‘Vicky,’ she began in that voice of hers that had the same effect on me as scraping nails down a blackboard, ‘I understand from Mrs Blake that you were very rude to the new maid. I can’t have you treating our staff in that way. When you’ve finished your breakfast, you will go and apologise.’
Humiliation made the colour rise in my cheeks. How dare Mrs Blake, the housekeeper, go straight to Vera rather than speak to me directly about it? I knew I’d been rude, but I did not need to be treated like some silly kid. I looked at Dad for backup, but he was pretending not to have heard any of it and had his face buried in his newspaper. The headline: ‘Terrorist airship shells Abu Dhabi!’ as if a terrorist attack was something new.
‘I had every intention of apologising to...um...’
‘Our new maid is called Jane,’ interjected Vera.
‘Is that her name? How am I meant to keep up? Our staff keep changing every holiday!’
Dad glanced up at my haughtiness. ‘Let me point out to both of you that they are not “our” staff, so they will keep changing as the state sees fit. This one comes recommended and I don’t want to lose her, chick, so just go and apologise. There’s a good girl.’
I tucked into the delicious, freshly baked croissants as I watched my father read the paper, turning a page each minute like clockwork. It was best to not speak during this time. He’s a doctor—well, a top medical consultant—and I think he needs to know each morning that the world is well. I didn’t imagine he needed time looking at himself, reminding himself who he was. But I do often wonder if he ever looks up at his patients. I bet they feel as sorry for his family as I feel for them! He’s kind underneath, though; I can feel that. Just aloof.
I had finished and was pretending to sip my tea when he looked up at last and passed me the paper. He’d left it open on an article about smallpox. I started to read it, soon becoming fascinated by both the science and the moral dilemma on whether the world should destroy the last sample.
‘So do we destroy it or keep it just in case?’ my father asked.
‘It’s a terrible disease, Dad—why would anyone want to keep it?’
‘Good question, and you can ask Uncle Josef just that at lunch today, he is over from Austria with your cousin, Andreas, and an old colleague of ours, as we’ll be attending the neuroscience conference together. He’s giving a paper on smallpox.’ He pushed his chair back and stood. ‘Can you get Tom to bring the car round, dear?’
‘But the paper says Parliament voted to destroy it, so what is there to debate?’
‘Politicians can say what they like, but the important decisions are left to the experts!’
‘It even says the Politburo is due to ratify it next week?’
‘Yes, and they will do as we advise.’
‘So the article is lying then?’ I called to my father’s retreating back, he turned. ‘We’re discussing a virus at a neuroscience conference Vicky; everything is smoke and mirrors.’
He left the breakfast room.
Vera was leaning against the counter by the fridge and looked like she was chewing a wasp. As she’d finished her tea a while ago, I wondered if she’d stayed just to make sure my father and I didn’t talk for too long. She was noticeably pissed off at my father giving her orders. Every room had a panel with labelled buttons for the servant calls. But my father would usually ask Vera to use it, rather than press a button himself. In her absence, he would often get himself in a tizz before pressing one. I’d watch him and think him quite funny, yet sad too. Why was he like that?
‘I hope you’ve packed, Vicky. And I suggest you change that ridiculous skirt you’re wearing before lunch. It really isn’t appropriate.’
I wanted to laugh. The bitch was jealous—jealous of the fact that I could wear short skirts and she couldn’t, and jealous that Dad shared some of his interests with me. God knows why he married her—her world extended no further than making snide comments about anyone nice and the gin bottle. I’d bought this tartan skirt with my Christmas vouchers, but despite it being short I was wearing it with woolly tights. I made a mental note to one day buy some thigh-length stockings—now that would make her cringe!
Shrugging my shoulders in response, I hurried off towards the domestics’ quarter. I knocked loudly on the old door and opened it with apparent confidence, knowing all too well that my intrusion would not be welcome. Even as I swung open the door I heard radio music being switched off and the chatter behind it turn to a whisper. I was surprised to see Mrs Blake was there, as if waiting for me.
‘Hi there, is, um, Jane around?’
