Return to Langley Park

Part 1

He thumbed the pages, taking great care to not crease or tear them. The yellowing parchment felt crisp and alert in his hands. So focussed on what he had been handed, Peter hadn't noticed his knee shuddering, or his sharp, shallow breath. Coming to rest on a section of scrawled, hurried writing, his right hand swept across his temple, the nails leaving pressured imprints on his forehead, quickly disappearing into his heavily furrowed brow. Inky fingertips stained from the article he had been printing moments before Master Bennington appeared in his doorway and summoned him to hear the will being read. The letters spiked and slashed across each page, purposeful, barely legible, but he had made out his name. And the wishes of the recently deceased bestowed upon him.

Mr Bennington - Master Bennington's Senior, founder of Bennington's Associates, let out an annoyed cough, pausing for effect, in the hope that Peter Loxley would show some signs of vague interest in the matter at hand. The silence cut through the air, filling Peter's ears, bringing his internal bewilderment to an abrupt halt. He forced a hard blink and looked up to the only other two people present at the hearing.

'…clearing…?' Peter managed, repeating Mr Bennington's last read request, 'Me?'

Irritated, he sighed and vigorously nodded, his jowls quivering with the urgency of the movement, 'Yes, Mr Loxley. You.'

'But…but, I barely knew him…!' Spluttered Peter, ‘...I suppose I knew him once, but…' jumping up, eyes searching the cool-white sky through the small window, '…that was a very long time ago and…well.' After a moment he turned back, 'Are you sure there is no one else?'

Mr Bennington looked from Master Bennington and back to Peter, rolling his eyes, 'No, Mr Loxley. I'm afraid there is not. He has left the whole property to you to put into order.' On seeing Peter's bewilderment and frustration rise, he went on, 'My advice? That overgrown pile of bricks? Sell off what you can and give it to the highest bidder. You're no stranger to the auction houses. I'm sure Mr Braithwaite knew what he was doing when he left it to you.'

Peter felt his knuckles tighten. Under his breath a low voice full of gravel pushed its way through gritted teeth, barely audible to others present, 'I'm not going back there.'

Mr Bennington tried a different tack, once again looking from his son and back to Peter. 'I'm almost sure you will, Mr Loxley. It would appear that Mr Braithwaite wanted to make sure of it.' Peter slowly lifted his head; a flash of anger and confusion on his face, irises burning.

'A handsome sum,' Mr Bennington lifted a thick piece of parchment from his briefcase, carefully handing it to Peter, eyebrows raised, a satisfied half smirk forming on his lips, 'wouldn't you agree?'

Dubiously taking the cheque between his thumbs and forefingers, his breath caught in his chest, his eyes widened at the number of zeros that followed the first number. 'Is that…twenty…?'

'…Thousand. Yes.' Mr Bennington finished. 'If you could just sign here Mr Loxley, and we can conclude this order of business.'

Part 2

Sunlight blurred into mosaic fragments of golds, blues and greens. As his pulse echoed in his ears, he wondered if his heart might burst out of his stomach the longer he held his breath. Birdsong reaching a crescendo just as she began to turn, as though they were giving him away. She paused, he breathed. Sweaty palms made silently climbing down from the apple tree all the more difficult; but he did not want her to know where he was until he was right behind her. The element of surprise - crucial for a successful game of 'tig'. Arms extending out from the branches he lowered himself onto the ground, keeping low and still as her golden hair shone and reflected the sun's rays; curls falling gently about her, peaking through leaves and branches as she determinedly searched her chosen patch - facing the wrong way. He was in luck. She barely stirred as he approached, so close now he could almost tap her shoulder if he reached out. Triumphant, he let out a gleeful cry, one that boomed through the grounds, bouncing off the great old houses, almost knocking Kathryn into the soft, thick grass. The fear on her face was enough to set them off, both falling about laughing, her squealing and setting off at a pace, leaving him rolling on the floor in fits. He took a deep breath, clambered to his knees, then feet, and began the chase, tearing through the trees, stumbling over moss covered tree roots and uneven ground where flower beds had been dug up by wild rabbits the summer before; leaving dried, spider-web roots in the hardened soil. Peter flew closer and closer to Kathryn, gaining ground. She looked back to him, tossing her hair over her shoulder, eyes alight, pure happiness emitting a contagious smile through the space between them. They soared together, making bird-like shadows across the terrain; soil and rocks peppered with soft, dewy grass. Both dipping and diving, arms spread out, fingertips scanning, barely touching, and yet, from time to time, firing charged, crackling bolts through their hands; butterflies fizzing in their stomachs.

