“Phone. Got to see if me wife is home.”
“You mean your trouble and strife,” his friend said and they both laughed.
I leaned toward Randall who had been listening with a smile on his face.
“What are they talking about?”
“They’re speaking mockney. It’s fashionable these days to use the odd phrase trying to sound like cockneys. They’re having fun with rhyming cockney slang. The one guy ordered steak and kidney, Kate and Sydney, and the other ordered fish, which is Lillian Gish, with a pint of stout, salmon and trout. Understand?”
“No. Trouble and strife? What did he mean by that?”
“He went to call his wife, so the other guy said, oh, your trouble and strife.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked, astounded and impressed.
“Like I told you, I read. I have this book back in my room. I’ll lend it to you, if you want. It’s like a dictionary of cockney slang.”
“I have enough trouble with the English language here as it is,” I said. “I’ll skip it.”
He sipped his beer and we talked about the play. Randall thought that Macbeth’s life was predetermined by Fate and he really had no choice but to come to a bad end. I disagreed and pointed out that Fate merely tempted him. It was still his fault because he listened to his mad, ambitious wife and killed the king.
“Then you don’t think your life is all predetermined for you?” he asked me.
“I hope not,” I said. “Mine didn’t get the best start, and if my future is anything like my past, I’m in for a worse Fate than Lady Macbeth.”
He looked thoughtful.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I feel that if I challenge things, do something I’m not supposed to be doing, I’m defying Fate and I’ll suffer for it.”
“Randall, if you don’t want to be doing what you’re doing, you should tell your parents and not let them design your life for you.”
“I know. It’s not that I don’t want to do it. I love to sing. It’s just that. . .sometimes, I think I’m missing so much, I won’t have anything to sing about. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
“Catherine and Leslie think so, too.”
“Talk about temptation,” I said, and he smiled.
The fish and chips came. I thought I wasn’t hungry, but the aroma stirred my appetite and I fell in love with the fries. I know I ate too many of them. Later, on the way home, I heard my stomach complain about all the grease. It was as if big, thick bubbles were popping inside of me. I had to make our good night very short and just made it into the house in time. I expected my moans and groans would bring Boggs out of his room, but he didn’t appear, and I couldn’t wait to curl up in bed. I tossed and turned most of the night, waking up frequently with stomach cramps.
In the morning I felt like a hag and thought I didn’t look much different. When Mrs. Chester asked me why I was so “buggered out,” I told her what I had eaten. She laughed and said I probably had gone to a real dump. She made some concoction for me and it did make my stomach feel better. At least I didn’t look like death warmed over when I stepped into the dining room to help serve breakfast. Only my great-uncle was there.
“So?” he asked as soon as I entered the dining room. “How was the play?”
“Oh, it was wonderful. Thank you for getting me the tickets.”
“I’ve been hearing good things about the actress who plays Lady Macbeth,” he said, nodding. “Did you take another student from the school?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did she enjoy it as much?”
“It was a he,” I said.
“Oh?”
His eyes widened a bit and he sipped his tea.
“His name is Randall Glenn and he’s studying singing. He has a beautiful voice and will probably be an opera star,” I said. “He’s very nice. He’s from Canada and he’s been here before with his family, so he has been very helpful.”
He looked at me with dark, almost angry eyes.
“You want to be careful about your relationships. One mistake can ruin your life,” he advised. It sounded more like a threat. “The streets of London are full of girls your age who were tempted by far more sophisticated boys. Think of it this way,” he continued, folding his paper and turning to me. Suddenly, he paused. Mary Margaret, who had been walking in and out of the dining room, lingered in the door a moment until he gazed at her furiously. Then she quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
“Think of it this way,” he continued, as if he had been rudely interrupted. “Your hormones are like the engine of your vehicle. They run you and at this age, they are very powerful, so powerful, you can lose control of your vehicle and go off the road. You can crash and destroy yourself. Understand?” he asked.
He spoke to me as if he were speaking to a little girl, explaining the birds and the bees. I knew he was just trying to be helpful, but his tone of voice brought a small smile to my lips. He didn’t like it.
“It’s not a funny matter,” he followed sharply.
“Oh, I know. Thank you for the advice. I appreciate it,” I said.
“I hope so,” he said. He went back to his paper, snapping it sharply.
“Is Mrs. Endfield all right?” I asked.
“She’s just very tired this morning,” he said. “Mrs. Chester has orders to send up her tea.”
He didn’t look at me. I could almost hear him say, “That will be all.” I was dismissed.
When I returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Chester had my Great-aunt Leonora’s tray all prepared.
“Ya can take this up ta ’er,” she told me.
“Me?”
“And why not you, pray tell?”
I looked at Mary Margaret who turned away to get a dish of marmalade for my great-uncle.
“I’ve never been asked to do it before. That’s all,” I said.
“There’s not much ta do, now is there?” Mrs. Chester chimed. “Jist don’t drop it in ’er lap.”
I took the tray and carried it up the steps to my great-aunt’s room. I knocked and waited.
“Come in,” she called.
