by A. B. King
“Look,” he said in as friendly a tone as he could manage. “I have no wish to pry into the details of your domestic life; it’s none of my business. The fact that you are here and your husband isn’t is of no concern of mine. I want to assure you that if some aspects of your personal life have been less acceptable than you would wish, you certainly have no need to explain them to me. As far as I am concerned, everybody is entitled to privacy.
Perhaps I should explain that I run quite a large business concern, and consequently I need to care for the welfare of my staff. It is my experience that happy staff are in general more productive, so I am used to resolving domestic and personal issues. Now, whether you choose to believe me or otherwise, I can assure you that I hope you will come to regard me as more than just your employer. I would like you to accept that I am someone you can turn to if ever the need arises, just as all my other employees can. I do not pry, I do not preach, and rarely do I criticise. Perhaps you have problems that you feel nobody could ever understand; maybe you even consider them to be unique, for your manner certainly hints at the possibility. I imagine all of us have things in our past we would like to change; it isn’t always possible to change these things, I merely ask you to bear in mind that sometimes it helps to share one’s troubles.”
“Are you married?” she interrupted suddenly.
He wasn’t anticipating such a direct question, and the sheer unexpectedness of it pierced him like an arrow as an image of Alicia flashed instantly across his mind. For a few seconds he did not trust himself to speak. He rose abruptly from the desk and went across to the window and stared out of it as he fought to bring his feeling of shock under control. Becoming so involved in the enigma posed by the housekeeper he had fleetingly pushed into the background the pain and suffering of his bereavement, and her question, catching him so completely off-guard, had flung open the floodgates of suffering once more. Coming to Springwater House had been a desperate attempt to come to terms with the devastating effects of his loss, and to some extent he had made a start in doing this by distracting himself with other matters. Her words, coming as they did without warning, hit him like a blow between the eyes.
“I was,” he said tautly as he continued to stare unseeingly out of the glass. “I am now a widower.”
There was a lengthy period of silence during which neither of them spoke. He continued to stare out of the window, his mind back in those last dreadful hours when he had to accept that the only woman he had ever loved had been snatched from him. It took all of his determination to hold back the tears that threatened to run unchecked down his face.
“I’m very sorry,” she said at last, breaking into his reverie. Her voice was low, and for the first time there was a sense of feeling in it. “I had no idea; please don’t think-”
“It’s quite all right,” he interrupted brusquely as he turned to face her. “There was no way you could have known. Like I said; all of us may have things in the past we would like to change, but cannot.”
He was aware that she was actually watching him, probably sensing the pain he tried to conceal, and for the first time he saw a break in the hostility that seemed to be such a part of her make-up, for there was an expression of genuine concern showing in her eyes. In an odd sort of way he felt embarrassed that he had betrayed so much of himself, that he had put them both in such a painful situation. Although it had never been his intention, he suddenly felt as if he had been exerting a form of emotional blackmail upon her by betraying his own unhealed pain.
“Like I said,” he repeated, forcing a tight smile on his face, “all of us have things in the past we would like to change; now you know mine.”
“I think,” she said, still watching him, her eyes never leaving his. “That I have been wrong; I am sorry if my question caused you pain, it was never my intention.”
“Of course not,” he agreed. “As I said; there was no way you could have known.”
“I hope you will pardon me for saying; this has allowed me to sense within you much of what made Dr Marston such a special person,” she ventured, and for the first time there was an element of feeling in her voice. “I can only imagine what you have suffered, and I am sorry to have caused you hurt.”
“It is kind of you to say so but please, do not apologise.”
He walked back from the window and settled behind the desk once more, the few seconds this took giving him time to get himself fully under control once more. It had never been his intention to discuss his own personal loss with anyone, and in all conscience he couldn't blame her for probing an open wound she could never have known of.
“I would like you to know,” she said as he settled back and looked at her, “that I accept the point you have been making with regard to an improved working relationship. I promise you that I will try to be less defensive, and I will be pleased to assist in whatever capacity I can.”
“Thank you,” he responded as once again he forced the smile onto his face to hide his true feelings, “Then may I suggest that we make a start at once with a guided tour of the house? I have already had a quick look round of course, but I’m sure you know the place intimately, and I have the feeling that in the process you may be able to help me get to know my uncle much better.”
In truth he wanted to get out of that study, he wanted to be doing something, anything, even walking round the house, rather than allowing her to see the pain that those memories she had accidentally evoked had caused him.
“Certainly,” she agreed, rising from her seat. “Perhaps we should start from the top of the house and work down?”
“Seems reasonable to me,” he agreed, rising to accompany her.
He reached across and opened the door and stood to one side. It was an old fashioned courtesy that he hoped would impress upon her what he hoped would signify a better working relationship between them. She gave a sort of nervous half smile, and preceded him into the hallway.
“May I ask a personal question?” she asked as he closed the door behind him.
“Please do.”
