by Tim O'Rourke
At about five p.m., Winnie noticed that the house had begun to grow dim as the winter sunlight began to fade over the hill. She passed through the house, switching on lights. In the lounge, she switched on the lamp next to the chair where she had been asked to sit and read. Taking the clothes from the back of the chair, she made her way upstairs to get changed into them. In her room, Winnie discarded the clothes she had been wearing that day, placing them in the laundry basket along with the rest of her dirty clothes. It was then Winnie noticed the blouse with Thaddeus’s bloody handprint on it and she wondered if the cut had now healed.
Winnie put on the violet top and black skirt Thaddeus had left out for her. She found a black pair of shoes with a small heel amongst the many other pairs in the closet. Setting her hair and her makeup, she stood before the mirror and wondered if this was really how Frances had looked when she was living and breathing. Desperate not to spook herself out, Winnie left her room and made her way down the landing.
As she moved along the wide corridor with its many doors, she noticed that one of them was slightly ajar. She stopped outside. No light came from within. Winnie tapped lightly on the door with her knuckles. There was no response from inside. Glancing quickly back over her shoulder, she gently pushed open the door and ventured inside.
Chapter Sixteen
The room was in complete darkness. Winnie fumbled with her hand along the wall and flipped on the light switch. A single bulb overhead cast a glow of pale light into the room. Winnie went to the windows to draw back the thick, heavy curtains which hung over them. She pulled them back and a shower of dust fell from them. The curtains smelt musty and old, as if they hadn’t been aired for some time. Then, much to her dismay, Winnie discovered that the windows behind the curtain had been boarded over with planks of wood. Each piece has been fastened to the window frame with several nails. With a frown across her brow, she turned and looked at the room. It was poky. Probably one of the smallest rooms in the house, she thought. The air in the room smelt stale and rancid, and she screwed up her nose. A narrow bed lay against the far wall. Beside it there was an ancient-looking rocking chair. A small wooden table sat opposite the chair with an old-fashioned Singer sewing machine. Winnie went over to the table. Looking closely at the sewing machine, she discovered it worked manually by turning a small wheel which protruded from one end, and with the aid of a wooden pedal that lay on the floor beneath the table. A velvet-covered needlework box lay beside the ancient machine and very delicately, Winnie lifted its lid. Reels of fine cotton and lace lay neatly in the box and she ran her fingers gingerly over them. Needles, threads, old buttons, and china thimbles were also neatly placed inside. Winnie lowered the lid and turned around. Across from her was a dressing table, which looked like some kind of antique. There was a hairbrush with coarse yellow bristles and a marble back which had been decorated with gold, along with a powder puff and silver hairgrips. A china statue of a ballerina stood gracefully to one side. Winnie picked it up and felt its cool surface. She held it close in the dim lighting so she could marvel at its fine beauty. Holding it close to her face, she could see it was covered with tiny blue cracks. After a few moments of study, she placed it back in its original position. A row of drawers were carved into the dressing table, and curling her fingers around one of the gold handles, she eased one of them open. Winnie reached inside and pulled out some photographs.
Holding them up in the light, Winnie studied the pictures. The first was a recent colour photograph of a frail old woman. By the look of her sallow, paper-thin skin, Winnie guessed her age to be at least ninety, maybe even older than that. Her hair was white and wispy, and it stood out from her narrow skull like springs. Dark smudges of age and ill health coloured the weighty bags of flesh which hung beneath her watery eyes. Deep lines of age ravaged her face, giving her a drawn and pointed look. Studying the picture, Winnie wondered if it wasn’t a picture of Thaddeus's grandmother. There was another picture, again of the old woman, taken in the room which Winnie now found herself in. The old woman was stooped forward in the rocking chair and she was staring up out of the photo. Winnie turned to the next photograph. Again, this was of the old woman. She was seated in a wheelchair, outside the house. It was dark and if it hadn’t have been for the shaft of moonlight, Thaddeus, who stood beside the woman in this picture, would have been hidden in shadow. His right hand was rested on her left shoulder. A smile danced across both of their lips.
"What are you doing in here?" Thaddeus suddenly asked from behind her.
Winnie jumped, sending the photographs spilling to the floor. She spun around to face him as he stood in the doorway. "Hey, Thaddeus, you made me jump," she breathed.
Thaddeus crossed the room, his dark eyes fixed firmly upon hers. As he drew near, Winnie saw that tonight the colour of his eyes were almost black. He stopped before her, and stooping, he bent down and gathered up the photographs. Thaddeus placed them back in the drawer and shut it.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked again, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I saw that the door was ajar and thought maybe you were in here,” she mumbled, feeling like a thief who had been caught stealing.
“Well as you can now see, I wasn't,” he said, searching her eyes. Winnie looked past him and gesturing towards the dressing table drawer, she said, "Those photographs, Thaddeus, were they of your grandmother?"
