The Housekeeper's Daughter

by Palmer, Dee

“No, Maria. It’s okay. No, thank you, though, and thank you for my—” A sorrow filled cry explodes from deep inside my chest, and I fold over onto myself, one arm wrapping around the hollow sadness clawing in my tummy, the other lying heavily on Sid.

  “Oh honey.” Maria’s arm rests across my shoulders. Her words falter because there’s nothing to say. She hauls me into an awkward sideways hug, and I try and pull myself together. It’s not like he was my cat; we only met yesterday, and it makes not a toss of difference, no matter how many times I run those words through my head.

  He’s dead and it’s just so sad.

  “I hate to be leaving you like this, honey, but I gotta get going. I’m looking after the little one today and—”

  “Oh no, it’s fine. I’ll be fine, thank you again.” I roughly rub the streaks of tears from my cheeks, and as Maria lifts herself to her feet, I give Sid a light pat, a final stroke, and then I stand too.

  I show Maria to the door, and she gives me a silent, heartfelt hug. I feel sick to my stomach, and as soon as I close the door, I make a mad dash to the downstairs toilet. I reach my target in time when my stomach violently heaves nothing but bile and saliva into the bowl. My stomach feels bruised and my heart aches. I slump against the icy-cool porcelain, close my weary, sore eyes, and let the tears fall.

  I don’t know how long I’m there; exhaustion pulled me into sleep, and I wake with a crink in my neck, drool at the corner of my mouth, and a numb arse. Logan is standing at the door, his expression so darkly distant I have to take a second look.

  “Logan, are you okay?”

  “Come on, you need to get dressed.” He holds his hand out to me, my legs are locked, and I need the support to get up off the ground. I stumble forward, trying to ignore the unpleasant niggle in my gut. He’s avoiding eye contact, and he didn’t answer my damn question. He releases my hand as soon as I find my feet, and the loss of contact feels like more than simply letting go; it feels like severance.

  “Logan, what’s wrong?” I dip to try and catch his gaze. His evasion is stealthy and sends an unpleasant shiver along the length of my spine.

  “Nothing I can’t fix.” He glares right through me. I place my hands on his cheeks, forcing him to look at me, not through me.

  “Stop it, Logan. Stop it now.”

  “Stop what?” His brow crinkles with his piercing glare, yet his delivery is remote.

  “This…this shutting down!” I want to shake him. He feels rigid beneath my fingertips, my pleas failing to penetrate this newly erected wall between us. “Stop blaming yourself. This isn’t your fault.”

  “Oh I know it’s not,” he snarls. His hands grip my wrists, squeezing to the point of pain. His eyes dance with a darkness I’ve never seen before. “It’s her fault, and she is going to pay.”

  “Are you going to call the police?”

  He huffs out a twisted laugh. “And say what? Report the death of a cat that doesn’t belong to me? That I suspect it’s been poisoned? No, Tia, I’m not.”

  “There’s no need for the fucking attitude, Logan. I’m upset too, but it’s not my fault either.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “What?” I tug my hands from his grip, his accusation, striking like a heavy palm across my face. I stare, disbelieving and utterly broken.

  “If you weren’t here, that wouldn’t have happened.” He points behind him in the general direction of the kitchen.

  “You’re blaming me?” I can barely get the words out. They scour my throat with the acrid taste of his accusation.

  “If you weren’t here, you wouldn’t be in danger.” A thunderous look settles uneasy on his face, his dark eyes stormy and troubled.

  “Logan, I’m not.” I try to soothe his escalating worry with my calming tone, only nothing seems to be getting through, he’s like an impenetrable rock.

  “Not what, Tia? Not in danger?” His voice drops to an eerie calm, and I get a surge of sickness swill in my tummy when he recites his terrifying list of truths. “That wasn’t a box full of poisoned cupcakes for you in the kitchen? That wasn’t a cupcake on the side table up in the bedroom just ready for you to take a bite? Christ, if I’d stopped to tie my fucking shoelace you’d be dead.”

