I was nineteen when this happened and it surprises me that it was half a century ago.
The university accommodation people found me digs. The lady frowned and said Major Dowanchew was a bit eccentric, but there had been many boys before and they hadn’t complained.
I was too young and naïve to wonder why she should tell me this. I was to find out soon enough.
Major Dowanchew was 84-years-old and came to the door wearing plus-four trousers, thick socks, and a heavy brown tweed jacket with a bright yellow waistcoat. He would’ve fitted in at a country estate on the Moors, but this was a brick house in the centre of a grimy Northern city.
He greeted me as a Shakespearean stage actor might in Victorian times. His voice was sonorous and when he spoke people’s heads turned to see what the fuss was about.
As I entered the house it was like a time capsule. It had seven rooms, none had been decorated or furnished since the nineteen-thirties.
Major Dowanchew led me into a darkened room he called the study. There was a large mahogany desk and stuffed armchairs. He handed me a sheet of paper: handwritten in copperplate were ‘Rules of the House.’ I was to memorise them. It was important not to break the rules, he told me.
I would soon learn why.
Had I noticed the dogeared book open on his desk, I might not have stayed.
It was called Chastisement Across the Ages.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 