‘Why do you ask?’ she replied.
‘Vera sent me...’
‘Oh, she is in her room. I’ll take you to her,’ the housekeeper replied. She led me down the unlit corridor before turning to me and looking around, obviously checking for eavesdroppers.’ I have known Jane as long as I have known you, Miss Vicky. I would hate to see her sacked!’
‘My father sent me to apologise, so I’m sure he won’t do that, Mrs Blake.’ By now I was genuinely upset for shouting at the girl.
‘Just be careful. It’s not always up to him, and if watching eyes decide she displeases you, she will be sent to do a most awful job, or worse,’ she said, before opening the door and announcing, ‘Miss Vicky to see you!’
The girl was kneeling on the floor with her back to the door. Mrs Blake left the room, slamming the door a little too hard behind her.
‘I’ve come to apologise for being rude this morning,’ I began as she stood and turned, her face all blotchy from crying. I had not expected to upset her that much. ‘I really didn’t mean anything by it,’ I continued, noticing that she was fiddling with something behind her back.
I wanted to add that she would have felt pretty bad herself if she had just witnessed two murders and been stabbed in the back, but of course that would have been difficult to articulate.
‘Oh that’s fine,’ she said, rubbing her nose. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said, then with a rueful smile, ‘just a bit homesick, that’s all.’
I noticed something sparkling under her bed. I figured that whatever she had been fiddling with had now been dropped there.
‘I’m being silly. I’m very grateful to have this job—your father’s so eminent and important and, well, really I’m very lucky to have this position. Your stepmother has been so kind.’ She hesitated. I could hardly correct her and warn her that Vera was a bitch, but maybe she had confused her with someone else. When I was first at boarding school, I would get all the dinner ladies mixed up. It was an easy mistake to make.
‘Yes, Mrs Blake is kind...but I think you dropped something under your bed,’ I said, hoping she’d pick it up so I could see what it was.
‘Oh that’s just nothing,’ she said hastily, moving to the door. ‘It’s nothing. I must go now.’
She held the door open for me and practically pushed me out with her eyes. I walked straight through the kitchen and ran out through the old door. I had an inkling of what she might be hiding and why.
Before I left Deerden I wanted to go and see the Mad Hatter, but first I had to pack. I trudged up to the box room in the attic and pulled out a couple of suitcases, then took them down to my room and plonked them on the bed. The only good thing about packing for school was that I’d got some fab stuff for Christmas, and I was dying to show the other girls. I shoved in all the clothes I had got, including a cute lace crop top and—Dad didn’t know about this one—a Wonderbra I’d managed to get from Bond Street Beriozka, which is where all the Politburo wives shop. My friends would be so jealous—I just hoped that my tits wouldn’t grow any more because it would be tragic if it no longer fit.
A trip into London, was the highlight of most of my school holidays. I used to spend most of the time in the arcade at Trocadero in Piccadilly, but there hadn’t been anything that was any good since all the Virtual Reality stuff had gone. I
still pretended to go there, as I knew that Vera loathed all the noise and hubbub of the place, preferring to stay in Harrods. It meant that I got a few hours of freedom. Time I now used to shop.
I considered my Tupolev Personal Computer, which was portable, but my father would not allow me to take it, so I had to leave it on my dresser next to the perfume Vera had given me for Christmas, which smelt like furniture polish. Then I got out the mobile phone that Dad had given me and switched it on carefully. I knew some of the girls, whose parents were as high up as mine were getting one for Christmas as well, and it would be so amazing to be able to call them whenever I wanted—or even call home without having to line up at the phone booth at school.
Once I had packed, I put on my coat, slid my mobile phone into a large pocket, donned my hat, gloves and my new silver moon boots (also a Christmas purchase from the Beriozka) and went out into the crisp air. Fresh snow had fallen overnight, and I got a childish kick out of planting each footstep in it, leaving my mark as I went.
