The Old Council House

They say Craig and I never went to Vince Macarthur's house, only Gordon did. But I did go, and so did Craig. I remember the three of us going and I remember the house well. The faded curtains. The musty smells. The shabby carpets. The elusive dancing shadows behind the loose banisters on the staircase. The torn settee by a pile of dusty newspapers. The purple vase in the corner with a fine wiry pattern etched in the glasswork. The metal guard around the gas fire. Model aeroplanes in the sitting room. Spitfires. Lancaster Bombers.

      The whole place had a dark and gloomy feel, as if the house concealed years of tragedy. The creaking floorboards used to conjure up images of ghosts watching us play, causing me to go cold with fright. Yet, the house never seemed to scare Craig or Gordon. They liked exploring, going into forbidden rooms. Once, I ran up and down those stairs, searching for my friends. They were hiding from me, but their giggles gave them away. I was frightened of the ghosts, for I knew they were there, but I tried not to let Craig or Gordon see in case they thought I was a scaredy-cat.

      Craig would get overexcited when he came with. He loved the model aeroplanes. He'd reach out and touch them, but Gordon would have to warn him off. For we all knew that Vince Macarthur was a kind man who wouldn't begrudge anyone a chocolate biscuit or a glass of squash. But he was a man with a temper, a man who'd give us what-for if we damaged his warplanes. Bulldog, people called him behind his back, because of his stocky build and the squashed shape of his nose.