She was sitting up in her bed. Without her makeup, her hair down, and still in her nightgown, she looked older, the lines in her face more vivid, her complexion more like thin parchment.
“Good morning, Mrs. Endfield,” I said.
“Good morning. Please get that first, dear,” she said, nodding toward a bed table resting on the floor by the wall.
I put the tray down on the vanity table, set up her bed table, and then brought the tray to it.
“Don’t you feel well, Mrs. Endfield?” I asked.
“I’m just so tired this morning. The trip and the whole day yesterday was a little much. Don’t go,” she said when I started toward the door. “Stay a while and tell me about your day and the play.”
I described our sightseeing and then the performance and what we did and ate afterward. When I told her how I had suffered a stomachache, she smiled and nodded.
“Heather was like that when it came to eating new things,” she said and then she bit down on her lower lip so hard, it made the skin around it turn white. It was as if something forbidden had escaped her lips.
“Heather?” I said, stepping back. I knew who she meant because of what Grandmother Hudson had told me, but I didn’t want her to know how much I had been told.
She shook her head, her eyes widening.
“I’m not supposed to mention her name,” she whispered. “Don’t you say a word.”
“Who is Heather?” I asked.
“She was our daughter,” she replied. Her eyes looked glazed over for a moment and then she batted her eyelids quickly as if she was clearing away mist and fog. “The Endfields suffered a horrible tragedy,” she began like she was telling a story about some other people. “Heather was only seven when her little heart cracked and shattered as if it was some old glass window in the cathedral of her chest. She was a very sweet, preciou
s little girl, full of smiles and love for her daddy. How her eyes would brighten when he appeared, two tiny lights flickering with her holiday laugh of joy as if every day was Christmas. Every day was special for her because she was given so few.
“Richard made every day festive for her. He never came home without a present in his briefcase or in his arms. He brought her dolls and doll’s clothing, almost another doll every other day, and toy dishes and teacups, little furniture and clothes and jewelry. Whatever pretty thing crossed his eyes when he walked along the streets, he bought for her. She was never far from his thoughts no matter how big the case or important the client at the time.
“The morning she didn’t wake up, he sat in her room and stared at her until it was nearly twilight. He refused to drink or eat a thing. He threw the doctor out, cursing the medical world for permitting it to happen. Nothing had helped, operations, medicines, nothing.
“Finally, his partners came from the firm and talked him into sending for the undertakers, but he would have nothing to do with it. Our solicitor made all the arrangements and when he went to the funeral, he moved and spoke like a man in a daze, hoping that any moment the nightmare would end. He looked at people and heard them, but he didn’t believe they were there or they were really speaking.
“He’s never once gone with me to her grave, you know. Heather’s room is always kept locked. Mary Margaret is the only one who is permitted in it once a week to dust and clean. I don’t see the point in that, do you, dear? If the door is always kept locked, why bother?
“You mustn’t utter a word of any of this in front of him,” she added quickly. “You mustn’t. He can’t even stand to hear someone mention her name now.”
“Why don’t you have any pictures of her anywhere in the house?” I asked.
“Richard won’t permit it. Years and years ago, he removed any reminder of her that was in the house, anything that would force us to dwell on the sorrow.”
“But don’t you want to remember her?”
“Richard thinks it’s better if we pretend we imagined her. He’s right,” she declared with a maddening smile. “It makes it so much less painful. When I think about her now, it’s as if I’m dreaming about someone whom I wish I had as a daughter, but never did.”
“You never tried to have any more children?” I asked.
She glanced up at me and stared so long, I thought she wasn’t going to answer and I should just turn and walk out quickly for daring to ask such a personal question. Then she spoke.
“We were terrified that if we had another, the same sort of thing would happen. It was heredity, the heart problem. Richard’s mother died when she was only in her thirties, you see.
“Oh, I know not having children has made us selfish,” she continued with a slight nodding, “but there was nothing I could do. Richard wouldn’t hear of adopting. A child wouldn’t be loved properly in this house if he or she didn’t have any Endfield blood, he told me, and I didn’t argue. I suppose I was somewhat selfish too, and afraid.
“I’m not at all like Frances, you see. I pretend to be critical of her. It’s a game we’ve always played, but I truly admire her for her strength. Sometimes, I think she wouldn’t be rattled if the Queen herself came to visit. When our mother died, Frances was like a mother to me. She was even like a mother to her own husband sometimes,” she added with a small laugh.
“Oh, but look at the time,” she declared, gazing at the small marble-encased clock on her dresser. “You’ll be late for school if I keep you here listening to my drivel.”
“It’s not drivel,” I said.
She didn’t seem to hear me. She sipped her tea and rocked herself slightly in the bed.
I started out of the room and then, gazing to my left, saw the rocker she had been sitting in the morning I had come up to speak with her. There was a blanket on it, but visible, just beneath it, was the tiny hand and arm of what looked like a doll.
It put a shiver in me and sped up my exit from her room and the house afterward when I had finished with my morning duties and could leave for school.
