The Housekeeper

by Suellen Dainty

  I jumped up and wrote it all down, everything, to get it out of my head and onto the page, a place where things would remain still and silent and not pound about in my brain. People whirling in white, like sheets in the wind, everyone untethered, screeching at a line of ants. The act of writing calmed me the way cooking and cleaning calmed me, made me feel sane once more.

  That weekend, Philip was away in Berlin again, so Jude and I met for a picnic with the twins. We lazed under a tree halfway up Primrose Hill while Charlie and Amelia raced around us, chubby legs churning like pistons in the sticky air. We would have half an hour to ourselves before they got bored and demanded to leave.

  “You were right about the notebook,” I said. A wasp crawled over a half-eaten sandwich and flew away in search of something sweeter. “It is coming in useful. In fact, I’m writing in it almost every day.”

  “Good,” said Jude. She lay on her back, her eyes closed. “With any luck you’ll write yourself out of that job and back into the real world.”

  “But that’s just it,” I said. “It’s the real world I’m after.” My story rushed out of me, about the song and the statue, the fragments of memory that floated like smoke, and my growing feeling that I might have been there with my mother at the house, with the psychologist that Rob was writing about, and how kind and helpful he’d been.

  Jude rolled over and pulled up a blade of grass. Charlie and Amelia had retreated to the shade of a nearby tree, where they were practicing handstands. “Have you told him about the notebook?” she asked.

  “No—he might think I’m a bit delusional. I thought I’d wait a bit for something more concrete. And I suppose I’m a bit embarrassed. It’s so personal.”

  Jude sat up. “I don’t see where this is going to get you. You might never know the exact truth about where you were, where your mother was. So what good is all this going to do?”

  “You sound just like Gran,” I said. “It’s different for you. You know where you come from. You’ve got brothers and sisters, and parents.”

  “Loads of people don’t know anything about their family—refugees, orphans, people whose countries have been blown to bits. They just have to live with it.”

  I was almost in tears. Only the curious faces of Charlie and Amelia, bored with their handstands and wanting to go home, stopped me from weeping. “I’ve always lived with it. But the part of my life that I don’t know anything about—it’s become almost like an obsession,” I whispered, “and I don’t know why.”

  “I don’t either. And now you’ve got the crush on Rob.”

  “I do not have a crush on Rob.”

  “Of course you do. You bring his name into every conversation. A dead giveaway. And you’ve also got the girl crush on Emma. It’s not enough that you clean and cook for them.” She brushed her hair away from her face. “They’re not your family, you know. Rob’s not your shrink or your father or your lover. Emma isn’t your mother or your sister or your friend, and Jake and Lily aren’t your children. You don’t want to get too attached. They’ll look after themselves first.”

  “You’re talking as if we’re on the Titanic and fighting for a seat on the last lifeboat,” I said. “It’s not like that at all.”

  We fell silent for a bit. You’re wrong, I wanted to tell her. “They do look after me. Rob and Emma do care. Jake and Lily do like me. Even Siggy wags his tail when he sees me every morning.” I gathered our picnic things together, ready to return to her house.

  “And there’s something going on,” said Jude.

  “What do you mean, something going on?”

  “You’re wearing makeup again. If I’m not mistaken, there’s blusher as well, and lipstick and mascara. You’re blow-drying your hair and you’ve stopped wearing that hideous plaid shirt and the jeans with the holes in them. So, something is going on.”

  “You kept telling me to make more of an effort, and when I do, you ask what’s going on. Nothing is going on.”

  “I love you, whatever you do,” she said. “But you could have fooled me.”

  Jude had suspected an infatuation with Rob. It wasn’t like that. But we’d formed a habit of talking most mornings in the study over a mug of coffee that I made. It turned out he really was a rubbish barista. It was Rob who suggested moving into the study while we chatted. He said my wiping and clearing in the kitchen made him giddy. I got to prefer it as well. Something about walking away from the mess of breakfast made it easier for us to talk freely. Rob could sit behind his desk for ten, maybe fifteen minutes without moving. His stillness was soothing and exhilarating all at once.

