The Cat of Cecil Manor

I stretch, catching my claws in the woollen rug and soak up the heat from the embers creeping around the coals. The house is still, though the wind whistles through gaps in the window frames and, in the distance, I can hear Peter sobbing. Katherine will be with him, holding him and singing softly.

I yawn, and as I do, a closer sound pricks my ears - a scratching, a scuttling. I follow the sound until my gaze falls upon a brown mouse creeping along the floor toward the kitchen doorway. Slowly, silently, I turn my body, staying low, creeping closer. As he disappears under the door, I spring around it to surprise him on the other side. Pounce - claws securing him in a grip from which he cannot break free. He squeaks sharply as my back teeth crush down on his skull. The writhing stops and I quickly devour his warm body. Satisfied, I lick my paws, clean my whiskers, circle on the rug a few times, then curl up and drift into a peaceful sleep.

The next morning I awake to the sound of Ellen singing merrily, pots and pans clattering. I raise my nose and sniff - the smell of fresh bread and bacon wafts through to the snug. I am not supposed to go into the kitchen, so I linger in the doorway. Meg places a saucer of milk and a slice of ham in front of me, the ham is salty and delicious.

This house - my domain - is a very large stone building, a maze of corridors and twisting staircases, grand hallways leading into rooms of every size. Faces stare out from heavy frames on the walls, and thick drapes hang at windows overlooking sprawling lawns and flower beds. Beyond them, a woodland stretches on into the distance. Tall poplar trees line the winding driveway along which people come and go - on horses, in carriages or on foot, from where they come, and where they go, I do not know. For all I can tell, this may be the only house in the world.

I roam freely throughout this place. I have my favourite spots, of course - this woollen rug in the snug being one. It is off the main kitchen so always warm from Ellens cooking. In the evening, the fire is lit for James and Henry, to rest and warm themselves after a long day tending to the gardens . We are often joined in the snug by Mr Smyth, the Master of the house, who sits in his silk dressing gown on his padded wooden chair, sipping whiskey and staring into the flames, he never says a word.

Making my way through the house, I hear Mrs Evans voice ring out, sharp as the crack of kindling – she is snapping orders at poor Polly who fumbles at the hearth with tears on her cheeks. I wind around Polly's skirts, earning a hurried pat.

By the side door, Henry is pulling on his boots.

“Meow,”

“Hello Chum.” he smiles, scratching my head.

Through the open doorway I can see James and Archie running through the dry leaves. They spring out from behind hedges, pointing sticks at each other, and shouting “Bang! Bang!”.

The sound of pounding feet makes me turn sharply. I flatten my ears and crouch low as Betty and George come galloping through the hall, their eyes twinkling with mischief. George is clutching a jar of spiders. In close pursuit is their very anxious-looking Nanny, Elsie.

“Children!” she pleads “Put that down! Oh.. please, not in my bed again!”

The twins are terrors. I avoid them when I can - I’m sure they would drop me down the well in a moment if they thought it was funny.

Peter, though, is different. A pale, sickly child, fragile in every way. He never plays with the others, only watches quietly from his bedroom window. His mother, his only companion. She reads to him and cradles him when he cries in the night. They don't notice me, I have tried to earn their affection, but they seem only to want each other.

I turn towards the stairs, and my other favourite place, and person, Dorothy. Her bedroom lies at the far end of the first-floor corridor. Pushing open her door with my nose, I slink inside, leaping up onto the white bedsheets and climbing over the lump beneath to reach the old lady’s face. Her soft, creased skin is drawn tight with pain, and her breathing is loud, like a purr. She has been this way for as long as I can remember. I sit with her, purring and kneading her blankets. She seems to enjoy my company; she has few other visitors. I lie pressed against her body and we sleep there together for a while.

A commotion outside wakes me. I hop from the bed to the chest of drawers and nose around the drapes to peer through the window. A crowd of people stand before the house. I recognise Stanley Bates - a regular visitor, I assume him to be a very good friend of Mr Smyth, as he holds a set of keys to the house.

