by Tim ORourke
Page 12
That’s it! Winnie thought to herself, as if tiny pieces of a puzzle had been slotted into place. Gooseflesh prickled her back. The clothes! His dead wife’s clothes! Her coat, shoes, everything. He had coaxed her up to his house because she resembled Frances in some way, and by making her wear her clothes, Thaddeus was pretending that she was still alive – still with him.
That was kind of sick, right? Winnie thought. If not sick - creepy. She knew then why Thaddeus had left instructions for her to sit in that chair, wearing those clothes, and reading that book, because that’s where Frances probably would have sat and read. He wanted to relive that moment of coming down the stairs and seeing his beloved Frances sitting quietly in the lounge, reading. But Winnie didn’t want to be Frances and the whole idea of playing the role of a dead woman so Thaddeus didn’t have to let go of his past, made her feel angry. She felt tricked by him. Housekeeper, my arse! She thought. The whole cooking thing, cleaning, washing and ironing his clothes - he didn’t want a housekeeper – Thaddeus wanted a wife! He wanted Frances back. What would he expect her to do next for him? Sleep with him? And the thought made Winnie feel scared. Not of him, but what he might be expecting from her next.
Winnie didn’t feel that Thaddeus was a bad man – she had been around plenty of those in the past to know what they were all about. She was beginning to wonder if Thaddeus wasn’t a little crazy. Not dangerous crazy, but messed-up crazy, over the death of his wife. Shouldn’t Thaddeus be coming to terms in some small way with his loss? After all, Thaddeus had told Winnie she had died about a year ago. Winnie understood loss, and she thought of her friend, Ruby Little. She had dealt with her death by trying not to think about Ruby; she had run away from that. Thaddeus hadn’t, he seemed to be trapped, whereas Winnie had escaped. Either way, she guessed that neither Thaddeus nor she had dealt with their loss. So she couldn’t really blame him for what he was trying to do. Winnie decided that she would do as he had requested, just this once, and take the opportunity to talk to him about Frances.
She made her way slowly through the town, pausing to look through the windows of the tiny shops which laid huddled together down the narrow streets. She discovered poky jewellery shops where earrings and necklaces had been fashioned out of shells washed up by the sea. Winnie passed tea shops and a little bakery where the intoxicating smell of fresh bread wafted on the cold sea air. A few knickknack shops were open, selling postcards and sweet rock. There was also the tiniest music shop she had ever seen, and she browsed around the small CD collection. Leaving the music shop, Winnie walked down onto the harbour where she discovered arcades which had been boarded up until the summer. She passed fish and chip shops and restaurants. She came across a row of shop fronts that had been turned into galleries, and she wandered amongst them, watching the artists at work as they lovingly painted pictures of the sea, boats, and fishermen hauling in their nets. One of the artists asked if Winnie wanted her portrait done in pastels while she waited. With a red flush on her cheeks, she declined and left the artist to his work. Seagulls swooped around her, calling out as they made their way out to sea. Fishermen worked on their boats down on the harbour, fixing, rigging, or preparing to set sail. She passed shops that sold fishing equipment, and she stopped for a while and watched live bait squirm and wriggle about in glass containers. After a time, Winnie came across the restaurant where she and Thaddeus had eaten the night before. Next to it was a small bookshop. Thinking of Thaddeus, Winnie pushed open the door and stepped inside.
A bell jingled above her head, and an old woman with a curved spine appeared from the back of the shop and shuffled to the front counter. Winnie noticed that her white hair was thinning and her pink scalp shone through in places. Nets of wrinkles had etched themselves around her crisp blue eyes and her puckered mouth. The old woman held a shawl tightly about her frame, and Winnie noticed that her hands were liver-spotted, and her fingers were gnarled and pinched together like chicken’s feet. Gold-rimmed glasses hung about the woman’s sagging neck on a chain. As she reached the counter, the old woman smiled sweetly at Winnie and said, "Good morning, my dear, how can I help you?"
Winnie returned the old lady’s smile. "I just wondered if you sold any books of poetry. "
The old woman nodded. "Yes, my dear, I do have a small selection. Mostly classics, really. " She stepped from behind the counter and began to make her way through the shop. "Come this way and I’ll show you what I have. "
"Thank you,” Winnie smiled, and followed the old lady to the rear of the shop. They stopped before a row of shelves which adorned the wall before them. The old woman popped her spectacles onto the bridge of her nose and peered at the spines of the books. She ran a shaking hand along the row.
"Were you looking for any poet in particular, or perhaps a collection of love sonnets for such a beautiful young lady as yourself?"
Winnie blushed and said, "I'm looking for some poetry by a poet named Thaddeus Blake. "
The old woman looked thoughtfully for a moment and then began to shake her head. "There’s William Blake, but I can't say I've ever heard of a poet called Thaddeus Blake, my sweet. You did say Thaddeus Blake, didn’t you?”
"Yes,” Winnie nodded.
The old woman continued to shake her head thoughtfully, "Now that's a new name to me. Does he write modern verse?"
