Lightning Strikes

by Virginia Andrews

  “Mif?”

  “Milk in first, girl. I thought ya was supposed ta be smart,” she said with more disdain this time.

  “I just got here a few hours ago, Mrs. Chester. I don’t think it’s fair to expect me to have learned all of your funny expressions by now.”

  “Funny expressions?” She looked at Mary Margaret, who, of course, looked down. “Ain’t she the sassy one?”

  “Mrs. Endfield wanted you to give Rain a cup of tea and a tea biscuit,” Mary Margaret practically whispered to Mrs. Chester.

  “She did now?”

  “I don’t need it. I’ll wait for dinner,” I said sharply.

  “Will ya? That’s a relief. All right, Mary Margaret. Show ’er ’ow ta set the table. For yer information, we eat after we serve them their evenin’ meal, so you’ll be waitin’ a while,” she told me. She stared at me for a moment.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You and ya family on the dole in America, are ya?”

  “The dole?” I looked at Mary Margaret.

  “Government handouts,” she whispered.

  My back straightened instantly.

  “What makes you think that?” I demanded.

  “I hear all yer black folks in America is, is all.”

  “You hear wrong,” I said. “I guess there’s a lot I’ll be able to teach you.”

  Her eyes seemed to wobble in her head a moment. Mary Margaret held her breath, and then Mrs. Chester let out a loud cackle and pressed her hands against her round stomach.

  “Ain’t no tellin’ what’ll come spuin’ out of ’er gob. Mr. Boggs got ’is work cut out for ’im, he does. I’m goin’ ta enjoy comin’ ta work ’ere every day, as long as ya here, that is,” she said with a wink. “Okay, dearies, let’s get ta work. Set out two extra plates tonight, Mary Margaret. They got guests.”

  She laughed to herself and turned back to her dinner preparations. She was making Yorkshire pudding, which she explained was a popoverlike bread served with roast beef, made by baking a batter of eggs, flour, and milk in the drippings of the beef. I had to admit to myself that it did smell delicious. And for what Mary Margaret called the afters, desserts, she had made custard to pour over a Madeira cake, a kind of pound cake.

  “Mrs. Chester was born within the sound of Bow bells, but she’s been a cook in the finest houses,” Mary Margaret said as we prepared the dining room table.

  “Bow bells?”

  “That’s what a Cockney is. An East Ender,” she continued. I shook my head.

  “Less jabberin’ out there and more work, ya hear?” Mrs. Chester called from the kitchen.

  Mary Margaret zipped her mouth shut and worked faster. This is a house of slaves, I thought, slaves who order slaves.

  Mama, we didn’t have it so bad, after all.

  I laughed to myself and folded the linen napkins. Afterward, I had some time to go back to my closet of a room and finish unpacking. I thought I would just lie down for a moment or two and catch my breath, but unfortunately jet lag took hold and I fell into a deep sleep.

  A hard thump on the side of my iron bed sent an electric vibration up my legs, into my spine to the back of my head. I woke with a jump and sat up quickly. Boggs was standing there with a broom handle clutched in his hand like a club. He looked like he was about to whack me with it next. For a moment I was so confused, I forgot where I was. I blinked and blinked until my garbled thoughts settled down and cleared the screen of my memory. Then, I got mad.

  “What are you doing in my room?” I demanded. It just occurred to me that there was no way to lock the door, but I had closed it. I was sure of that.

  “You’re late for servin’ dinner,” he said.

  “I fell asleep. I flew here all the way from the United States today. Maybe you people call it a pond, but it’s an ocean and there’s a big time difference!”

  “None of your excuses. I told you to fulfill your duties. That comes first. Now, get yourself to the kitchen. Mrs. Chester is waitin’ on you and Mrs. Endfield asked after you,” he said undaunted.

  “You have no right to come into my room.”

  “This ain’t your room,” he said with a cold smile. “You’re just sleepin’ in it and only because Mr. Endfield is charitable.” He walked to the doorway and turned, pointing his long thick forefinger at me. “If you miss another duty, I’ll see to it you work on your Sunday.”

