mother's old grand piano. Suddenly Father came in, in a very exulting mood, to tell us that there was a surprise for us outside the window. He flung the mullioned windows open wide and
there on the moat were two swans, sailing sedately. We leaned out to
feed them with bread and all the time the spring air blew in and
stirred the beech leaves. Then I went into the garden, where the lawns had been cut and the flower-beds tidied; there were a lot of early
wallflowers which smelt very sweet. Father was arranging his books up in the gatehouse room. He called down:
"Isn't this a lovely home for you ?"
I agreed that it was; and I still think so. But anyone who could enjoy the winter here would find the North Pole stuffy.
How strange memory is! When I close my eyes, I see three different
castles--one in the sunset light of that first evening, one all fresh and clean as in our early days here, one as it is now.
The last picture is very sad because all our good furniture has
gone-the dining-room hasn't so much as a carpet; not that we have
missed that room much--it was the first one we saw that night we
explored the house and was always too far from the kitchen. The
drawing-room has a few chairs still and, thank goodness, no one will
ever buy the piano because it is so big and old. But the pretty chintz curtains are faded and everything has a neglected look. When the
spring comes we must really try to freshen up our home a little-at
least we can still have beech leaves.
We have been poor for five years now; after Mother died, I fear we
lived on the capital of the money she left. Not that I ever worried
about such things at the time because I always felt sure Father would make money again sooner or later. Mother brought us up to believe that he was a genius and that geniuses mustn't he hurried.