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Chapter 10

Catherine’s Castles ^© Linda Pilkington printed on the City Castles®, LLC web site by special permission of the author. This story will appear as a serialization.  

In the Future, The Castle in the City (or Gwynie’s Story) will be available for purchase on this web site. All copyrighted materials are published here in order to promote City Castles®, LLC products.  They may not be used in any way to promote any other products.

 Federal law prohibits the unauthorized sale or distribution of copyrighted materials.  It is your responsibility to determine that your use of City Castles®, LLC material does not constitute copyright infringement.

 The story is most appropriate for mature teens or young adults.  I have never felt that I could, or should, edit a story to free it of every fearful occurrence.  I would rather show that my characters learn to be brave- and to face that which frightens them.  However, children may be afraid of imagined characters and events- and in that case, should not read – or have the story read to them.  The characters and events in both books are imagined ones.  Since they are imagined, there is no need to look for their counterparts in real life.

 If you find some resemblance with “real life”- there are reasons for that- among those reasons are (1.) your own good imagination (2.) though this work is a fantasy- I am describing people.  People tend to share common behaviors, characteristics and destinies. 

 And now- rest, read- and later- return and bring a friend, and join us in “ The Queen’s Parlor.”  We will be looking for you at www.citycastles.com. – Pass it on!

 And now let us put all cautions, and worries behind us because- once upon a time…

 Linda Pilkington  

  __________CHAPTER 10___________

 City Castles®, LLC

Catherine’s Castle will appear as a serialization on the City Castles®, LLC web site. The Castle in the City (or Gwynie’s Story) will be available in the future, for purchase in our online store.

All copyrighted materials are published here in order to promote City Castles®, LLC products. They may not be used in any way to promote any other products. Linda Pilkington’s works appear on this site by special arrangement with the author

Federal law prohibits the unauthorized sale or distribution of copyrighted materials. It is your responsibility to determine that your use of City Castles®, LLC’ web site material-and products does not constitute copyright infringement.

This story is most appropriate for mature teens or young adults. I have never felt that I could, or should, edit a story to free it of every fearful occurrence. I would rather show that my characters learn to be brave-and to face that which frightens them.

However, children may be afraid of imagined characters and stories, and in that case should not read- or have the story read to them.

The characters and events in both books are imagined ones. Since they are imagined -there is no need to look for their counterparts in real life.

If you find some resemblance- there are reasons for that- among those reasons are: (1) your own good imagination-and (2) Although this work is a fantasy, I am describing people- people tend to share common behaviors, characteristics, and destinies. Please stay for a while, read, relax and then--please return-bring a friend, and join us in "the Queen’s Parlor." We will be looking forward to your visit at www.citycastles.com -please pass it on!

And now let us put all cares, and cautions behind us because- once upon a time…

Linda Pilkington

January 16, 2001

---

Catherine’s Castles

Chapter 10

© Linda Pilkington

“I heard that your cousin’s family moved.” The dark-haired boy said.

“They moved, but they plan on coming back. My uncle transferred out of state for a couple of years.” Melinda Emerson muttered. 

For a few minutes, the boy walked silently beside her. Then he chanced a sidelong glance and as usual was devastated by the sight. At school, he knew prettier girls than Melinda Emerson, but when he was with her, he could never remember their names. 

An empty silence stretched on and he grew desperate.

“I watched your cousin, Lance, play in every game that last year – he was good, the team misses him.” 

“I suppose.” She replied, not looking up.

And then more silence. 

“That poem that Mrs. Johnson read- everyone said that it was like him.”

‘A knight loved chivalry…’ He paused self-consciously, and Melinda who had a mind for poetry went on…
‘A knight there was, 
That, from the first
Loved chivalry, 
Truth, honor, freedom and courtesy.’ 

“Those aren’t the exact words; it’s from the Canterbury Tales-Chaucer.” Melinda said, her voice a little shaky. 

He couldn’t think of a response to Chaucer, or the girl who could quote him. 

He started to ask her something about school, but abandoned the question before it reached his lips. 

“One more minute of silence and I’ll snap.” He thought, 

He stole another glance and caught Melinda looking at him. 

To his disgust, he flushed self-consciously.

She turned away, but he could tell that she was smiling. 

“Stay calm. Stay cool. This is no big deal.” His mind, prepared by weeks of rehearsal, instructed.

“So, do you like working at that discount place?” She asked, sounding more like herself. 

“It’s not so bad.” He had prepared a clever comment about his job but discarded it as not funny enough. 

Lance Collins would have made her laugh.

He thought of the times that he had followed Lance and Melinda Emerson home from school, trying to stay close enough to eavesdrop-close enough to hear Melinda’s laugh.

