The Diary Of Pamela D. Read online

  ‘I’m sure one of us should bring Mr. Dewhurst his apéritif,’ she said as though the matter bore some urgence.

  ‘Mr. Dewhurst has been dead these past eighteen years,’ said Ellie in a fruity, bombastic, matronly sort of voice which was most incongruous with her appearance. She was grating Parmesan, and didn’t blink an eye.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Norrie. ‘I’m afraid it will go to waste, then.’

  ‘It would if you’d poured it,’ put in Doris. ‘Now Norrie, do be a lamb and go fill this with water.’ She handed the vacant Norrie a large, battered, aluminium pot. ‘Now,’ she said to Pamela, ‘if you’ll be so kind as to julienne those vegetables by the cutting board. You do know how to julienne, do you not?’

  When Pamela nodded, she was mystified by the broad smile the two sisters exchanged. But only momentarily.

  ‘Mrs. D. was quite right, you know. She is a breath of fresh air. She’s so young.’

  ‘She’ll have to watch out for young Mr. Theo, though,’ Ellie said, in a voice obviously pitched for Pamela to overhear.

  Pamela couldn’t help but notice the ironic stress in her voice. ‘What do you mean?’

  The two sisters exchanged a humorous look. ‘What we mean,’ said Doris, ‘is that you’d have to club Mr. Theo over the head just to get his mind off his work! Even then, I’m not sure you’d have his full attention. But we do hope that you’ll help him regain his sense of humour. He seems to have misplaced it- you’re not done already? By Heaven, so you are! Well, see if you can find out what’s happened to Norrie. She’s probably forgotten that we have indoor plumbing and made her way to the stream, poor thing!’

  Suppertime, when it came, was organized chaos. The staff dining room filled up with hungry men dressed in rain gear and muddy Wellingtons. They varied in age from a boy of twelve to a pair of men in their late fifties. They were a rustic, rugged-looking bunch, quiet and soft-spoken for the most part. Despite what Theo had told her, they greeted Pamela with friendly interest when Mrs. Pascoe introduced her. One fellow, huge, hulking and blonde who appeared in his late twenties, ran his eyes appreciatively over her form in a way that made her withdraw quickly, her face scarlet, making the older men chuckle and rib the fellow.

  Moments later Pamela was struggling with a heavy tureen into the dining room, doing her best to appear to make light of the burden. As she set it on the table her eyes were caught by Theo, who watched her with an odd expression. Mrs. Dewhurst, who was sitting beside him, gave her a surreptitious wink. Tearing her eyes away with what seemed to take great physical effort, she fled to the safety of the kitchen, her feelings a confused turmoil.

  The rest of the meal passed without incident. Almost two hours later, the kitchen staff, after having removed the dishes from the dining room, sat down to eat in the staff dining room after the outdoor workers had left.

  ‘Well, Pamela,’ said Mrs. Pascoe, ‘you did very well.’ There were mutterings of assent and approval from around the table that made Pamela flush with . . . it took her a moment to realise that she was accepted. This fact gave her a warm feeling inside, a feeling she had never dared to experience-

  It wasn’t until Mrs. Pascoe put an arm around her shoulders that she realized she was crying. To her relief, no one said anything or plied her with unwanted attention. When she finally regained her composure, the looks she got from the others were kind, understanding, and unaffectedly warm.

  It was only her first day, yet already the place was beginning to feel like home.

  When the washing and cleaning up were finished, Pamela was dismissed for the day. Instead of going to her room, however, she began the task of tackling the kitchen’s grimy shelves and discoloured pots and pans. It didn’t take her long to discover that places either very low or very high were badly neglected: something she had experienced before when working with ageing volunteers and hotel staff. She began to suspect, as well, despite her first impression, that the rest of the mansion was likewise hiding a patina of neglect. She was just cleaning out the contents at the back of one of the cupboards when a voice caused her to react with alarm, to withdraw too quickly, bumping her head.

  ‘Determined to become useful, are you?’

  She stared at Theo whitely, her heart pounding.

  With a disapproving quirk of his lips, he said, ‘Come, I have a job for you, seeing as how you seem bent upon proving your worth.’

  She followed him upstairs to his study, which unlike the rest of the house was very modern.

  ‘Have you ever used a word processor?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Excellent! Perhaps you could make a dent in my correspondence. It’s there, in that wire basket. If you need to ask me any questions, I’ll be downstairs.’

  There was a fair bit, but not all that much. It was all pretty well straightforward: letters with suggested replies attached. She went to work. The word processing program was of a type she hadn’t used before, but was so similar to those she knew that common sense soon smoothed things out. Within two hours she was done. She was about to print out the replies when she noticed how Theo had organized his files.