  He left, his footsteps pounding over the rust-colored floorboards. I scrubbed my face with my dry palms and then hurried to the bathroom to wash it with cold water. My hair was messy, but I remembered I had to have it pinned up anyway, so I did that quickly and then I went to the kitchen.

  “Well, look who’s gracin’ us with ’er presence,” Mrs. Chester cried as I came through the rear door. Mary Margaret looked up from the tray she was preparing. She looked frightened for me.

  “I fell asleep. Big deal. I happen to have jet lag. There’s quite a time difference, you know.”

  “Is that so? Maybe I’ll come in late tomorrow and tell Mr. Endfield I got jet lag, too,” she quipped. “Help Mary Margaret serve the Yorkshire puddin’.”

  I took the other tray and followed her into the dining room. Great-aunt Leonora clapped her hands together as soon as I appeared. There was an elderly looking woman to her right and a very short, plump bald man to her left. My Great-uncle Richard had his back to us, but turned when Great-aunt Leonora cried, “Here she is, Richard.”

  I looked into the face of a very distinguished looking, handsome man with hair as black as mine and almond-shaped green eyes that most women would envy. That certainly went for his long and thick lashes as well. Because of his rich hair color and his ruddy complexion, he looked younger than Great-aunt Leonora. He was a little over six feet tall, and trim and fit looking in his pinstriped suit. Besides his wedding band, he wore a gold pinky ring on his left hand. It had a small diamond in the center. His hands were long, but as graceful as I imagined an artist’s might be.

  What impressed me was his posture, the firm way he held his shoulders and his back straight with his head high and regal. He turned toward me slowly as if every move, every gesture, had great significance. He didn’t smile. His eyes narrowed, darkening with thought, and he held his perfectly shaped lips tight. There was great discipline in his face, not a wrinkle, not a twitch or a movement giving his feelings away.

  “This is Rain Arnold, the au pair my sister sent over from America,” Great-aunt Leonora began. “She is here to study at the Burbage School of Drama. This is my husband Mr. Endfield, Rain,” she continued.

  “Hello,” I said, still holding the tray filled with Yorkshire pudding. He didn’t move his lips. He nodded slightly, still looking me over as closely as would a doctor.

  “And this is Sir Isaac Dudley and Lady Dudley, Rain,” she added.

  A smile flickered on Sir Dudley’s plump face, his thick, soft lips curling inward and over his teeth so completely, he looked toothless for a moment. His wife barely glanced at me. She looked down at the Yorkshire pudding Mary Margaret had placed before her instead.

  “Rain just arrived today,” Great-aunt Leonora announced.

  Mary Margaret raised her eyes and indicated I should serve the Yorkshire pudding on my tray. Sir Dudley was eyeing it so covetously, he looked like he might reach up and take his serving himself if I didn’t move. I quickly did.

  “To the left,” Great-uncle Richard muttered. My arm froze and I went around him to serve from the left. This close to him, I inhaled the mixed aroma of his rich aftershave and a recently smoked cigar. I could feel his gaze still locked on me. It made my hand shake as I put the dish down with a bit of a heavy clang.

  As soon as I did, he looked up at me.

  “I’m glad my sister-in-law had the good sense to choose a school in England for you over anything the colonies has to offer,” he declared.

  “Colonies?”

  Sir Dudley chuckled. It sounded more like a cough.

  “Pay no attent
ion to him, Rain,” Great-aunt Leonora said. “My husband thinks he is living in the past. He is still getting over the American Revolution.”

  “The world would have been much better off had there been none,” he said. Everything he said seemed to be like some royal declaration. His voice was deep, his pronunciation so correct and sharp, you couldn’t help but listen. “Your people certainly would have fared better,” he added.

  “My people?”

  “Don’t go on so the first time you’ve met her, Richard. You’ll frighten the poor thing. She’s just arrived.”

  “Here, here,” Sir Dudley muttered.

  Lady Dudley’s eyes bored holes in me, but my Great-uncle Richard’s gaze softened suddenly, his lips finally relaxing into almost a smile, his eyes taking on a more distant look. He was gazing directly at me, but I felt he was looking past me, focusing on some memory.