  We didn’t always discuss McLeish and Kinghurst Place. I didn’t always question him about my mother, or ask if he’d uncovered any more evidence, other than the sandal that might or might not have been mine. He told me all sorts of things, about Jung, and his theory of individuation, the process of integrating the opposites, including the conscious with the unconscious, while still maintaining their independence. He told me about Freud and sex and Piaget and learning and memory. It was another way, I thought, of trying to tell me that he understood.

  In turn, I told him about cooking and Anton and Gran. I even got onto Douglas one morning, how I liked to feel his stubble. But I still hadn’t told him about my notebook. Sometimes I read what I’d written, all the scribbled pages full of anguish and fear and loneliness. I wanted to show it to him, but I was wary of his reaction. I didn’t want anything to change between us.

  “Do you think it’s possible,” I said one morning—we were back onto McLeish and Kinghurst Place, my mother and me—“that Mary was Marianne? That we were there? I keep thinking about the child’s sandal in the photograph. But then, why would she leave and go to Wales?”

  “I can’t answer any of those questions fully,” said Rob. “Clearly a child was there, at least for that picnic, because of the sandal. And there is the odd mention of children or a child, but nothing that points directly to you. If I knew for sure, I’d tell you and I’d be writing about it in my book. But I don’t, and I can’t just make things up. It’s a biography and a book of record, not a potboiler.”

  “What about the things I’ve told you? Only one other person in the world knows . . . my closest friend, and even she is skeptical. People might think I was mad . . .”

  Rob looked at me carefully. He took my hand and placed it between his two hands. I felt a surge of something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t sexual, but it was very intense.

  “I can’t include speculations of yours, or of mine, in the book, much as I might like to. All I can do right now is try to help you in whatever way I can. I’ve told you that everything we say in here to each other is between ourselves. These images, memories, whatever you call them, are disturbing, and you need to find a place where you feel comfortable and safe talking honestly about them. And I hope, because of everything you’ve done for us, and because of the way we feel about you, that you’ve found that place here.”

  I was ashamed for suspecting his motives, for my lack of trust. I looked above Rob’s head to the shelf of photograph albums, all in the right order, from Jake and Lily’s birth up to the present, the multiple rows of books, each one trying in its own way to explain who we were, the reassuring weight of their research and knowledge.

  “Yes, I think I have.”

  16

  Mental illness is not always about breaking down into chaos. It can be about breaking through a barrier into freedom, finding a way to a new creativity and order.

  —Rob Helmsley, Madhouse: The Life and Times of Rowan McLeish

  An airless Monday evening at the beginning of September, the day’s heat lying below a pallid sky. Emma and I were in the kitchen having one of our early evening talks. Did I ever think to tell Emma about the kaffeeklatsches with Rob in his study about Kinghurst Place, about McLeish and the woman, who might have been my mother, and my perennial question of whether I was there? Did I ever think to tell Rob about my catch-ups with Emma, her affe
ctionate quibbles about him forgetting to pay the electricity bill, her complaints about his snoring? It never occurred to me. I only knew I needed to be there, to be part of their life. Each day seemed created afresh. Everything that happened at Wycombe Lodge had become almost as important to me as Anton had once been, as Kinghurst Place and my mother now were.

  “Can you believe Rob actually doesn’t know how to change a lightbulb?” asked Emma.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m here now. I can do it.”

  She hopped up onto the counter and swung her legs like a small child. “Rob and I were wondering if you could stay on for our next party,” she said in her tentative way. “Only if you’re free. You might not want to. Not to work, of course not. I certainly want you to take off that apron you wear every day! But maybe to keep an eye on things as well as meet some of the guests. Rob and I tend to have to do the rounds, but Theo could look after you and it might be fun.”