I jump down, pad into the hallway, and down the stairs. Mrs Evans is marching towards the door, she looks annoyed at the arrival of these unexpected guests.

The door opens, letting in a gust of warm, sickly air.

“Excuse me, Mr Bates," Mrs Evans begins briskly, "but we weren't expecting you, and we certainly weren't expecting all these..”

The visitors walk straight past her without a word and gather in the entrance hall. She tuts and purses her lips.

Stanley Bates addresses them.

“Good afternoon, my name is Stanley Bates. I have been overseeing the upkeep and restoration of Cecil Manor for the past 10 years, so I would be bold enough to say I probably know more about this place than most." He smiles proudly.

"Cecil Manor was built in 1692 with the first owners being john Cecil and his wife.

As you can see many of the original features remain. Although, some changes were made in the early nineteenth century and again in the early twentieth century, I will point these out as we go around."

The guest look around at the small glass windows and stone floor.

Elsie rushes past, breathless but triumphant, holding a jar of spiders. She doesn’t even glance at the group as she disappears through the side door.

They move together into dining room, and I follow them curiously.

“This is the main dining hall, used for parties and hosting important guests. You can see the beautiful oak panelling on the walls here - this was a symbol of wealth as well as acting as a an effective insulator."

We walk from the dining room, into the library. Books on shelves line the walls, floor to ceiling. Wooden ladders on brass rails rest in each corner.

The crowd murmurs to one other; some take out small objects that flash with light like sparks, spit from a fire.

As we continue around the house Stanley continues to tell stories to the guests.

"Cecil Manor was empty for a number of years after the death of it's most recent private owners in 1912. Becoming a children's home for evacuees during the second world war."

Now, would you like to follow me through to the kitchen..."

We walk down the long corridor on the right of the entrance hall, up the small twisting staircase, through another corridor and back down some steps.

"There would have been at least five or six staff working in a kitchen of this size,” he explains, "it must have been unbearably hot in the summer, with only one window. Originally cooking would have been done here,” he gestures to the hearth in the centre of the room, “over an open flame. This was replaced in the eighteenth century by the cast iron range you see here-" he turns towards where Ellen is standing, red faced and stirring a large pot, too busy to notice the group. They don't speak to her either.

We move from room to room, Stanley points out the furniture, the ceilings and the faces on the walls. Everyone seems suitably impressed.

Back in the entrance hall Mrs Evans is once again barking at Polly, apparently having forgotten all about the guests.

We climb the staircase. I slink between legs and boots as Stanley leads the party through each of the bedrooms until we reach Dorothy’s room. I feel protective, so position myself between them and the door, scratching at their ankles and meowing loudly - to no effect. They open the door and crowd in. Dorothy is still asleep. I leap up to her, and puff my tail as I patrol the edge of her bed. She stirs faintly but does not wake, even when Stanley speaks loudly to the group, with no regard for her condition.

“It’s very cold in here.” says a woman in a long green coat, pulling it tight.

“Yes, these old buildings can be very draughty.” replies Stanley. “Of course, they didn’t have the luxury of central heating, the only way to heat the rooms was with fire."

“Have you ever seen a ghost here, Mr Bates?” a young man asks with a smirk.

“Well,” Stanley replies, “it’s interesting that you ask. This is a house plagued by tragedy, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were a few spirits lingering around.”

The group laugh nervously; a few give a little shudder.

“What happened here?” someone asks.

“Let’s make our way back downstairs,” says Stanley. “I’ll tell you more - and, about the candlelight ghost tours we’ll be running next month."

Murmurs of “Ooh!” ripple through the group as they leave Dorothy in peace and file back down the stairs.

From my perch on the window ledge, I watch them leave the house and disappear down the driveway. I’m glad to see them go. They didn’t smell right - and not one of them gave me a treat or a stroke.

My tummy grumbles, I trot out of the bedroom and down towards the kitchen, I wonder if Ellen has a bit of chicken for me.