The Diary Of Pamela D. Read online

  Pamela woke the next morning to find that Mrs. Dewhurst was already up and busy at work. The woman looked up when Pamela stumbled into the sitting room in search of the bathroom.

  ‘Did you meet any giant white rabbits while you were asleep?’ Mrs. Dewhurst asked her with a smile.

  Aghast, Pamela put her hands over her mouth, causing Mrs. Dewhurst to regard her with frank amusement.

  ‘Not to worry, you didn’t say anything else; at least, nothing that was incriminating! But come along, you’ll find the bath through that door over there. You’ll find that towels and soap- What am I saying? You already know all about that sort of thing! Never mind me. As soon as you’re ready, we’ll go on downstairs and breakfast.’

  Pamela was very uncomfortable as she followed Mrs. Dewhurst into the hotel’s restaurant, conscious of her own appearance in contrast to the well-to-do clientele who, to her, gave off an aura of exclusivity, which of course meant that it was she herself who was excluded. She couldn’t help but imagine that everyone was surreptitiously staring at her and commenting behind her back. She unconsciously followed closely behind Mrs. Dewhurst, hoping that by doing so the woman’s presence would deflect any unwanted attention.

  They sat down at a table for four by a window. Mrs. Dewhurst sat cater cornered to Pamela, opting for an aisle seat while Pamela chose the window. Mrs. Dewhurst then picked up a menu and handed it to her, sensed her obvious discomfort, and took the menu back.

  ‘I’ll order,’ she said, smiling to put Pamela at ease. ‘You look as though you could manage the Full British Breakfast.’

  Pamela tried to relax and smile in turn, but found her eyes drawn to the other people in the restaurant, most of whom were women. They looked worlds apart from the type of people she could relate to, self-involved and interested in matters that were incomprehensible to an ignorant girl like Pamela who had lived on the streets.

  As her eyes strayed around the restaurant, a sudden presence to her left tore her attention to itself, leaving her feeling as though the very earth had tilted, or that her heart had stopped beating. Her entire being seemed to scream It’s him! She didn’t know who he was, but it was definitely him, the man from her old dream. But no, that was ridiculous! She didn’t even know what the man in her dream looked like. All she had to go on were vague generalities. There was nothing vague or general about the man before her, who now leaned over and talking very quietly with Mrs. Dewhurst. He was dressed in a dove-grey suit, immaculately tailored, and something of the way he leaned over emphasised the broadness of his shoulders and depth of his chest, the hard muscles of his upper body and arms. His hair was short and wavy, and oh, so black, a true blue-black, such as Pamela had rarely seen before. She had caught the briefest glimpse of his eyes. They were grey eyes, strong, demanding, unyielding . . . a tremor of fear stirred in her vitals . . . they were eyes to be feared if kindled to anger. At one point he looked up and Pamela felt a lance of fear pass right through her as his gaze took her in, seemingly at a glance. Raising an eyebrow, in what she would find would for him be a characteristic gesture, his gaze and expression neutral, he extended his hand, which was very large, warm, strong and . . . when she reached out and placed her own small hand in his, she almost snatched it back in sudden fear and confusion.

  ‘Miss Dee. How do you do?’ His voice was low-pitched, self-assured, altogether a man’s voice, the sort of man who was master of his own affairs.

  ‘I . . . hi,’ she stammered.

  ‘Now Theo,’ his mother chided, ‘stop intimidating the poor girl! Come, sit down, and join us.’

  Releasing her hand, he regarded Pamela directly for the first time, and she found his manner somewhat threatening.

  ‘You are going to find that my mother has a penchant for acting out of impulse,’ he said, seating himself in front of her beside his mother, ‘and that the rest of us usually end up dealing with the consequences,’ he added, his manner polite but stern. He was all-too-obviously more than an equal to his mother. ‘She should never have brought you all the way here, to a strange country with rather quaint, idiosyncratic ways. Yorkshire people, I’m afraid you’re going to find, do not take quickly to newcomers. One can live generations in Yorkshire and still be considered a latecomer. However, you’re here now, and Mother seems to have her mind set on your staying, so I guess we’ll just have to make the best of it. Mother tells me you can type.’