  “I didn’t eat—”

  He bites out, cutting off a sentence I couldn’t complete. “You can’t even finish the train of thought because you know I’m right.” I let out a shaky sigh, feeling the ominous weight of his words. My shoulders sink, and my stomach drops.

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “We aren’t going to do anything. This is my problem and I will fix it.” My hackles rise with every one of his emphasised inflections.

  “Nice, Logan, and what am I supposed to do? Just sit back and watch you tear yourself apart trying to find a fucking ghost, and then what? I clench my hands into tight, angry fists as adrenaline and frustration pump furiously through my veins. “Am I supposed to silently watch you commit a crime which will probably get you sent to prison?” I fail to keep my voice remotely level as panic colours my every thought. “Not fucking happening Logan! I won’t lose you too.” I’m unashamed I’m falling apart before his eyes. He needs to see this. He has to know he’s destroying me, and I have to convince him, whatever he’s thinking, it’s a bad fucking idea.

  “Princess, you already have.”

  “Don’t say that, and don’t fucking call me princess.” I’m shaking head to toe. Tears fill my eyes, and I’m furious they won’t stop. I rub them dry and try to get my head straight. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand any of this. I squeeze my eyes tight and pull air deep into my lungs. Pressure throbs inside my head like the tick-tock of a bomb, and when I open my eyes and focus, I swallow as the timer hits zero. Boom! “Logan, what’s with the bags?”

  He follows my gaze to two large suitcases and a rucksack. His expression is impassive, and my heart squeezes out its last beat. I shake my head with the unthinkable reality unfolding in this waking nightmare.

  “You can’t leave.” I stutter out the words clogging my throat.

  “I’m not. It’s me she wants, and she knows exactly where to find me,” he states flatly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t have you here, Tia. I can’t have you in my life. I won’t be responsible for the death of someone else I love. I won’t.” He straightens to his full height as if the extra few inches will distance himself enough to not feel the impact of his decision.

  “Logan?”

  “You need to leave.”

  “You don’t mean that.” I reach my hand toward him, and he snatches it in his and pulls me forward. He grasps my chin with the other hand and locks his vacant glare on mine.

  “Don’t I? Look in to my eyes and tell me you think I don’t mean every fucking word. Get. Out. Of. My. Life,” he hisses, and I feel each word plunging into my heart like a lethal blade.

  I see it now.

  I see it all.

  Raw and ugly and true.

  I can’t fucking breathe. I curl my fists and hurl them at the immovable wall of muscle towering over me, thumping, pounding with every ounce of fury and frustration until my arms drop to my sides, too weak to lift my hands for one more blow. He’s like a statue. My body is wracked and ruined. My tears ran dry somewhere between desperation and devastation, about the same time as all my hope. I stumble back and look up at the stony features of the man I love, so changed in that fraction of time.

  How did this happen? I know why, I just can’t comprehend how.

  He won’t look at me, and I hate him for that.

  “Coward,” I whisper as I step around his mountainous frame. He flinches at the word or my nearness; I can’t tell. I don’t know anything anymore.

  I feel like I’m watching myself from the outside, or on autopilot. I feel a numbness, like a drug, creeping through my veins and sedating every cell, yet not quite erasing the agony. There are nightmare stories of surg
eries where the patient is paralysed with anaesthesia and can still feel every cut and slice of the scalpel. They just can’t scream. I wonder if I can.

  I reach my bedroom, strip out of Logan’s T-shirt and head straight to my bathroom. Turning the dial to scalding hot, I step in the shower and rub my skin raw, trying to feel something other than the unbearable heartbreaking pain shredding my heart into a million fucking pieces.

  This can’t be happening.

  My eyes sting. My body won’t stop trembling, and I can’t suck in any air without a gut wrenching sob tearing from my lungs. I tilt my head back and let the scorching hot streams of water beat down like a thousand needles over my face and body, relishing the pain, a distracting respite from my hopelessness.

