The Hostage Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  “Yes, I see,” Emma said, though she didn’t, quite. What Mrs Henderson seemed to be saying was that Arabella needed a mother, and the question that naturally arose was, why wouldn’t Lady Susan do? But she didn’t quite know how to ask that. There had seemed some little reserve in Mrs Henderson’s manner when she spoke about Lady Susan, which warned Emma not to probe.

  After a moment, Mrs Henderson said, “I think I can tell you, Miss Ruskin, that I am looking very favourably on your application. Your qualifications and experience as a teacher are excellent, but more importantly I like you as a person. You come from a large family, and you obviously like children, and you come across to me as warm-hearted, affectionate, and level-headed. I think those are qualities Arabella needs. She’s in danger of becoming a ‘poor little rich girl’ – of substituting material values for human ones. Your background – forgive me – is very different from hers. I think there’s a great deal she could gain from you.”

  There was a silence while Mrs Henderson stared thoughtfully at her clasped hands in her lap, and Emma finished off a piece of Battenburg and wondered what was wrong with the family and whether the ‘sensitive’ little girl would turn out to be a monster. Then Mrs Henderson spoke again.

  “I’ve painted the picture for you as faithfully as I can. Now tell me, have I put you off?”

  Emma said, “No, you haven’t put me off. But I have to be honest with you: until I try, I don’t know whether I can do any good for the child.”

  “But you’d like to try?”

  “Yes,” said Emma. “I’d like to try.”

  Now Mrs Henderson smiled. “Oh, I am glad! Because I want very much to offer you the job.”

  Later that evening back at the flat, Emma told the other three about the interview. About the child, she said only that she was ten years old: she didn’t want a lecture at this stage about spoilt brats. Alison was impressed with the size of the salary that had been mentioned; Rachel by the friendliness of the reception; Suzanne wanted to know what she thought of the decorating job. But none of them was convinced that it was the right thing for her to do.

  “Well,” Emma said at last, “it has to be on a trial basis at first, until we see if I like the kid and she likes me. So if it’s no good, I’ve lost nothing. I’m not committed.”

  “You’ll have given up your job,” Rachel said unhappily.

  “I’d have given that up anyway. Seriously, Rachel, I don’t want to go back to school, whatever happens.”

  “What about the flat?” Alison asked.

  “I won’t give up my room until after the trial period,” Emma said. “I can afford my rent, don’t worry. And while I’m away, if you want to use my room for overnight guests now and then, I don’t mind. But this is still a bit previous. Mrs Henderson wants me, but I have to meet the rest of the family first.”

  “And when does that come off?” Suzanne asked.

  “I’m going to spend Easter with them, and if we like each other all round, we’ll finalise details them. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll have had a weekend in the country, all expenses paid.”

  “You sound happy,” Rachel said. “You’re really looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” Emma said.

  “Even the living-in bit?” Suzanne said curiously.

  “Oddly enough, especially that. I like the idea of having the child all the time, not just for a few hours a day. If it works out, I can really make a difference.”

  “You’re broody,” Alison accused. “I know what it is – it’s all a throw-back to Chris, isn’t it? Getting so close to being married and then breaking it off. You want a substitute child.”

  “Shut up, Ali,” Rachel said, unusually sharply for her. Emma was looking uncomfortable. It was eight months since she had broken up with Chris, but Rachel knew how much she had been hurt, though she never spoke about it.

  But Emma said lightly, “It’s all right, there’s a grain of truth in what Ali says, I expect. It’ll be quite nice to be a surrogate mother for a bit: at least I can get out of it if I don’t like it, which is more than you can do with the real sort.”

  The moment passed. Alison wanted to discuss whether Emma’s wardrobe would stand the strain of a weekend in what she insisted on calling a ‘stately home’, and Suzanne wanted to tell Emma all the ways in which a rich child could be uniquely horrible, and soon they were all outdoing each other in bizarre fantasies about Emma’s forthcoming stay in the country which wouldn’t have been out of place in an episode of The Addams Family.

