Saving Nathaniel

by Jillian Brookes-Ward

  'Nat,' she repeated. 'Okay. That's short and sweet.'

  'Of course, if there are other people about I expect you will use your discretion.'

  'Of course.'

  'Anything else?'

  'I don't think so.' She pushed her empty cup away and prepared to stand. 'So you'll let me know in due course then?

  'About what?'

  'About whether I've got the job or not?'

  He smiled a broad friendly smile that crinkled the small lines at his eyes. 'I thought you'd already started,' he said. He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. 'Aye, I think we'll give you a go.'

  She gently tapped her cup against his and the deal was done. A short, clumsy silence ensued between the new employer and employee before he inhaled and slapped his palms on the table, making her jump.

  'Right,' he said, 'I'd better let you get on with your work. Enough time's already been wasted on idle chit chat. You'll have plenty to do. I believe you have a few errands to run.'

  On her visit the previous day, she had picked up a note he had left for Rebecca before he had gone away. It was a list of things he wanted doing, and some involved going into the nearest town – a more than twenty-mile round-trip.

  'You are joking!' she said. 'In that weather?'

  He glanced at the window. Driven by a gusting wind, the rain drummed a tattoo against the glass. 'It's just a light shower...for these parts at least,' he said, standing. 'There's an umbrella in the closet you can use. Help yourself. Try and bring it back in one piece.' He slid the chair under the table. 'Welcome to Struan Lodge, Megan Thomas. I hope you don't find your time here too…arduous.' He tucked his newspaper under his arm and left the room, leaving behind the faintest trace of his cologne.

  Megan's nostrils flared as they took in the scent and it tickled something deep within her, causing a small smile to play across her lips.

  Chapter 2

  With her first full day's work at the Lodge over, Megan's deep sigh when she got home that evening was one of both relief and fatigue. She draped her still wet coat on the back of a chair to dry and yelled out, 'I'm home!' There was no answer.

  She took her time selecting and uncorking a bottle of red wine, poured herself a large glass and took a taste. Rich and dark and warming - perfect.

  She picked up the bottle and wandered into the sitting room of the homely cottage she shared with her sister, Rebecca. Cuddled up on the sofa with her boyfriend, Paul, she looked surprised to see her.

  'How long have you been home?' she said.

  'Just a few minutes.'

  'I didn't hear you come in.'

  'I'm too tired to make any noise.'

  Megan dropped into the easy chair, kicked off her shoes and took a long, satisfying drink of her wine. She dropped her head onto the back of the chair and closed her eyes. The fire blazing in the hearth and the dimly-lit, shabby comfort of the room welcomed her home, as did Paul's warm greeting of, 'Hey babe.' She liked Paul and her equally kindly, 'Hi Sweetie,' seemed to please him.

  'Hard day?' he asked.

  She took another drink. 'It was okay, once I got over the shock.'

  Rebecca's attention immediately shifted onto her. 'What shock? What's happened?'

  She peered at the fire through her wineglass. 'Your man Mackie, the one you said would be away for two more days? He came back early apparently and he was there waiting for me. There I was dripping like a mop and cursing like a sailor and he's sitting as calm as you like at the kitchen table and taking it all in. He scared the living be-Jesus out of me and made me look a complete ninny.'

  Rebecca giggled softly and Paul nudged her to be quiet. 'Not a great first impression then?' he said.

  'Not one of my best, no.' She rubbed at her toes and made a mental note to wear more comfortable shoes in future.

  'So what do you think of him?' said Rebecca. 'Miserable old git isn't he?'

  Paul was shocked. 'Becca! That's an awful thing to say!'

  Rebecca huffed. 'You wouldn't say that if you knew him.'

  'I think he's really rather nice,' said Megan affably.

  'Nice?' Rebecca spluttered. 'He's not nice. You can't ever describe him as nice!'