Winnie began to get a little confused now. She knew she didn’t know enough about poetry to discuss the differing styles that seemed to exist. To her, a poem was a bunch of words that rhymed.
"I'm not sure," Winnie said.
The old woman smiled again, "Not to worry, my dear. I’ll check on the Internet for you. ” She turned and made her way back to the front counter.
"There really isn't any need to go to any trouble,” Winnie called after her.
"Hush, hush now, my dear. It really isn't any trouble,” the old woman smiled, reaching the counter where there was a computer.
While Winnie waited for the old woman to check her database, she looked at all the rows of books. She wondered about all the words printed in the shop and the stories they told. As she stood and thought about all the different stories created by all the different writers in the world, she knew she would love to have a look at one of Thaddeus’s books of poetry. She would find it a curious thing to hold it in her hands and look over all the neatly printed words. She thought it must be a very precious thing indeed to have written a book, to which people you had never met, would read and share your words and ideas. Winnie wanted a copy of Thaddeus’s poems so she could see what words and ideas he had wanted to share with others.
The old woman looked up from the computer and said, "I'm sorry, dear, but there doesn't seem to be a record of any such poet. You did say Thaddeus Blake, didn't you?"
Winnie just nodded, disappointed and confused.
"Well he just doesn't exist. There isn't any such poet, my dear,” the old woman smiled.
She thanked the woman for her help, and with a frown, Winnie left the bookshop.
Chapter Fifteen
Winnie spent the next hour or so buying the groceries which Thaddeus had asked for. She went about this chore systematically as her mind puzzled over what the old woman in the bookshop had told her.
Again, Winnie had become suspicious of Thaddeus, but she wondered if there wasn’t an explanation, how crazy or weird, why he didn’t come up on the shopkeeper’s database. Okay, so Thaddeus had told her he was a poet and that's what he spent his nights alone writing. As he had explained himself the very first night that they had met, he liked the peace and quiet of the night and the solitude it provided. So maybe his writing was no more than a hobby? Then again, hadn’t he said his reason for being in London was to meet with his publisher? She wondered. Perhaps he wasn’t yet published? But this just only filled Winnie’s head with more questions about her eccentric employer. Like she planned to ask him about Frances, she decided to also tell Thaddeus
about her uneventful visit to the bookshop. Winnie paid for the groceries in the supermarket, and left. Her mind was so muddled with her own thoughts, that she missed the newspaper stand outside with its bold black headline, which read: Local woman and baby found butchered.
As Winnie made her way back up the hill with the heavy bags of groceries swinging from her fists, she knew she would have to be careful how she raised the issues of his dead wife and the bookshop visit. Thaddeus was her employer after all, and he might not be too happy if he thought she had been snooping on him. Although Winnie’s suspicions had been raised, she still needed the job until she had raised enough money to run again.
As she stood and unpacked the shopping in the kitchen and stored it away in the cupboards, Winnie pushed her doubts and fears to the back of her mind. She would deal with them later - when Thaddeus woke. Winnie fixed herself a ham sandwich for lunch and relaxed at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a packet of Cadbury’s chocolate fingers she had added to the groceries.
An hour later she set about cleaning the house. Winnie found a duster and a can of polish in a cupboard beneath the kitchen sink and moved through the dining room. She dusted and polished the long table until its surface was gleaming. Wiping away the dust which had built up around the window frames, she decided that if the weather was warmer tomorrow, she would venture outside and clean the windows. The window by the chair she was going to sit and read in was particularly grubby she noticed, and you could barely see out of it. Winnie walked around the room, dusting the bookshelves and knocking away the beginnings of cobwebs that had crept between the books. She figured that dust and cobwebs must be a continuing problem in a house this size, and once she had finished cleaning all of the rooms, she would have to start right back at the beginning again.
Winnie spent an hour or more just dusting the dining room and by the time she had finished, her arms and back ached. The pain clawed its way across her shoulder blades and dug at the small of her back. She hung her arms loosely by her sides, rolling her shoulders and stretching her spine as she left the dining room and crossed the hall. Winnie reached the door which led into the lounge and paused. She backtracked a few paces and stood before the oil painting in the hall which hung opposite the picture of Thaddeus. She stared up at the picture, letting her eyes travel over the painted face before her. The woman’s face was a little longer and narrower than her own, but the colour of her hair and eyes matched Winnie’s. The women in the painting did look a lot like her. With her flesh breaking out in goose bumps, Winnie knew that she was looking at a painting of Frances. Then, as she slowly passed the paintings of the other women, she thought with a strange disquiet, that in an uncanny way, she looked a little like all of them. Not knowing if her imagination was working overtime and that she was now becoming suspicious of everything and anything connected to Thaddeus, Winnie told herself not to be so dumb and turned her back on the paintings of Frances and the other women. To try and clear her mind of her nagging doubts and ever-growing paranoia, Winnie took the iPod, put in the earphones, and spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the lounge and kitchen while listening to Alone Again By Alyssa Reid as loud as she could bear.