“I know it is none of my business,” she said, and there was a mixture of self-consciousness and determination in her voice as she spoke. “Only it may help me to understand why you are really here; can you tell me what was wrong between you and your uncle? I mean, as far as I know, you have never visited him, corresponded with him, or even exchanged Christmas cards. You affect to know little or nothing about him, and he never once mentioned you to me, except when he made out his will. It has worried me ever since; is there some long forgotten family quarrel, is it something I should be aware of, something well, unpleasant?”
“I would love to be able to answer that for you in detail,” he answered, glad that at long last she was unwinding enough to at least converse with him. “In truth, I probably know less about such matters than you do. All I can tell you is that my mother was his only sibling, and I only remember coming to this house once, and that was when I was a young child. My mother never mentioned any estrangement, indeed, she scarcely ever mentioned her only brother at all, and in consequence I grew up never even thinking about him. I suppose it is possible that something happened between them that I know nothing of, and whatever it may have been, it is much a mystery to me as it is for you. As it happens, it is one reason why I am going through all of his papers; I’m hoping to find some clue that will enable me to answer that very question.”
“Then I hope you will be successful,” she said as they headed for the main staircase. “I would like to help as much as I can only you have to understand that I didn’t know him really well; not in the personal sense. Although I regarded him as being the very best person in the world, for I cannot conceive of a nobler, kindlier or more honest man, he was also an extremely private person. He was devoted to his wife, and he was almost completely destroyed when she died,” she paused as if unsure whether to continue, then added; “I saw that same haunted look in his eyes that I saw in yours when I asked you if you were ma
rried; that is when I knew that at heart you are much the same sort of man that he was; in your own way you care as much about people as he did.”
Her words, he decided, were a sort of compliment; she obviously distrusted men in general, perhaps for good reason. Given time, she might even tell him why. “Thank you,” he said, “and if I may be permitted to say as much; I think you are also a very caring person.”
She looked as if she was about to make some sort of response, then she changed her mind and commenced to ascend the stairs.
“I understand that you came to know my uncle because you were involved in some sort of accident,” he said, falling in slightly behind her, and not so close that she might feel threatened. “I believe he treated you as a patient?”
“That is true,” she agreed as she ascended the stairs at a steady pace. “I was knocked down by a car that didn’t stop. Dr Marston just happened to be only a few feet away from me when it happened. I’d stopped breathing, and he did whatever doctor’s do in such a situation. I was taken to the local cottage hospital, and while I was there he visited me several times. There was something about him that made me instinctively trust him; he was that sort of man. Once I was over the worst of the accident he offered to take me to his home where his wife would continue nurse me. At first I wouldn’t hear of it, yet when she also came to see me, and said how very disappointed they would both be if I refused, I gave in and came. It was a decision I never for a moment regretted. In their care, I recovered quickly, and it was then that I learned that his housekeeper, an elderly widow called Mrs Jefferson who had been with him for many years, was going to retire to a cottage that had been left to her in a will. I was offered the job of housekeeper, and they seemed pleased when I finally accepted.
Truly, I had never met such kind people in my life. They couldn’t have treated me better if I was their own daughter, and yet they never crossed over that boundary between being good employers and something else. Working for them was the happiest time of my life, and I think I was almost as distressed as Dr Marston was when his wife died. He didn’t weep, or look for sympathy, yet there was a dead look about his eyes that haunted me, and from that time onwards he seemed to lose interest in nearly everything. Even in the depths of his grief, he was always the perfect gentleman. Right after the funeral he said it was not proper that I should continue to share the same roof as him now that he was alone, and that was when he insisted that I take on the flat over the garage. This had been vacant for some years following the retirement of the general handyman who had once lived there. As you know, he had no children of his own, and following the death of his wife I think maybe he came to look upon me as a member of his family. He wanted to leave me his money in his will, but I could never have allowed him to do such a thing; I could well imagine what local people would have thought if he had.
That was when he first mentioned you to me. I confess I didn’t pay much attention at the time, because I foolishly thought he would live for many more years, but of course I was wrong. Looking back on it, I now suspect he died of a broken heart. His death was a terrible blow; not only because I felt that I had lost both of the only true friends I had in the world, but because suddenly, the lovely home and security he had provided me with was about to vanish as well, and that was why I both feared and resented you. I’m sorry, because I see now that it was most selfish of me to think like that about someone I had never even met. In my mind you were the vulture coming in to pick over the remains of a great man. Maybe I was even blaming you for his death because you never bothered with him when he was alive. I realise now that I was twisted inside; blaming you for everything I felt I had lost. Before I had even seen you, to my mind you were the heartless scavenger who would come here, and when you came, you would destroy everything that Dr Marston had ever stood for, and I would be left with nothing more than memories of a life that had been snatched away from me.”
She paused in her ascent of the stairs and looked back at him.
