The Housekeeper

by Suellen Dainty

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “The food is good. And I’ll make sure it’s not too hot.”

  “I’m good with heat.”

  After the waiter had left with our order, I asked him about school. “What happened with the parent-teacher meeting? You know, the one you were going to have after the book was published.”

  Jake shrugged. “Everyone jumped up and down for a bit and then the form teacher asked me not to write essays like that again. That was it.”

  “So you didn’t have to leave, or anything like that.”

  “Nope. I told you about that school. I told you about my parents.” His air of nonchalance disappeared. His eyes glinted with scorn or anger, or both. “They’re not going to expel the kid with the well-known father who’s on the telly every week and the well-known mother who writes successful books. They need parents like mine. They’re like bait to get new students into the school. The teachers just had to make a bit of a fuss about it, to settle the natives.”

  The waiter arrived with our food. We arranged bowls of steaming rice and miniature pots of meat and vegetables on the table. Everything crowded together. In my anxiety, I’d ordered far too much. I shouldn’t have asked, but I did. “And Rob and Emma? What did they think?”

  Jake’s fork of rice was halfway to his mouth. He held it there. Grains of rice slipped and fell into the curry, slowly subsiding in thick brown sauce. “They didn’t think anything. They were just relieved to get the meeting over and done with. They’d postponed it three times.” He scooped more rice onto his fork and slowly chewed on it. “We know they stitched you up,” he said. “We saw Dad’s book. We knew you wouldn’t have agreed to it. Lily said you weren’t the type who would want to talk.”

  “She’s right about that,” I said.

  “They said you’d given your consent, but it was too much of a coincidence. Dad’s precious book coming out and the next minute, you’ve gone.”

  “I didn’t want to leave,” I said. “I loved it at Wycombe Lodge. Even now, I think it was maybe the best job I ever had. But it wouldn’t have worked out—me staying.”

  We ate in silence for a bit. “Lily and I get on better now,” said Jake. “Although it probably won’t last. Anyhow, we reckon you found out. We think you were too smart not to have noticed. After a while, it gets obvious.”

  “What gets obvious?” My fork slipped against the side of the bowl. Sauce flecked with chilies slopped on the table.

  “Them. Dad and Theo. It’s our little family secret, the one we never talk about. But we all know. I’ve known ever since I can remember. I mean, no one ever said anything. Maybe I saw something when I was a kid, or overheard something. It doesn’t really matter.” His voice gathered strength. “So you see what I meant about irony. You can see why I wrote that essay. I get so angry sometimes that I lose all reason. And then I calm down.

  “I’m just so against the hypocrisy. I reckon it should be our family motto. It would work well. It’s OK for them to ferret out your secrets and destroy your right to privacy, because your life is a boost to their career as the power couple. But their little secret—well—that would damage their currency, so it’s all under the carpet and always will be. That’s the thing I like about the church. There’s no falseness.”

  He pushed his bowl away. “Lily’s going to a sixth-form college in Oxford soon, so she doesn’t have to put up with it much longer. I’ve asked if I can go to boarding school then. I think they’ll agree.”

  “Boarding school? Are you sure?” I asked. “Take it from me, it’s not for everyone.”

  “It’ll be better than home,” he said. “I suppose you think I’m a coward for not standing up to them. But if I did confront them, they’d just deny it. They’d never admit the truth.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I reached for his hand. This time he didn’t pull away. “I disagree with McLeish on pretty much everything, but maybe he had a point about families. Maybe they do send people around the bend.”

  We walked out into the wind, a shock after the warm fug of the restaurant. I drove back to Petersham, retracing that familiar route along the fields from the town towards Richmond Park. The road was empty. In the distance, someone walked their dog. It might have been the old woman with her Labrador, but she disappeared before I could see properly.

  I pulled up near Wycombe Lodge. “I wish I was still here,” I said. “Like it was at the beginning. I wish it could have gone on like that.”

  “Me too.”

  “Give my love to Lily. Don’t forget. And you can call anytime. You have my number. Please.”

  “Sure.”

  I reached over to hug him, but he was already out of the car, walking up the street in that jerky way of his, shoulders squared as if he expected someone to attack him. My hand fell on the seat, still warm from his body. I kept it there until the heat had ebbed away and all that remained was the clammy feel of imitation leather.

  31

  Pay, pay anything rather than go to law.

  —Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, 1861

  My Google alert kept me up-to-date with Rob and Emma. Reviews of the book were published. The Guardian said it illuminated the life and work of a controversial yet brilliant psychologist. It went on to note that the human cost had been high, particularly to the mysterious child who had been neglected and forced to spend too many of her formative years in the company of mentally ill people. The Spectator said it was a sensitive portrayal of blighted lives and regretted that Rob hadn’t been able to track down the young girl’s real family. It wasn’t a commercial bestseller, but in their world of upmarket newspapers, literary magazines, and late night talk shows, Rob’s book had made its mark.