“I’ve got to pick up my sister.” Melinda said, hesitating. 

“Wait, do you go out -ever?” He asked, sounding like a fool. 

“It depends on what you mean by ‘go out’”. 

He rushed on. 

“I don’t mean anything bad, what I mean is…” He gulped, “I don’t mean what most kids mean when they say that. I know what you think about …” 

He was babbling. Suddenly he felt hopeless, his words choked off.

It was one of those movie moments-when the character has lost all control. If an asteroid had picked that minute to fall on them, he would have continued to ask Melinda Emerson to go out with him. 

A car, radio pounding, roared past -closely followed by a slower moving red truck. Melinda had turned at the noise, and he rejoiced at the distraction. Quickly he took half a breath, which was all he could manage, and forged ahead.

“Listen, do you want to go to a show Friday night?” He blurted –to the back of her head. 

She turned back, stared at him blankly for a moment, and then suddenly smiled.

“I guess so. What time?”

“Seven ok? Or I could call you if that’s ok.” 

Once she had turned away, he raced towards home, blind to everything around him. 

Thankfully he was himself again, an ordinary guy-no longer a babbling idiot. 

Minutes later, he turned into the driveway of his house – a wide and blissful grin covering his face-amazed at his luck, astounded that he had finally found the nerve to ask, and panicked when he wondered what he would find to talk to her about.

“Music. I won’t have to say anything if the music’s loud enough.” He thought, relieved. 

Melinda finished her homework and went to sit in the family’s T.V. Room. This room was situated beyond the kitchen, in the low half-tower of the Victorian House. 

Her younger sister, Gwynie, had fallen asleep in the living room and so Melinda curled up on the tower room sofa, glad for some time to think. 

“He was trying to get my attention. Every day he shows up in that stupid red truck that he thinks is so great. It doesn’t matter what route I take home. He goes roaring by, and never even glances at me.” 

Melinda gave a little triumphant laugh, and then the thought occurred, that the reason Derek Phillips didn’t look at her was because he had not seen her.

She sighed. The thing she didn’t like about life was that you could never be sure of anything. 

The phone by the sofa rang; she stretched to get it, and then sank back into the softness of the cushions. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s just me.” 

“Cath, I’m glad it’s you- I was trying to talk myself out of being depressed.”

“What’s wrong?” Her sister asked quickly. 

“Nothing, what should be wrong?” 

“Nothing, but –why are you almost depressed?”

“Just stuff. Did I tell you about Derek?”

“That guy who took you to the drunken party? So you went out with him again?” 

The inflection was slight but Melinda heard it.

“One other time- that time we went to a show, and everything was fine-actually pretty nice, at first. Then I went to the bathroom, and Ansley Putman was there. She started shrieking at me-she likes making scenes, and I felt like a fool. I was shaking like a leaf.” 

“Ansley Putman is his girlfriend?”

“Former girlfriend.” Melinda stressed.

“Did she know that she was a former girlfriend? Did you tell him about it?”

“You know how I am. I had stood there-with a bathroom full of strangers watching while she called me names. I told him about it all of the way home.” 

“And?” 

“He said that he had broken up with her a month before. I’ve avoided him ever since, but he keeps showing up wherever I go. ”

“You can’t always believe what men say.” Catherine reminded her.

“You believed Liam.” 

“Liam was different. My current policy is not to believe a word that men say. The lies flow, effortlessly, out of their mouths. Listen-I don’t plan on spending my life at home, but some guys are a waste of time.”

“Catherine, sometimes I think the same thing-that people are a waste of time. Why are there so many awful people? Is it inherited or something? And why do we lose the good people?”

“Manna’s right- people have changed, they aren’t as kind or honest and…”Catherine began.

‘The good ones are harder and harder to find.’ impatiently, Melinda, cut her off by  finishing the quote for her, and then went on.

“I wish life could stay as good as it was when we were little. Remember Iowa in July, and staying at Aunt Colleen’s? Everything was so green and alive…” 

“Do you remember being a ‘Prairie Princess’ at the July Jubilee?” Catherine laughed. 

“I loved those costumes. Long skirts and bonnets all in red white and blue for the 4th.” Melinda said, tears filling her eyes.

“We did The Founding of America in fourteen different versions. Those plays were all alike. And when I was ten I believed in everything. Truth and justice- good people of high integrity…”Catherine’s voice trailed off as if she were lost in thought.

“You don’t seem sure of anything anymore.” Melinda said, sounding anxious and young as Gwynie. “You and Lance were so sure of your beliefs.” 

Catherine paused, and then sighed, “Lately, I’ve grown disillusioned with people.”

“Don't worry, I still believe in the ideals of this country. But I have met too many people without principles, or courage. It’s the people that I have lost faith in.” 

