by Sk Quinn
‘Hiring?’ Danny turns the word over, blowing cigarette smoke up into his reddish brown hair. ‘I mean, I don’t want to be the voice of doom and gloom, but all that ever happens round here is people getting laid off.’
We both turn to look at the crowds hunting for bargains. You can easily tell the locals from the tourists. The locals have sad faces, unwashed hair and the twitchy, green faces of long-term drug addicts.
‘How did you lose your job?’ Danny asks.
‘Mr Carmichael. He tried it on.’
‘I’ll batter the living shit out of him.’
‘No, it’s okay. No sense you getting in trouble over it. And he’s rich – he has powerful friends. I always knew he was a creep, anyway. But I never thought he’d actually try something.’
‘So what now? You’ll have no trouble getting a job, right? With your references and all that?’
‘There’s no work – at least, not round here. There was one job on offer. But it’s in Scotland. Too far away.’
‘Scotland’s not that far,’ says Danny, blowing out another cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘And if it gets you away from this place, that can’t be such a bad thing.’
‘But Wila—’
‘She’s sixteen, Sez. Same age you were when you left home. She can look after herself.’
I shake my head. ‘Wila’s not like us, Danny. She needs more looking after.’
‘Maybe she’s had too much looking after,’ says Danny. ‘Maybe she needs less looking after and more fending for herself.’
‘I don’t think she’s ready for that yet.’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to pay her fees this month. I phoned the school and asked for more time. But they said no.’
‘Christ,’ says Danny. ‘I wish I could lend you the money—’
‘Even if you could, I wouldn’t take it,’ I say. ‘You need it yourself. You’re a single parent.’
‘You’re kind of a single parent too. You do everything for that little sister of ours.’ Danny throws his cigarette to the floor and stamps on it with a holey Converse. ‘Look. If you’ve been offered a job away from this place, I say take it. What is there for you around here? Stay here and you’ll end up like all the rest of us, smoking too much, drinking too much and barely holding life together. What do you have to stay for?’
‘Wila,’ I say. ‘And the band.’
‘Oh come on. If we go anywhere with that, it’ll be more luck than anything else. You’re the only talent we have. You could easily go it alone. Your voice is magic.’
‘There are plenty of good singers,’ I mutter, fiddling with my furry sleeves.
‘Not like you there aren’t.’
‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t leave Wila. You know I can’t.’
Danny frowns. ‘Why don’t you ask her? Ask Wila if it’s okay for you to go up to Scotland for a bit. I mean, it sounds like if you don’t take this job, she won’t be able to stay at her school anyway. None of us want that. She’s talented like you’re talented. You two have a chance of getting out of this place, and that school is Wila’s ticket.’
I bite my lip. ‘I just don’t think I can leave her. She’s so young.’
‘Maybe not as young as you think.’
6
When Wila gets home from school, I make her Marmite on toast and sit her on the sofa. We don’t have a dining table, so all our meals are eaten here – meaning the bright-red sofa throw is always covered in crumbs.
‘I got offered a job today,’ I tell her. ‘But it was too far away. You wouldn’t want me to work somewhere miles away, would you?’
Wila shrugs. ‘I could cope. As long as it wasn’t forever.’
That throws me a little. ‘Really?’
‘Sure.’
‘But what about cooking and cleaning and sorting the fire and all of that? You wouldn’t be able to manage it. Not with all your school work and rehearsals too.’
‘Maybe you wouldn’t have to worry about that.’
‘Why not?’
Wila has a little secretive smile on her face. ‘I applied for a boarding scholarship.’
‘A boarding scholarship?’
She nods. ‘They offer one every year. For day girls who can’t afford to board. And guess what? I got it.’
My mouth opens and closes. ‘You … wow! Lala that’s … that’s great! How come you didn’t mention this before?’
She shrugs. ‘I wasn’t sure I was going to take it. I like being at home with you. But if you’re going somewhere, and I’d be here all alone …’
‘And you’d be okay with that?’ I ask. ‘Being a boarder?’
