My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time

by Liz Jensen

  ‘I am not one to be cheated,’ said Lady Muck, as we waited for Fru Schleswig – still expostulating – to join us.

  ‘Cheat you, madam? O dear, I would not dream of doing such a thing. I may be a lowly sinner, but I was raised in a charitable orphanage & know the meaning of hard work,’ I lied.

  ‘I am a stickler for high standards,’ she announced. ‘I am sure you can tell that I come from a very aristocratic family. The Bischen-Baschens.’

  She paused to let this sink in as it should.

  ‘Oh yes indeed, the Bischen-Baschens,’ I said with an impressive show of respect, though in truth I was stifling a powerful urge to laugh aloud. ‘That is evident in your speech & comportment, madam. That you are of the highest breeding, that is. Though I have not heard of the Bischen-Baschens, I confess. Per se.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t have done, would you?’ she said, emitting that same odd, triumphant bark I had first heard in the bakery, which was her version of laughter. ‘Being nothing more than an uneducated strumpet!’

  At which she laughed again, as if the fact that I earned my own living, instead of sponging off a husband as she had done, in the manner of a parasite, was the most hilarious notion she could imagine.

  And thus it came to pass that Fru Schleswig & I began our new life, at a rate of five kroner per day, in the employ of Fru Emilie Krak, née Bischen-Baschen.

  Tick, tock: time passed, but not much, for it was on the afternoon of the very first day of our employment that I met the mysterious Professor Krak. Not in the flesh, or indeed in ghost form, but as a darkly lustrous oil portrait labelled Professor Frederik Krakhanging in a back hallway of Fru Krak’s grandiose home. It depicted a dark, sparse-haired man in his early middle years, whose high temples gave the face below an air of intellectuality, & a certain eccentric flair. But there was something fervent in the intensity of his gaze – a dash of the fanatic – that caused me to shiver & remember Else’s story of a ghost walking to the letterbox along the lakeside, wrapped in a black cloak & half-buried in a swirl of sepia mist. I resolved in that moment that I would go & visit Gudrun Olsen, the Kraks’ former housekeeper, & make enquiries as to the character of Professor Krak, & what might have transpired those seven years ago to cause the mysterious sitter of this portrait to have been wiped so suddenly but indecisively from the face of the earth. Had his wife indeed murdered him, as Else had suggested? Or might he be living still? In either chilling case, my imagination was captured.

  But in the meantime, there was work to be done. Behind her aristocratic Bischen-Baschen exterior, Fru Krak was a lazy, slovenly female whose house, apart from the front room where visitors might sit & the dining room where they might eat, was in such a state of slatternliness, dilapidation & neglect that it was difficult to ascertain where to begin, but begin Fru Schleswig must, & I set about a list of heavy chores upon which she could make an immediate start, while I sorted through the cleaning materials at our disposal, which were surprisingly numerous, though decayed. Soda crystals, bleach, bicarbonate & sand-soap, ancient waxes & polishes, half finished bottles of stripping liquids & rusty tins of scouring chemicals: harsh stuffs, which rubbed one’s hands raw, or would have done, had I not had the inspired idea of keeping mine at all times in my pockets & allowing Fru Schleswig to tackle the bulk of the harder work, her temperament being more suited to it. Water-closets were far beneath me, but they were slightly above Fru S, who got stuck into them with relish, shoving her whole arm inside with a wire scouring-brush & singing sailors’ shanties as she did so. The old swine was a crude being, blessed neither with intelligence, beauty nor charm. But where would beauty be if it stood alone, without ugliness beside it, as a benchmark?