  Rob was interviewed in a popular psychology magazine. There was a photograph of him in his study, looking thoughtful behind the desk where I used to order the groceries each week, all his books on the shelves behind him. “Of course, I had a duty of care to these people, the former residents of Kinghurst Place who are so fragile and therefore vulnerable,” he said. His false high-mindedness instantly enraged me. “And also, I had a duty to tell the truth about McLeish. He was a hero of mine when I was a student, and it wasn’t easy to reveal his shortcomings, how he distributed dangerous drugs to the residents.

  “I’ve tried to steer a middle road here,” he went on. “There’s still a real stigma about mental illness. That’s why I’ve gone to such lengths to protect the identities of people. People keep asking me about the young girl, who she really is and where she lives now. She wanted to tell her story, very much, but she also wanted privacy and I would never betray her confidence.”

  On and on the article went: about his television programs, his other books, his clever wife, and his happy marriage. I threw the magazine across the room. Then I got up and tore it into tiny pieces. It didn’t make me feel any better.

  It was Jude’s idea, of course. Sensible and sane, like all her suggestions. “I know you can’t afford a London lawyer. Philip says a decent one costs about five hundred pounds an hour, and that just for starters. Often the firm asks for a retainer of thousands of pounds before you walk in the door. But didn’t your grandmother work for a firm of solicitors in Shaftesbury for all those years? Why don’t you call them and make an appointment and see what they say about all this? There must be something you can do, despite those bastards getting your signature like that. You might even get a cut rate. It’s worth a try, surely.”

  It was my day off and we were having lunch in the Greek restaurant in Primrose Hill. It was full as usual. Waiters flung down our plates of slow cooked lamb and salad and rushed off. “You have to forgive such bad service when the food is so good,” I said, using my napkin to wipe slops of sauce from the table.

  “Yes, it is delicious,” said Jude. “But you’re doing your usual thing by obsessing about food and avoiding the point. Will you, or will you not, make the appointment?” She had that stern look again. There was no stopping her.


  I rang the solicitors that afternoon and spoke to Jeremy Rylance, the man who’d handled Gran’s will. I’d met him briefly after Gran died, when I had to sign all the various papers. He was the son of the solicitor Gran had worked for. His name had been Jeremy as well. It was that sort of firm, owned by that sort of family for two hundred years. No deviations from the norm there.

  “I need to ask your advice on something,” I said after we’d exchanged pleasantries. “It’s to do with signatures and contracts. It’s a bit complicated, so probably best to explain everything in person. Could I see you next week? It would have to be Monday, because that’s my day off.”

  “Of course,” said Jeremy. “Of course.” He had the type of easy good manners able to disguise any surprise that I was calling him out of the blue like this. It was like we played tennis or golf every week, or that I was married to his sister. “It would be good to see you again. My father was very fond of your grandmother. Shall we say ten o’clock? At the office?”

  “Perfect,” I replied. “And may I ask about your hourly fee?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Your grandmother worked here for years. We won’t need to worry about that just yet. Let’s meet first and talk. If we proceed, then we’ll discuss fees.”

  I reported back to Jude and booked into a B and B just outside Shaftesbury for Sunday night. I didn’t want to meet Jeremy Junior rushed and jangled from a three-hour Monday morning drive from London and so set off on Sunday afternoon instead.

  How many times had I made this journey? I couldn’t remember. I was only aware of that familiar feeling seeping through me: breathing more expansively as the city disappeared and the country emerged from the endless rows of houses huddled together. Along the motorway, the snowberries had lost their pearled bloom and shriveled into brown husks. The crops in the fields had been harvested months ago, but wisps of golden straw still clung to the hedges on either side of the road. A few remaining giant bales of wheat dotted the horizon. At Stonehenge, the pig farm was empty, but new huts had been built and a crew of men were nailing down roofs and installing more water troughs for the next generation.

  My B and B was old-school, with a lumpy double bed and a faded chintz-covered armchair looking out over hills shrouded in afternoon mist. The walls were hung with school photographs of tennis and lacrosse teams, dusty and fly-stained. A closer look at the netball team showed it to be Stanton Hall. The owner, a disgruntled-looking woman in her late fifties, probably thought I’d be impressed.

  The next morning, I passed on the full English breakfast and paid my bill. I drove into Shaftesbury, found a parking spot, and walked through the cold morning fog to Gold Hill. It was too early for tourists, who would arrive later to marvel at the cobbled street’s photogenic quaintness. Apart from shop owners, I had the place to myself. Rylance and Sons had their offices above a tea shop. I rang the bell, pushed through a small door, and went upstairs. The place was like Tardis, extending backwards in a series of tiny interconnecting rooms. Nothing had changed since my occasional visits there as a child, parked in a corner by Gran and told not to move while she typed and directed phone calls from a small switchboard.

  Jeremy, a younger version of his father, wearing the same kind of pin-striped suit, kissed me on both cheeks and ushered me into a paneled office overlooking the street. Files cluttered every surface and cobwebs hung from a disused fireplace.

  “Tea? Coffee?” I shook my head. Jeremy dusted off a chair with an old newspaper and gestured for me to sit down. “I’ve got some papers for you, from your grandmother’s file, but they can wait until we’ve talked.” There was a spot of shaving foam in his ear and a cluster of bristles under his chin.