All during the week I went to my lessons and attended my classes with much more enthusiasm because of the play I had attended. Randall said I was inspired and I didn’t deny it. When I sat and daydreamed, I did see myself on the stage. At the end of all my imaginary performances, the applause was deafening and someone always rushed up with an armful of roses for me. I envisioned my name in lights and saw myself featured in magazines. Back in Washington, D.C., those who had known me as just another poor black girl living in the projects were shocked to open newspapers and see my picture in the arts sections. I’m sure everyone around me in my classes wondered why I was sitting there with such a silly smile on my face, but they couldn’t see into my fantasies.
Late in the week, my speech teacher pulled me aside to tell me I was making good progress improving my pronunciation and enunciation. On Thursday, I read for a dramatics presentation and as a result was awarded a role, the role Sarah Broadhurst had coveted. She was absolutely furious when she saw my name next to Ophelia from Hamlet on the assignment list the next day. Randall made such a big deal of it, I had to ask him to quiet down because he was embarrassing me in front of the others. He saw how Sarah was looking at me, her eyes green with envy.
“Don’t mind her,” he said. “If she doesn’t get used to disappointment, she’ll never have a chance in the theater anyway. You’re always auditioning and often being rejected until you’re a big star and you can pick and choose what part you want to play.”
The speeches I was given to deliver occurred in the play after Hamlet had killed Ophelia’s father accidentally. It had turned her mad.
“I’ll practice with you,” Randall offered. “I’ve seen it a few times.”
Everyone seemed impressed I was given the opportunity after so short a period at the school, especially Mr. MacWaine who said, “I’ll include the news in a report I’m preparing for Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure she will be delighted to hear how well you are doing, Rain.”
I was eager to tell Great-aunt Leonora and especially Great-uncle Richard that night when I helped serve dinner. As soon as I arrived, I hurried to my room to change. However, I was shocked to discover that someone had gone through my things. I could tell because clothing in drawers was disturbed and it was obvious that all my garments in the wardrobe had been shoved around. Boxes for my shoes had not been closed after someone had opened them, too. Whoever had done it had not been very subtle about it. Pockets of jackets were still inside out as well. I had nothing of great value for anyone to steal. Who could have done this? Why?
Furious, I marched down the hallway determined to complain to my great-aunt and great-uncle.
Boggs, who was my chief suspect, appeared just outside of my great uncle’s den and office. Before I could get a word out, he growled, “Mr. Endfield just sent me to fetch you. He’s waitin’ to see you,” he added and nodded toward the office.
“What’s going on here? Who was in my room searching my things?” I demanded.
“Mr. Endfield’s waitin’,” Boggs replied, his eyes steely gray.
I might as well try to intimidate one of those statues in the park, I thought. I felt like kicking him where I knew it would hurt the most. Firing back my own gaze of fury, I stormed by him and into the office where my great-uncle sat behind his desk, his back to me. Before I could ask anything, he ordered me to close the door. I did so and then he turned his chair to face me. Before him, on his desk, was an opened envelope and a letter. He held it up.
“This letter came to my office today,” he began. “It’s from my wife’s niece Victoria. Do you have any idea why she might have written this letter?” he asked, leaning forward and gazing like a prosecutor at my face.
“No,” I said. “Why? What did she write? Is it about me?” I asked quickly, expecting that Victoria had defied Grandmother Hudson’s wishes and revealed the truth.
Rather than reply, he sat back an
d made a cathedral with his fingers. He took a breath and straightened his shoulders as if he was about to address Parliament itself.
“You’ve been given some wonderful opportunities, not only here but in America, as I understand it. You attended a very expensive, prestigious school, were presented with a new wardrobe, had all your medical and dental needs provided for, were given luxurious living quarters and not asked to do anything in return but succeed and make something of yourself.”
“I know all that,” I said. “I’m grateful for it and I haven’t taken anything for granted, so I don’t need to be reminded, if that’s what Victoria told you.”
“No, that’s not the problem,” he replied.
“Is there something wrong with my work in the house? The other day you told me I was doing fine.”
“I have no complaints about that.”
“Then why are you talking to me as if I’m some sort of criminal? And who searched all my things?” I demanded. “My room looks like the FBI was in there!”
He remained calm, not even blinking an eyelid.
“Victoria has informed me that a very valuable family heirloom is missing from my sister-in-law’s jewelry box,” he said in a quiet voice. “It’s a diamond brooch that once belonged to my mother-in-law.” He picked up the letter. “She claims she saw it before you arrived to live with her mother and now when she went to look for it, it was gone. My sister-in-law is beside herself as well, but according to Victoria, she refuses to ask you about it,” he concluded and put the letter down.
“Are you accusing me of stealing from Mrs. Hudson?” I asked, astonished.
“I’m not accusing you of anything. My niece thinks there is reason to be suspicious,” he said.
“And so you had Boggs search my room?” I concluded.
“It’s far better that if any investigation is conducted, it is conducted by the family and not by the police,” he said. “It was for your own protection.”
“My own protection? Treating me like a thief? Having that ogre go through my private things?”
“He is a trusted servant, a man of discretion. No one need know anything about this. Of course, that might be entirely up to you.”
Lightning Strikes Page 13