  As for me, well, a young woman with a feather duster can be an attractive sight, if you happen to catch a glimpse of her in a mirror as you are passing. As I very often did. The mirrors in Lady Muck’s house were soon as pure & gleaming as the soul of Christ itself. Now dust is best wiped, as we all know, with a damp cloth. A feather duster, aesthetically pleasing though it is, when held to the throat like a boa, will only redistribute the problem. There was much dust at Fru Krak’s house, which had been in decline for many years since the departure of her husband. Whole prairies of it beneath the beds & furniture, so that before the wiping could be commenced, one had to fair shovel the bulk into a dustpan. While Fru Schleswig was undertaking this & other of the heavier duties, I kept up the appearance of cleaning assiduously whenever Fru Krak was in the vicinity, with particular emphasis on the high polishing of ornaments, my hands clad in gloves to protect my delicate skin. But whenever Fru Krak was absent, either shopping or lying a-bed with her women’s journals, complaining of colds & flu, sore throats & headaches, all of them imaginary, I was busy with other endeavours. The first of these was the pilfering of a whole multitude of neglected gewgaws, junk & diverse paraphenalia I found lurking in musty drawers & creaking chests, or in the corners of ancient, dust-belching cupboards, for despite the mistress’s warnings & protestations to the contrary, it was clear she had little inkling of what an accumulation of clutter she presided over. And thus it came to pass that whole battalions of china soup tureens, silver tankards, faded linen, framed still-lives of tulips or bleeding game, Chinese parasols, ornamental fruit-platters & Cupid-studded vases made their way to the flea-market, & several tens of kroner correspondingly made their way to my purse, & then left it again in exchange for such necessities as food & schnapps, & such luxuries as a very darling new bodice & a frock, & a bar of sandalwood-scented ‘Savon de Marseille’ for Fru Schleswig, to stop her moaning about ‘orl this bakke-brakin wurke bein thowne att me’, & at the same time cast a deodorizing hint in her direction. But aside from acquiring & flogging the Krakster’s unwanted goods, my main task was the drawing of an intricate architectural map of the house, its scaled-down lines painstakingly copied out in pen & ink from pencil sketches I made & measurements gauged under cover of housework. So bombastically huge a residence! So many chambers! But what secrets lay within?

  How brave, adventurous & clever I believed myself to be, as I filled in the lines of my map, & pondered this! And yet the truth was, I was no more than a foolish puppet, dancing to the pull of strings manipulated by a far more wily intelligence than my own! Had I known, O my dear one, what nightmare the ardent fulfilment of my greed & curiosity would trap me in, I would never have spent as much as a moment on that wretched map, but instead lifted my petticoats & run from that cursed house on Rosenvængets Allé like a bat from Hell.

  But fool that I was, by the end of the first fortnight in Fru Krak’s employ, I was most pleased that the bargain I had struck with Fru Schleswig concerning her responsibilities seemed to be working as anticipated. So well, indeed, that even our joyless Mistress Krak was reluctantly impressed by the way the house’s interior had transformed from dinginess to colour, with shining mirrors, freshly sponged & whitewashed walls, scrubbed floorboards & well-aired rooms. I did not think it necessary to inform Fru Krak that in the course of her cleaning, Fru Schleswig had come across five birds’ nests in the attic, & an entire dead cat, which had seemingly perished of starvation in a side-room. Apart from all that I had pilfered & sold, other numerous oddities turned up in other places, beneath loose floorboards & on top of forgotten cupboards: broken jewellery, sea-shells, a set of quoits, a bag of marbles, & a huge tin of biscuits – still edible, according to the abysmal hygiene standards of Fru S, as demonstrated by her devouring of the whole lot in a single evening with a smacking sound that fair grated on my nerves, though I buttoned my lip, for I had learned at a tender age that the inhabitants of glass houses should not throw stones. But among the gallimaufry of clutter was one object, found by Fru Schleswig in a basement larder stinking of rotten fruit, and adorned with what looked like ancient animal dung, that baffled me: a shiny rectangle of metal, like a flat box, with numbers on its face, a little like a tiny sun-dial. Playing with it idly, I found that a little door at its back slid open and two od
dly heavy cylinders fell out from a case containing small springs. Eventually I managed to stuff them back and slide the little door to, but the object (which I hid in a chamber pot) continued to be a source of puzzlement, & it was not until much later, when my life had undergone the most grotesque & unexpected of unheavals, that its identity became apparent.