  “Oh, I’d love to do that. I mean, I’ve almost nagged you to let me stay.” There was an internal skip of excitement. I added a pinch of salt to the sauce with a flourish. My version of meatballs with tomato sauce. I’ve always liked the humble cuts. Neck of lamb, shin of beef, or minced beef and pork. Anyone can cook fillet steak or Dover sole. You just need to be able to pay for it. Heat the pan, wait for the butter and oil to start foaming. Slap, slap. And rest. You’re done.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said. In my mind, I was already at the party, wearing something other than jeans and trainers, moving through the rooms, smiling, helping where I could, Theo introducing me as a trusted family friend.

  “It’ll be good for Rob too, after all his work.” She scuffed the cupboard door with her trainers, making a squeaky mouse-like sound. Siggy pricked up his ears then flopped into his basket again. “He has so much more gravitas than me. I don’t think my books will ever be on the shelves of a university library. Not like Rob’s.”

  She jumped down and foraged in a drawer for a box of matches and went to light the candles in the dining room and set the table. How many dinners had I cooked for them by now? More than a hundred? Or was it more like one hundred and fifty? Every time there was that prick of apprehension as I waited for them to eat their first mouthful. Was it good enough? Did it taste all right? Everyone apart from Emma helped themselves to more. Again, that good feeling, like I’d done something right.

  A couple of days later, I came into the house from dragging Siggy around the block to find Emma sitting on the sofa with an overgroomed girl discussing canapé menus printed on laminated pages in a folder. “Thank goodness you’re back,” Emma cried. “Anne knows all about food. Anne used to work in a top London restaurant.” The girl crossed and uncrossed her legs, quickly, like scissors cutting. Siggy inched towards her. I pulled him back by the leash, worried that he might practice lifting his leg on her shoes.

  “This looks too studied,” Emma said, flipping through the pages. “We want something more casual, more homemade-looking.”

  I looked at the pictures of shreds of beef stuffed into miniature Yorkshire puddings, morsels of risotto on antique silver spoons, and prawns on skewers. Everything a banquet in miniature; perfect, but three years out of fashion. These days, it was all slow-cooked pork belly and inside-out chicken wings. Ras el Hanout, za’atar. Szechuan pepper. I still kept up with that sort of thing late at night, browsing through restaurant and catering menus online, when I needed a break from my regular searches for anything to do with McLeish and Kinghurst Place.

  “Except not homemade,” I said.

  “Exactly!” Emma slapped her knee.

  The girl rolled her eyes and slammed her folder shut. I showed her to the door and said we’d be in touch. “Sooner rather than later,” she snapped. “We get very booked up, months in advance.” She strode down the path, adjusted her tight skirt, and slammed the gate behind her.

  In the sitting room, Emma was peering through the window. “What a terrifying woman.” She giggled. “I think we’ll leave everything to Fiona and the deli as usual. It seems to work. I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, I wasn’t, as usual.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m tougher than I look. Now, where did I put my bag? I’m so late.”

  I picked up her bag from the hall table. “I put your phone in it.” Emma had left it by the toaster again.

  “Thank you, Anne,” she said, her daily litany. “Where would we be without you? Everything runs so much more smoothly since you arrived.” Again, that small ripple of pleasure. Jude was my best friend and I loved her, but she was wrong about Emma and Rob.

  The date for the party was set for Friday night three weeks away. Names came and went on Rob’s invitation list. BBC executives, publishers and editors, writers and academics, talk show hosts and actors—the numbers kept increasing.

  A week before, walking slowly to the front door, I overheard Rob talking to Emma in the sitting room, a thrum of excitement in his voice. “Call me starstruck, but how about this. My producer is bringing a guest—a famous guest! Apparently they were at university together in Cape Town.”

  “Who?” Emma’s voice was distracted, almost sleepy.

  “Dominic Butler.” A barely disguised note of triumph in his voice. “Apparently he likes my program! I could do with a bit of extra publicity—I didn’t tell you, but this week’s ratings were down and there’s some hipster kid sniffing around my slot.”