"Yes," he replied, his voice flat.
“Where is she now?” Winnie pushed.
"Look, Winnie, I am not discussing this any further with you,” he said, his voice not angry but firm. “I've warned you I have my eccentric ways and requests, and one of them is that you’re never to enter this room again. It is private. You have no business in here.”
Winnie tried to ease her way out of the uncomfortable situation she was now faced with and said, "Thaddeus, I wasn't snooping around. Like I said, the door was open, and I didn’t know I wasn't meant to come in here. I'm sorry."
Thaddeus's eyes began to defreeze and warm slowly. “Well now you do know, so please don’t come in here again.”
Winnie gave him a half-smile and Thaddeus gestured her back towards the open door. On the landing again, Thaddeus closed the door behind them. Then looking her up and down, he said, “Thank you for wearing the clothes I left out for you.”
Feeling self-conscious as Thaddeus eyed her, Winnie ran the flat of her hands down the side of the skirt, straightening any creases that might be there. “I hope I look okay?”
“You look more than okay,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving her. “You look perfect. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d be grateful if you would go and sit by the window and read just like I asked you to.”
Chapter Seventeen
Thaddeus followed Winnie into the lounge where she took her seat in the chair positioned by the window, and picked up the book. It was now pitch dark outside and Winnie caught a glimpse of her reflection in the grimy window. The wind howled outside and the panes of glass rattled in their frames. She looked down at the first page of the book and the rows and rows of words. So many at once seemed rather daunting to her, and she felt uncomfortable dressed like she was. It was hard to concentrate. She read the first few lines slowly, and then sneaked a glance up at Thaddeus. He had taken one of the newspapers which had been delivered, and was now sitting on the sofa opposite her and reading.
Over the top of the book, she spied on him as he sat cross-legged, in faded blue denims and a shirt. His hair stood up as if he had been caught in a storm, but as ever, his dark eyes were bright and keen as he read the paper. Although he looked no older than twenty-five years old, Thaddeus had an air about him - an arrogance, Winnie thought - that made him appear older. For someone so young, he brimmed with confidence.
“Are you enjoying the book?” he suddenly asked without looking up.
“Erm, yeah, it’s great,” she said, looking back down at the book.
“I’d be surprised if you had even read
one page,” he smiled behind his newspaper so she couldn’t see.
“And what makes you think that?” she asked, peering once again over the top of the book at him.
“Because you’ve been too preoccupied with looking at me,” he said from behind his newspaper.
Closing the book, Winnie scowled and said, “Why do you have to be so...so...” she trailed off, unable to think of the word she wanted.
“Good looking?” And now his smile turned to a grin, hidden by the paper.
“Weird, was the word I was actually thinking of,” she said slamming the book shut.
“Weird?” he said, now peering at her over the top of his newspaper. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, opening the book again and staring down at the words.
“You can’t just make a statement like that and not explain yourself,” he said, closing his newspaper and placing it to one side.
Winnie sensed that he was more curious than pissed off, so placing the book in her lap, she looked straight at him and said, “Thaddeus, why have you got me dressed in these clothes and reading this book?”
“Why not?” he shrugged.
Winnie thought she noticed just a glimmer of his self-belief and confidence melt away at her question. “Because it’s weird, that’s why,” she gasped.
“Why is it so weird?” he frowned. “You are very pretty. Am I not allowed to ask you to wear pretty clothes, so that I may admire you? You bring a certain radiance to this sometimes glum and gloomy place.”
“But you’re not admiring me,” she said sounding exasperated. “You’re reading the freaking newspaper!”
“So you want me to sit and stare at you?” he said, folding his arms and looking straight at her, a broad grin on his face.
“Please just tell me the real reason,” she breathed. “If I am to stay and carry on working for you, then I need to understand some of these strange ways that you have, or I’m just gonna get freaked out and run again.”
“Would you really run?” he asked her, his smile faltering just a fraction. “Where would you run to? Back to London? Would you really walk out on a job, money, a place to live...”
“If I was scared enough,” she whispered.
“Do I scare you?” he asked, the smile almost gone now.
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “But this dressing up thing is, like, really weird and I’m not sure that I’m comfortable with it.”
“What could be uncomfortable about wearing expensive clothes...” he started.
“Because they’re your dead wife’s clothes,” Winnie blurted out. Part of her immediately wanted to clap her hand over her mouth and swallow those words, but that little part of her - the one that whispered sometimes - was glad she had said what she had.
“Then we’ll buy replacements,” Thaddeus said.
“And I bet they’ll be exact copies of what I’m wearing now,” she said.
“What of it?” he shrugged.