Wila nods at her toast. ‘The only thing that makes me unhappy right now is being left out for being a day girl.’
I look at her sweet, innocent little face. ‘I don’t know, Lala. This is a big thing we’re talking about. You’ve never lived away from me before.’
‘I know,’ says Wila. ‘But maybe I need to grow up a bit.’
I laugh. ‘Danny said something like that today. Do you think I baby you?’
Wila looks at her plate. ‘Sometimes. I mean, I know you love me and everything. But … I think you worry too much. I’m older than you think I am.’
‘My little sis, all grown up.’
‘Maybe not all grown up. But I’m getting there.’
‘I always promised myself that whatever happened, I’d make sure you stayed at that school. Like Danny says, it’s your ticket out of here. Maybe if you boarded, we could cope with a little time apart. Just for a little while … ’
I’m saying that more to reassure myself than Wila.
‘Course we can Pheeny,’ says Wila, flashing me her cute little smile.
‘Okay. Well. Um. I guess I should phone Sharon.’
‘How long will you be away for?’ Wila asks.
‘If what Sharon says is anything to go by, not long,’ I laugh. ‘All the other nannies have quit within a week.’
‘It must be a horrible job if so many people have quit.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But I’m tough. I’m sure I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.’
‘I know Pheeny,’ says Wila. ‘We always are.’
7
Oh, shit, shit, shit. Why am I so rubbish at directions?
The road snakes left and right, and all I can see for miles are bright fir trees and grey snowy mountains. Not a road sign anywhere.
What I do know is that my arse aches from being on this motorbike for so long, I’m desperate for a pee and my thighs are beginning to itch against the over-hot metal of my Suzuki.
The guitar strapped to my back is catching the wind like crazy, and buffeting back and forth against my sheepskin jacket, slap, slap, slap.
I must be nearly there. I mean, all I can see are trees and mountains and … what do they call the lakes here? Lochs.
But I can’t see Mansfield Castle.
Is this even the right road? I wish I were better at directions. And I’m late. I hate being late. Where are all the bloody signposts?
I pull my bike over, wincing as I clamber off the hot metal and hopping from one foot to the other as I try to make my legs work again.
Pulling off my helmet, I rest it on the hot seat.
I take out my mobile phone to call Sharon and let her know I’m running late, but … oh god damn it!
No signal.
How can anyone live in a place with no mobile phone signal?
Places like this give me the shivers. Out in the middle of nowhere, no people around, nothing but cold countryside …
I whirl around, looking for a house or a phone box or something. But it’s as wild out here as you’re ever going to get. There’s nothing but tall mountains and evergreen trees for as far as the eye can see.
The air is so fresh and okay … the scenery is kind of beautiful, but who cares if you can’t get a mobile phone signal? I miss the city, and I’ve only been gone a few hours …
I’m just about to jump back on
my motorbike, when I hear something.
A squeaking, creaking sound coming from down the road.
At first, I clutch my bike handles tight, but then I see a very welcome sight – an old man, puffing and panting on the oldest pushbike I’ve ever seen.
Thank god. A human being.
‘Hey!’ I call out, hoisting my guitar higher on my back. ‘Excuse me! Hey! Can you help me please?’
The old man sees me and pulls the bike across the road, coming to a wheezy stop.
Next to his creaky old pushbike, my motorbike looks like a big flaming dragon.
‘Well, well, well,’ says the old man, looking at the guitar on my back. ‘A travelling musician. How can I help you?’ He’s wearing a thin shirt and corduroy trousers.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ I ask, shivering.
‘Cold?’ The man looks baffled. ‘Down here? Goodness me, no.’ He swings around and points a thumb at the snow-covered hills. ‘Up there. That’s where it gets cold.’
I look up at the mountains. They sure are beautiful.
‘I’m looking for Mansfield Castle,’ I say, my eyes drifting back to the man. ‘Do you know where it is?’
The man laughs. ‘Know it? Hah! I should do. I work there.’
‘You do?’