  ‘Better than forty words a minute,’ Mrs. Dewhurst answered for her, but in a way that showed she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by her own son.

  Theo sighed. ‘Mother, please, I’m sure the girl has a tongue of her own. Fine, so you can type. Have you ever taken dictation?’

  ‘A little,’ she blurted, ‘for Father Mugford-’

  ‘Splendid.’ He said this as though it were the least splendid thing he’d ever heard. ‘Do you have any knowledge of accounting? of keeping ledgers? of bookkeeping?-’

  ‘Theo,’ Mrs. Dewhurst interrupted in a warning tone, ‘if you don’t start being civil, I am going to disown you.’

  To Pamela’s surprise, he burst out laughing, and for a brief moment there was honest laughter in his eyes. But only briefly. ‘My dear Mother, I always thought that you’d will your estates to the stray cats of this world. She would, too,’ he said to Pamela. She thought she detected something in his eyes, as though he thought of her as a stray cat. And she wasn’t sure, but she thought she detected veiled anger; perhaps even hatred.

  Little was said in the ensuing twenty minutes or so as they ate breakfast. Pamela herself said not a word, and found that she had entirely lost her appetite. She kept her gaze lowered to the vicinity of her plate and tried not to notice the imposing figure seated before her.

  Later, they went out to the car and got in, Pamela on the left, Mrs. Dewhurst in the middle, and Theo on the right. Within moments they were on the motorway heading north on the three-hour drive to the Dewhurst’s place in Yorkshire.

  Pamela spent most of the time looking out the window, watching the countryside go by. The weather was dark and dismal, mixed rain and snow falling incessantly, and Pamela found that her mood was beginning to reflect this condition until Mrs. Dewhurst finally noticed and put an arm around her.

  ‘My dear, I am sorry! What was I thinking? You must be terminally bored. I don’t know whether you noticed it or not, what with this infernal weather and all, but we crossed the border into Yorkshire almost ten minutes ago. You know you’re in Yorkshire when you see all these low, rolling hills and flocks of sheep. There are moors in Yorkshire as well. If you ever want to see something truly bleak, take a good, long look at our gorse-infested moors in the dead of winter!’ She noticed that Pamela was watching a passing village with frank wonder.

  ‘It looks so old-fashioned! Are they all like that?’

  Mrs. Dewhurst smiled broadly. ‘Most assuredly! You are in a very old-fashioned corner of the world, Pamela Dee! Some of those cottages were built when your colonial ancestors in North America were still traipsing about the bush, forging a new life for themselves while trying their utmost to avoid being scalped!’

  This remark had the unintended effect of making Pamela feel even more isolated. She had no knowledge whatever of her family’s past, and knew almost nothing about the country, area and city she had lived in all her life. Her past was as blank as though he had no memory. Even her name, she mused. It sounded for all the world like an initial that should have stood for something but didn’t, as though some careless ancestor had lost her identity for her before she was born.

  ‘And here were are!’ Mrs. Dewhurst said suddenly and unexpectedly, dispelling the girl’s bleak mood like a burst bubble. ‘Dewhurst Manor, the ancestral home of the Dewhurst family. Hasn’t moved an inch in over three hundred years, and looks it.’

  Pamela could only gape. ‘I . . . I thought you said we were going to a house!’

  Even Theo couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

  ‘My dear Pamela,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said
, ‘that is a house. Don’t look so overwhelmed! There’s nothing in it that you haven’t seen before. The bedrooms have beds and dressing tables, the dining room has a table and chairs, the kitchen looks much like kitchens everywhere, the floors are made of wood and covered with carpet in places; there’s just more of everything, that’s all. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it soon enough. Too soon, if you ask me. But come, here we are. Come and get your first look at your new home.’

  As they coasted down the long drive, Pamela’s eyes were filled with a vision of close-fitting grey stone, black slate roofs and bevelled, leaded glass. Beyond the house was what appeared to be a tiny village, but was in fact a number of farm buildings with thatched roofs. In the distance were rolling pastures dotted with sheep, some sort of shaggy cattle and a few horses. The various fields were separated by unmortared stone walls, and she could see as they approached the house that a pond or small lake lay behind it.