  Later, alone in her room, Emma thought about what Alison had said. She had been very much in love with Chris, the first really serious love of her life. And she had thought he felt the same about her. At first everything had been wonderful: he had wanted to spend every minute with her; had planned a whole future with her; paid her extravagant compliments; told her he loved her a dozen times a day. He had never known anyone like her, he said; she was the embodiment of everything he had ever wanted in a woman.

  But then he had changed, had started to blow hot and cold. One day he was wrapping himself in her arms, the next accusing her of stifling him. He began to hedge about getting married, asking what all the rush was. Emma, bewildered, could only stick to what she knew: that she loved him, and thought he loved her, and that if two people loved each other like that, they got married. That was so simple and natural, she couldn’t understand what he found difficult about it. But on the day he first said he didn’t think he was ready to make a commitment, she felt the iron enter her soul. These days, the word ‘commitment’ spelt doom to any relationship. It was the buzz-word of the emotionally irresponsible. Bit by bit, he detached himself from her, and in the process, painted her as a monster of possessiveness who had made life impossible for him. In the end, he believed his own propaganda.

  Having broken off with him, Emma then had to draw back all the tendrils of love and trust she had put out to him, and learn to be without him – or, perhaps more accurately, to do without loving him. She had not been out with anyone since. When she was asked for a date, as she was from time to time, she made excuses. She did not want to go through all that again, and she didn’t know, now, if she would ever be able to trust a man again. If she got fond of someone, and he said he loved her, how would she be able to believe him? Better, she thought, to stay single, and safe.

  And in that case, going to live in a large house in the country might not be a bad idea, for she would be well out of the way of both harm and temptation. She had wanted a complete break, both from her work, and her social situation, and this job offered both. Some people might call it running away, but to her it looked like a sensible regrouping of her forces.

  Chapter Three

  Emma was the only person to get off the train, and there was only one person waiting on the platform, so there was no difficulty about their identifying each other. He was a little man like a jockey, in a dark blue suit; walnut-faced, with grey hair slicked back, which had a sort of dent in it all the way round his head, product of years of wearing a hat. So it was no surprise to Emma when he pushed himself off the wall against which he was leaning and said,

  “Miss Ruskin, is it? Yeah, I’m the shofer, sent to meet you. Atkins is my name. Is that all your luggage? Right you are, then. Car’s outside. This way.” Emma was looking about for a ticket collector, but Atkins said, “Nah, don’t bovver about that. Most o’ these stations are unmanned ’cept in the rush-hour.”

  She followed him out through a wicket gate and into a narrow, green, damp, overhung lane. He chatted as he walked, as if he knew she needed reassuring. “Keep expecting ’em to close this station altogether, but we hang on by the skin of our teeth. Nearly lost it a few years back, but then our local MP got made a cabinet minister and the line got upgraded. Now we’re starting to get commuters from Cambridge moving into the village, so I suppose we’re safe. Good thing, too. ’Er ladyship wouldn’t like it if they closed us down. She ain’t been
on a train in twenty years, but she’d have something to say all right. ’Ere’s the jalopy.”

  It was an elderly beige Rolls, vast and stately as a ship, immaculate inside and out. Atkins opened the rear door and the car exhaled the smell of well-tended leather and freshly-cleaned carpets. Emma felt intimidated.

  “Urn, would you mind if I sat in front with you?” He looked at her, and she added defensively, “I sometimes get carsick in the back.”

  “Just as you like,” he said, as if he knew she was lying, and opened the nearside front door for her and closed it noiselessly after her. He stowed her bag in the boot and then climbed in, picking up his peaked cap from the dashboard and putting it on with a just-audible sigh.

  “Don’t bother on my account,” Emma said.

  “Gotter wear me ’at. ’Er ladyship wouldn’t like it,” he said; but he seemed pleased by her remark, and set the car in motion with a faint smile lurking about his lips.