  “You mustn’t worry,” said Emma. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so. Anyway, the perfect famous guest, don’t you think? He’s incredibly intelligent, and charming. And he’s been in therapy.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Emma said. A rustling of cushions, some version of world music playing softly. “Clever you, making that happen.”

  “Just the thing,” said Rob, “to make this something out of the ordinary.”

  Outside, in the dimly lit hall, I smiled, as excited as if it were my party and Dominic Butler was my guest of honor. Butler was a big name. He’d headlined in sold-out plays on Broadway and in the West End. He’d been nominated for two Oscars. His occasional appearances in the restaurant created an almost audible head-swiveling.

  I was about to open the front door when I remembered it was garbage night, so I doubled back and pulled the bins along the side path onto the street. Only one recycling bag this week, full of printouts from academic journals. Rob must have decided they weren’t necessary for his research. But in the middle was a file I almost missed, with four pages of McLeish’s verse and copies of some other documents. I scooped them into my bag to read later. I didn’t want to stand there in the street, straining to see the pages in the dying light. At home, I took off my jacket and crashed down on the sofa. The folder was covered in Rob’s usual coffee stains, and there was a blob of grease in one corner. The first page was a printed copy of one of McLeish’s verses. He’d used an old-fashioned typewriter. The ink was smudged and some of the letters jumped slightly above the line.

  Whatever you say

  Whatever you do

  Wherever you lay

  I am you

  I turned to the next page.

  You are me and I am you

  So we are one, but

  Where are you?

  If you are me and I am you

  Then I am me

  And who are you?

  The next page read:

  Follow you

  Following me

  We are one

  You are me

  I ran my fingers over each line, as if I could feel the faint indentations of each typed letter as it struck the page, even though I knew they didn’t exist. They were only copies. On first reading, everything appeared to be simplistic childish doggerel, almost foolish. McLeish was no Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth. Yet I couldn’t help feeling that there was something darker and more ominous there than mere play of words. Rob saw the verses as McLeish’s way of desc
ribing the bond between parents and children, and men and women, but I thought they had a menacing personal ring, like an obsessive lover. There was a sense of wanting to control, to almost subsume the person McLeish was writing about. Who was that person?

  The last page contained two more verses, very short and extremely angry. The first read:

  You will not go

  I will know.

  My will grows as

  Yours does slow

  The second was three lines, repeated again and again.

  You Do Not.

  You Will Not

  You Can Not

  There was nothing trained or intellectual about my response. It was only an instinct. It seemed that there was no skill or subtlety here, only childish anger and a cruel selfishness. The poems showed a desire to manipulate and encourage instability, not creativity. I put everything back in the folder. I couldn’t think about it any longer. My brain spluttered with too many false starts and jangled images. Maybe Rob was right. Maybe McLeish was cleverly dissecting the human psyche. But somehow, I doubted it.

  The next day was Friday, and Rob had already left for the studio by the time I arrived at Wycombe Lodge. I changed everyone’s bed linen and washed and ironed and folded. Then I prepared dinner—fish cakes from leftover salmon and a carrot cake. Half an hour after Jake and Lily came home from school, Emma texted me: We’re back late tonight, so u may as well leave now. Have fun on the weekend! I walked Siggy to the river and back, fed him, and left instructions for the fish cakes.

  I spent Saturday morning finishing the book about nutmeg that Rob had given me months ago. I’d read to the halfway point and then somehow forgotten about it. Was Nathaniel Courthope’s sacrifice worth it? I pondered that afternoon as I jogged along the Brentford locks, the brightly painted houseboats chugging through the murky water. A little grated nutmeg goes a long way in pretty much all its usual recipes: pumpkin pie, fruitcake, curries, and Middle Eastern food. I understood the wars over other things. I knew that Gandhi had marched against the British salt tax and that Britain and Iceland had gone to war over cod fishing more than fifty years ago. But to lay down your life for nutmeg? I wasn’t so sure.