He nods. ‘I’m the gardener. Gregory Croft. And who might you be?’
‘The new nanny,’ I say.
‘Oh.’ Gregory nods his head. ‘Another one, eh? Nannies don’t last long at Mansfield.’
‘Yes, I heard that,’ I say. ‘Why do you suppose that is?’
‘The young lad can be a handful. And Mr Mansfield isn’t the most patient of men. He hasn’t much time for nannies who can’t handle his nephew.’
‘How long have you worked at the castle?’ I ask.
‘Since I was a lad,’ says the man. ‘I watched Patrick and his brother grow up. But Patrick’s only run the place in the last few years. When his grandmother passed away, he came back. He was in the army before then.’
‘What’s Patrick like?’ I ask.
‘If you stay out of his way and speak when you’re spoken to, you’ll do okay.’
I laugh. ‘I’ve never been the sort of girl who only speaks when she’s spoken to.’
‘Well, that’ll give Mr Mansfield a bit of sport at least.’ He sticks out a rough hand. ‘Good to meet you. But I still didn’t catch your name.’
‘Seraphina Harper.’
‘Pretty name for a pretty girl. You don’t sound like you’re from round here, Miss Seraphina. But with that red hair, you’ll fit right in.’ He tells me how to find the castle, then gets back on his pushbike. ‘Well. I’ll be seeing you.’
And with that he creaks away.
8
As I ride my bike around the next curve in the road, I see Mansfield Castle on the horizon, partly hidden by thick woodland.
Wow.
I trundle my bike to a stop, and sit there on the empty road for a moment, staring.
Even I have to admit it’s beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful than the sunset over Big Ben or London Bridge in the snow.
I can’t see all of the castle, since there are woodlands all around it. But I can see the fairy tale turrets, the Scottish flag flying and the curvy towers and browny-grey walls.
When I was little, I used to love Beauty and the Beast, and this castle looks just like Beast’s castle – the one hiding in the woods.
Is there a beast inside, I wonder? Is Patrick Mansfield the one scaring all the nannies away?
There’s something a little bit dark and mysterious about all those turrets and towers, and the way the castle hides in the woodlands. It feels a little cold. And secretive.
To my left is a narrow path, leading through the beautiful silvery green woodlands towards the castle.
A mossy sign by the path says, ‘Mansfield Castle’.
I kind of don’t want to roar down the path on my motorbike. It would feel wrong somehow, making such a racket through the beautiful woodlands. I might scare the birds or something. So I climb off my bike and push it slowly towards the castle, my aching backside feeling relieved to be finally getting some exercise.
Passing mossy banks, trees and craggy white rocks, I breathe in the fresh air and marvel at how life can be so funny.
Yesterday I was on Camden High Street being bumped around by the crowds, and today I’m in the Scottish countryside with not a soul in sight.
Weird where life can take you.
Eventually, I reach the castle itself and take in another deep breath.
Wow.
The whole castle in all its glory is just stunning. There are rounded, slate grey turrets, tall curvy towers and acres of flat wall topped with square battlements. There are also lovely green lawns all around.
I just never knew places like this existed outside of storybooks.
The sky overhead is icy white, which sort of suits the castle. It feels like a wintery place, with its browny-grey walls and black windows.
As I look up at the windows, I give a little shiver. I feel like I’m being watched.
Clearing my throat and standing tall, I park my bike against one of the walls, put my helmet under the seat, unstrap my bag and knock on the huge red front door.
It’s three times my height, that door, and knocking on the thick wood feels like shouting in a snowstorm.
Who’s going to hear me?
I stand and wait for a moment, looking up at the windows.
There it is again – that feeling that someone is watching me.
I crane my neck to look at the higher windows and see a flash of something white in one of the towers. But then it’s gone, and the window is cold and empty.
A creaking sound makes me jump to attention, and my head snaps back to see the door slowly pulling open.
9
I put on my best ‘I’m a great nanny!’ smile.
‘Hello!’ I call out.
‘Who are you?’ I hear a woman’s voice, old and suspicious, from inside the castle.
