Kingfisher Manor

By Kirsty White

As the clock struck twelve, the girl danced fleetingly across the lawn. She had long, fair hair that fell like a shimmering curtain over her face. A face that was horribly disfigured…

The grass glistened with dew and several nocturnal animal tracks were visible, but the girl left no footprints. At the edge of the lawn there were bushes and trees where the black and white badgers snuffled around, hunting for a midnight feast. Overlooking this scene was the old manor, the place that held such terrible memories, the smoke, the heat, the burning…

*

Mr Silton was driving the Volvo along the leafy, shady lane. He was a large, jovial man with dark brown receding hair. Above his lip he boasted a thick, bushy moustache that hid a smile at his wife’s remark, “Oh, it’s much bigger than I thought.”

Mrs Silton was seated beside her beside her husband and flicking through the estate agents’ booklet advertising the house that they had bought. She was a maternal figure who often adorned herself in flowery skirts and blouses as it was now. Sarah Silton, when all said and done was a rather foolish person as her previous remark illustrated.

Sitting in the backseat was a boy, small for his age with a fine head of jet-black hair that shone where the light caught it. He also had dark eyes similar to his father’s, but unlike Peter Silton, David did not excel in intellectual pursuits although he managed fairly well at school.

The Silton family chattered about common things, like how good the weather was, did David have a good week at school and so on as they rounded the corner of the road. As the house came in view a deep silence fell over them. Itwas a black charred ruin but already the contracted builders were drawing up plans for the renovation of Kingfisher Manor.

Kingfisher Manor would need a lot of work, but eventually the large house would be family run hotel catering for the hordes of tourists visiting the New Forest in the summer months. At the moment though, the Siltons were crowded into a rented, one-person flat and tempers were short from living at such close quarters.

Day by day the new building rose out of it’s old, broken shell. Traditional red brick on the outside and warm, rustic colours inside created a cosy welcoming atmosphere. The hotel was ready for opening, apart from the garden.

The garden was still a tangled mess, neglected in the fuss to decorate the Manor. Weeds choked flowerbeds; the paths and lawns of an upper class Victorian garden had become virtually invisible.

In the middle of the garden a white rose bush flourished, unconquered by other plants, still as green and healthy as the day it had been planted by the girl with the long, tumbling, blonde hair, Rose.