Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  I drive through the gates of Mallow Court and up the long, tree-lined drive to the house. Thinking of it as my home fills me more with a sense of guilt than a thrill. I remember when I first took the job – Mum had been excited, and wanted a private tour of the house. I’d expected Dad to rail on about ‘trickle-down economics’ and the ‘tyranny of the upper class’, but instead, he’d been strangely silent. All he’d said then – and repeated a number of times since – was ‘I didn’t raise you to be like that.’

  I park at the back of the coach house – a two story half-timbered building that’s been converted into accommodation for wedding guests – when we have some, that is. Inside, the lounge is a large, open-plan room with a beamed ceiling and white-washed walls. I go through the door marked ‘private’ that leads to a narrow staircase curving upwards to my flat in the loft.

  Once the door is closed behind me, I feel the day’s tension ebbing away. The main room is sharply eaved and doesn’t get a lot of natural light, but I don’t care about that. It’s my own private space, and I love it.

  I kick off my boots and sink into the soft, green velvet cushions of the sofa. The sofa was the first thing I bought when I got the job at Mallow Court and knew I’d be living on-site. It took three months before the work was finished to convert the flat, and during that time I had a room in the main house. When the work was complete, Mrs Fairchild asked if I wanted to stay on – we’d grown fond of sharing space by then. But I declined. The part of me that’s Dad’s daughter would never have been comfortable living in such an opulent house (not to mention one with an antique heating system and no power shower).

  I lay back and stared at the skylight, watching the pink-edged clouds pass above my head. The triangular walls at each end of the flat and the long wall that runs along the middle pitch of the roof are all covered with shelves jam-packed with books. Behind the sofa I’ve got a table – not a coffee table, but a long wooden library table with heavily carved legs shaped like the Green Man, that I found in a local house clearance shop.

  Eventually, I get up and go to the kitchen. The door is cut into the long wall, and the book shelves run along the lintel above – a touch that I particularly like. I pour myself a glass of Malbec and grab a slab of cheese from the fridge and a box of water biscuits from the cupboard. I eat my dinner, and stare at my books – all well-loved and familiar … A vision of the brown-eyed man creeps, unbidden, into my mind. Sitting here next to me on the sofa with a glass of wine in his hand, looking at my books, chatting about architecture and the house, and life in general. I know it’s a future that’s not going to happen – he wasn’t even interested enough to buy a postcard in the gift shop after the tour.

  But who knows? Maybe someday there will be another someone – a thought I haven’t even allowed myself to entertain for three long years.

  I open a book, stare at the words on the page, and close it again. It’s then that I realise that without my knowing, my delicately wrought shell has started to crack. And the chill wind of the unknown that’s swirling just outside feels oddly refreshing.

  - II -

  13th November 1940 – 12:00 a.m.

  I stood there and watched the girl, fear and relief battling in my chest. The snowflakes melted as they hit the ground. It was so quiet that I could hear the hum of the camera behind me as Robbo filmed the grisly scene. ‘Turn that damn thing off,’ I said. But of course he was just doing his job.

  Another siren began to wail in the distance. The girl had a heart-shaped face and strawberry blonde curls, now nearly black with soot. She stared up at me with round blue eyes that had seen more than any five-year-old’s ever should. I knew those eyes. She put her thumb in her mouth and began to suck it.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked.

  She shook her head, looking small and scared. When I tried to draw her away from the rubble, she wouldn’t budge. I knew then that someone else was inside.

  ‘Is your mother in there?’

  She nodded.

  Hope deserted me as I crouched down and shone my torch in the hole and saw that the girl had been hiding under the kitchen table. I could just make out a pair of legs wearing ladies shoes. The legs were attached to a body, wearing a black dress and shawl. A silent wail rose up inside of me. ‘Marina!’ I croaked.

  The foot moved. I pushed with all my might to move the table. There was a cloud of black ash and rubble, something cracked beneath me, and my foot slipped, but somehow, I managed to lift the table and shove it to one side. There was a low groan of pain. She was alive.

  But her right arm and half her face were missing.

  ‘Mamochka?’ The girl rushed forward.

  ‘Stay back,’ I said, but it was too late.

  ‘No!’ The little girl put a hand to her mouth. I tried to pull her back, but she leaned over her mother. Her mother reached under the shawl around her neck. ‘Take this, Dochka, and keep it safe. It’s yours.’ Something sparkled on a chain as she placed it in the girl’s hand.

  Her fingers stiffened and her body began to convulse. A moment later, she fell still.

  - Chapter 5 -

  The next morning, I’m awakened at 5 a.m. by pigeons cooing in the rafters. I roll onto my back and open my eyes, fully expecting to be back to my old self, the unsettled feeling gone. But something deep inside me has moved, like a glacier reshaping the landscape. I’m happy, I remind myself. I know who I am; I have everything I want.

  In the rose light of morning, everything around me is familiar – my room with the scrolled iron bed and a white matelasse bedspread over the duvet. The varnished wooden floor is cold beneath my feet as I swing out of bed, groggy and in need of coffee.