“But what about you? What’s this about losing good people…”

“Everything is ok. I was walking home with this guy and he started talking about Lance. And I realized for about the millionth time that you are gone, and Lance is gone- I have lost my two best friends. That’s all.” Melinda said. 

“That’s enough. But, I’m not ‘lost’.” Catherine said, and then asked, “Have you heard from Aunt Margaret?”

“Not for awhile. Mother will call her this weekend. Last weekend we decorated the house for Christmas. It seemed strange without you or our cousins, even Christmas has changed.”

“I wish that they had stayed in Colorado. I think people should stay close to their memories.”

“What if those memories are too close for comfort?” Melinda wondered.

Catherine went on, “I can still hear you, Lance and Arthur laughing as you sent your trucks crashing down the stairs on Christmas day.” 

A few more words and the girls hung up. 

Melinda had a dozen jobs ahead of her, but she sat a bit longer in the dark dimness of December, pondering Catherine’s words and struggling to hear those voices from Christmases past.



The tower room where Melinda sat was either at the back, or the front of the house-whichever way you chose to look at it. 

The house, viewed from the street, showed a sturdy Victorian facade-rather plain for the style, situated on a small patch of land sliced from the park that ran behind and around it. 

But if you took the driveway behind the house, you saw what Melinda’s parents had seen some twenty years before. On that day, Fate, which was often fickle where they were concerned, had conspired to bring them good fortune. 

They had viewed the house for the first time from the street, and had nearly driven away as other prospects had before them. 

“Look at the trash in the yard.” Young Mrs. Emerson gulped.

“We can’t afford much of a house-but we don’t have to live like this…” Jordan Emerson’s face was grim. 

“It’s old. It needs paint on the outside- bet the inside needs it more. In a house that old the plumbing is usually a nightmare and the electricity is hazardous.” He continued. 

“Jordan, the price is right. It looks so awful I bet you can bargain them down. Drive up the drive-way and see if the back is as bad as the front.” She said.

“Even worse. What kind of people would leave a mess like this?” He said leaving the car in gear- prepared to drive back to the street. 

He had turned to look at his wife. Sure that the silence was caused by the sight of the yard. A mattress, clothes dryer, and countless bags of garbage, had been abandoned there. 

But his wife was not looking at the yard; she was looking at the house itself.

“It’s turned around- this is the front of the house! It’s bigger than it looked from the street- but not too big.” She added quickly. 

“Look- it has one of those low half-towers, like a castle lined with windows- and none are broken-which is a wonder. And it looks like all three stories are finished.”

“Honey, this place is a disaster.” Jordan Emerson said “And even if it was perfect, what would two people do with such a big house- how would we even heat it? Think of the work, and the money it would take to fix it up. That house would eat us up.”

“Just look at it.” 

They had looked at it, and they realized that the house itself- by some miracle had escaped damage, and was an unspoiled jewel left for them to discover. 

The Emerson’s knew little about the history of the house. But it was obvious that it had been lucky in its owners, and that they had been people of judgment- whose improvements had truly improved on the original.

Later they were told that the house had been built long before the suburb of Castleton had been thought of. Then there had been just a few small, and scattered farms, with farmers trying to eke out a living on the dry, eastern plains of Colorado. Even then, miles to the west of that rural community, Denver had been growing, in fits and starts- in its customary “boom or bust” pattern. 

The house was formed on a firm foundation, well planned, and well built. Richard Fahey had inherited a modest fortune, and a modern outlook. He had purposely built to face away from the dirt road that ran behind his property. 

Not knowing that they were looking at the backside, his neighbors were surprised by the plainness of the new house. 

But when they visited, driving up the curved drive in their buggies they saw a more impressive view. The driveway was wide, and lined by bushes; the yard, clearly the front yard, was fenced in low, black wrought iron. 

The house, painted white at the beginning of its life, certainly had been intended to be in the Victorian style, but Richard Fahey had imposed his taste, his practicality, and his imagination on that style. The walls of the house were thick, the windows well fitted- it was built to stay tight and warm. 

To satisfy his wife he had built a low half tower on the southwest corner, and he had trimmed the house with a few touches of gingerbread. After that, he had pleased himself.

The neighbors, walking up the sidewalk, to the entry–way, found that the front door was set back into a niche; the door was wide, painted white and had a fan light above it. To the right of the door was a small porch that had narrow windows overlooking it. 

On entering, they found a long hall that stretched from front to back door. To the right of the entrance was the narrow window lined room that overlooked the porch and served as the owner’s office. Another hallway to the left led to the kitchen, and beyond that, to the tower room that was to be used as a sitting room.