  Then, he blinked and I could almost feel the click in his brain, the change in the direction of his thoughts. It was as if he woke up and realized I was still standing there. His gaze changed, his eyes drinking me in, moving from my head to my toes.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry. I welcome you to Endfield House and I hope your experience here and at the school will be enjoyable and beneficial.”

  “Here, here,” Sir Dudley chanted. I wondered if he could think of anything else to say.

  His wife turned to my great-aunt and asked her about the charity event to take place in Kensington Gardens. The subject of me was not very interesting to her any longer. I glanced once more at Great-uncle Richard who still had his gaze locked on my face, offered him a smile, and returned to the kitchen. I didn’t realize until I entered it that I had been holding my breath the whole time. I blew out the air and took a deep breath.

  “Well, well, she’s made it through the first course,” Mrs. Chester said with a chuckle.

  When it was time, Mary Margaret and I returned to the dining room to clear dishes and serve the afters. Sir Dudley wanted coffee, but everyone else had tea, and I remembered Great-uncle Richard was a mif. He looked impressed when I poured his milk in first and again made me nervous with his long, deep looks.

  After we cleared the table and helped Mrs. Chester with the washing up, I was almost too tired to eat dinner. Despite Mrs. Chester’s sarcastic ways, I couldn’t deny she was a very good cook. We ate in the kitchen. While we ate, I heard the piano and looked at Mary Margaret.

  “Who plays?” I asked her.

  “Mrs. Endfield,” she replied, looking up quickly at Mrs. Chester to see if she had done something wrong by telling me. Why was talking about anyone in this house so forbidden? I wondered.

  Mary Margaret said she would take care of our dishes. She knew how tired I was. I thanked her and headed for my room.

  I was so tired, I barely had the strength to get undressed and into my nightgown. While I was brushing my teeth, I heard footsteps in the hallway and imagined it was Mary Margaret. I could still hear my great-aunt playing the piano. I returned to my room and closed the door. However, as soon as I lay down and closed my eyes, I thought about Boggs shattering my sleep with his broomstick and panicked. I had no alarm clock. I would surely oversleep. I’ll have to ask Mary Margaret to wake me when she gets up, I thought. I slipped into my robe and peered down the corridor. Where did Mary Margaret sleep?

  Great-aunt Leonora was still playing the piano. The hallway light was dim and the shadows deep and long. I walked past the bathroom, deeper into the servants’ quarters. The music followed behind me. Just as I reached the first doorway, Boggs materialized in the dark portal. He was in an undershirt and his pants.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “I was looking for Mary Margaret. I wanted to ask her to wake me because I have no clock in my room,” I explained quickly. In the gloomy dimness his eyes were slick as oil. He frightened me with his stone face and unsympathetic voice.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll rap on your door,” he said.

  “I’d rather have Mary Margaret do it,” I said. “Where is she?” I looked toward the end of the corridor. I couldn’t see any other rooms.

  “She doesn’t sleep ’ere,” he said. “She lives with ’er mother. I’ll wake you. Have no fear of that,” he said. His face was all in shadows.

  “What about Leo?” I asked. Anyone but you, I thought.

  “ ’e lives above the garage. I thought you was tired from your trip,” he added.

  “I am.”

  “Then go to sleep,” he ordered. He stepped back and closed the door.

  I stood there for a moment in the narrow corridor. It was just Boggs and me here? I shared the bathroom with him? It gave me a sick feeling in the base of my stomach to think he was so close. I returned to my room and closed my door. Tomorrow, I’ll buy a clock, I thought, and then I’ll ask Great-aunt Leonora to have a lock put on my bedroom door.

  I crawled under the blanket and rested my head on the hard pillow. The night air helped diminish the strong smell of mothballs, but it was still there along with a rancid odor that reminded me of some apartments back in the projects in Washington, D.C. The piano music stopped and was soon replaced with the creaks and groans throughout the big house.