  My skin is bright red and too tender to even pat dry with the softest towel. I walk naked into my bedroom. Logan stands just inside the room, with his back to the door. His presence spikes a jump in my heart. I get a flash of hopeful tingles across my skin which cease the instant I register the only thing that’s changed is the location. I can see all too clearly I’m fighting a losing battle, and my desolation is momentarily eclipsed once more with blinding rage.

  “Come to check I’m still leaving?” I spew words with venom drenching the sarcasm.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, fuck you very much, Logan. I have to pack and get some clothes on.”

  “I’ve packed for you. Everything you own is in those cases downstairs.” I am speechless, my mouth hangs open like the fool I am. “Don’t look so surprised, T, you took a lot with you when you moved in with Atticus.”

  “What about all my art stuff here?”

  “I’ll send it on.”

  “On to where, Logan? I have nowhere else to go. This is my home, with you.” I hate the pathetic lilt to my voice, yet I can’t seem to stop. Please don’t do this.

  “This is my home.” His voice catches, and I cling with bleeding fingernails and a broken heart to that sliver of hesitation, like I would to a ledge.

  “What about us? You said you’d never leave me. You said you’d never hurt me. You fucking lied.”

  “If I let you stay Tia, you wouldn’t be hurt. You’d be dead. Please don’t make this any harder than it is.”

  “Really, how can I make this any harder?” I pull my sweatpants on over my bare legs. My socks stick to the damp skin, and I use my t-shirt to dry my sodden face before dragging it over my wet, limp hair.

  “You called me a coward.”

  “You are a coward. You don’t have to do this, and you can’t even look at me when you are breaking my fucking heart.” I breathe in stuttering breaths and soul sad sobs. Every fibre in my body is shattered.

  “It hurts too much. I don’t have a choice, Tia. I won’t lose you.” He drags his hands through his hair and looks up to the ceiling. There’s no heaven here, nothing left to pray for. He’s made his decision, and I can’t glean any comfort from the visual that I’m not the only one going straight to hell.

  “This is fucked up.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, resigned and worn though. “You won’t lose me so you’re kicking me out”

  “I have to sort this, then we can—” I blurt out a sharp, bitter laugh, which pulls him up short.

  “What? What can we be Logan? Be together? You think I’d take you back after you tore my fucking heart from my chest and stomped it in the ground with your stupid fucking size thirteens?”

  “Tia, please.”

  “Please what?”

  “Please, just leave.”

  “Oh, I’m gone. I’m so fucking gone.” He sighs and I grab my sweater from the end of my bed and my handbag. It would be childish to push past him with my shoulder but that’s not why I don’t. I can’t bear the thought of touching him, knowing it will be the last time.

  “Would you mind just stopping at the store. I need to get some supplies.” I tap on the window dividing the driver and me and all my worldly possessions. The black cab driver wasn’t thrilled with the long distance when I gave him my destination address but my teary eyes and fistful of notes persuaded him to accept.

  “It’s your fare, darling. Fill your boots.” He gives me a warm smile and a two-finger salute, reaching for his newspaper before my hand touches the door handle.

  “Thank you, I won’t be long.” The green light pings the all clear to open the door and I step from the taxi just outside the one and only village shop. The bell over the door rings a discordant tone in my ears and spirals me back in time.

  “Let me buy them for you.” Atticus takes the packet from my hands.

  “No Cass. I have enough money,” I argue and look through the coppers in my palm, counting the pennies for the third time as if somehow it will miraculously conjure up a few more. I don’t have enough money, nowhere near. “Actually, I’m not that hungry.” I slip the change into the back pocket of my jeans and shrug off the decision as a simple change of heart or tummy. I’ve worked on and off all summer when Cass was busy or on holiday. Even so, all my money goes to buying art supplies; chocolates are a treat I can’t afford. I take the bag from Atticus’s hand and replace them in the tired display, along with all the other mouth watering, teeth rotting confections I can’t afford.

  “You’re so stubborn. Let me buy the damn sweets, Tia.” He picks up the packet and holds it so high out of my reach, even on tiptoes I struggle to get anywhere near enough to grab it back.

  When did he get so tall and strong? I rock back onto my heels and huff in defeat. However, I spin and flounce angrily from the shop, determined to win the war.