As one walked further into the main hall, there was a wide stairway hugging the eastern wall- rising in stages. The style was not Victorian, but in what would later be called “arts and crafts”. The stairway was the focal point of the hallway; it had wide square newel posts at each level, and a pretty stained glass window at the landing. 

Further, down the hallway were doors that opened to the dining room on the left and the living room on the right. At the back of the house, were a small entryway and a door that opened onto a plain little porch.

The second floor had a windowed hallway that ran along the back of the house-the bedrooms, on the left opened from that hallway. Transoms topped the bedroom doors, they caught the breezes that came through the hallway windows, and provided cross ventilation for the bedrooms. At the end of the hallway beyond the bedrooms was the bathroom. Before that, a door to the left led up a short stairway to the master bedroom. 

The farmers’ wives had seldom seen such luxury. 

A house with three finished stories, the third story a bedroom, with a large closet-rare for those times. Most surprising of all-and what they most envied was the upstairs bathroom. 

Opposing feelings rent the hearts of the ladies of the neighborhood. Most of them lived in small, drafty houses. 

This house was fresh and new with conveniences that they would never have. No matter what the minister might say about being covetous, it was impossible not to want such a house. 

In the end, the farmers agreed that the Faheys' seemed like nice people, but the farmer’s wives pronounced them as, standoffish, and house proud.

After the builder, the house had housed many families. Some had added better windows, others a downstairs bath, and a bath in the bedroom at the top of the house. 

The owners that Jordan Emerson most blessed were those who had installed electricity, good insulation, and a modern furnace system.

“Because,” he had told his daughters, “your mother fell in love with the house at first sight, and was ready to move in that first day- old mattress, dryer, garbage and all.” 

Melinda walked to the windows and looked out into the dusk. 

Catherine was wrong. Dwelling on the past hurt too much.

But because she missed him, she allowed herself to remember that last Christmas walk that she had taken with Lance.

She had spent the entire walk fuming because her parents wouldn’t let her go to a Christmas party.

“What I don’t get is why you want to go. You know the kids- you know what will happen. Mostly it will be people throwing up and fighting.”

She hadn’t listened.

“I’m never allowed to be a normal kid.” She complained.

“I don’t think throwing up and fighting is totally normal.” Lance said.

“Don’t you ever want to fit in?” She had asked. 

“Sometimes. But I don’t try to be like everyone else. ‘Everyone else’ isn’t that terrific.” Lance replied. 

“Lance, it would be lonely to live the way my parents want me to live. I don’t think I have enough character for it.”

“Well, I’ve always thought you were a character.” He grinned.

“Just stop.” She said, giving him a look. 

“All of those stories they told us about King Arthur; all of that stuff about honor, kindness- doing the right thing. No one is honorable anymore. If I live the way my parents taught me I’m going to end up just like them.”

“At least you know that there’s a choice. You decide what’s better- what you see at school, or what you see in there.” He said, pointing at the Victorian house, which was glowing with the lights of Christmas. 

“Why listen to a guy who missed- by a hair, being named Lancelot.” Melinda had grumbled. 

Lance had laughed and walked on. 

“Life has to be practical, something that lasts.”

“She cries out for something that endures!” Lance picked up some snow and rolled it into a snowball. 

“This lasts!” He yelled and pelted her with it. “Kids have been making snowballs for years.” 

Melinda dodged away and began rolling her own arsenal. 

Later, chilled, and tired they welcomed the warmth of the house. 

Inside, Christmas seemed to be everywhere. There were the old decorations, the stockings, the nativity scene, and the fragrance of pumpkin bread that had baked that morning. 

They followed the voices of their families to the living room. Standing quietly, they watched Arthur Collins, Lance’s younger brother; methodically shake the presents under the tree. 

Melinda’s mother and father listened to Margaret Collins. 

“Of course, there are those who will argue that King Arthur never existed.” Margaret Collins said.

Lance had grinned at Melinda.

“You wanted something practical- well, there’s your family, and if that hasn’t endured long enough there’s always King Arthur.” He had whispered. 

Then her father had looked up, smiled, and called out, “The rest of the brood. Welcome to City Castles’ Christmas.”

“It’s not a castle- it’s an old house, Popsie.” Melinda grinned back at him.

“Pray, read the plaque on the wall behind my chair.” Her father instructed. 

Lance cleared his throat, ‘When Love enters in- every house becomes a castle!’ 

“Who cares? Arthur Collins had piped up from under the Christmas tree. I say it’s time to open some presents.” 

Melinda started at the sound of her father’s car in the driveway.

“It was so beautiful.” She said. Then she turned away from the ghosts and the memories of Christmas Past and went to wake her little sister. 

End of Chapter 10

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