  'Of course I can. He was lovely; very polite. A little reserved maybe, a bit stuffy and up himself, but overall I like him. Why didn't you say he was quite the charmer? Good looking too.'

  'He is not!'

  'Well, I think he is.'

  'Pah! It's all a front. I've warned you already - never judge a book by its cover, especially when that book is called Nathaniel Mackie and all the pages are coming loose.'

  Rebecca had told her some horror stories about Mackie's past, about how, in the four years since his wife's death, his moods had become increasingly unpredictable and he could be erratic and temperamental, and that was on a good day. The depth of his depression in the early days of his mourning had been such that more than once, she feared for him taking his own life.

  The situation had improved, but he was still changeable. One minute he could seem perfectly normal, the next he would fly into a temper for no good reason. He was liable to shut himself away in his study for days at a time during which he wouldn't be seen, wouldn't eat and wouldn't talk to anyone - and when he did surface, he was often drunk.

  Megan had seen no hint of anything wrong at her first meeting with her new employer and wondered if Rebecca could possibly be exaggerating or had maybe misinterpreted the situation?

  She slumped further down in her chair, sipped at her wine and chatted to Paul for a few moments. During a lull in the conversation, she glanced over the rim of her glass at Rebecca, who was regarding her closely whilst idly twisting a lock of hair around her finger, a long-standing nervous habit which always signified she was fretting over something. 'What's the matter, Becks?'

  Rebecca shook her head. 'Nothing,' she said with strained casualness and deliberately turned her eyes towards the TV. She leaned against Paul, her finger continuing to twist compulsively at her hair, unconsciously revealing her second thoughts about sending her sister to stand in for her at Struan. He put his arm tenderly around her, taking care with her injured limb, and kissed her head.

  From the slouched comfort of her armchair, Megan smiled at two people so at ease in love and made her conviction - 'I know you think you've made a big mistake putting me in Struan, Becky, that much is obvious, but what else could we do? You didn't ask to have your arm broken, although it was all your own silly fault. We both know how things have been in the past with me and men and what you said about Nathaniel Mackie being damaged goods, but I'll be careful. I won't let him get under my skin, not this time…I've learned my lesson. I'm strong enough, I can cope. I'm going to be alright this time. I'm going to watch myself and keep my distance. I'll keep my head down, and do my job and not get involved. A man like him could drain me dry, but I won't let him. It's just a job. He's just my temporary employer. It's only for a few months.'

  In her own mind at least, her argument sounded convincing enough.

  The TV weather forecast finished and the bulletins turned to sport. Paul, quickly engrossed, paid no heed to the women's resumed conversation.

  'So what did Mr. Mackie have to say?' Rebecca asked, dragging Megan out of her thoughts.

  'Nothing much,' she said. 'There was a bit of chitchat, a passing mention of the weather, a sort of an interview, the giving of orders and instructions and explanation of how I should have plenty to do…and then he threw me out into the rain again.'

  'He didn't ask about me, did he?'

  'Er…no, not really. Sorry.'

  'No, he wouldn't,' Rebecca muttered, and rubbed her painful plastered arm as it rested in its sling.

  Megan took another large drink and topped up her glass. 'I left the notebook behind and he looked at it. He seems to think we missed a few things out.'

  'Like what?'

  'He was quite specific about my not trespassing in his study, almost threatening in fact.'

  'Did h
e suspect you had already been in there snooping about?'

  Megan shook her head. 'No, I don't think so…and I wasn't snooping, I was just getting the lie of the land. He does seem pretty firm about maintaining his privacy - stay out of my private space or else is what it basically comes down to. So I have to ask, Becks, is there anything else you might have forgotten to mention? I don't want something trivial upsetting the applecart.'

  Rebecca shook her head slowly. 'I don't think so. But after all these years it's all just second nature to me; I can't remember every tiny detail. If I think of anything I promise I'll tell you.'

