Wicked Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  “Oh, thank you, Tia, yes, would you hold the aperitifs for me? Make sure everyone has one as they pass through the great hall and into the orangery.” She hands me a full tray of small crystal glasses filled with a bubbly something, and I follow her brisk steps to the orangery, a relatively recent addition to the house that’s still older than Oskar’s great-great grandfather. It was built in the late seventeenth century and has several very old citrus trees still in situ. It’s by far the lightest room in the house with twenty-seven tall windows and pale stucco construction. Apart from the trees and plants, the furniture is sparse, some teak recliners and a table set for taking afternoon tea, but tonight, it has been transformed. Hundreds of candles edge the room, and fairy lights are interwoven in the vines and small potted trees transforming what, in the daytime, looks like the picture of a Queen Ann greenhouse into a rather magical room.

  “Wow, it looks really lovely.” I can’t hide the awe in my voice. She really has excelled herself this year, not that my opinion seems to count, her response is evidence enough of that.

  “And collect the empty glasses from the garden when your tray is empty,” she adds, turns on her heel, and is gone before she can hear my reply.

  “Sure.”

  I call the guests through and take my place by the doorway. My tray empties quickly, and I have to suppress a wry smile when one of Mrs Kruse’s friends stops to chat. Mrs Kruse seems particularly irritated when I inform Lady Spencer that I had received my unconditional offer to study Fine Art at the London School of Art, and that Atticus’s grandfather had been a huge help. I explain that’s why I am working tonight; I need to save for the crippling student debts. She let out a raucous laugh, but in fairness, I think she thought I was joking. Mrs Kruse certainly doesn’t find the interaction funny. My first win of the evening.

  Once the guests are all seated, I slip out to collect the glasses from the garden. I have to walk the length of the wall to the maze at the very far end to collect the debris. The guests seem to have wandered the entire garden, far and wide, but I don’t blame them. It is a staggeringly beautiful garden, fifteen acres all sectioned and cut up into various areas of interest, the maze being one. There’s also an herb garden, an ornamental pond, a mini orchard, and Mrs Kruse’s pride and joy, the award-winning rose garden.

  I have to make several trips to ensure I have collected everything, the fading light making it a particular challenge, although I love the way the blooms seem to release more of their scent as the sun sinks in the sky. The aroma from the roses dominates the evening air with a sweet heady fragrance. Cass and I would often lie on the lawn nearest to the flowers, staring at the night sky and making plans. I think the smell just makes me miss him more.

  “Tia!” my mother calls out.

  “Coming!” I skip up the steps and walk around the side of the house to the entrance nearest the kitchen where my mother is yelling in a hushed manner that defeats the object of trying to remain unheard. Staff are supposed to be a little like children, seen and not heard.

  “Take the water through, would you?” She hands me two large pitchers of iced water.

  “Sure.” I use my bottom to push the kitchen door open and walk toward the Orangery. The main dining room is better suited for entertaining large numbers like this, but this is a smaller gathering, and since it’s a summer event, Mrs Kruse likes to open up the Orangery. Stepping into the hallway, however, I hear a low groan come from along the corridor. Whoever it is, he’s in pain. I rush to where I can hear the noise more clearly and knock on the Water Closet door.

  “Excuse me, is everything all right in there?”

  “Tia, is that you?” His voice is strained but unmistakable.

  “Oskar, are you okay?” I pull on the handle, but it’s locked. Panic kicks up my heartbeat to a loud thumping in my chest. We have spent almost every day together since Cass left for the States, and we’ve grown extremely close. He’s interesting, fun, and charming, but he’s also very ill.

  “Lord, no, I’m so embarrassed. I need…I need some help.” He lets out a painful groan that makes my stomach turn.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I feel like a fucking infant is what’s happened. Oh, Lord, maybe you should get Mrs Kruse.” His voice wobbles, and I hate the vulnerable intonation in his voice. I may have only known him a short time, but anyone who takes the time to look can see he is a proud, strong man, and this illness is eroding away at his very fibre.