At the end of the lawn was a huge rockery. Legend had it that it was made from the stones from London Bridge, as in the song ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down’. Everyone at school said that could not be true because it’s on record that the bridge was bought by an American and shipped over there, but Dad said that not everything recorded was true, especially stuff from our imperialist past. I clambered over the rockery, which was difficult because the snow hid the contours of the stones, and once or twice I slipped and had to save myself with my hands. But it was worth it to get over to the other side and out of view of the main house.
The only problem was that I was now in view of our neighbours, and I could guarantee that their annoying son, Frankie, would spy me and make a beeline for me. I swear he must sit there all day with binoculars, waiting for something interesting to brighten up his tedious little life. Like me. Soon enough he was running towards me, panting like a little dog. I trudged on, not acknowledging him and hoping he would get the message.
‘Vicky! What are you up to? Can I join in?’
Frankie is two years younger than me, and such a dork. Unfortunately he once caught me smoking weed, and now I have to be really careful not to upset him because I’m scared he will tell my dad. Dad would totally explode if he found out—he’d ground me for a year and take away my pass to the Beriozka so I’d never be able to get hold of any decent clothes, and I’d be forced to buy the crap they sell normal people, which would be so humiliating.
‘Hi Frankie,’ I said unenthusiastically. ‘I’m just going to say bye to the Mad Hatter.’
He trotted along next to me and then zoomed off ahead, weaving in and out of the trees. The formal gardens ended at the rockery, and now we were on rougher ground—open, grassy patches interspersed with trees and bushes. Dad said that years ago it would have been woodland, and they would have kept pheasants here for shooting, but then the land was cleared in the war. You could walk for a mile or more through this area before reaching the huge walls that marked the boundary of the estate. In one spot, you could still see the remains of old buildings—ruined brick walls that I used to love playing amongst when I was little. I would bring my dolls and play houses there until Vera discovered where I was going and said it was not safe for children. She didn’t care where I went now; in fact, she’d probably be delighted if something horrible did happen to me here. I didn’t mind. I relished the freedom and the isolation, something that I never got at school.
Frankie was bounding along like a deer. He did a face plant at one point when he must have got his foot stuck in a rabbit hole that was hidden by the snow.
‘You twat!’ I laughed, hoping he’d hurt himself, but he simply got up and brushed the snow off his clothes.
‘Watch out!’ Frankie shouted. ‘You’re heading straight for the pond!’
I stopped, suddenly afraid. He was right. It was somewhere by these fir trees. I had once seen a videotape where a boy fell through the ice in a river, and you could see him being swept along by the current, hammering on the ice above him in terror, until he froze or drowned, whichever came first. Giving the whole area a wide berth, I made my way to the pale blue electricity pylon where the Mad Hatter hung out.
We’d never seen him wear a hat, but he was mad in a wacky way: hence my nickname for him. Actually, I knew exactly who he was, but it was a secret I kept for Tom Blake, our chauffeur. The Mad Hatter was Tom’s father, but for some reason, Tom did not want anyone to know he was there, so I never told a soul, not even Dad. The Mad Hatter lived with Tom and Tom’s wife, our housekeeper, in their cottage on the estate but spent most of his time in a little shack he had made out of cardboard boxes and old bits of corrugated iron under this pylon. No one ever went to Tom’s cottage, so no one knew about him, and nobody ever came out to this bit of the estate. Vera stuck to the garden, and Dad never even made it that far; the dining room was the furthest he got from his study.
We had to fight through the undergrowth around the pylon, including brambles and a rhododendron bush. I looked up and could see that there was not a single icicle hanging down from the pylon. It didn’t even look wet. As I got closer I could hear a slight buzzing from it, which should have been a clear warning not to touch it, but as usual I couldn’t resist; I unclothed my hand and touched it as if patting a horse’s neck. I expected it to be warm, but it was freezing cold, just like everything else out here.
‘Hello!’ I called. ‘Anyone there?’
‘Aha! It be you!’ The old man clambered out from his makeshift shelter with a tin of cat food in his hand. ‘I was just having my elevenses. Do you want some?’ He thrust the can in my face, and I could see a fork sticking out from it. It smelt utterly gross.
