The Girl in the Attic

by Wendy Reakes

  When I sat on my knees and opened that third chest, I was half expecting it to be filled with useless objects of no significant value in terms of my survival in the attic. Instead, I found myself pleasantly surprised when I discovered an array of ladies sewing items, including a bundle of assorted pieces of fabric and a beautifully crafted wooden sewing box. Inside were rolls of cottons and threads, embroidery silks, needles and pins, eyelets and buttons and scissors and thread pickers and different sized thimbles. In the bottom of the chest was a large piece of folded up linen. I opened it up upon my lap and gasped. For there was a pencil sketch of a child, his torso half embroidered and the rest of him undone. I judged the face to be a handsome one, even though the sketch had faded in places and I decided that it must be William’s face staring up at me.

  Chapter 9

  It was nearing Decemberwhen I heard noises in the house. The suddenness of it made me imagine a stampede of elephants, forcing me to scarper to the ground, until I realised the servants were moving back in.

  For the whole day, I stayed as quiet as a dead mouse, afraid to make any noise at all.

  Movement was rife below. Doors were opening and closing with people running in and out, I could hear water flushing and cases being dragged across the floor but the greatest sign of the occupant’s returning was seeing smoke billowing from the chimney outside the terrace windows. While I sat listening to the noises below my feet, it suddenly occurred to me how I was going to alert Celia to my presence without rousing the entire household. I was locked in. That hadn’t changed. So how would I now let Celia know I needed her help to escape the attic and travel to Taunton? A dilemma indeed.

  I decided to wait things out. I knew a little about how large households functioned. A normal day would consist of an early start. That’s when most of the servants would be in the kitchen preparing breakfast, or laying the dining room for the family, or cleaning and lighting fires. While they were busy running about, having little occasion to hear noises in the attic, it would be a perfect time each day to stretch my legs and move around without being detected. And I could cook too, brew up the odd cup of tea, as long as my supplies lasted. After that, at midmorning, I predicted the servants would come back to their rooms to change their uniform for serving lunch while dining themselves in the kitchens in the basement. That was the time I would remain still and quiet as a mouse. Then, when the activity began again in the evening as servants went about their business below stairs, perhaps I would be left to do as I pleased. Yes, I thought as I contemplated their routine, the timetable was workable.

  Besides, I knew I wouldn’t be there for long. A soon as I thought of a way to rouse Celia’s attention, I would be out of there and on the first train to freedom.

  Two days later, when the servant’s quarters became quiet and still, I checked my food supply. The potatoes were all gone now as well as the apples and the salami sausage. I wished I’d brought more with me when I’d raided the larder, but how could I have known then, that I would remain in the attic for a further three months? All I had left was a small amount of sugar, some tea, some dried beans and just a spoonful of plum jam at the bottom of the jar.

  And of course, half a pigeon.

  I had long ago made pigeon my staple diet. The supply was plentiful, they were fresh and easy to cook and they were tasty.

  Catching them had not been difficult since I’d once again used a bit of nous and utilised the fishing net. I’d simply waited outside on the terrace and when I saw one, nice and plump, I would lunge forward with my net to entrap my prey like a mountain lion to a goat. One time, I had the fortune to catch two birds in one swoop, so I did with them what I did with the others, I clubbed them and then I wrung their necks. That day, I hung them both from a low hanging beam, letting them mature in the same way we hung our pheasant and grouse when uncle came back from hunting laden with birds for the winter. It was deemed poaching, but that had never fazed him. Everyone did it.

  I used the razor to gut the pigeons and after I plucked them, I cut them into small pieces, better for roasting on my small fire. The meat was a little tough, but I had good teeth and I considered it to be the tastiest meal I’d had in a long time, so I couldn’t complain.

  During my idle times, I assembled the pieces of material I’d found in the lady’s sea chest. The material was already squared up, so I assumed a patchwork quilt was a project she had been involved in and stopped sewing suddenly, for some reason or other. I enjoyed the task. It kept my hands and my mind busy while I remained quiet during ‘servant-tide’, or so I had named the length of time they rushed about, banging doors and flushing water pipes.