  “Of course, hold on.” I rush down the hall to the Orangery. With my back to the edge of the doorframe, hidden from general view, I attempt to catch Mrs Kruse’s attention. It takes a good few minutes, and I hate that all that time, Oskar is waiting. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to guess what’s happened. His health is in steep decline, and the medication doesn’t seem to be helping. He looked quite pale tonight, and I wasn’t surprised when I noticed he didn’t take his seat for the evening meal. I just assumed he had retired for the evening.

  “What?” Mrs Kruse steps around the corner and grabs my arm, moving us both out of earshot.

  “Oskar,” I say, and her eyes narrow at my comfortable familiarity with using her father-in-law’s first name. “He needs help. He’s in the toilet, and I think he’s been calling for some time,” I explain. The urgency I feel has me edging toward Oskar as I speak, only she remains rooted.

  “And what do you want me to do about it?” She stiffens, holding her nose a little too high and wrinkled with displeasure like I have created some foul odour.

  “He’s Cass’s grandfather, your father-in-law. You know, he’s your family, and he needs your help. I didn’t think I needed to spell it out.”

  “I have guests.” She waves her hand dismissively, and my jaw just about hits the floor at her cold and callous tone. Her lips thin to almost invisible when she speaks with poorly veiled contempt. “Since you are so cosy with Oskar, why don’t you help him out?” She snidely emphasises his name, but her petty jealously at my relationship with her father-in-law is wasted on me. I don’t give a shit what she thinks. Unlike her, the only thing I care about right now is Oskar.

  “He’s sick.” I’m incredulous that I have to state this and unbelievably naive to think it will make some difference.

  “And he will still be sick in a few hours time when the guests leave. It’s up to you how long he remains needing help.”

  “Forgive me for thinking you actually gave a fuck,” I snap, rage making my blood boil and my fingertips twitch to slap that condescending malicious smile off her face.

  “How dare—” Outrage colours her face bright red, but I don’t allow her the satisfaction of finishing whatever she intended to say.

  “Oh, I dare,” I interrupt, my tone thick with disgust, and I level my best death glare at her shocked face. I spin on my heel and run back to Oskar.

  “Hey, Oskar, I’m going to unlock the door from out here, but it’s just me coming in, okay?” I slip the penknife from my pocket and twist the screwdriver attachment free.

  “Oh, no, Tia, please don’t. I can’t bear the—”

  “Too late.” I turn the screw and loosen the escutcheon. I manage to ease the nib of the screwdriver though the gap, depressing the latch and opening the door slightly. I grab the edge of the heavy door with my fingertips before it snaps shut again and quickly step inside. The smell hits me like a brick, and I have fight the very real urge to gag. Oskar is crumpled over, resting his arms on his bare legs, his trousers in a very messy heap around his ankles on the floor, and when he does pull his face up so his eyes meet mine, his expression is one of utter mortification.

  “Oh, Lord, don’t ever get old, Tia, it’s a wretched thing.” He shakes his head, the weight of his helplessness so heavy, it’s palpable. “The damn bowel cancer, Tia, it’s the worst. I couldn’t bring myself to have a bag fitted. I’m so sorry, but I’ve—” His voice catches, and I can’t bear it. It’s heartbreaking, but if I know him at all, and I think I do, he would hate pit
y more than the illness.

  “Really, it’s okay, Oskar. Shit happens.” I keep my tone light and am rewarded with a genuine and surprised grin. He barks out a deep laugh, and I can see the tension leave his shoulders, and almost instantly, he begins to regain his former formidable persona.

  “You’re going to joke?” He raises a challenging brow.

  “I think it’s best, Oskar. No one likes to see a grown man cry,” I quip.

  “No, that would not do.” His eyes widen with the horror of my suggestion, and then his face softens with a heartwarming smile, his expression a picture of relief and misplaced gratitude.

  “Right. I’m going to run up to your rooms and get a change of clothes and some towels. I’m going to re-lock the door so no one comes in. The guests have just been served the first course so we have plenty of time.” I smile to give him some reassurance that this is not a problem, which it isn’t. He nods, and when he replies, I slip from the room.