‘No thanks,’ I replied. He was wiping his mouth with a filthy old handkerchief. Quite frankly, he looked like a scarecrow. His trousers were too baggy for him, so he held them up by a piece of rope tied round his waist, and he had an old green cardigan over his shirt that was full of holes. No coat, no hat. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘No, I never be cold, Missy, I be used to cold, you see! Not like in the Sharashka, no, not the Sharashka.’ He shook his head solemnly and then grinned at me and took another mouthful of cat food. ‘I saws you nearly fell into Bouncing Pond. You’d be a goner if you fell in there, you would. Ought to be careful in this snow, Missy.’
‘Why do you call it Bouncing Pond?’ My curiosity got the better of me.
‘Bounce, bounce, bang! That’s how it went. I never sees it, I was always inside working, but I hears it. Everyone hears it but says nothing, mustn’t say nothing!’ His eyes narrowed, and he waggled the fork around to illustrate this point. ‘Even now, mustn’t say nothing. No!’
‘That’s rubbish, Mister,’ Frankie interrupted. ‘Everyone knows it was a stray bomb from the blitz. There were lots of bombs round here from the Second World War. Vicky found one last year, didn’t you, Vicky?’
There had been many bombs dropped in this area in the War, this was true. In fact I can remember playing round the large crater in Oxshot woods. When I was little, my mum would set out a picnic, and I would just run faster and faster till I fell over and rolled down. But the bomb I found last summer was an incendiary device, with a timer attached. I’d already told just about everyone I had met that day, that I’d found a bomb and the bomb squad were in our garden. My father took me aside later and explained that people would become very afraid if they knew the truth. He told me that there were bad people in this country who didn’t believe in the state and sought a return to bourgeois rule. I’d told everyone since, that it was from the Second World War, although I knew otherwise. I ignored Frankie’s comment, not wanting to share my story and happy to leave the lie out there.
‘Young man.’ The Mad Hatter drew himself up imperiously, jabbing his finger at Frankie. ‘I have taken the oath and know things I must take to my grave!’
I kind of wanted to know what he was talking about, but I also knew that half of what he said w
as the ravings of an old lunatic, so even if I did press him further, he’d probably just respond with more riddles. It was time to change the topic of conversation.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m going back to school this afternoon.’
‘Oh, don’t goes!’ he begged, suddenly forlorn. ‘I’ve got more to show you! Looky here,’ and he dragged me over to a point a few metres away from his shelter. Kicking back the fresh snow, he uncovered a large rusty manhole cover.
‘I think that’s a drain,’ I said patiently.
‘No! No, it ain’t a drain.’ Scooping off the snow with his hands, he revealed brickwork around the edges. ‘It just popped out of the ground. Well, help me then!’
I crouched down, and together we lifted the cover away. It took all our strength, with Frankie hopping around next to us, shouting encouragement. As soon as it was off, I dropped to my knees and peered in. The weak winter sunlight was barely sufficient to reveal a rusty metal ladder descending into the darkness below. We couldn’t tell how far the hole went—it simply faded into black. I took a small coin out of my pocket and dropped it in. After a second we heard a clink as it hit something hard. I looked quizzically at the Mad Hatter.
‘What’s down there, Mr Blake?’
He didn’t answer, just stared into the hole, his expression difficult to fathom. I could tell he knew something about this place.
‘Well, I’m going to explore,’ I decided.
‘There be a lighter in my shack,’ said the old man. ‘Go and get it, boy!’
Frankie darted off into the shack as I took off my heavy coat and hung it on the rhododendron bush. Frankie came running back with a lighter. With it I started to climb down the steps until I was surrounded by the gloom, the small flame hardly punctuating the darkness. I was nearly at the bottom and could make out the start of a tunnel when I heard the Mad Hatter shouting overhead.
‘It’s ya mum, Marj!’
‘My mum, what do you mean? Where?’ I asked, confused.
‘On the walkie-talkie, shall I drop it down?’
Paralysis Paradox (Time Travel Through Past Lives Adventure Series Book 1) Page 4