  They were met at the door by a middle-aged woman dressed in what was obviously an old-fashioned maid’s attire. She turned a baffled gaze upon Pamela until Mrs. Dewhurst spoke up.

  ‘Susan, I would like you to meet your new workmate.’ The woman smiled and, to Pamela’s amused astonishment, curtsied. ‘You may as well get her settled in, first. She has had a long journey, and will no doubt find our ways somewhat incomprehensible, unless they are explained to her, which I am sure you will do at great length. When you have shown her where she is to sleep, take her to the kitchens, and by all means feed her. While you are doing so, you might provide her with an outline as to household routine, and where she is to fit in in the overall scheme of things.’ Turning to Pamela, she said, ‘Well, my dear, I leave you in Mrs. Pascoe’s competent hands. Come, Theo, tell me all about your foray to Londinium.’

  ‘That’s the old Roman name for London,’ Susan said with a smile as Pamela picked up her suitcase and they began walking towards a sweeping marble staircase. ‘Mrs. D. is forever showing off her useless university degree. So you’re Pamela Dee! Fancy that! Now we have old Mrs. D. and young Miss Dee. Have you been to England before?’

  ‘I’ve never travelled before,’ Pamela said, glad for Susan’s direct, straightforward nature. ‘This was the first time I’d ever been in a plane. Or a place like this. I still don’t understand why Mrs. Dewhurst decided to take a chance on me.’

  ‘We all of us have to start somewhere,’ Susan said matter-of-factly. Once at the top of the stairs they turned to the left and went down to the end of the hall to the last door. Opening it, Mrs. Pascoe said, ‘Here we are. This used to be . . . but never mind! This will be your room now. Old Mrs. Hamberly had this room for a very long time, but she’s been gone for ages. She was Theo’s nanny, and his father’s before.’

  But Pamela scarcely heard a word she said. She had stopped just inside the threshold, and stood gaping.

  ‘Is something wrong, Miss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  A ghost, no, but what she beheld was so much like her old recurring dream that for a moment she felt she had forgotten to breathe. On the far wall was a leaded-glass door which opened onto a balcony that faced northeast. To her left, just past the overstuffed bed was a walk-in closet. To the right was a door which led to a shared bathroom. The furniture stood as she remembered it- beyond her overpowering sense of déjà vu, it occurred to her that she could only have dreamt that she would ever have the use of anything like the dark mahogany dressing table, the cherry wood cedar chest, the matching mahogany dresser, the magnificent roll-top oak desk and Tiffany lamps and-

  ‘Perhaps you’d better lie down for a moment,’ Susan said, taking her arm. ‘You look like you’re about to faint.’

  ‘No,’ Pamela muttered, thinking of the sinister silhouette of a man at the door of the balcony, who had come to her, had come for her. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be okay. It’s just that the trip, and the change, have taken a lot out of me. It’ll pass.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Mrs. Pascoe said, looking anything but convinced. ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re up to it, take off your coat and follow me.’

  They stopped at a closet before reaching the kitchen. In it were uniforms, linen and other items used by the mansion’s staff. Mrs. Pascoe selected a couple of uniforms for Pamela to try on and took her to the kitchen. At the sight of it Pamela sighed with relief. Unlike the rest of the mansion, which looked as though it were made to be seen rather than touched, the kitchen was as battered and utilitarian as that in the Catholic Mission she had worked in.