  But in the meantime, flummoxed, we continued work. Now you may be wondering, cherished companion, just how this miracle of domestic industry came about, knowing a little of old Fru S’s habits & nature as you by now do. Well, I have not had the ball & chain that is Fru S attached to my ankle all these years without having devised ways & means of manipulating her simple mind, to enable our working relationship to function smoothly, so the deal – a classic carrot-&-stick arrangement – was that Fru Schleswig would strive to make herself presentable, arrive punctually, put in all the elbow grease she had, & at all times keep her trap shut in the company of Fru Krak. If she complied with these rules, she would be entitled to certain rewards, in addition to a generous quarter-share of the pay we jointly received, viz as much schnapps as she wanted as soon as we reached home, & permission to occupy the tattered & burst chaise-longue, stirring only to gorge on whatever victuals I had managed to forage in the shops that night. If she failed to comply, I would kick her out of our lodgings forthwith.

  Simple, but effective – or so you would have thought, but Fru S grumbled mightily, with much railing & thunderous banging of her hammy fists, despite the fact that in the end she had no choice, for she had, as I pointed out, sponged off my goodwill for too long, for the entire twenty-five years of my life in fact, & it was time to call a halt or be out on her ear. She grumbled further, & (to infuriate me) called on her claim of kinship to me, for ‘how dare I treet my owne mutha thus’ & ‘bludde is thicka than worter’, & we descended into the usual squalid battle of words, for I have perhaps mentioned that the preposterous notion of a blood tie between us is very much an idée fixe of hers, which I can do nothing to dislodge in her poor deluded mind. In the end, I turned a deaf ear to her menaces, & flounced out to see Else, who insisted we go dancing, & it was a good idea for it lifted my mood, as dancing always does, & I brought a gentleman home with me by the name of Hans-Erik, & O, the rollicking fun we had on my mattress, by candle-light. There are times, dear reader, when I was happy indeed to be paid to have fun, because the fact is that for every foul-smelling old geezer there is a good-looking charmer who knows one end of a girl from the other, & that night I had such a gift in my arms, & nothing can be sweeter, & if the truth be told, I’d have performed the act for free if he’d asked me. But he did not, & so I scored on both counts.

  It was the following day, as I was tidying up the pile of foolish women’s journals to which Fru Krak was addicted, that something caught my notice which instantly gave me a valuable glimpse into the psyche of our employer. I had already remarked that after she had been flicking through such publications, & in particular the Fine Lady,Fru Krak would become even more agitated & pernickety than usual. I had assumed that this was because these insipid journals have a tendency to inspire insecurity & envy in women whose beauty will never match that of the fashion models depicted inside them – which was clearly the plight of the physically charmless Fru Krak. Yet on that day, I discovered there was something more, which confirmed my increasing suspicion that the chilly & detached appearance she mustered in public was but the thinnest of veneers, beneath which reigned the mightiest state of anxiety, confusion & turmoil. For when I settled down to leaf through that week’s copy of the Fine Lady,I spotted that the text beneath one sign on the horoscope page had been most vigorously, nay frantically, circled & underlined in red ink.

  As a Fine Aquarian Lady, you should not tolerate the insolence of subordinates. Make sure they know their place, but allow them leeway in matters that could help you privately. Wear yellow on Thursday afternoon & a bargain will come your way. In romance, tread carefully when recounting your memories to your loved one, lest he suspect you are not all that you have seemed. Remember that to retain her moral stature, the Aquarian Lady must stay on ground level or above at all times, & never descend belowstairs! So if you require something from the cellar, madam, send the maid (provided she does not share your star-sign) to fetch it!

  ‘Don’t forget to polish the silverware properly today,’ said Fru Krak, swishing in wearing a vile dress of a bright yellow hue. With a sudden jab of the most pleasurable amusement, I noted that the day was Thursday. ‘Fru Pedersen found a speck of what looked like blood on her fork on Wednesday when we were lunching.’

  ‘It was probably a touch of tarnish, ma’am,’ I murmured. ‘Are you going shopping?’ (For there were surely bargains to be had in Christensen & Jakobsen’s haberdashery on a day like this, if one was clad like a canary!)

  ’Tarnish? Well,get rid of it, girl! Do you not recall that I am originally a Bischen-Baschen? Do you think it likely that a Bischen-Baschen would even contemplatedisplaying tarnished cutlery to her guests? Yes, I am indeed on my way out, & when I return shall make a point of inspecting the silverware to ensure you have done your job adequately.’