The door continues to creak open.
I’m a little taken aback. ‘Um …’ I say, trying to keep my voice bright. ‘I’m Seraphina Harper. The new nanny. I’m sorry I’m—’
‘The new nanny?’ The door opens further, and I see a woman with a very white, pinched face and jet-black hair pulled tight into a high bun.
Her lips are almost blue, and she’s wearing a heavy black dress that covers her from her neck all the way down to her ankles. There’s a little white collar at the neck, and white frills at the ends of the long sleeves.
She looks like she’s just been to a funeral. Actually, she looks a little like maybe she should be in the coffin.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘From Sharon’s agency.’
The woman frowns, making her pinched white skin crinkle into a thousand wrinkles.
‘We didn’t request anyone else from that agency. Those girls were no good.’
Oh. Shit.
I hoist up my guitar. ‘Sharon sort of said you have like a rolling arrangement. One girl leaves, so she sends a new one.’
‘Maybe Mr Mansfield … I should check with him, but … he’s not here right now. He’s away on business. He won’t be back until late this evening.’
She looks me up and down, then notices the guitar on my back. ‘What’s that thing in aid of?’
‘This?’ I put a hand to my guitar. ‘I always have it with me. Most kids love music.’
‘Children should be seen and not heard.’
I put my hands on my hips.
‘It would be a pretty sad world if that were true.’
The woman raises a thin eyebrow. ‘Mr Mansfield isn’t keen on staff who talk back. If he does take you on, I hope for your sake that you’ll learn to hold your tongue.’
Reluctantly, the woman pulls the door all the way back. ‘I suppose you’d better come in. As I said, Mr Mansfield isn’t back until later. He can decide then whether you’re suitable or not. In the
meantime, I’ll show you to the nanny quarters.’
She turns on her heel, leaving me to catch the front door that was about to slam shut in my face.
I head into the castle, hurrying to keep up with her.
‘I’m Agnes Calder,’ the woman says over her shoulder, stalking off down a long corridor. ‘Mrs Calder to you. Head housekeeper. All staff report to Mr Mansfield first and me second. So if he doesn’t throw you out tomorrow, I’ll be your direct superior.’
‘Great,’ I say, muttering under my breath, Can’t think of anyone I’d rather have bossing me around.
10
As I follow Mrs Calder through the castle, I realize how cold it is in here. Bloody hell, it’s almost colder than outside.
Everything is stone, from the floor to the steps to the walls, and the only furnishings are huge black iron candle stands and frayed tapestries on the walls.
Mrs Calder disappears up a stone spiral staircase, and I have to be quick to follow her, my cowboy boots clicking on the stone as we go up, up, up.
Soon, we’re up so high I’m almost dizzy.
‘Your room is in the East Tower,’ Mrs Calder calls, taking a turn onto a long, thin corridor, and then making another left, then a right.
‘I think I’ll need a map to find it again,’ I say, with a little laugh.
‘Whatever you do, don’t mistake the East Tower for the West Tower,’ Mrs Calder barks. ‘Nobody is allowed in the West Tower.’
‘Why not?’ I ask.
Mrs Calder ignores me.
‘Here it is,’ she says, stopping by a large wooden door in rounded walls. ‘I don’t have a key for you right now. If Mr Mansfield lets you stay, I suppose I’ll have to find you one.’
She takes a bunch of silver keys from her belt and opens up the door. Then she stands back, and I see my new room in all its glory.
‘Um. It’s … very …’
As I look at the thin bed, made up with a brown blanket, and the wobbly nightstand with a jug of grey-looking water on it, the only words I can think of are, cold, uncomfortable and lonely.
‘… I’m sure I’ll be fine here,’ I finish.
‘All castle staff are expected to be up at six,’ says Mrs Calder, as I put my bag and guitar on the bed. ‘Breakfast is served in the great hall downstairs, and finishes at seven on the dot. Straight down the stairs, left, right, down the long gallery, then take another left and it’s the third door down that hallway.’