The Diary Of Pamela D. Page 2

  ‘You mean, the living room?’ Pamela ventured.

  ‘That’s it. The living room. Just sit yourself down, and I’ll bring you some refreshment. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Um . . . tea, if you’ve got it.’

  ‘Tea? Wouldn’t you prefer a glass of wine, or sherry-?

  ‘No! I . . .’ Pamela instantly regretting blurting out her protest before she could think. How could she explain? For people like Mrs. Dewhurst, drinking was a casual, social thing. For people like herself it was drunkenness, escape, a way of life.

  ‘It’s all right if you’d prefer tea or something else,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said with that same small smile as she made her way to the small kitchen. ‘But tell me,’ she said through the portal between the kitchen and sitting room, ‘do you drink at all?’

  Pamela reddened, looked down and shook her head.

  Within a few minutes the woman brought a tray of small triangular sandwiches, a pot of tea and a plate of cookies. Her look became serious, however, when she saw Pamela’s expression.

  ‘Help yourself, dear. Don’t mind me. I’ll just help myself to one or two. You’re still a young, growing girl.’

  Pamela couldn’t stop her hands from trembling slightly from hunger. There were so many sandwiches that she could eat a fair number without looking like a complete pig, weren’t there?

  ‘My dear, we shall have to do something about your clothing. Have you anything more . . . formal?’ At the look on Pamela’s face, she shook her head and said, ‘Of course you don’t. Not to worry, though. We’ll get you fixed up when we arrive at your new home.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ Pamela asked her suddenly. ‘I mean, the place you live? I mean, well, what’s the house like? And the area?’

  ‘The house,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said with an irony that was lost on Pamela, her smile returning. ‘Well, it’s a fairly big house, as houses go, and there are lots of people living in it, and there are lots of domestic workers . . . servants is too archaic a word. Real servants, back in the bad old days, used to work long hours for their room and board only. A modern domestic is paid a wage, and is often supplied with room and board as well, as in our case, when the location of the . . . house . . . is fairly remote.

  ‘There is a small town about six miles away, where we buy anything we need, and where we all go to church on Sunday. By the way, church is a household event, which we all attend. Do you attend church?’

  Pamela’s eyes fell. ‘Sort of. There’s a Catholic Mission I work at on the weekends. We have a service, which Father Mugford gives-’

  ‘You’re Catholic?’

  Pamela swallowed, feeling at once false and shabby once more. ‘No,’ she muttered in a small voice, ‘I’m not anything. I work there mostly because . . . well . . . it’s a few dollars... and a meal-’ She couldn’t speak any more. To her own surprise and utter humiliation, she found she was crying.

  Mrs. Dewhurst didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed or put out, however. She left her chair and sat beside the girl. ‘That’s all right. A few tears are good for the soul.’ She sighed, and to Pamela’s surprise, put her arm around the girl, let her cry her heart out on the woman’s shoulder. ‘Cry all you like, dear. It strikes me that, so far, you don’t have much to thank the good Lord for. But maybe we can change that. Hm?’

  After she had regained her composure, wiping her eyes, Pamela ventured a question.

  ‘How come you’re being so nice to me? How could you possibly want someone like me to . . . to work for you? To live at your house?’

  Mrs. Dewhurst gave her a humorously evasive look as she resumed her seat. ‘Ah, that would be telling. You know, I don’t believe I’m going to tell you. I’ll leave you to figure that one out for yourself. My reasons for not telling you, and the reasons I want you, and you specifically, will become clear to you in time. If I were to make my thoughts plain to you . . . well! That would rather spoil things. And, yes, you heard me correctly. There’s no need to look so shocked! The job is yours if you want it. Now come, you’ve hardly made a dent in those wonderful sandwiches I made, and there’s a plateful of cookies that need to be eaten lest they go to waste. You stay here and fill yourself up, and I’ll call my son and tell him we’ll be catching the first plane in the morning.’

  ‘Your son?’