  I smiled, although I wasn’t keen on going through more documents. There had been so many after her death, each one requiring a signature, each one reminding me that she was gone. Being back here again, in this office, made me feel stripped away, like an orphaned child.

  “Now, how can I help you?” He leaned back, clasping his hands and looking up at the ceiling. “Don’t mind me,” he said, the bristles on his chin glinting in the light from the lamp on his desk. “I happen to think better when I’m looking at this spot up there.” He pointed to a blotch of damp and closed his eyes.

  In a shaking voice, I began my story, about Emma and Rob and Wycombe Lodge; about my mother and Rob’s book and my notebook, and the folded piece of paper; Rob and Theo and the photographs and the program. Every now and then Jeremy shook his head and put his hand up to ask a question.

  “So you’re quite sure you didn’t show either of them your notebook?”

  “Think carefully. What exactly did Rob say when he handed you the piece of paper?”

  “How many photographs were used? Was your face just blurred or totally obscured?”

  “Hmm,” he said at the end, after what seemed like a long silence. He opened his eyes and tipped himself forward. “Hmmm. Don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a cup of tea.” He picked up his phone. Five minutes later, a young man walked into the office carrying a tray. “My son, Jeremy,” said Jeremy proudly. “Learning the ropes. Shall I be Mother?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he poured tea into cracked china cups. “Well, when I hear stories like that, I’m pleased I live a quiet country life. But that’s no help to you. Biscuit?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Of course, parts of this story are not entirely unfamiliar to me. My father was aware of your mother’s . . . problems . . . and your grandmother sought his advice on various occasions, most specifically when your mother passed away in such tragic circumstances.” He tapped a file on his desk with his fingernails. “But back to the matter at hand. The man, Rob, was right when he said you would probably lose if you brought a case against them, and yes, costs would probably be awarded against you. So, I can’t advise that course of action.”

  Disappointment rushed through me.

  “There is, however, another way to kill the cat. A letter could be written, outlining certain, shall we say, discrepancies in their domestic arrangements, and asking for some kind of financial settlement in return for your cooperation, so to speak.”

  “Wouldn’t that be blackmail?” I asked.

  “Of course,” replied Jeremy. “But strictly legal and aboveboard. And these people sound as if they could do with a bit of a shake-up. Up to you, naturally.”

  “I’m not sure. I know I don’t want their money—it’s poison. I don’t want to sink to their level, but I do want some kind of justice for myself, just to get it behind me.” I placed the cup down on the saucer with a clatter. “The one thing I do know with complete certainty is that I will never forgive them. Never.”

  From behind his desk, Jeremy surveyed me with a sharp but kind gaze. “You don’t have to, my dear. But generally speaking in these matters, the passage of time provides its own solutions. Think about it and let me know what you want to do. Now . . .”—again, he tapped the file on his desk—“to this other matter, concerning your grandmother.”

  “I thought I’d signed everything,” I said. I was wrung out from telling my story, and flattened by Jeremy’s response to it. More than anything, I wanted to leave. I didn’t want money obtained by subtly worded legal threats, and I certainly didn’t want another file to do with Gran’s death.

  “This is a matter that doesn’t require a signature,” replied Jeremy. “It’s a closed file, which means I haven’t read it, only the instructions concerning it, which state that it should be handed over to you if you came to us over any matter relating to your mother or your early life. And I think this visit fits that category.

  “It’s something your grandmother wanted kept for you, but for reasons of her own, she didn’t want you to have it immediately after her death. She always worried about you and didn’t want you to know the more . . .”—here he paused—“. . . difficult details about your mother and your early childhood, before you went to live with your grandmother. My father advised co
mplete transparency, but your grandmother was very determined on this matter.” He handed me the file. “It’s all yours. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” he said. “I know we look fussy and behind the times, but we try to make up for that by looking after our people. And by the way, there won’t be an account, even if you decide to proceed. It’s the very least we can do.”

  I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears. Jeremy patted my shoulder in an awkward way. “Try not to worry too much, and call at any time if you have any questions about anything.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled and stood up to leave.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He handed me the file. My fingers slipped over its dusty surface. “Your grandmother was very proud of you, always,” he said, shaking my hand. “Remember that. It’s important.”

  On Gold Street, the fog had cleared. A silver sun hung low in the sky. It was cold with a fierce wind. I scurried back to my car and tossed the file towards the passenger seat. It could wait until I got back to London.

  32

  Children love their mothers unknowingly and without measure, realizing only at the final separation how deeply rooted that love is.

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

  I missed the seat and the file fell to the floor of the car. Four fat envelopes and a photograph of my mother slid out, a faded Polaroid of her laughing, her arms outstretched as if she was waiting for someone to run towards her. An unseen breeze lifted her hair off her shoulders. It was suddenly so cold. I turned on the engine, switched the heater to its highest setting, and picked up the envelopes and the photograph. Someone had written a date on the back. 1984. The year before Gran came to get me.