“I am genuinely sorry that I so badly misjudged you. I had no right to do that with someone of whom I knew nothing,” she finished, and there was no doubting the look of sincerity in her eyes as she spoke. “I would like you to know that no matter what decision you make with regard to this lovely old house that has been home to me these last few years, I shall do my best to help.”
Chapter Six. Monday Evening (continued).
Martin sensed that it had cost her a lot to speak as she had, and he felt a sense akin to relief in knowing that she now trusted him at least to the extent of admitting so much about her personal feelings. There was still no real sense of human warmth about her, yet he felt instinctively he had made a start in breaking down the wall the woman appeared to have built about herself. Everything about her indicated that she was a person who did not make friends easily, a person who perhaps had been badly hurt in the past and thus permanently embittered. It was a small but important step in breeching those defences.
“June,” he assured her quietly. “There is nothing whatever for you to feel sorry about. In your shoes I would probably have felt much the same; I might even have made my views more physically obvious than you have done. I’m just glad it’s now out in the open, and because of that I’m sure we can get along quite well together. I assure you that no matter what decision is ultimately made about the house, I guarantee you will remain secure in your home for as long as you wish.”
“Thank you,” she said, and she suddenly looked a little embarrassed at allowing herself even that minor degree of intimacy, and continued her ascent to the head of the stairs.
On reaching the landing they walked the length of the hallway and immediately ascended the second set of stairs that led up to what had once been the servants’ quarters. Probably it had never been used as such in a hundred years, and the rooms were no longer furnished. As Martin had already noticed from his preliminary visit, it was abundantly clear that they had been used as a storage area for decades in much the same way that people in smaller houses make use of loft space. In the main the rooms contained a wide miscellany of items that had been accumulated over the years; old chairs, sundry boxes, packing cases, trunks, various odds and ends of furniture, books, an old gramophone, even an antique sewing machine. There were scraps of carpeting, a couple of ancient vacuum cleaners, piles of old curtains, and a wide miscellany of packages tied with string.
“It will take forever to go through this lot,” Martin remarked as he surveyed the last room on that floor. “Unfortunately it is something that will need to be done eventually.”
“If you like, I will assist you,” she offered tentatively, “unless you wish to do it on your own, of course?”
It was a sort of olive branch, and he knew it. “I would be most grateful for your help,” he responded at once, “only when on earth will you find the time? I mean, you run this house, you have your own home to care for, and you also have a job in Wellworthy?”
“It shouldn’t take too long,” she countered. “I’m free most evenings anyway; we can make a start this evening if you wish, once we have been over the rest of the house?”
“Would you? That is extremely kind of you, and I would certainly appreciate your help. I shall of course pay you for your time-”
He saw at once that he had said the wrong thing from the way her features suddenly hardened.
“I did not offer to help for monetary gain,” she said stiffly.
“I’m sorry; I had no intention of insulting you. I should have understood that you offered out of the goodness of your heart. Guess I’m not used to anyone being genuinely decent in this hard commercial world we now live in. I shall be very glad of your offer to help in the spirit it was made.”
She appeared to accept his words, for nothing further was said on the subject, and the inspection of the house proceeded methodically from room to room, cupboard by cupboard, item by item. He was not surprised to see that, just as he had surmised, she knew the house intimately. In the co
urse of the tour he also noted that his uncle had never disposed of his deceased wife’s clothing, and naturally enough, all of his own was still hanging in wardrobes or packed away in chests of drawers and the like. He knew that all of this would need to be disposed of before any decision about the house could be reached. As June pointed out, much of the furniture was antique and potentially quite valuable, as were many of the fittings and furnishings. It would make sense to employ a quality auctioneer to assess and dispose of these in due course. Cataloguing it all would be a lengthy procedure, and best left to a professional.
Finally, at the end of the lengthy tour they reached the kitchen area and examined everything in there as well. For such an old house it was surprisingly well equipped with all manner of modern labour-saving devices, all of which were in pristine condition, which was yet one more indication of June Brent’s efficiency and dedication. From start to finish the detailed tour of the house and examination of its contents had eaten up the better part of an hour.
“I think,” the housekeeper said as the last cupboard had been checked, and the last drawer given a cursory examination, “if you are still of a mind to continue working this evening, we should stop for a cup of tea before returning to the task of sorting what is stored in the upper rooms?”
“An excellent idea,” he agreed at once, and pulled out one of the small chairs set by the kitchen table and sat down. As far as he was concerned, her spontaneous offer was encouraging evidence of one more chink in the armour June Brent had built about herself, and the last thing in the world he wished to do now was to offer any degree of rebuff. He sensed a mystery about the woman, and thinking about that helped to distract him from his own personal heartache.
June busied herself with the task of boiling a kettle and going through the ritual of making tea. As she worked, Martin covertly observed her, noting the natural grace with which she moved, and as he watched, he wondered just what sort of tragedy was lurking inside her. It was none of his business of course, never the less he felt a sense of empathy towards another human being who had also suffered and having to live under the never-ending strain that such suffering produced.