  Mrs. Dewhurst rolled her eyes in what may have been mock exasperation. ‘Yes, my son, Theo, short for “Theodore.” Some of his friends used to call him “Ted.” He’s partly the reason I came here looking for someone like you. Only I did one better. Instead of getting someone like you, I got you. Never mind my rather oblique sense of humour, my dear. Indulge me. Now, Theo is an active man; too active for my ageing domestic staff, most of whom have been with us forever, so that the place more resembles a retirement home full of doddering old fuddy-duddies. But Theo . . . he manages my estates and my business affairs . . . I’m sure I don’t know what I’d do without him. But he needs some . . . assistance, and some distraction as well. By the by, do you type?’

  ‘Just a little,’ Pamela admitted, able for the first time to manage some confidence. ‘I helped out a lot with the Mission’s correspondence. But I can only do about forty-five words a minute. Mrs. Gilroy- she showed me how to type. She’s a real secretary. I’ve been told she can type about seventy-two words a minute.’

  ‘Well, it seems you have some genuine talent after all!’ Mrs. Dewhurst smiled. ‘Forty-five words is about twice as fast as Theo can manage. He uses the “hunt-and-peck” method. That clinches it! You’re coming with me, and that’s all there is to it. I’ll have someone collect your things-’

  ‘I . . . I’d better go along,’ Pamela muttered, uncomfortable with the thought of someone going through her belongings, most of which weren’t worth keeping. ‘But- didn’t you say something about leaving in the morning? If I get my things, where will I stay?’

  Mrs. Dewhurst made a face. ‘Why, here, of course. As though you’d be staying any place else!’

  And so it was settled. Mrs. Dewhurst sent her back home in a cab. It took less than fifteen minutes to sort through the few clothes and articles she would bring while the cab driver sat in the kitchenette drinking the last of her instant coffee. She finished by writing a note for the landlady. She then put this in an envelope, along with her keys, and slipped it under the landlady’s door.

  ‘Where you off to, Miss?’ the cab driver asked her when they were under way.

  ‘Back to Mrs. Dewhurst’s-’

  ‘No, I mean I heard the two of you talking. I thought I heard something about your going overseas.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, feeling suddenly lightheaded about the prospect, ‘I’m going to a place called Yorkshire in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. That’s in England, up north on the east side, just below Scotland.’

  ‘Oh,’ Pamela muttered. ‘I didn’t realise that Yorkshire wasn’t . . . like, a country or something.’

  The cab driver, an older fellow, chuckled. ‘It is to most of the people who live there. Never travelled before? Well, take it from me, I’m just a broken down old cab driver, without much ejumucation, but I’ve travelled a bit, and if I’ve learned anything from the experience, it’s that you’re never the same afterwards. Broadens your view of the world and your place in it. Besides, it’s not a good thing to be stuck in one place your whole life, especially at your age. No, you mark my words: when you get back, you’ll be a whole new person.’

  ‘I don’t plan on coming back,’ she replied defensively, feeling threatened by the notion.

  ‘Oh, you’ll come back all right,’ the cab driver said with a knowing smile. ‘They always do. No one ever really leaves this place.’

  That thought struck a chill down her spine, and she didn’t answer. But she pretended to agree with the man, and smiled politely when he helped her with her dilapidated suitcase. But for the rest of the evening, the background of her thoughts was dogged by the man’s words, distracting her from what Mrs. Dewhu
rst was saying.

  At last, the woman said apologetically, ‘My dear, I am sorry! Here I am, prattling along like a giddy old matron at a social tea, and you’re obviously too tired to pay attention. Run along now- have a nice long bath and go to bed. I’ll wake you in the morning, and we’ll begin what it is hoped will be a long and happy adventure together.’

  Pamela luxuriated in the tub for almost an hour. Bath salts! Bubble bath! Hot water that was really hot, not lukewarm because the owner was too cheap to turn the boiler up. It turned out that she and Mrs. Dewhurst were sharing the same bed but the woman was busy at the desk, staying up late. Pamela went to bed and lay awake for a long time, enjoying the silence, the lack of traffic noise, of public disturbances, of smashing beer bottles tossed carelessly from car windows. The bed was so big, and soft . . .

