Heart's Ease

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘And here we all are, right on cue,’ said Hugh. ‘I sense the moment is approaching where none of the rest of us is likely to be much good.’

  Marguerite remained where she was and held out her arms.

  ‘I could give him a bottle,’ suggested Honor. ‘I changed him.’

  ‘She did,’ said Hugh. ‘In fact she was rather more competent first time out than I’d have been with years of practice.’

  ‘Well done, Honor. And you can give him a bottle in due course but just for now he needs me.’

  Honor handed over Bruno who was already starting to stretch and make small explosive grunting noises.

  On the television, the royal family and the mighty congregation went about their majestic business. In the family room of Heart’s Ease the Blyths gazed with a variety of emotions at Bruno, with fewer hours in his life than the queen had years in her reign.

  Three

  1984

  ‘Coming, ready or not!’

  In the silence, Sasha’s own voice rang in her ears. Up here you were so far out of town and the garden was so massive, you couldn’t hear anything – no traffic, no people (at the moment), even the seagulls were too far away. And she didn’t trust Bruno further than she could throw him. He was one of those kids who was all smiles and cuteness on the surface, and a right sneaky little bugger underneath. He could easily be hiding really nearby, spying on her and having a laugh.

  The rules were, no hiding in the house, or in any outbuildings. She turned round on the spot, scanning her immediate surroundings: the ‘loggia’ (she had no idea), the encircling green wall of giant bushes, the weird hilly thing … He’d been wearing a pale blue Smurfs T-shirt but she glimpsed nothing, and there wasn’t the smallest movement or rustle. Sasha wouldn’t have put it past him to cheat, or camouflage himself in some way.

  It creeped her out, standing there. Time to get moving. Six o’clock in mid-September she didn’t fancy still wandering about the garden in an hour when it would be dusk. There would be the usual shenanigans about no ice-cream, upstairs and bath, and then she’d have to endure the agony of reading aloud, something she didn’t like and was no good at, but which was apparently indispensable.

  As Sasha set off on a systematic sweep of the garden she reflected grumpily that this was a lot more than she’d normally expect to do for a babysit. On her card in the post office she billed herself as ‘responsible, experienced babysitter, 16 yrs’. Her ideal was to show up at seven when her charge or charges were in bed, see the parents off on their night out and consume whatever had been left out in front of the TV (she wasn’t fussy, chocolate, crisps, cake, biscuits, ‘there’s the breadbin’). She didn’t mind a certain amount of toddler-soothing during the course of the evening, that made her feel useful, and if there was uncontrollable yelling she could always ring the parents.

  This was different. She had to entertain the dreaded Bruno for an hour before bedtime. She never wanted to be a nanny, just a babysitter. On the other hand the Blyths were nice, Mrs B was kind and lovely and Mr B was funny, and they invariably added a couple of quid to her rate – ‘danger money’ Mr B called it – at the end of the evening. If only she didn’t feel so nervous. The place was so big, and she couldn’t help feeling that Bruno had the drop on her. He was a smart, spoiled kid on his own patch which gave him bully’s rights. She felt it now, as she paced stealthily round the back of the hill and down the narrow green alleyway behind the bushes. She should never have agreed to hide-and-seek out of doors. Fuck’s sake, she might never find him! And what if he had an accident, fell down the boiler room steps, out of a tree, broke his ankle … At that moment Sasha wished herself anywhere but at Heart’s Ease.

  After a good five minutes by her watch, she stopped and called.

  ‘Bru-no, Bruno-oo, give us a cooee!’

  Nothing.

  ‘Bru-no! Give us a—’

  This time she heard it, the faintest, most distant, ‘… ooo … eee …’ like a late, far-off echo. It was difficult to tell what direction it came from, but since she was on the boundary of the garden, and had already been round the hill, she kept going anti-clockwise in the direction of the kitchen garden, the fruit cage, and the murky far corner which contained the compost and bonfire piles. This part of the garden was at the bottom of a slope, so the house loomed above her to her left, like a ship riding at anchor on its surrounding wave of green. Sasha didn’t care for the big bushes, the flowers were pretty in the summer, but the insides were like dark tents. She’d checked but Bruno wasn’t in any of them, that would have been far too obvious.