  Emma felt she ought to use the journey to get to know him a bit better. After all, if she got the job, he would be part of her new life. “Is it far to Long Hempdon?” she asked to set the ball rolling.

  “Five miles to the gates,” Atkins said. “Then another mile to the ’ouse.”

  “Wow,” Emma said, surprised. “It must be a big place. I wasn’t expecting anything like that.”

  “Stately ’ome,” Atkins said, and she couldn’t tell if the comment was proud or derisive.

  “Is it – was it – perhaps it was in the family, Lady Susan’s family?” Emma hazarded.

  “Nah!” he said robustly. “Guv’nor bought it fifteen year ago, give or take. Dead old, it is – Chooder mostly. She don’t like it – draughty ’ole she calls it. Wanted a modern ’ouse. But ’e’s dead set on being lord of the manor. Wants ’is son to inherit the family seat and all that sort o’ thing. He’ll probably get a title from the Government next time round, see – services to industry, get me?” he added with a sidelong wink, “– so ’e reckons ’e might as well have the place to go with it.”

  “I see,” Emma said. He seemed to be being pretty indiscreet, considering she was a stranger, but it was all very revealing and she didn’t want him to stop, so she asked, “What’s it like, the house?”

  “It’s all big beams and little winders. All right if you like that sort o’ thing,” Atkins conceded. “I don’t mind a bit of ’istory meself, as long as I’ve got central ’eating. Of course, we only use one wing. The family what owned it ran out o’ money and it stood empty for years, going to rack and ruin. So the guv’nor got it cheap – he loves a bargain – and did one wing up. Going to do the rest up eventually, make it a show place. So he says. I wouldn’t ’old me breath.”

  “And it’s got big grounds, you say?”

  “Any amount. Park land mostly – not much in the way of a garden. The eldest girl, she rides a lot, or she did before she went to college. Guv’nor always said she could ride all day and never leave her own grounds.”

  “The eldest girl – that’s Zara, isn’t it? What’s she like?”

  “’Oly terror. Like ’er ma.”

  “Oh,” said Emma.

  Atkins looked at her sideways, sizing her up. “New to you, all this, ain’t it?”

  “I’ve never had a live-in job before.”

  “It’s different,” he conceded. “Different way o’ life.”

  She judged there was a gleam of sympathy there for her, so she said, “Tell me what everyone’s like?”

  Atkins faced forward again. “The Guv’nor’s all right. I’ve known him donkey’s years. I used to be a foreman at his first factory, down Chadwell ’Eath way. Then when he started to really make it big, he asked if I’d like to be his driver. I done that for about fifteen years, but it started to play on me ’elf, the long hours and everything, meetings till all hours then ’ome to pick up a bag and straight off to the airport. I got sick and ’ad to pack it in. But it was just about then that the Guv’nor moved down ’ere permanent, so he asked if I’d like to come ’ere as shofer, drive ’er ladyship about and whatnot. Well, it suits me all right. I got me own place and the work’s nothing. So ’ere I am.”

  “It’s nice to know that Mr Akroyd rewards loyalty,” Emma said.

  “Oh, he’s all right,” Atkins said again. “And ’is son’s all right – Gavin – once you get used to ’is little ways. But—” He left the sentence tantalisingly open, and then deflected himself to nod towards the view from the front windscreen. “This is the village now, Hempdon Green. Not much to it, just the church and one pub. Used to ’ave a couple of shops, till they opened the big Tesco’s over at Chevington Ash.” They passed a village green, and came to a small humped bridge, beside which a road-sign said, ‘River Ash’. It was a very small river, hardly more than a trickle, Emma thought.

  “Runs into the Kennett,” Atkins said. “Used to be fish in there – dace, chubb, pike as long as your arm. Now they got all them new fact’ries outside Bury, there ain’t even any water in it. Took it all. No fish now.”

  “What a shame,” Emma said.

  They crossed the bridge. “All this is new,” Atkins remarked. His mouth turned down. “Commuter-land.”