Suddenly Peter was thrown to the ground. Dazed he looked up, his eyes forcing themselves to focus. Searching her face for clues, he watched as Kathryn made herself as small as possible, huddling in the grass, cowering from whoever was stood guard behind him. The butterflies froze. Just as he braved himself to turn, he winced as hands gripped his hair and dragged him upwards towards the house. As he fought to look back to Kathryn, he felt a dull pain strike across his back as the heel of his father's boot dug into his spine, shoving him inside. His father ripping his way up the staircase past his mother, her sad eyes at the top of the landing turning away in silent avoidance as the door to their bedroom slammed shut. Even now he tried to imagine Kathryn's face as she watched on, not for the first time, as her playmate was violently absorbed back inside those walls.

Peter's eyes snapped out of his stare. Swallowing hard, he forced down a sadness that still haunted and echoed from years past. Gentle tapping from the typewriters at desks behind him clicked back into focus. The heavy sound of steam and machinery in the printing room across the hall urgently rose and fell as far off telephones and distant chatter rhythmically completed the soundscape of the morning. Fervently he scanned the room, looking to his manager's office for any signs of movement. His usual eleven hour slog had been cut short today, having been granted special dispensation 'just this once,' so he could carry out Mr Braithwaite's wishes. Mr Harmsworth, the present owner of The Times, had been a life-long friend of Mr Braithwaite, and agreed his wishes should be honoured. At 17 shillings and six pence for his 60hr week, battling London's rising rent, most days Peter wondered how he would ever pay off his father's gambling debts, and all the loans taken out on their childhood home that had kindly been left him to resolve. He could barely afford butter.

Peter's eyes fell on the little yellowing wind-up clock on his desk; one of the only heirlooms he had been able to keep from that house; his mother's. Three minutes to four, it was almost time. Dread began to fill his stomach, permeating slowly, seeping its way into his veins. Sick with anticipation he watched as the hands crawled around the clock face one last time. The shrill chirp rang out and he snatched his coat from the back of his chair, springing up and smacking the bells to a stop. Pushing the little black book into his inner pocket, he gave one final glance to the management office; and then was gone.

As he approached the winding gravel path leading up to the house, he thought about all the times he had been here before and wondered what young Peter would have thought of older Peter breaking his vow to never return, and of who he had become. His thinning brown leather shoes crunched the stones underfoot, reminding his busy mind that he was getting closer with each step. Coming around the final bend, two great shadows loomed into view; creating almost a fortress of grey stone blocks, darkened sash windows and solid oak doors.

'Home', he thought, though he didn't quite know who's voice that was. He found himself pausing at the first gate, barely able to raise his gaze, perhaps afraid of locking eyes with his old childhood home, as if the ghosts of his past still resided inside. A sharp intake of breath and he turned his attention to a second, larger iron gate to his left, setting his eyes upon his childhood neighbour's house. Langley Park Manor. He could sense Mr Braithwaite's presence before he even pushed the gate open, as though he wouldn't be surprised to find him in there, pipe in hand, fire crackling away as he furiously scribbled down his writings. Peter rested his palm firmly on the iron, wrapped the fingers around the smooth, circular handle and pushed it open, feeling the weight and resistance in his hand. He pressed on and took his first step into the grounds.

‘Now,' he murmured aloud, 'what is it you want me to find?’

The Langley Park grounds had a certain claustrophobia to them that every time he turned a corner he half expected to be confronted by tormented spirits - he, the sole survivor of this place. Perhaps his uneasiness came from returning to these grounds where lost souls may still roam; a part of him worried that if he stayed too long he might join them.

And yet, the Braithwaite residence had a hold over him, a familiarity and safety that tethered him to the Manor, reminding him that as long as he was in here, he was safe from Langley Gatehouse. He would never be behind those grey stones again. He was disappointed to see it much improved since his childhood days spent as a prisoner there. He had hoped that whoever bought it at auction would burn it to the ground.

Pressing on he reminded himself that once this was done, he would never, ever have to come back here again.