  Stupid game.

  She advanced on the fruit cage. The call had sounded further away, but it’d be just like him to hide in there so he could fill his face with raspberries and give her the runaround. Bucked up by this possibility, she opened the wire door, but just as she did so she heard the distant summons of the phone in the house. She hesitated, but only briefly – if that was Mrs B calling to check and she didn’t answer, what on earth would they think?

  She ran along the track, up the steps, and through the loggia into the hall. The phone’s ringing was loud and peremptory, she was sweating and out of breath as she answered.

  ‘… Hello?’

  A pause. ‘Who is that?’ A woman’s voice she didn’t recognize.

  ‘It’s Sasha. The babysitter?’

  ‘Right, in that case I know the answer to my question.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I was going to ask to speak to Mrs Blyth.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Blyth are out.’

  ‘Well, yes – I gathered,’ said the stranger coolly. ‘Since you’re there.’

  ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘Why not? Have you got something to write with?’

  Sasha picked up the biro that was attached by string to a spiral-backed notebook. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please can you tell them Felicity called?’

  ‘Felicity …’ Sasha wrote it down. ‘Shall I put a number?’

  ‘It’s alright, they know that. I’m their daughter.’

  ‘Oh! Sorry.’ Sasha wasn’t sure what to make of this. So the Blyths had this posh, grown-up daughter as well as the little terror. It was disconcerting.

  ‘That’s alright, you weren’t to know.’ There was a hint of a smile in the voice now. ‘So how are you getting on?’

  Relieved at the slightly warmer tone, Sasha said, ‘We’re playing hide-and-seek before bed.’

  Felicity gave a little laugh. ‘Good luck with that! Who’s hiding at the moment?’

  ‘He is – Bruno.’

  ‘I bet he is. How long have you been looking?’

  ‘I’m not sure … for a while.’

  ‘Want a tip?’

  ‘Yes please.’ Sasha’s reply was heartfelt.

  ‘Don’t knock yourself out searching.’

  ‘Really …?’ Easy for her to say, thought Sasha, what was she supposed to do, just leave him out there?

  ‘Let him stew,’ said Felicity, reading her mind. ‘Once he thinks you’ve lost interest, he will.’

  This made a certain sense, but Sasha was torn between the impulse to put Bruno in his place, and her responsibility to Mr and Mrs B.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Completely. I know the workings of his horrible tiny mind.’

  Sasha couldn’t deny it was a comfort to come across a person who appeared to take the same view as her. And his sister, no less.

  Tentatively she asked, ‘So, what, just stay in here and wait for him to show up?’

  ‘That’s right – sorry, I’ve forgotten your name?’

  ‘Sasha.’

  ‘Sasha. Believe me, he will. Nothing kills a prank stone dead quicker than being ignored.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Anyway, got to go. Just be sure to let them know I called.’

  ‘I will. Thanks—’

  But she was talking to herself. The handset gave off its blank, indifferent buzz, and she
put it down. The house lay around her, deathly quiet. She felt a prickle of anxiety, but she had accepted the sister’s advice so she might as well act on it, and sit tight.

  There was a small half-landing on the turning point of the stairs, with a window affording a view of the front drive. Sasha sat on the end of the windowsill, from where she could also see part of the loggia. She reckoned she’d got the situation pretty well covered, but she still hoped Bruno wouldn’t take too long to get the hump and come back. This was a risky strategy.

  The silence seemed to take on a gloopy, tactile quality. When she changed position, however slightly, she felt she was pushing the air around her. A strange tabby cat stalked across the drive, head low, something no cat would ever have done if the dear old dog had still been around. Halfway across it paused and, motionless, looked up directly at Sasha with empty yellow eyes. Spooked, she was tempted to turn the light on, though it wasn’t yet dark, but that would advertise her presence in the house and if she was to call his bluff her whereabouts had to remain a mystery.