  My other pastimes involved reading and grooming myself. My hair was a chore. I washed it once a week in a bucket of cold water from the rain in my tea chest, mainly because I often found a creature hiding among the tresses, sometimes spiders, which had dropped on me from the beams above. I had no soap so it smelled a bit, but I brushed it out with the hair brushes in the gentleman’s closets and sometimes snipped it with the scissors. I had contemplated cutting it all off, but I didn’t want to turn up at Taunton Station and my new family greeting me with shamefully short hair.

  The rest of me I washed with the remains of the water I’d used for my hair. I did it at night, out on the terrace, naked, with just the moon to light up my skin as I picked up the bucket and threw it over my head. Then as the pigeons scattered across the floor or into the black sky, I raised my head up to heaven and relished in the cleanness of the act, like I was performing a ritual to the only company I had; the Lord above.

  My reading time was devoted to the newspapers from the box I’d found. The ones about the American Civil War between 1861 and 1865, made for fascinating reading. The Suez Canal opening in 1865 had been an amazing feat and for that I read every last word, but I also enjoyed reading the small homespun news, where a single story focused on a town somewhere in England. That was more real to me. The society pages were sometimes interesting, but they didn’t particularly enlighten me except when it mentioned Her Majesty Queen Victoria and the royal family. The Stock Market crash of 1845 offered fascinating data. The news ran a story of how the exchange in London had begun and how the rich and the brokers played the market like a game of chance. The concept was all new to me.

  Five days had passed when I finally made up my mind to seek out Celia. Clearly, she wouldn’t come to me, so I had no choice but to go to her.

  It was the middle of December. I guessed that because already a sprinkling of snow covered the ground as far as I could see and I had already spotted a robin redbreast and noticed holly growing over near the gate along the drive, where the trees -as I had correctly predicted- were now free of their leaves. The landscape looked spectacular. Like a Christmas card I’d once seen hanging over the bar in the pub. Mrs Franklin had told me it was from a well-off relative who lived in the north; one she hadn’t seen for over thirty years.

  I’d practised picking the lock on the attic door several times. I hadn’t lived with a locksmith all those years without learning a trick or two. The first few times were hopeless until I tried using the metal nail-file I’d found in the gentleman’s box. The file had worked like a dream. I finally opened it on the fourth attempt and quickly allowed the lock to fall back into place.

  Now I was prepared to leave my secret abode and go seek out the only person I could trust.

  I chose late morning to take my life into my hands and leave the attic.

  I had already determined that the servants ate just before midday. It was the one time I could more-or-less guarantee not being spotted sneaking out of the attic door and tip-toeing along the corridors. If I was wrong, it would be the end of my freedom, and after they’d discovered me they would surely throw me into gaol for trespassing and theft of the grandest scale.

  I listened for any noise outside the attic door and when I was certain no one was around, I turned the handle and opened it slowly. The day was a bright one. The light
coming from the window down the end of servant’s landing assisted me to go the route I was familiar with when I’d sneaked down to the pantry all those months ago.

  I was wearing the frock I had made. It was still decent and clean and since it fell to the floor, no one would know I had no shoes on my feet. My invention of soft foot wraps made from the gentleman’s gloves would be intriguing if I happened to be caught. They were strange looking things. I’d kept the thumb part, which housed my big toe, but the rest of the fingers I’d unstitched and sewn back together as one. They fitted nicely over my small feet and allowed me a softer tread on the floor of the attic.

  I came to the end of the corridor and stopped at the corner wall, as I had when I’d first gone that way. No one was around. I went down the stairs and through the door at the bottom. Again, I listened for any movement on the other side of the door before I opened it. I stepped out onto the next landing. Once again, I saw the fine polished furniture lining the hall with the wide elegant doors and the dark red and gold patterned carpet running through its middle to the end. It even smelled rich, however ‘rich’ smelled.

