“Hill creates Hilliard’s thoughts about his imminent meeting with Barton in detail on pages 39 to 41 and 46 to 50, but we learn very little of Barton’s thoughts, except for one line of dialogue:
“I saw your things. I knew you’d arrived.” He hesitated. “To tell you the truth, I was frightened to death of you!”
Using pages 40-41 as a model and also of what you have learnt of Barton’s character and Hilliard’s background, create the episode where Barton enters the apple loft and first sees Hilliard belongings.”
Barton slowly made his way up the splintered, wooden staircase, clutching on to the sides he heaved himself up, stretched and struck his head on the rafter. He looked up slightly whilst vigorously massaging his head, and muttered, “I’ll have to remember that one.”
As he stepped up on to the noticeably uneven floor boards, they creaked, a sour scent of cider reached Barton’s nostrils and he creased his forehead.
His eyes swept the room and rested momentarily on a trunk. Neatly put to one corner, the tarnished leather trunk sat. A firm lock buckled it tightly shut. The name “John Hilliard” was engraved on the side of the trunk in faded black ink. A pale cane walking stick with a rounded silver knob was propped up against the murky white- washed wall. Barton walked over to the belongings. He stretched out a hand to touch the walking stick, but hesitantly withdrew. Maybe he was soon to encounter the presence of a more mature man thought Barton. Strict. He hadn’t actually had the chance to reflect upon whom he would have to share the room with. Barton began to feel perceptibly nervous. Barton knew inside that he was not a shy person, yet the lack of belongings of the other had created a barrier of reluctance to meet him. He inched away from them.
A candle was rested upon a stained, upturned cardboard box throwing a shaft of light around the room. A dusty armchair was placed in the other corner of the narrow loft. Barton walked across to it and seated himself down. He took out a double folded photograph wallet, with a family picture on one side and just Miriam Barton on the other side. They were all smiling at him. He beamed back at them.
He clutched the leather wallet close to his chest.
He unstrapped his own case and began to unpack, taking his shaving things out. Coulter had brought up a white, enamel bowl filled with water earlier on. The bowl itself was as big as his own hands when he cupped them together. Barton dipped a finger into the water. It was cold.
He began lathering his face with his shaving brush, whilst humming to himself. He could hear the distant booming of rifle grenades, so he stopped and listened intently, rather intrigued. He wiped his face clean on a rough towel and walked over to the elongated window. He reached out a hand to open it and fresh air greeted him carrying with it an aroma of crisp, burning leaves. He looked down upon a fringe of trees studded with rich- coloured berries brimming with juice. A filthy- looking dog was slouched across some cobbles chewing on a bone enthusiastically. Conkers were littered on the ground like pearls of polished mahogany. Autumn. A stone pathway had embedded itself in the thick, long grass. The canvas of a sky was beginning to dim turning into grey slate. The silhouette of the village of Percelle could be outlined distinctly in the distance. Barton had been standing there, perched on the rusty hinges of the window for a while now soaking in the atmosphere, whilst nibbling on a slab of Chocolate Menier, devouring the enriching flavour. The strong perfume of the burning leaves curling with the heat was making him feel rather hazy.
He went back over to the armchair, and opened his copy of The Turn of the Screw. For a while he was absorbed by the contents of this novel, but kept getting distracted thinking about his family. His mother would probably be in the kitchen right now. Cooking. Barton’s sister alongside her, sitting on the stool, beside the sink, keeping her mother company. He missed their presence already.
He could the hear sound of voices directly below him. He stopped to listen. There were two men. One had quite a deep, rasping voice and the other had a much softer, gentle voice. He felt he was back at school again. He began to drift slowly off to sleep, and started to think about this “John Hilliard” who he was soon to be acquainting himself with. He felt tense. He swivelled around to take once last glance at the blemished, leather trunk and the walking stick, carefully propped up against the wall, in a very upright manner. Why were there very little belongings, he thought? Even the trunk itself was rather small. No family pictures lovingly placed on the side of his camp bed, or magazines, or newspapers thrown carelessly on to the camp bed.
At once Barton heard the ruffled sound of footsteps beneath him. He opened his eye
In answer to the first answer..I copied and pasted it from word doc 
and thank you for taking the time to read..much appreciated