  “No,” I brush past Cass, pulling the door so roughly the curve of the brass bell snaps from its hinge, making enough noise to wake the dead or worse, disturb the owner, Mr Clegg, who is reading his creepy magazines behind the counter. I freeze in the doorway as he hollers from the rear of the shop.

  “You damn kids. You’re going to pay for that, Missy.” He charges down the narrow aisle waving a crooked finger in my direction, thunder and bitterness raging across his wrinkled face. His black eyes sparkle with life, and I swear it’s the first time I’ve seen the old man smile.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mr Clegg.”

  “It was an accident, Mr Clegg,” Cass adds in my defence.

  “No such thing. This was an antique.” He picks up the bell and cradles it in his weathered hands like some prized possession.

  “It was old; it wasn’t an antique. There’s a difference.” Atticus scoffs, and Mr Clegg retorts with a scowl filled with contempt and animosity.

  “No one asked you, milord.”

  “There’s no need to be like that, Mr Clegg.” Atticus shakes his head at the old man’s attempted insult. He brushes it off with twinkle of mischief in his eyes and a politely condescending rebuttal. “This will cover the cost of the heirloom and these.” Atticus grabs a box of malteasers from the high ledge, takes my hand, and leaves a stunned Mr Clegg in the doorway holding the bell like a fallen comrade.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper even though we are well out of earshot and walking back toward the Hall. Atticus has hold of my hands, and I love the way the butterflies dance like they’re at a rave when he does.

  “He was being a prick, and I didn’t want you worrying about how you’re going to pay him back. You should never have to worry about money.”

  “Says you, because you have it.” I roll my eyes, even though I know he didn’t say it to show off or be a smart-arse.

  “Says me, because I have it, but I have something and she’s worth much more.” He steps around me, making me halt or crash right into him. I hold his gaze for a moment and not a second more. It’s too intense. I shuffle from one foot to the other and mumble.

  “Yeah, because I’m such a catch.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He tips my chin and takes me by surprise with a heart-pounding, breath-stealing kiss. It’s only my second, and it feels so much better than the first. My toes wriggle with anticipation
when he breaks the kiss, and I think about the possibility of a third. “Here” He holds is hand out. It takes a moment to register the gift since I’m in a daze from the knee-wobbling kiss.

  “You bought a whole box.” I place my hand over my beating heart, convinced nothing says I love you better than a family size box of malteasers.

  “Because you’re totally, worth it.”

  “Would you like a bag?” The lady behind the counter asks as she starts to ring up the contents of my hand basket. Her name badge says Gaynor, but I recognise her as Mr Clegg’s younger sister.

  “Yes, please.” Today is about survival, and I am fully loaded with enough essentials to last at least a few days: milk, bread, eggs, sausages, cheese, coffee, wine, and toilet rolls. I even eye the box of malteasers gathering dust on the top shelf, but figure they’ve probably been there since I was at school.

  “Are you visiting the area or are you moving back?” Gaynor follows my line of sight and nods her head in the direction of the chocolate, confusing me with which question she wants me to answer. I shake my head at the chocolates and respond with my own question.

  “Moving back?”

  “You look just like your mother, dear.” She smiles kindly, her face lighting up with recognition and memory. “I know it’s been a while, but I would know those green eyes anywhere.”

  “Oh, I see…I’m not sure. Staying for awhile, I think.” I shift under her scrutiny.

  “Did you hear what happened at the Hall?” Her dramatic gasp is almost comical. The hand on her heart is also for effect, and I suddenly do remember what a quiet village this is and what big news the explosion must’ve been.

  “Sort of.” I’m not a gossip and have no intention of adding more fuel to this fire.

  “Such a shame, such a beautiful house and now its just rubble and cinders,” she muses, ringing up the total. “Thirty eight pounds and twenty four pence.”

  “Really?” I peek into the bag and struggle to see what I’ve bought that could’ve cost so much. I hand over the cash.

  “We can’t compete with he big supermarkets, I’m afraid.”