  Along the corridor, I padded as I had before but before I reached halfway to the place I was bound, I heard someone call out. “Mrs Perkins.” A lady’s voice said. “Is that you?”

  I froze. My bottom lip dropped to my chin. I turned my head and noticed a door ajar, and from where I was standing I could see inside to a beautiful lady in a pink day dress, her eyes focused on a book. Sitting next to a fireplace on a couch of gold coloured velvet, without looking up, she said again. “Mrs, Perkins?” Just before she raised her eyes, I dashed to the door leading to the servant’s stairs. If she’d seen me, I wouldn’t have known for I was gone with reddened cheeks and my heart beating faster than a tin drum. I took those stairs as quickly as I could travel and found myself at the bottom without even thinking about the consequences. I could cope with being discovered by a member of the domestic household but to be discovered by that fine lady as I trespassed outside her boudoir, well, that was abhorrent to me.

  I came to the bottom where the glass wall cabinet housed the keys. My eyes darted to the large hook at the far end to two keys and a label that read Attic. Like a thieving hussy, I reached up and snatched one of the keys and dropped it into my pocket. Then I heard voices and people laughing and a delicious aroma of stewed beef filled my nostrils making my stomach growl with hunger. The servants were in the dining hall, feasting.

  Pushing aside my yearning for hot beef stew and keeping close to the walls, I crept along the corridor towards the back door. The door was a way of escape and I contemplated making a run for it, but then…how far would I get with the snow and ice on the ground and just glove wraps on my feet? I craned my neck and peered inside the kitchen and there, as if God had blessed me with a shining light, was my only friend in the world, an angel in disguise, Celia. She wore a long grey dress with a sackcloth apron protecting the front of her. She stood on a small wooden step to enable her to reach deep inside the sink with her sleeves rolled up. I couldn’t believe my luck, finding her alone. I sneaked to the door and whispered loudly. “Celia!”

  She turned about just as I looked behind me towards the servant’s hall. I could hear utensils tinkling on china plates, so I deduced they were still eating.

  Wiping her hands on a cloth, Celia rushed to the door with a look of shock on her face. She spoke loudly as if she were excited and incredulous to see me. “Marley.”

  I had little time to contemplate that comment. My instinct to communicate with her as fast as possible was of the essence. I heard a man’s hearty laugh coming from the hall, so I took her hand and pulled her to the door of the pantry. I pushed it open and pulled her inside. Without speaking, as Celia looked incredulous, I moved swiftly to grab whatever food I could, dropping my pickings into large pockets I’d sewn into my garment. Since my first visit there, I had memorised that room as if I had visited it daily. Now I was making good use of that memory, taking what I thought I needed to survive the next couple of days while Celia and I devised a plan of escape.

  “What are you doing?” Celia whispered as she stood at the door watching me move about like a cat on a hot tin roof.

  “I can’t explain now,” I answered as I worked. “I reached inside my pocket and rummaged for the stolen attic key. I placed it into her hands and wrapped her fingers around it. “Take this.” I commanded. I couldn’t tell what she must have been thinking, but I knew she was confused and upset. “I’ve been staying in the attic. Hiding!” I said with my eyes wide and terrified, meeting hers that looked the same as mine. “When you finish your work tonight, come to the attic without anyone seeing you and I will explain everything.” She didn’t say a word. She didn’t move. I took her arm and shook her. “Celia!” I whispered. “Please! I’ll tell you everything tonight. Please trust me.”

  She nodded once as I opened the door and sneaked out into the hall. When I was sure my path was clear, I turned to see Celia tentatively step out of the pantry and close the door, before I went the way I’d come.

  The hours I waited passed slowly. From the pantry, I had grabbed the food nearest to me and when I later emptied my pockets and laid out my wares, it was only then I realised how stupid I had been. Is that what hunger did to us? Was I so desperate I would take anything for my own purpose without fear of the consequences? What on earth had I been thinking?