  Megan stretched out her legs and rested her head on the back of the chair, letting her eyes fall closed. She hadn't eaten since breakfast and the wine being rapidly absorbed by her empty stomach was beginning to have a not unpleasant effect on her head.

  'What do you think then?' Rebecca asked. 'Do you think you can keep in his good books long enough…until I'm better?'

  'It's more a question of whether he can stay in mine,' Megan said. 'I think he got the message that I won't truck any nonsense from him. I'll do my best for him, but if he doesn't like it, tough, he can take care of himself. Providing he plays fair, I think we're going to get along just fine.'

  She sat up and gulped down the last of her wine. Her day's work was not yet quite over. 'What do you want for dinner?' she asked.

  Home alone at Struan Lodge, Nathaniel Mackie absent-mindedly thumbed through the notebook Megan had left behind again. It was full of neatly handwritten directives, essential for the smooth running of a house of Struan's size, and some notes pertaining to him in particular.

  One page mentioned coffee and cheese, his two main addictions, were always to be in stock, even listing his favourite brands. Another page detailed how she should keep an eye on the liquor stock, to remember that what was on view was not always the truth and to be aware that he kept a bottle hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk. 'How the hell did she know about that?'

  Next to the note, he spotted a cryptic symbol; an upward arrow and punctuation marks arranged to resemble a sad face. 'And what is that supposed to mean?'

  He puzzled over the mark, turning the book over to get another angle, but was unable to decode its significance. He dismissed it as probably not important, put the book aside and poured himself another stiff measure of Southern Comfort. He filled his mouth with his favourite comforting liquid and thought back over his first day with his new housekeeper.

  He realised now that his first perception that she might be a little bird-brained could not have been more wide of the mark. She was confident and obviously highly intelligent, and he had to admit the woman intrigued him.

  She was as sharp as a tack and once she had recovered from her initial surprise, had not shown any fear when he challenged her, maintaining eye contact when speaking to him. She had nice eyes; a bright, intense blue that looked right through him. He suspected he wouldn't be able to hide much from her and it would be a waste of time trying. It was apparent to him also that she would stand up for herself, and any demands she considered unreasonable, should he be foolish enough to make them, would no doubt be met with a stubbornness that would easily match his own.

  Apart from her eyes, he was finding it difficult to picture her properly in his mind. Every time he had seen her, she had been either dripping wet or scowling with annoyance.

  He couldn't make an accurate guess at her age, forty-ish maybe and he supposed her to be average looking for someone of that age with clear skin and, on the rare occasion he saw it, a ready smile. He gauged her height to be about five foot four in her socks and although it was difficult to see her figure hidden beneath her dowdy overall, he felt confident in his assumption that all her 'bits' were Nature's own. The true shade of her neatly bobbed hair was hard to determine due to its perpetual dampness, although he couldn't help noticing the striking silver-white streak running through it from crown to jaw line.

  Physical characteristics aside, there was something else about her he couldn't quite put his finger on; an odd yet strangely attractive quality. He had experienced it whenever they had happened upon each other during the course of the day. It was elusive, intangible, ethereal almost, and it exuded from her like a wispy aura; something impossible to interpret or define with words, but most definitely present and it disturbed him somewhat.

  Despite his misgivings, he found himself looking forward to seeing her again the next day…his curiosity had definitely been piqued.

  Chapter 3

  She arrived the next day as Nat, still in his dressing gown, was finishing his breakfast. She let herself in without fuss and gave him a cheery, 'Good morning,' as she hung her coat on the hook behind the door.

  'Good morning,' he replied, following it with a cheeky, 'And on time too.'

  She slipped her tabard apron over her head, fastening it at her waist, and as she tamed a stray wisp of hair with her hand, she became aware of him watching her. 'What's the matter?' she said, checking herself over. 'Have I got my pinny on back to front?'

  'No,' he said 'It's fine.'

  'What then?'

  'Nothing. You look different that's all.'