  ‘And through here,’ said Mrs. Pascoe, leading her through the kitchen to the back door, ‘is the staff dining room.’ The long, narrow room was an obvious add-on built of heavy, crude wooden planks; it was a drafty, pleasantly musty and cool room, heated by a wood-stove. The room was dominated by an appropriately crude but sturdy-looking wooden table which looked as though it could seat at least twenty, or at need serve as a heavy workbench. Around the perimeter of the room were wooden benches, and at various points, between windows and to either side of the back door, were mounted sturdy clothes’ hooks from which an assortment of outdoor clothing hung. Through the tiny panes of each window Pamela could see the fields and farm buildings beyond. She found that she instinctively liked this room, and it must have shown because Mrs. Pascoe said, ‘It’s not much, but we like it just the way it is. Young Mr. Dewhurst- Theo, that is- wanted to tear it down and build something more modern. You should have seen the look on his face when we started squawking!’ Her laughter prompted Pamela to smile, and to feel good about herself for no apparent reason. ‘All right, then,’ she told Pamela, ‘hurry upstairs and change into one your new uniforms. It’s about time we set ourselves to making supper. An extra pair of hands is always welcome. There’ll be company coming tonight, six or seven guests, with the seventh an open question. Which, as it turns out, works out perfectly because you’ll be able to meet all the household staff in one go. That includes the outdoor staff who mind the animals. I hope you’re not offended by the smell of sweat and muddy boots- I’m afraid we’re rather a rustic lot around here.’

  Pamela found as she went upstairs to change that she was very much looking forward to meeting the household staff, and to being part of . . . the thought made her smile . . . part of her new life!

  The second uniform she tried on fit very well in all the right places. But the hat, the bonnet, as Mrs. Pascoe called it, didn’t want to sit right on her tight, dark curls. When she came downstairs and showed Mrs. Pascoe the difficulty she was having, the woman burst out laughing.

  ‘For one thing, you’ve got it backwards,’ she said, straightening it out. ‘For another, you’ve got to put your hair up. That’s going to be a bit difficult, I can see. Your hair’s just a little too short- come! I’ve got just the thing.’ She took Pamela upstairs to her own room and with the use of a liberal number of hairpins got the girl’s unruly hair under control enough to fit the hat snugly on her head. ‘There! Come see what you think.’

  For a long moment, Pamela stared at her own reflection as though she had just met a stranger. Once again she had an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu. She had seen this vision before as well- in the same dream. Yet she had never known that it was herself she was looking at.

  ‘Better be careful, luv,’ Mrs. Pascoe said with a teasing smile. ‘Young Mr. Theo might take a great liking to what he sees.’

  Pamela paled, a pang of fear momentarily taking her voice away. ‘I hope not. Servants aren’t supposed to get too friendly with their employers, are they?’

  ‘Servants!’ Mrs. Pascoe said, raising an eyebrow in mock-irritation, giving Pamela a playful swat, drawing an unwilling smile from the girl. ‘You’re not a servant, dearie! You’re an em-ploy-ee. You can quit and walk away any time you like. This isn’t the Middle Ages, you know.’

  As they made their way back to the kitchen, Pamela found herself daydreaming that she was living in the Middle Ages, that she was a servant, that Theo could simply decide to take her, hi
s passions getting the better of him. That he would . . . she suddenly found herself flushed with embarrassment. Her mind would not allow her to consider what he might do with her, should his passions become aroused. Her imagination wouldn’t go there simply because it couldn’t. She had no experience with men. In the past, she viewed such entanglements as leading to a life of poverty with children. She was not about to suffer that fate.

  She tried to tear her thoughts away from what she wanted but couldn’t have. ‘I’m just lucky to have a nice job with food and a roof over my head,’ she thought to herself. ‘I’m living in a palace, so what more could I want?’ But she found her thoughts unwillingly drawn ever and again to Theo, the man who had so intimidated her, the man her unreasoning instincts were so certain was the same as in her old dream.

  As Mrs. Dewhurst had said, the other household staff were either getting on in years or were already rather ancient. Two of the male members, old Mr. Smith and old Mr. Pritchard, merely sat conversing together in the kitchen on wooden chairs and watched the women work. Pamela gathered that their presence was more a social ritual than having any practical value. But she found herself enjoying their company. They were funny and irreverent, exchanging quips with the women in what was obviously a timeworn and comfortable routine.

  Besides Mrs. Pascoe and her husband Brian, there were three middle-aged women who Pamela had only seen in passing before. There were the two Moor sisters, tall thin women with sharp faces, named Ellie and Doris, and there was plump, forgetful Mrs. Noreen Smith, Mr. Smith’s wife, or Norrie as she was called. She was easily a decade and a half younger than her husband, and wore a permanently baffled expression, as though she couldn’t quite make out what life was about.