  I realised that the first time I’d robbed the pantry, I’d considered every eventuality but as I pulled from my pockets large slices of cheese and a whole veal and ham pie, it suddenly occurred to me that someone else could be blamed for the food’s disappearance. Someone like Celia. “Oh, what have I done?” I gasped quietly. Would I be responsible for Celia getting sacked without an employment recommendation, or worse still, carted off by a policeman and thrown into gaol? The notion caused my darkest hour that day.

  At first, when I had returned to my secret abode and locked myself in with the nail file, my fears were so bad that I had no appetite for a single morsel. Now my plan was to return the food to Celia when she came up to the attic that night, so that she could put it back in the pantry before it was missed. But what if I were too late? What then?

  By late afternoon, as I nibbled on some cold pigeon left from the night before, I couldn’t resist a juicy apple. I bit into it and closed my eyes while I munched, wondering how long it had been since I’d tasted a bit of fruit. I thought about the lane leading to the farm in Mells and the hedgerows packed full of blackberries, ripe for the picking. It would be about now I’d start making my jams ready for the annual fair. The fair! Three months gone since that black-haired lout…

  I heard a key in a lock. I scampered across the floor and hid behind the side of my bed, where through the furniture packed in the first two attic sections I saw a small flickering light next to the door.

  Chapter 10

  “Celia,” I whispered. Please God, let it be her.

  A similarly toned voice came back. “Marley? Where are you?”

  Thank the heavens. I made my way across the floor along the path I’d carved through the mountain of discarded furniture, weaving and ducking and crawling and stepping over books, a route finely executed by me, but one that could never be traced. Ahead, Celia’s flickering candle was my guiding light as she remained at the entrance waiting for me to appear. “Celia!” I called with care. “Celia?”

  “Marley?” She squinted in the dim light as I arrived at the entrance from a path between the gentleman’s armoire and a blanket box with an empty bird cage atop it. A tablecloth had been draped over the cage as if its occupant had long ago flown away never to return, and next to it, a rolled rug leaned at an angle next to a vertical beam.

  I offered her a reassuring smile, removed the candle from her hand and held it aloft while I took her other hand and guided her back along my secret path. I turned to look at her as we made our way through the forest of furniture, watching her eyes, like great round b
rown marbles with a smear of fear at the edges.

  We came out the other side to the third section with my bed in the corner covered in blankets while the windows of the end façade loomed above us, still dirty and covered in years of moss and bird muck and general wear and tear from the changing weather. Celia stood in the centre of what I now called my parlour. Beneath her feet was a fine tapestry rug, filling the space and making it cosy and homely. In the corner, near the windows, my fabricated kitchen held a tiny fire, heating water for tea, and next to it, a basket, holding the provisions I intended to return.

  “What on earth are you doing here, Marley?” Celia said in sheer disbelief. I had become so used to my living space, I had reached a point of not finding my predicament strange at all. Not until I thought about it further and realised that where I was living and how I was living wasn’t normal by anyone’s standards.

  As I regarded the face of my only friend, I recall the day, a long time ago when I met dearest Celia.

  I was just seven years old then. And so was she.

  Lord WILBURYhad been a long-standing customer of my uncle and since he had always been considered a trusted tradesman, uncle saw to all the locks inside and out when they’d needed mending or replacing.

  One day when I was seven, uncle took me and our Brent to work with him. We had no schooling to do that day and he’d fancied a bit of company on the journey. Not that having no school would have mattered. He didn’t care two hoots about us getting educated, but the village had been fortunate to have a retired teacher living in the cottage down the way, who’d offered to take in six of ‘the most promising’ youngsters, to teach them reading and numbers for free. The only reason uncle agreed to let us go was because he thought he was getting one up on his mates whose offspring hadn’t been chosen as one of the special kids. Besides, it was only for one hour, three days a week. It didn’t much matter if we missed it or not.