  And, she reminded herself, this was just the start of the evening. Once Bruno turned up there was the whole rigmarole of bath, and teeth, and story, and going to bed, before she could even think of flopping down in front of the telly. The Blyths had gone with friends to a show at the Northcott Theatre in Exeter, there was no way they’d be back before eleven. There were sausage rolls and potato salad in the kitchen, she yearned for the moment she could sink her teeth into the flaky pastry, the peppery sausagemeat, the slippery new potatoes in their silky covering of mayonnaise and chives … Her mouth watered …

  How had she let herself be at the mercy of a spoilt seven-year-old boy?

  Bugger it, she was going to go to the kitchen, turn on the light, and have some supper.

  She went first to the family room and turned on the television. The local news was on, the most boring programme known to man, but better than the endless miners with their placards. She left it chatting away while she put the sausage rolls in a low oven – they were ever so much nicer warm. Then she went back along to the hall and turned the light on there – in for a penny in for a pound. It was definitely becoming dusk outside, and turning on the light made it seem even darker. She went out of the front door and stood on the drive, where the cat had been, looking all around. The metal five-bar gate stood open awaiting the Blyths’ return later on, and a woman (it was Wendy Waller) with a spaniel on a lead walked past in the direction of the footpath. She waved cheerily to Sasha.

  ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Lovely evening!’ the woman called as she went on her way. ‘But they’re drawing in, aren’t they? We need to get a move on!’

  This little encounter cheered Sasha up. She was not alone, and the natives were friendly. That posh, energetic woman would definitely have been on her side in the battle of wills with Bruno, just like his sister. For a moment she felt herself at one with the world of beleaguered, right-minded adults.

  The front door had a Yale latch and closed with a satisfying clunk behind her. An appetising whiff of sausage roll wafted along the corridor to greet her. Mrs B’s note said the potato salad was in the green bowl in the larder. She had not yet turned the light on in the family room, but the telly cast its comforting, flickering glow as she crossed and opened the larder door. There was only one small window high on the far wall, so the narrow room was in semi darkness.

  ‘Hello.’

  The disembodied voice came from somewhere below her. Shocked and disorientated Sasha let out a loud shriek.

  ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘Who?’

  Her hand scrabbled for the light switch. Bruno was sitting cross-legged under the marble shelf at the back. How stupid was she, who else would it have been?

  ‘You gave me the fright of my life!’ she scolded. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘Getting some cake.’

  There was indeed a rather dilapidated Victoria sponge under a plastic cover on the side, but there was no sign of it having been cut, and Bruno wasn’t holding any.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, pre-emptively.

  ‘No you’re not, you’re hiding.’

  ‘Only because I heard you coming.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to be hiding in the house!’ said Sasha. She sounded childish, but she couldn’t help it. Her heart was still racing with anxiety, and the fact that he’d caused it made her angry, too.

  He crawled out. ‘Well you were in here and I heard you coming.’

  She couldn’t be bothered to argue, but snatched the green bowl off the shelf.

  ‘Do you want cake, then? It’s bedtime.’

  ‘No not really, I’ll go up.’

  This docile capitulation was as surprising as the original discovery. He edged past her looking almost crestfallen. Sasha reminded herself that this was a nice little job.

  ‘I’ll come up in a bit, alright?’

  ‘OK.’

  She watched as he sloped off down the passage. Was she just imagining a forlorn slump to his shoulders? Perhaps, she reflected, she had been too sharp, but he had given her a fright – and meant to as well. Maybe that was only mischief and she shouldn’t have overreacted, but he was so – she struggled to find a word – so tricky. Even now, as she listened to him scampering upstairs (with a light tread now, she noticed) she suspected the joke was well and truly on her. She’d called his bluff and he’d come right back at her. She cringed when she thought of her shriek; talk about playing into his hands!