  “Very good.”

  I kick my shoes off once I have relocked the door, a trick Cass taught me years ago. There’s not a room in this house I can’t get into, or any other house, for that matter, if I put my mind to it. I rush silently up the stairs and gather what I need from Oskar’s rooms. I pick up a few fresh towels and smaller handcloths. When I return, Oskar is fully naked from the waist down but his long dress shirt is preserving his modesty. The room stinks but we both do our best to ignore what must be a mortifying situation for such a proud man. It’s not like this is on anyones’ bucket list or anything, but I couldn’t leave him like this, and if I’m honest, I couldn’t leave him to that hateful bitch in the orangery.

  I fill the sink with some hot water and liquid soap, and together we make the best of cleaning the considerable mess. There’s actually more blood that anything else, and with a painful twist in my gut, it brings home how very sick he is. I may not have been told the specifics—Cass could barely bring himself to speak about it at all—but I know the cancer is terminal. It’s why he came home. I’ve never been this close to death before. I have to fight the tears burning behind my eyelids. The last thing he needs is for me to break down.

  It doesn’t take long before he is fully dressed and looking just as distinguished and handsome as always.

  “Thank you, Tia, I can’t express—” He takes my hand. The one I would’ve used to brush off his statement.

  “Please don’t, Oskar. It’s what friends are for.”

  “It’s what family’s for,” he says, and I don’t correct him, even though I am hardly one to champion the benefits of family. He lets my hand go and reaches for the door.

  “I think it’s best we don’t leave the room together,” I say quickly before he opens it. He tilts his head back to me and winks.

  “Yes, we have to protect your reputation.”

  “See, you are ready for jokes.” I snicker.

  “So it would seem.” He chuckles, and a relaxed smile softens the anguish that has been a permanent fixture since I discovered him.

  “I’ll stay here and give it a few minutes before coming out. I need to get rid of this.” I motion to the pile of dirty towels and clothes.

  “Of course. Please come to my room before you leave, Tia. There’s something I’ve been meaning to give to you and now seems a very good time.”

  “You don’t have to give me anything, Oskar, I didn’t help because—” He shakes his head vigorously and interrupts.

  “Oh, I know that, my dear, and I’m not giving it to you because of tonight. Come to my room, and you will see that to be the case.”

  “Okay, I’ll bring you up some cocoa, but it won’t be for a while. I still have to help Mum,” I add when he glances at his watch.

  “I’ll be awake. I rarely sleep as it is.” He smiles once more and opens the door, disappearing shortly after I tell him that I’ll be up as soon as I can.

  Once he shuts the door, I gather up the soiled clothing and towels, hold my breath, and wait as long as I can bear before I open the door. I can hear voices in the hall so I hang back and pray they are not coming my way, no such luck. The footsteps get louder, and in a panic, I spin in my stocking feet, my ankle twists, and I collapse in a painful heap. The clothes and towels I had been holding at arms length, I instinctively pull close to protect my fall and succeed in covering my self almost head to toe in shit. I start to gag, the smell and feel of the raw waste sliding down my cheeks is too much. I fail to hold the rising bile in my throat back, my stomach violently contracts, and I throw up, all down my front. I don’t even have time to dwell whether this could get any worse when I hear light giggling behind me. The sharper condescending voice of Mrs Kruse, however, cuts the laughter short.

  “You!” she hisses, taking a step toward me but freezing when she sees the source of the mess I’m really in. Her nose rightly screws up, and her eyes look comically wide with horror. I slowly pull myself to stand, wincing when I put pressure on my foot. Without making eye contact, I gather the towels, not bothering with the whole, arms-length thing, kind of pointless now. I suck in some fortifying air through my mouth and flash a tight smile.

  “Yes, me, Mrs Kruse, Oskar is fine, by the way. He’s retired for the evening.” I fix my gaze at her now and walk directly at her. I let out a humourless laugh when she practically throws herself against the wall in her desire to clear a path and get out of my way. She’s pathetic. I keep my head high and make my way down the long corridor, past the kitchen to the laundry room.