  Her thoughts turned again to Mrs. Dewhurst. Who was this woman? Why was she being so kind? What could she possibly see in a girl like Pamela, someone with no money, no class, no real education or experience . . . with no family or friends, with no one of quality in her life whom she could present as an equal, or even as a friend? How was the woman able to make up her mind so quickly? Was it that she, Pamela, was that unsophisticated and therefore transparent?

  And what of this business with Mrs. Dewhurst’s son . . . what was his name . . . Leo? No, it was . . . Theo, that was it. Theo, short for Theodore. What sort of man was he? How old was he? And what did Mrs. Dewhurst mean by distraction? Assistance she well understood, but distraction? What was that supposed to mean? Was she supposed to keep him entertained, or-

  A sudden thought gave her a stab of anxiety. Surely they didn’t expect her to . . . to be his mistress or something?

  She shook her head. ‘I’m being stupid. It’s just the way Mrs. Dewhurst talks. She uses words differently than we do. She probably just wants me around to give him the opportunity of having someone in the house he can talk to. After all, she told me that everyone else in the house is really old. But why would a rich guy talk to a servant, or a domicile, or whatever it is that Mrs. Dewhurst calls it?

  She tried to form an image in her mind of what Mrs. Dewhurst’s house must look like. Was it a big house with lots of yard? Did it have balconies? Were there neighbours close by? Or was it secluded, out somewhere, in some remote place, all by itself? ‘It must be big if it has servants,’ she reasoned. And the nearby town, what was it like? Was it just a gas station with a convenience store and a few other businesses, a small place where outsiders weren’t welcome, except for the money they spent, or- but no, she couldn’t imagine anything other than that she had experienced.

  Once again, unbidden, came the memory of her old recurring dream, that of herself living in a strange house in a strange place and with a strange, dangerous man. Dangerous and desirable. She sighed, feeling at once empty and very sad. Dream on! No one had ever wanted her, except to use her, which so far hadn’t happened, touch wood!

  No, that wasn’t fair. The cantankerous old lady she had worked for for six years had been good to her, in her gruff way. Old Father Mugford had been kind to her, had got her off the streets and helped her find a job, and later a place of her very own to live. But . . . no one had ever loved her. Not really. And not in the way she dreamed about, when she dared to dream at all. She sighed. ‘What am I complaining about? Us strays are impossible to love, that’s all. Pity is the best we can hope for. I should just shut up and be thankful that someone is going to feed me.’

  With such thoughts, like so many phantom mice being chased about in her head, she fell asleep.

  -2-

  Pamela started awake when someone sat on the bed beside her.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, my dear, but it’s time to get up and go. I let you sleep in as long as I dared. There’s no need to worry about breakfast; we shall have it on the plane.’

  Pamela opened one bleary eye, ventured a peek at the digital clock on the nightstand, and gaped. ‘Why didn’t you wake me? I’ve never slept that long in my life! I’m sorry-’

  ‘Don’t be absurd! You were exhausted, overwrought, and, if I may say so without bruising your feelings, half-starved. You slept like the dead because you were badly in need of sleep, that’s all. There’s no reason to apologise for that. Now, by the time you’re dressed, there will be a car waiting to take us to the airport, so vit! vit!’

  Once in the cab, Pamela yawned all the way to the airport. Mrs. Dewhurst was right about one thing: that comfortable bed, added to the older woman’s presence, had caused her to entirely leave her guard down, so that everything caught up with her at once. She had slept deeply for the first time since she could remember simply because every fibre of her being told her that it was safe to do so.

  Pamela had never been to an airport in her life. Nor had she ever flown before, or seen an aeroplane close up. The sheer size of the British Airways 747 was beyond anything she could have imagined. Once inside, however, she stayed awake long enough to enjoy her first takeoff, a fairly good breakfast, and that was all. She was only vaguely aware that Mrs. Dewhurst reached across to trip the reclining mechanism, of the light blanket that was carefully spread over her, the pillow that was gently tucked beneath her head. In her sleep Pamela seemed to struggle a moment, her features suffused as though she were unable to come to terms with whatever she saw there, at last mumbling a single word that clutched at Mrs. Amanda Dewhurst’s throat like a vice.

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘Well, my dear,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said with a sad, fond smile, ‘it’s a lucky thing for you that there is a world of difference between stray cats and stray kittens.’