  I check the fridge and discover that I have no milk. Grumbling, I decide to go directly over to the main house and brew a pot of coffee there. I’m due to give a tour late morning, but I should have some time to work on the costume exhibition before the coach arrives.

  After a quick shower, I dress in skinny jeans, a top and my suede blazer and run a comb through my damp hair. There’s no mirror by the door, which is probably a good thing.

  The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I walk across the circular forecourt and around the side of the main house. Mrs Fairchild is crouched down in the beds of the kitchen garden in her wide-brimmed straw hat, floral blouse, and gardening gloves.

  She looks up from her weeding, startled for a second. I think of how preoccupied she’s been lately and wonder what could be wrong. But then, she smiles like the first rays of sun and my worries melt away. ‘Morning, Alex,’ she says. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I say.

  ‘Well, no matter.’ She takes off one of her gloves and rubs her wrist. ‘It’s such a beautiful day. And this is the best time to be outside.’

  I glance at the blue sky and the bright flowers of the garden. ‘It is lovely,’ I say. ‘And it will be even nicer after a cup of coffee. I’m out of milk at home. Do you want one too?’

  ‘I’m okay for now,’ she says. ‘I left a lemon drizzle cake in the staff room. I bought it yesterday at the charity cake sale. Do help yourself.’

  ‘That’s nice of you, thanks,’ I say warmly.

  She puts her glove back on and digs up a dandelion with her fork. ‘What else is planned for the day?’

  ‘We’ve got a couple of tour buses coming later on,’ I say. ‘Then at teatime, a couple is coming for a wedding venue tour.’

  ‘I’ll make sure the flowers in the vases look tip-top.’

  ‘They always do.’ I grin. Mrs Fairchild always takes care to make sure the house not only looks lovely, but smells good too. She has a way with flowers, but more importantly, with people. Even though she’s my employer, I’ve never felt ill at ease with her. She’s one of the most open and friendly people I’ve ever met, plus she’s part of a lost generation who are as good at listening as at talking.

  ‘Thank you, child. It’s nice of you to notice.’

  ‘Sure. Now
, I’d better go and put on the coffee. Since I’m getting an early start, I was thinking of working on the costume exhibition.’

  Her smile wobbles. ‘Um yes. About that – I left a few bits and bobs I thought you might be interested in. Don’t feel you have to use any of them. It’s just some of my things from the swinging 60s.’

  ‘Great – I’ll definitely have a look.’

  She tilts her head, staring closely at me. ‘You look a little peaked, Alex. Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I wave my hand nonchalantly. ‘I just didn’t have a great sleep.’

  She scrutinises my face. ‘I hope you’re not still bothered about what happened with the Heath-Churchleys.’

  I shudder at the name – if I never hear it again, it will be too soon. The memory of being shouted down by Cee-cee’s ‘Daddy’ crashes over me. I’d have understood if he’d gone on about how I ruined his little girl’s special day – and even her life. That would have been reasonable. But interfering with one of ‘the oldest, proudest families’ in England? He made it sound like they were royalty and I was a common criminal who should be locked up sans key. I should have laughed in his face – why didn’t I laugh in his face?

  Cleaner, gift shop girl. Little nobody.

  Some days, my humble origins feel less like a chip on my shoulder and more like a steel girder.

  ‘To be honest, I am still a little bothered,’ I admit. ‘He said he was going to ring you up and have you sack me. I know you’ve been busy with your charity work, and I’ve barely seen you, but I guess I’m wondering if there’s an axe about to fall.’ I risk a smile.

  ‘Oh Alex – I’m sorry if you’ve been worried about that!’ Her mouth opens in mock horror. ‘Charles did ring me up. We had a nice chat and I set him straight. He’s like a big bull – blowing all kinds of steam and bluster. But really, he’s harmless.’

  I raise a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘I told him we’d return his deposit. I hope that’s okay. It seems the least we can do since he’s obviously very disappointed that the wedding didn’t go ahead. After all, it isn’t the first time.’ Her blue eyes twinkle.

  ‘I’ll send the cheque back today.’ I smile wanly, wishing the wild oats had all been sown before they entered my turf.

  ‘Please don’t look so forlorn, Alex.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I feign a smile. ‘I just really wanted the first wedding to go well. And the money would have been nice. I’ve had to put off the lads who were coming to do the carpet.’

  ‘But, Alex, you shouldn’t put off your projects.’ Mrs Fairchild looks distressed. ‘You only need to ask, and I’ll give you the money.’

  ‘I know. But I don’t want to do that. We’re running a business, remember?’ One of the few annoying things about Mrs Fairchild is that she has little concept of profit and loss. Her lifestyle is modest, despite living in a grand house, and she has enough money for her needs. So she doesn’t always take my careful budgeting and book-balancing seriously. Don’t get me wrong – it’s better than the alternative – having to scrimp and save and count squares of toilet roll and recycle tea bags. But I see it as my job to make sure that the house earns its keep without charity or handouts – even from its owner.

  ‘I know,’ she makes a puppy dog face. ‘But I don’t mind putting in a little extra here and there. Birthdays and Christmas, you know.’ She laughs.

  ‘And that’s much appreciated. But let’s see where I get with this wedding couple this afternoon.’