  In need of the crudest comfort, Sasha turned off the oven and consumed one of the sausage rolls right then and there, opening and shutting her mouth and hopping from foot to foot (it was hot) and shedding greasy flakes of pastry on the floor and down her front in the process. Then she dug into the potato salad with a pudding spoon while the telly burbled on in the background.

  Warmed and calmed by the food, she wondered how long to leave him before going up. She’d more or less decided not to get on his case about washing and teeth, and if he was happy looking at a comic, or drawing, she wouldn’t press a bedtime story on him either. At least the older sister had understood, so it wasn’t just her who found herself on the back foot the whole time.

  She sat down in front of the telly for ten minutes to kill time, and then went up. Once again, it was so quiet it was hard to believe there was anyone else in the house. The Blyths’ bedroom was to the right of the landing, with a window overlooking the garden and the Fort. To the left was the large spare room with two beds and an old-fashioned wash basin with massive brass taps. Bruno’s was the first door along the passage that ran above the kitchen and family room. There were two more along there which were referred to as ‘the girls’’ rooms, meaning the middle sisters, but they weren’t around much as far as Sasha could tell. Sasha had only met the younger one, Honor, and that only once – she was really friendly and nice. In photographs (of which there many around the house, especially in the loos) you could see that the oldest girl – the one who’d rung earlier – was the good-looking one. She was really glamorous in a posh way, with swingy hair and shiny skin – she seemed to have lots of friends and went skiing and sailing. Sasha was glad that the first time she’d spoken to her was on the phone, or she might have been intimidated. Now that she was an ally, she wouldn’t be nervous if they met.

  Now she turned down the passage, past the family bathroom which was huge, with black and white tiles on the floor, a wicker chair, a giant silver towel rail, and a bookcase of all things with magazines, a basket of stones and shells, and a plant on the top. Bruno’s door was open, and she tapped with her knuckle and went in. The curtains were open but the bedside light was on. Bruno was hunched up on his side under the bedclothes.

  ‘Bruno? It’s me, I just … Are you asleep?’

  There was no reply, so she very quietly drew the curtains, and went to turn off the lamp.

  ‘Can I have it on?’

  Once again he made her jump
, but at least this time he wasn’t looking at her.

  ‘Yes. I suppose. For a bit.’

  He didn’t answer. You never knew where you were with him. Cautiously, trying not to make a sound, she leaned forward so as to peer over at his face. He looked fast asleep. His long dark lashes – God, she’d kill for those lashes – lay softly on his cheek and his hair was like a rumpled fan of black feathers on the pillow. There were a couple of tiny dry leaves caught in his hair. So he had been hiding in the garden, to begin with anyway. Sasha felt a beat of something like tenderness for him. He was only seven, a baby.

  ‘Goodnight, Sasha.’

  His voice was clear and bright, though the lashes hadn’t so much as fluttered.

  ‘Oh – night!’

  Sasha hastened back downstairs.

  Spooked again, she hadn’t gone back up to check, or to turn the light off. When the Blyths got back, at twenty past eleven, she told them truthfully that she hadn’t heard a sound.

  Mr B observed that that made a change. While he found Sasha’s money (they had rarely put aside the right amount, and often rounded it up) Mrs B went up to take a peep and came back down shaking her head.

  ‘Tinker … He must have turned the light back on, and then gone to sleep.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘He’d make sure you didn’t! Don’t worry, he’s fine.’

  Sasha pocketed her envelope – she could feel there was some change, so that would be the exact amount this time – and said, ‘Thanks for my tea.’

  ‘Tea? – oh, the sausage rolls. Pleasure, were they nice?’

  ‘Delicious.’

  In the car on they way back to Salting, Mr B gave her one of his funny sidelong looks.

  ‘Hope he didn’t give you any gyp.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  He tilted his head in her direction. ‘You can speak frankly. I shan’t grass you up.’

  She had to smile at the way he said certain things in his nice posh voice. ‘Well, he was a bit hard to find.’

  ‘Hard to find?’

  ‘We played hide-and-seek.’

  ‘You did? Ye gods – and was that a mistake?’