I spent the evening in front of the telly, watching some silly, inane program that fascinated me. I was explaining it all to my friend Ned who sat near me on the floor in front of the fireplace, my dad was in his favorite armchair reading the Times while my mum knitted.
A log shifted, rolled towards the fire-dogs and hit the screen, I heard him say, and “How is Neddie today, Silly?”
I hated that nickname; called that cuz my mum had labeled me Silver at an early age for my light blonde hair. “Peachy,” I replied. “Says he’s bored with this show, says it’s not as good as Benny Hill.”
Dad hooted. “Moiré, his imaginary friend watches Benny Hill. Fancy that.”
“Hush, Griff,” she murmured. “Neddie’s as real to him as you are.”
I shook my head at Ned, said, “They don’t mean it, Ned. Grownups, you know.”
He stuck his tongue out and I sneaked a look at mum but she didn’t notice. Sally came in and knocked on the paneled doorjamb, her red curls damp, her uniform was a neat dress of her choice and an apron. She wore sensible trainers. “Good evening, milord, my lady, Aidan,” she chirruped. “Time to get ready for bed.”
I protested but she ushered me out after a quick kiss from mum, dad, and a goodnight to Ned and me.
Sally had the tub full of bubbles and my own legion of floating goodies. She stripped my dirty clothes, plunked me carefully into the hot water after I toe-tested it, and warned her not to put me on Ned’s lap.
“Neddie needs to be washed up, too, Aidan. He must get as dirty as you do. You smell like cow.”
“Don’t listen to her, Neddie,” I said earnestly. “You smell fine to me.” He blinked his fine blue eyes and ducked his blonde head of curls under the water, came up laughing as my yellow submarine hung from one ear. He finished at the same time as I did and Sally didn’t make him brush his teeth but she tucked him into bed next to me, kissed us both goodnight and left the room, softly closing the door.
Once I was sure, she was gone, he got up, and turned on my night light and we dragged out the big book of the history of the local castles I’d stolen from Dad’s extensive library.
Mum’s new project was renovating the 16th century knot and rose- gardens; she was replanting several heirloom species of Tudor Roses. I’d helped her pick out some varieties mostly because I liked the names.
We turned the thick vellum pages and he helped me with the names of the castles.
Ipswich. Dunsmuir. Palladium. Snowdonia. Blenheim. Marleybourne Court. And our own, Cryllwythe Castle, called Manor.
“Look, there’s a Priest hole. And an ouble---ouble.” I couldn’t pronounce the word but he knew it.
“Oubliette. A good place to stay out of, Aidan,” he warned. “They dropped prisoners in there to starve to death. Sometimes, we didn’t find them for centuries.”
“Daddy says no one’s been murdered in our dungeons.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course they have. Why else would the Manor have dungeons? He doesn’t want to give you nightmares.”
“Not me,” I protested.
“It’s okay, Aidan. I get them, too. That’s why I sleep with you. So we can protect each other. Look, this is Pennyroyal Court. I was born there. Nothing much left of it but four walls. It was a pretty estate until the Crouchback burnt it to the ground. I buried treasure there.”
“What kind?”
“Special rocks. Toy soldiers. My lady mother’s christening gift. My signet ring. First tooth.”
“Let’s go dig it up,” I said and he agreed. “Oh wait. We can’t go now. It’s too dark and the coaches don’t run this late.” I thought a bit. “We’d have to get into town and I’d have to get some money. How much is in my piggy bank?”
“Ten pounds, four shillings and fifty-seven pence,” he recited. “You could borrow some from the cook and the household account.”
“She’d tell Mum.” I shook my head. “How much does a taxi cost? I could phone one and have the driver pick us up.”
“Would they come out here and wouldn’t everyone see him?”
“I could tell him to wait for us at the gates,” I said doubtfully.
“The gatehouse would call up and ask what and why,” he mused. “Why don’t we wait until Lord Argent takes you to the village on Saturday? We can take the coach to Tregarth and then Colmsby-on-the-Moor.”
“Is it far?” I looked at the map in the book, it was only two inches away from London, and I remembered how long a trip that was. It had taken days to drive up with Dad last year. The three of us had gone to the World’s Trade Fair to enjoy the livestock exhibits and thee sales. Coming home, we had brought two new bloodlines of both beefers and horses.
The Argent Stud was almost as famous as the Queen Mother’s was.
“Remember that trip?” I asked and he shook his head, laid back down.
“Nay. I didn’t know you then, Aidan,” his voice was suddenly sleepy and I pulled the covers over us, slipping the heavy volume behind the headboard, had to sit back up to shut off the light only moments before my mum entered the bedroom and peeked in on us.
“You awake, Silver baby?” she asked quietly and came in our room. Her hand hovered over my covered head.
“I love you, baby bunting,” she cooed. “Sleep tight, little Silverbell. Goodnight, Aidan.”
I heard the door close, the rumble of my da’s deep voice and it all faded into dreams I never remembered when I woke.