  Pamela woke midway over the Atlantic feeling as though she had crossed over into a waking dream. Nothing felt quite real: riding and sleeping on an aeroplane, the woman sitting beside her who seemed more fairy godmother than human, seemingly poised in stasis at the top of the world, the dark blue expanse of ocean far below; it seemed she was surrounded by and passing through whole worlds.

  ‘Your timing is impeccable,’ Mrs. Dewhurst told her. ‘You’re just in time for lunch.’

  Embarrassed, flustered, Pamela blurted, ‘I’m sorry! I don’t know why I fell asleep like that. I feel all . . . kind of funny now . . . like I’m still asleep.’

  ‘Well, let me assure you, you are quite awake. Ah, here comes the trolley. I trust your little nap hasn’t spoiled your appetite?’

  They talked for some time, Mrs. Dewhurst all-too-obviously avoiding referring directly to her Yorkshire home, except when she let something slip. This invariably involved her son, Theo, and when Pamela became curious enough to ask questions, the woman’s replies were somewhat cryptic.

  ‘Oh, my Theo is strong-willed and rather willful, the truth be known,’ she allowed at one point. ‘He can also be rather pigheaded when his mind is made up about something, and he can sometimes be . . . forceful . . . when it comes to getting what he wants. But you mustn’t let that worry you! He is a perfect gentleman, or rather, he can be, when the right person comes along to put him in his place, which unfortunately doesn’t happen very often.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid that trying to fill his father’s shoes has left its mark. You see, when you’re very young the impression you have of your parents is that they’re larger than life. Then, as you grow up, your impressions change to suit the reality. Except-’ she said, pointedly, ‘when that parent becomes lost to you, or misplaced. When that happens, a person ends up becoming an adult that still holds to that larger than life image, with the consequence that one either breaks trying to measure up or becomes driven to fill a larger than life mould. Either way, the consequences almost always lead to strain and unhappiness . . .’

  As Mrs. Dewhurst spoke of her son in such terms, Pamela couldn’t quite tell at times whether the woman was speaking of her son Theo or of Pamela herself. But one thing became abundantly clear: that Theo Dewhurst was a force to be reckoned with, and probably avoided!

  They arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport
at midnight London time. A chauffeured limousine was waiting for them. The chauffeur, who was dressed in a smart blue-grey uniform trimmed with maroon, tipped his hat at them, got the two women settled, and put their luggage in the boot. As he got behind the wheel and closed the door, he said, ‘Hotel or home, Mrs. D.?’

  ‘The hotel, Mr. Pascoe. I’m simply exhausted.’

  He nodded. ‘Theo’s there, so I assume he means to join us in the morning.’

  ‘Did you speak with him?’

  The chauffeur shook his head. ‘Not a word. He saw me and nodded, though.’

  Feeling guilty, Pamela said to Mrs. Dewhurst, ‘Why didn’t you sleep on the plane?’

  The older woman smiled benevolently. ‘My dear, I have been awake since early yesterday, except for a brief catnap. It’s the best way I know of to deal with jet-lag. And stop looking as though every little thing you do is somehow reprehensible! If you actually do do something wrong, I won’t hesitate to let you know it.’ She smiled to offset the threat.

  Pamela found that she very much wanted to please Mrs. Dewhurst, that she didn’t want to do anything which might jeopardise the woman’s kindness towards her.

  The hotel turned out to be of a similar type to that they’d left. Mrs. Dewhurst left most of her luggage in the limousine. Pamela noted that it was a larger but similar version of the car that the woman had been driving when they first met, with the same hood-ornament which resembled a swimmer standing at the edge of a pool, poised to take the plunge; except that the limousine’s steering wheel was on the ‘wrong’ side, and it was as long as a city block.

  To her surprise, after sharing a late snack with her fairy godmother, Pamela found that she could easily sleep once more, and did. As she drifted off, something of the reversed cars and roads she had seen haunted the background of her thoughts, causing her to feel as though she had strayed through a mirror, like Alice in Wonderland. ‘Just as long as there are no talking giant white rabbits,’ she mused as sleep overcame her.