Then taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, Winnie said, “Thaddeus, I’m not Frances. I’m not your dead wife. My name is Winter McCall, I was born in the back of an ambulance during the middle of a snowstorm, I ran away from home and became homeless. I didn’t move here with you so I could pretend to be someone else.”
“With a backstory like that, I thought you’d be grateful of the chance to be someone else,” he shot back.
Hardly able to believe what he had just said, Winnie’s mouth dropped open. “You fucking nob!” she hissed, throwing the book on the floor and jumping up. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit!”
Winnie ran from the room and went to the front door. She reached for the handle, but before she had the chance to pull the door open, Thaddeus slammed his hand against it.
“Don’t go,” he said.
And just like she had seen the night before, Winnie saw that desperation in his eyes again.
“What, stay here and let you take the piss out of me?” she sneered. This time she was too angry to cry. “No thanks!”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that my whole life,” she snapped back. “It means shit!”
“Please just let me explain,” Thaddeus implored her. He reached for her hands, and she jerked them away.
“Don’t touch me!” she barked.
Then raising his hands in the air as if in surrender, he said, “Okay, but please just let me explain before you go. I think I owe you that at least.”
“Explain what, exactly?” she glared at him.
“Why I really invited you to come and stay with me,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Winnie followed Thaddeus back into the lounge. He gestured for her to sit back in the chair by the window again. Winnie sat on the edge of the seat, not eagerly awaiting him to tell his story, but just in case she needed to jump up and leave quickly. Thaddeus sat opposite her on the sofa, pulling up his legs and crossing them. He sat forward, his wrists hanging over his knees, his head slightly forward. The wind howled outside and the windows rattled in their frames again. Thaddeus looked up as if glancing out of the window, then looked at Winnie.
“I’m sorry,” he stated. “You were right about me and I’m so very sorry. If you feel that you still want to leave after I have explained why I brought you here, you will receive no quarrel from me and you can leave when you wish.”
“What are you sorry for?” Winnie asked, her temper fading slightly.
Thaddeus stared at her through the glow of the lamp and said, “I watched you for seven nights. I saw you by chance one evening. After having dinner with my publisher, we went our separate ways. I had one night left in London and it wasn’t a particularly cold evening, so I decided to take a walk along the Embankment and watch the boats pass along the river. I sat for a while to smoke a cigarette or two, and it was then I saw you. You were sitting on the steps outside the Embankment Tube Station, and my heart almost stopped at once as I peered through the passing traffic at you. At first I thought I was seeing a ghost. I thought you were Frances.”
To hear him say this, Winnie shuddered inside and felt cold all over.
Thaddeus took a cigarette from the silver case in his pocket and lit one. Smoke curled up from the corner of his mouth, and he watched Winnie through the coils of blue smoke.
“I couldn’t move from that seat, Winnie,” he started to explain again. “It was like I was frozen in time somehow. This time last year, I had watched Frances be eaten away by cancer, only to see her again before my very eyes, sitting across the road from me. Was it some cruel trick, or my imagination? But as I sat and watched you, I realised that you were, in fact, not her. Your resemblance is uncanny – but there are subtle differences. With my heart heavy in my chest, and old feelings reawakened within me, I hurried back to my hotel. It was like my brain had a fever. I was almost delirious with madness. My brain had become haunted by memories of Frances. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was you, Winnie, sitting in the dark and cold, holding your hands out, begging strangers for money.
“You seemed to be so alike in looks that I even began to wonder if Frances had had some secret sister, a relative that she had failed to tell me about. In my heart, I knew that not to be true. I telephoned the hotel lobby and told them that I would be staying several more nights,” he said, drawing deeply on his cigarette.
“Why?” Winnie asked him.
“I didn’t know at the time,” he said, glancing back at the window as rain now beat against it. “I spent the day beneath the covers of the hotel bed, fearing to shut my eyes in case you were there again. Then, whether through tiredness or madness, I decided to take another walk along the Embankment again that night. I didn’t know why, I had no plan, other than I needed to see you again. I had to make sure that you weren’t really Frances, however insane that seemed. After a very light evening meal, as I felt too sick to eat, I made my way back to the Embankment. I sat on the bench on the opposite si
de of the road and watched the entrance of the station. After the time it took for me to smoke almost half a pack of cigarettes, you appeared. Again, I spied on you as you begged those people in their expensive suits for money. It almost broke my heart to see you doing that.”
“Why?” Winnie cut in. “You didn’t know me. I meant nothing to you.”
“It was Frances I could see begging,” he said, crushing out his cigarette and lighting another. “It wasn’t you I could see in that scruffy sweater, filthy jeans, and trainers. It was like I was watching my Frances shuffling back and forth, starving, cold, and hungry. It almost tore my heart in two to watch you night after night.”
“So you came back every night?” Winnie asked, not feeling creeped out, but kind of sad for him. She pitied him.