  I didn’t fall asleep so much as I passed out. It was as if I was still traveling, being swept along by planes and cars until I was spiraling downward through my jumbled thoughts, falling into a well of memories that ran into each other, confusing faces and voices. Mama was reaching down, trying to take hold of me and stop my descent, but she was always just a few inches too far away. There was Roy calling after me, my name echoing around me. I passed Beni who just smiled and did a little dance before evaporating. Grandmother Hudson flashed on the wall of my dream for a moment, her eyes full of worry. I was losing sight of everyone I loved, hurtling deeper and deeper toward the light until I burst out into the center of a blazing fire and woke to the soft sound of my door closing.

  My heart was pounding. I sat up. It was hard to see in the darkness. I was frightened by a silhouette but quickly realized that it was just the wardrobe. No one was in my room, but had someone been here? I listened hard for sounds from the corridor and heard none. Then I let my head drop to the pillow.

  I’m so tired, I thought.

  I’m so tired.

  Even too tired to care about ghosts.

  3

  The New Girl, Again

  Boggs rapped so hard on my door the next morning, I thought it would splinter. There’s a man who would enjoy pulling wings off flies, I thought.

  “Are ya awake?” he growled from the hallway.

  “Yes, yes!” I screamed back. Mama would say he could turn a graveyard into a crowd of Lazaruses.

  “Get to the kitchen,” he commanded and walked away.

  “Yes sir,” I called back and saluted. Then I groaned. It wasn’t only jet lag now. I must have been doing flips in my sleep, I thought. It seemed like every muscle in my body ached and the blanket was twisted around my legs. Outside my little window, I could see it was gray and overcast and the air was much cooler than I had expected. It brought another delightful realization. There was nothing to provide any heat for this room, not a radiator, not even an electric heater. That fact was brought home dramatically when I put my bare feet on the wooden floor. It felt as if I had stepped into an icy cold puddle. I scurried to locate my slippers and get into something warmer than my nightgown. I would have appreciated the time to take a shower, but there wasn’t any shower or any time. I’d have to take a bath but looking at my watch, I saw I had only fifteen minutes to get myself to the kitchen to help prepare and serve breakfast.

  After putting on my panties and bra, I checked the hallway, saw it was clear, and, carrying my clothes in my arms, hurried to the bathroom where I would at least wash myself. Why wasn’t I surprised to discover we had no hot water? The faucet ran and ran and the water didn’t warm at all. I had no choice but to scrub up quickly, shivering as I put on my blouse a
nd skirt. The only benefit to having to pin up my hair was I didn’t have to spend any time on it, but boy did it need to be washed, I thought.

  The house was very quiet. I heard a pan clank in the kitchen and entered to see Mary Margaret filling a teapot with hot water. She glanced at me, but didn’t take her eyes from her work as if brewing a cup of tea for my great-uncle was similar to heart surgery. She started out of the kitchen, yet to say good morning to me.

  “Don’t forget, milk in first,” I muttered. She glanced at me with astonishment, saw the smile on my face, and widened her eyes. Didn’t anyone ever joke here?

  “So yer up and about,” Mrs. Chester declared, coming in from the pantry. “That’s a surprise. I’m sure Mr. Boggs had somethin’ ta do with it, eh dearie?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. He slept under my bed,” I said and she cackled. “What is that?” I asked, looking at what she was preparing for breakfast.

  “Black puddin’,” she said. When I continued to squint, she added, “spiced blood sausage.”

  “Ugh,” I muttered. She tilted her head.

  “Mr. Endfield enjoys a full English breakfast on Tuesdays, thank you. We’ll be serving fried eggs, fried tomatoes, and toast and marmalade as well. Slice up them tomatoes. You can do that without cuttin’ yer fingers, can’t ya?”

  “Of course,” I said and began. I noticed she watched me out of the corner of her eyes.

  “Ya handle that knife right well,” she commented.

  “I cooked a lot for my family.”

  She nodded. I gazed at the marmalade.

  “Go on. Ya can taste it,” she said and I did. She laughed at the face I made. “It’s made from bitter oranges. Mr. Endfield’s right fond of that.”

  “Does anyone eat cold cereal?” I asked.

  “Cold cereal?” She thought a moment. “Mr. Endfield eats porridge every Thursday, but not cold.”

  “Every Thursday? Is everything organized by the day here, even what they eat?”

  “That it is,” she said.