  I start to walk off – I really need a coffee. And maybe something sweet and carby. The lemon cake, or maybe a leftover scone from the tearoom. My mouth starts to water.

  ‘You know, Alex…’ she says, stopping me again. ‘Sometimes I think I did the wrong thing to bring you here.’

  ‘What?’ I whirl around. ‘I mean… I’m sorry – have I done something wrong?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she says brightly. ‘I couldn’t ask for a better manager. You know that.’

  My stomach unclenches, but only slightly. ‘Then, what is it?’

  ‘I know you’ll think I’m an old busybody. But I heard what your friend Karen said. About your hiding yourself away here – and needing to get out more.’

  I laugh freely. ‘Karen and I have quite different lifestyles – as you may have gathered from what happened. She’s the life of the party. I’m not. It doesn’t mean I’m not happy.’

  Mrs Fairchild taps the dried dirt from her fork. ‘I was a lot like you, Alex. Believe it or not.’

  ‘No,’ I say without thinking. ‘I mean… you’re so outgoing.’

  She smiles distantly, like she’s slipping into a memory. ‘I was a shy girl once,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to call attention to myself.’

  ‘You – shy?’ I grin. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Mrs Fairchild is definitely not shy. She’s president of the local WI, assistant music director of the church choir, and although there’s a team of gardeners that come in once a week, she spends most days working out in the garden when the tourists are around, so she can ‘meet nice people and have a chat’ – usually about the best way to deal with bindweed, or how to keep a stone path free from moss. Whereas the parts of the job I enjoy most are researching the house, managing the staff (most of whom I consider to be my friends) – and generally, the parts that don’t require too much contact with the visitors.

  ‘It was years ago,’ she admits. ‘After I met George Fairchild, I came into my own. We were married for over forty years. But in order to meet him, I had to leave this house. I was a debutante in London.’

  This time I snort. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting I do that…?’ I try to picture myself with shoulder-length ringlets, a floaty white dress, and elbow-length gloves rather than my usual boots/jeans/blazer ensemble.

  ‘I suppose it must seem silly to the modern generation,’ she says. ‘But I was happy to do it because it was what my dad wanted for me. I loved him so much…’ she falters for a second. ‘He always tried his best to make me happy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fairchild, I didn’t mean to be flippant.’ Not for the first time, I find it a bit unsettling how to Mrs Fairchild, Frank Bolton’s death is still raw even all these years later – a lot more years than her husband. Whenever she speaks about him, it’s like she’s been transported back in time and becomes ‘daddy’s little girl’ again. It makes things a bit awkward sometimes, given that a fair few tourists come to hear our ‘Knicker King’ quips and have a laugh about double gussets.

  ‘No matter. But take it from an old goat – your friend is right – it would do you good to get out more.’

  ‘Everyone seems to have a lot of ideas about what I should be doing.’ I cross my arms petulantly.

  ‘Your friends just want the best for you.’

  ‘So what do you suggest? That I go on a singles cruise? That I join a dating service? Sign up for ballroom dancing?’

  ‘Probably. But I know you won’t.’ She picks up her fork and continues weeding.

  I look fondly at the old woman – saviour of my bacon after the grubby situation with Xavier. After what happened with him, the entire university and everything connected with it made me sick to my stomach, and I decided to abandon my doctorate. For a few months I was like a leaky boat without a rudder, with no direction and no idea what to do with my life. I’d sunk so low that there seemed only one thing for it – I’d get a job. The problem was that despite all my years of higher education, I had no idea how to go about it.

  The career centre seemed like an obvious place to start, so that’s where I went. The woman at the desk eyed me warily, like I’d just blown in on a freak wind from Mars. I explained that I was leaving the university and wanted to get a job.’ Amid the dark mahogany panelling, the plush carpets and the framed photos of gothic crochets and and leather-bound books, the words sounded grubby and uncouth.

  I gave her my details and she pulled up my transcript on her screen, looking from it to me and back again. I s
at there growing increasingly uncomfortable, until at last she turned to me, wrinkling her nose like there was a bad smell.

  ‘Have you tried The Lady?’ she said.

  I left her office hanging my head. She’d made it clear that a first class degree in medieval studies was worth exactly jack squat in the ‘real world’.

  Dutifully, I checked The Lady. There were jobs for nannies and secretaries and housekeepers. Cocooned as I’d been in my ivory tower like a bookish, auburn-bobbed Rapunzel, the real world seemed like a frightening place. What was I going to do with my life (and why on earth hadn’t the question occurred to me before?). It’s not as if I was independently wealthy. It’s not as if my grants covered anything more than basic living expenses. Like so many other young academics, I’d originally assumed that I’d get a job teaching history – ideally at a university, but more likely at a sixth form college or girl’s secondary school. But my recent tutelage in a broken heart had made me eager to leave academia, and besides, there was nothing remotely like that in The Lady.

  The fact that I’d drawn a blank made me even more determined that this tawdry job idea was right for me. If the career centre couldn’t help me, then I’d have to find someone who could. I went to see my academic advisor and laid my cards on the table. Due to personal circumstances, I wouldn’t be sticking around to finish my thesis. Instead, I wanted a job.