  “Where the hell have you been?” My mother shouts at me when I enter the kitchen after making the best of a head to toe body wash in the cast iron double sink in utility room. “And why is your hair all wet? Where’s your uniform, you’re not finished yet, young lady,” she snaps.

  “I am so finished, Mother. I’m going to make Oskar a cocoa, and then I’m going home.” She pauses for a moment, and her brow furrows with confusion. The seriousness of my tone prevents her immediate retort, so I continue just to ensure I am fully understood. “Keep the money. If I have to look at that woman again, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

  “Tia, what have you done?” she scolds, and her hands fly to her hips, her indignant posture adding to the accusatory tone.

  “Of course it would be my fault.” I laugh, a hollow flat sound that echoes off the flagstone floor and vaulted ceiling. “You know what Mother? Forget it, it doesn’t matter. The sooner I’m out of here the better. You’ve always preferred the Kruse family to your own flesh and blood. At least with me gone, you won’t have to pretend anymore.”

  “You ungrateful, spiteful, uncaring little bitch. Mrs Kruse is right about you, you’re a bad seed, just like your father.” Spittle flies from her mouth with the ferocity of the venomous words, which just roll off my skin like they have a hundred times before.

  “And yet still not an insult, Mother. I would rather be like a man I’ve never known than be like you. Does that not tell you something about your distorted loyalties?” I hold her gaze, trying to see anything remotely maternal in her eyes. Affectionate and compassionate are hardly qualities I would have used when describing our relationship, yet even a benign neglect would be a welcome improvement. All I can see is an unhealthy mix of anger, hatred, and regret. She brushes past me without another word. I feel the weight like a millstone of something irrevocably lost, and I sag when I hear the door slam. I’m so alone.

  I take a much-needed moment, then pull myself together because all I want to do is go home, curl up in my covers, and dream of Cass. One of those dreams would be perfect right about now. Still, I gave my word.

  I use the servants’ staircase at the back of the kitchen to avoid running into anyone and make my way to Oskar’s quarters, a mug of steaming hot cocoa in hand.

  Oskar is seated by a small open fire that is just in the final throes of life with softly glowing embers and barely a lick of a flame. One side of him is illuminated by a small standard lamp and the other
by the warm glow of the dying fire. He turns when he hears me approach, his smile broad and strong, any shadow of his ordeal gone from his frame and features.

  “I’m glad you came,” he states, relief and pleasure lifting the smile on his face.

  “I said I would.” I shake my head that there was any doubt.

  “Yes, I know, only I can understand if, well—” He falters, and I repeat my quip from earlier, which garners the same rueful smile as before.

  “Shit happens, Oskar. Here’s your cocoa.” I hand him the mug, and he places it on the small table next to the folded newspaper he was reading when I came in.

  “Yes, it does, Tia. You are a very dear girl. Atticus is a very lucky man.”

  “Thank you, I’m glad at least someone thinks so,” I scoff lightly.

  “Sit here, Tia, what do you mean?” He motions to the old high back chair facing him.

  “Nothing. Same ol’ same ol’.” I sit in the chair, kick my shoes off, and pull my knees under me. He gives a slight nod. ”Mother daughter issues.”

  “Family dynamics are often more complex than they appear, and unfortunately, you can’t choose your family.” His knowing smile stops only when he takes a sip of his drink.

  “Ain’t that the truth?” I sniff derisively.

  “I have something for you. I have been meaning to give you this for some time, but I needed to make sure my Will was in order.” He passes me a sheet of paper from a much larger document stacked on the floor by his feet. My eyes scan the page and fall on the part with my name. This is a section of bequests and my name is listed amongst others, all the others however have his family name. Mine stands out like a sore thumb.

  “I don’t understand.” My voice catches because that isn’t entirely true; I don’t want to understand is more accurate.

  “You know I’m dying, Tia?” It’s a rhetorical question he states calmly, and it’s like a direct hit to my chest. I crumple, and I can feel red-hot tears just brimming behind my lids.