The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) by W. E. Mann Page A

pointing to was known as the Watchtower, a great conifer near
the 1 st XI cricket field.  All of its lower branches had been lopped
off and a thick white ring had been painted around its trunk some way up.  The
Watchtower, and the large red rock which sat next to it, formed the setting for
one of Talltrees’ more tragic ghost-stories.
    “Course
I do,” I said.  “You’ve probably told me about it a zillion times.”
    But
he had already begun.
    Before
the War, Freddie explained, a boy had managed to climb right up to the distant
height of where the white ring was later painted.  It was the highest that any
boy at the school had ever managed to climb.  So high, in fact, that the
players in the cricket match had even stopped what they were doing to watch
with a dizzying sense of fascination mixed with fear.  And the climber had been
waving to them, when a sudden gust of wind whipped up.  He lost his grip and
his footing.  And he fell. 
    The
story went that the sound of his skull hitting the Red Rock was like that of a
shotgun on a calm September morning.
    After
his funeral, his grieving mother was driven to the school by horse and
carriage.  She demanded that the Headmaster, and Freddie paused so that he
could get the words just right, “henceforth prohibit any boys from climbing to
such a height up such tall trees so as to prevent such tragedies”.  The
Headmaster agreed.  But what he did not tell her was that he would take her
demand literally.
    So,
as there was only one “such tall tree” in the school grounds, and no others of
identical height, the prohibition would affect only that tree, and the white
ring was painted at “such a height” as that from which the boy had fallen, thus
marking out the level above which boys were prevented from climbing. 
    According
to Freddie, the ghost of this child, whom Freddie called “the Fallen Boy”,
could be seen on moonless nights throwing itself repeatedly from the
Watchtower, trying in vain to find some way of landing without dying.
    “But,
you know, the weirdest thing of all was that his body was never found ! 
By the time the cricket umpires had arrived to see what was what, he was gone,
vanished into thin...”
    “Oh
come on, Freddie!  You say that at the end of every ghost story!”
    “Well
maybe that’s because it’s true!”
    I
sniggered.  Nevertheless, I quickened my stride a little as I suddenly felt as
if someone had breathed down my neck.
    We
turned away from the Watchtower and followed a narrow deer-track among the
trees canopied with leaves glinting in the mottled light of the sun.  The track
led out towards a broad clearing, where the soil had been turned into neat rows
for vegetables, overlaid with netting to keep out the rabbits.
    “Hullo,
guys.”
    “Hi,
Samson,” said Freddie cheerily.
    It
was Samson Akwasi, the African boy who worked in the Kitchens.  Quite a few of
us were pretty good friends with him, but it was best not to be seen talking to
him too often, particularly not when people like Colonel Barrington or Doctor
Saracen were about.  It was well known, though, that some of the Masters taught
him during their spare time and most of the other Masters turned a blind eye. 
He was especially good at French.
    “What
are you two doing here?” he asked.
    “Vegetable
Gardens,” I said.
    “Oh,
so did you accidentally use the Führer’s name in vain?” he
joked.
    “Something
like that,” scowled Freddie.
    “Well,
you don’t need to worry about collecting in the carrots and rhubarb,” he said. 
“I did that this morning.  I’ll get the lettuce in later.”
    Freddie
looked at me beaming.  “Wow!” he said.  “Thanks, Samson!  This’ll be the
easiest Hard Labour ever!”
    “Hey,
but why don’t you come and see what Reggie and I have done with the Hut?”
    Over
the past three years, I had seen Huts in various fascinating and imaginative
forms:  multi-levelled monkey-puzzle tree-houses, unearthed air-raid