  'Different good or different bad?'

  'Good…definitely good.'

  The day before, she had resembled a frightened wet hen. Now she looked a completely new woman; dry and smiling; smartly dressed in a floral shirt and grey slacks. Her salt and pepper coloured hair was now tidily groomed and the streak even more distinctive than before. He couldn't take his eyes off it.

  She slipped off her outdoor shoes and pulled a pair of white trainers from a plastic carrier bag, stepped into them and, putting her foot on a chair for support, deftly laced them up. The plastic bag she folded into a neat square and pushed it into her apron pocket. Now comfortably shod, she smoothed the creases from the front of her tabard, folded her arms and looked squarely at him.

  'Are you absolutely sure you want me to be here, Mr Mackie?'

  He regarded her impassively, chewing slowly on his toast. 'Don't you want to be here?'

  'I think so. I suppose so. For the most part...'

  'You don't sound so sure?'

  She straightened her shoulders confidently. 'Yes, I'm sure. I do.'

  He swallowed his mouthful. 'Well then, what's your problem?'

  Her shoulders sagged slightly again. 'I've been thinking that maybe we got off on the wrong foot yesterday and I might have made bit of a show of myself.'

  He leaned back in his chair. 'In what way?'

  'I got the impression you might think me a bit of an idiot.'

  He stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth. 'It never crossed my mind. Why should it?'

  'It's just...I've never done this type of work before...'

  'Slumming it, eh?'

  'I wouldn't say that exactly. It's something...different; a bit out of my field, but once I get my hand in, you'll find I'm really quite capable.'

  'I'm sure you are perfectly able, Megan. I'm happy to see you came back and that I didn't scare you off. And it's Nat, remember?'

  'You didn't scare me…not at all, and sorry, yes…Nat.'

  'I'm not really the ogre Rebecca has no doubt painted me to be,' he said. 'I can be quite friendly once you get to know me.'

  'I look forward to that.' She grinned and reached for the kettle. 'First order of business every day,' she said. 'I can't work without at least one cup of tea inside me…two preferably.'

  'Then don't let me stand in your way.' He scraped his chair on the tiles as he stood.

  'Coffee at eleven, lunch at one,' she said, clearing away his used breakfast things.

  Unsure as to whether it was a question or a statement, he said, 'Whatever you think is best.' And with those five words he unwittingly took his hand off the wheel, leaving Megan in total charge of both the house and himself.

  He picked up his newspaper and left her to her work.

  He soon began to take pleasure in Megan's company
and sought it out. Her directness and quick wit engaged him. She listened intently when he talked, no matter how dull the subject and he enjoyed the novelty of her attention.

  He couldn't recall ever having idled time away with Rebecca and as a result, he knew next to nothing about her. He had the distinct impression she considered him an interloper in his own home; another object to be kept clean and tidy and she would much rather polish windows than hold a conversation with him, such was the distance she maintained between them. Now he came to think of it, it wasn't remoteness maintained out of respect, it was a wide, cold chasm of detachment because, he suspected, she didn't like him.

  Considering the two women they were sisters, they could not have been more different. They didn't look or sound alike and their mannerisms and mind-set were poles apart. There would never be any chance of mistaking one for the other. He wanted to know more about Megan.

  After the first week, when she had settled in and appeared comfortable with her position, he felt it safe to ask her about her decision to move from an industrial town in the north of England to the small Scottish village of Kirkton. She picked at the crust of her lunch-time sandwich, keeping her eyes on her plate.

  'Dad struggled on for eight years without Mam after she died. He missed her terribly and I don't think he could take it any more. He stopped looking after himself and just…gave up. Officially, he had a heart attack in his sleep and never woke up. He probably didn't know anything about it. It would never appear on any death certificate, but I think he died of a broken heart. When he'd gone, I had no reason to stay there any more.'

  When he said, 'I'm truly sorry,' she felt his sympathy was genuine.