  Seeing that she was working herself into quite a lather, I made the right placatory & humble noises, & when she had left the house – with a warning that she ‘would not tolerate the insolence of subordinates, who come from depths to which I would not dream of descending’ (ha!) – I resolved to read Fru Krak’s horoscope as avidly as she did, in future, in order to anticipate her crazes, anxieties & whims. When she returned by carriage two hours later with bulging bags & the smug smile of a woman who has paid a lot of money for something worthless but has not yet discovered it, I could not help but laugh gleefully to myself, for it confirmed that I had important information on my side.

  And when one has that, it is never long before one finds a way of using it!

  And so began our new life as servants of the sour-faced & foolishly gullible Fru Krak, a new life shaken only by a disquieting visit I made to the former housekeeper Gudrun Olsen in mid-November, in the third week of our employ, at the insistence of Else, who had played cards with her that Friday & had received, she said, ‘a terrible scare’ regarding the Krak household, which I must, repeat must, pay heed to. Afterwards, I wished I had not taken her advice, for when things are going well, one does not care to dwell on what might turn sour. But there is no crying over spilt milk, & in any case, if the truth be told, the things I learned that day – unsettling though they were – could not but spark my interest all the more.

  I had followed Else’s scatty directions to the laundry as best I could, but the waterfront was a maze & had it not been for the help of a tall, lanky-limbed man, his face entirely hidden by a balaclava, whom I found suddenly walking alongside me on Strandboulevarden, I would never have found the warehouse where Gudrun Olsen worked. Once it was within sight, my mysterious balaclava’d saviour took his leave, & I headed for a square building that stood on the edge of the reeking seafront, belching steam. One might have thought upon crossing its threshold that one was entering a kind of hot-air Hell, for as far as the eye could see were clusters of women in white, busying themselves like frenzied brides over foaming cauldrons, or staggering beneath the weight of stacked, bleached linen-bales, or lifting heavy steam-irons from the blazing fireplace & then losing themselves in clouds of vapour.

  I asked a silver-haired waif who stood at the door – male or female I could not tell – where I might find the Mistress of Ironing, & it pointed to a high balcony upon which stood a dark-clad figure surveying the vast hall. Every now & then she would reach for a small trumpet-shaped device into which she would yell an order, & one of the women would look up, nod & then perform whatever special steamy task that she was bid. I mounted the spiral cast-iron staircase & found myself alongside Gudrun Olsen. So imposing she had appeared from below, but how tiny when you stood next to her! I am no large creature myself, but beside me she was a veritable flea.

  ‘What brings you he
re, young woman?’ She asked the question kindly enough but with an imposing authority for one so diminutive, barely turning her neat profile, & not taking her eyes off what was happening below. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, with a handsome nose & chin. ‘Are you seeking work?’

  ‘No,’ I answered, ‘for I already have it, cleaning on Rosenvængets Allé, in the home of Fru Krak.’

  At the mention of this name, the whole of Frøken Olsen’s small body stiffened. She said nothing for a moment, then pivoted around to look at me, thus revealing the other side of her face – the sudden sight of which immediately made me gasp, for across it a huge red scar was raggedly drawn, beginning at the outer corner of her left eye & reaching to the contour of her upper lip, marring what was otherwise (& only now could I see it) a quite beautiful face, open & pure. What tragic mutilation!

  ‘I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone came to me & asked about the Kraks,’ she said. ‘But who would have thought it would be a friend of dear Else’s?’ A weary sadness clouded her voice.

  ‘Tell me, if you would: what did you make of the Professor?’ I asked. ‘For now that I am working in that mansion, I confess to finding myself most intrigued to discover what manner of man he was, & what became of him.’

  To my surprise, Gudrun Olsen smiled fondly. ‘Where does one begin, when speaking of Professor Krak? Unlike his wife, he was a person of great enthusiasm & charm,’ she said. ‘Though I often believed him to be quite unhinged. If ever I met a man too clever for his own good, it was he. But I was attached to him, & when he disappeared I missed him greatly, despite what happened to me there. Despite …’ she fingered her scar ‘despite this.’