  He hardly needed to tell her that, as the last of the old cottages ran out to be replaced by raw-looking houses and bungalows with picture windows and open-plan lawns. And then they were out of the village altogether, and there were green verges and hedges to either side.

  “Nearly there now,” said Atkins.

  Emma realised her chance to get information was running out. “What about the little girl?” she asked anxiously.

  “Eh?” said Atkins vaguely.

  “The little girl I’m supposed to teach. Arabella, isn’t it? What’s she like?”

  “Poppy,” he corrected. “Everybody calls her Poppy, except her ma. Yeah, she’s all right. She can be a pain in the neck, like all kids, but there’s no real harm in her.” He broke off. “Here’s the park gates now,” he said, turning the car in.

  Emma looked eagerly about her as they drove up the tree-lined road. On either side there was grassland dotted with large trees. My own private Alexandra Park, she thought with an inward smile. At least I won’t feel homesick. Then they rounded a curve in the road and the house came into sight. Emma gazed with some awe on the enormous, rambling Tudor mansion, not showing its disrepair at this distance. She felt dwarfed by the size of the house and park and the strangeness of the situation; and even Atkins seemed to have withdrawn into a grave silence, as if his alliance with her could not survive beyond the park gates. An enormous house; a ‘her ladyship’ who was a holy terror; a ‘sort of housekeeper’ – Mrs Henderson; a chauffeur and a cook, and so, presumably, other servants. She had never lived in this kind of way, and hadn’t the least idea how to behave or what to expect.

  Oh well, she thought, I’m only on trial anyway. I probably won’t get the job, so what does it matter?

  “’Ere you are, then,” Atkins said, drawing up in front of some wide, shallow steps up to the front door. “You get out here – I’ve got to take the motor round the back. Don’t worry about your bag – it’ll get took up.”

  Another moment found her standing quite alone before the house and already visualising difficulties. Was she supposed to ring the doorbell or just walk in? How did she address people? Would she count as a servant or one of the family or what? She stood staring at the door and wishing she had never come; and while she was hesitating, the noise of a car’s engine which she had been hearing in the background but which, being a Londoner, she had been ignoring, grew rapidly louder. Then a bright red Elan SE sports car shot out of the avenue with a noise like a growling dog, whirled into the open space before the house and screeched to a halt so dramatic that a handful of gravel was sprayed like machine-gun fire over the steps.

  The engine was abruptly silenced, the door opened, and the driver extracted himself and strode, long-legged, to where Emma was standing. He eyed her up and down briefly
and coldly and said, “I’m sorry but this house is not open to the public. You want Hempworth Manor, about a mile further down the road. That’s the National Trust house.”

  Emma should have felt shrunken and humiliated by this display of cool arrogance, but oddly enough she didn’t. She looked up at the extremely handsome young man with interest. She had never in her life seen anyone who looked so like a Gavin, and had no doubt that she was being addressed by the Young Master himself.

  He was wearing a tweed sports jacket over a dark blue, open-necked shirt and beige cavalry twill trousers, all very expensive-looking, and showing off his fine figure to perfection. His hair was blonde, thick and springy like a Pantene advert. His skin had a golden tint that she felt was its natural colour, not the result of sun-bathing. His eyes were a vivid blue, the colour picked up and enhanced by the shade of his shirt; his features were exquisitely well-cut, firm and Grecian.

  All in all it added up to just about the most handsome man Emma had ever seen, on or off the screen; and, boy, she thought, does he know it! His arrival in that car – and of course, it would be bright red! – with the screech of gravel, told just what sort of a bloke he would be: in love with himself, and expecting every woman to fall for him on sight. But Emma was quite unsmitten. He was so handsome he hardly seemed real, and she was simply enjoying looking at him. In fact, she probably stared at him for longer than was really polite. His nostrils grew a little white, and he said tautly, “I’m sorry, did you want something?”

  Emma’s sense of humour asserted itself. “Not really,” she said. “I was just admiring your front.”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”