  ‘What a mess! Nothing’s categorized! Nothing’s . . . well, I might as well fix it now.’

  An hour later and she ran off copies and duplicates of Theo’s correspondence. Once this was accomplished she took a look in his filing cabinet. ‘Brand-new and completely unused!’ she said to herself in annoyance. She made a mental note that should she be required to do such work for him in future, she would make hard-copy of all the files on his hard drive-

  ‘Still at it- what the devil are you up to?’

  She retreated from his naked rage, afraid he was going to hit her. ‘I . . . you’ve made no hard copies, so I was-’

  ‘You’re going to have to learn to do just what you’re told,’ he said, his voice menacing. ‘That is, if you wish to stay here under this roof. What . . . what have you done to my files?’

  Her hands shaking, she showed him. Then, unable to help herself, she burst into tears and fled to her room.

  Still angry, he took the mouse and began examining the small handful of boxes she’d replaced his voluminous menu with.

  Pamela got undressed and lay on her bed for some time, trying to regain her composure. Why couldn’t she do anything right where Theo was concerned? She should have asked before meddling with his business files. He had a perfect right to be angry. He was probably still trying to put things back into his own sense of order, cursing the day his mother had brought this foolish, interfering girl into his home without so much as consulting him. No doubt, in the morning she would find herself on the first plane back to North America.

  ‘I want to stay,’ Pamela said as she cried herself to sleep. ‘I promise I’ll never want anything else as long as I live. I just want to stay.’

  -3-

  To Pamela’s surprise, Theo said nothing more about what she’d done to his word processor. In fact, after breakfast the following morning, he led her to his study and opened the closet. Sitting on the floor was a large cardboard box.

  ‘Do you have any idea how to set up a fax machine? I bought the infernal thing almost a year ago now; it’s hardly been out of the case.’

  Pamela took a cursory look at the writing on the box. ‘I can’t promise anything,’ she said carefully. ‘All I can do is give it a try.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, do the best you can.’ He left her to manage on her own.

  After twenty minutes or so she came downstairs and found him speaking with his mother and three of their business associates. She was about to leave them to it, to choose a better time, but he noticed her presence.

  ‘No luck?’ he said brusquely, as though certain her efforts hadn’t met with success.

  She swallowed, intimidated by his abruptness and by the subtle but intimidating way he communicated to her that he was quickly dismissing her presence because she was a distraction to the meeting. ‘I think it’s working,’ she said quickly, hop
ing he wouldn’t require an explanation, ‘but I won’t know until someone tries to send you a fax or an e-mail.’

  He quirked an eyebrow, unable to conceal his surprise. ‘E-mail?’

  She shrugged. ‘You’re set up for it now. At least, the line was already hooked up. I tried it just to be sure. And the computer says everything checks out . . . ’

  She thought he looked annoyed as he said to his guests, ‘Would you excuse me a moment, please?’ Then, taking Pamela firmly by the arm, he said, ‘Now, suppose you show me what it is that you’ve done.’

  After she had shown him how to operate both fax and e-mail, he said, ‘Would you kindly stop hovering and sit down! I don’t make you that nervous, do I?’ Taking in her visage, he sighed. ‘No doubt, now that you’ve seen fit to display your hidden talents, you’ll be wanting to make use of these. So we’d better set some rules so that there are no more unfortunate misunderstandings.’

  She looked a question at him.

  ‘When you contact your family-’

  ‘I haven’t got any family!’ She hadn’t meant to blurt it out so bitterly, and found herself at once embarrassed and angry for letting her unruly emotions get the better of her.

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake! Would you stop crying? What do you mean, you haven’t any family? Surely there must be someone!’

  She wanted to get up off her chair and flee, to run away from him, but he was kneeling in front of her, blocking her in.

  ‘But I thought . . . ’ He stopped himself, considering her carefully. At last, apparently angry, he got up and turned away from her. ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘I’m sorry-’

  ‘What? What on earth are you on about? Why do you feel it necessary to keep apologizing? Now look . . .’ he reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope and handed it to her, ‘you’re to go to Haworth today with Mrs. Pascoe to purchase some suitable clothing. Consider this a gift from my mother. You’ll need something to wear to church, and winter, the really inhospitable part, is just around the corner. And do get some proper footwear. I want you to retire those shoes the moment you get yourself a new pair.’

  When she got to her feet, something totally unexpected happened. He approached her, put his arm around her slim waist, drew her to him. At once, she gasped in fear, her heart began hammering uncontrollably. She knew that she would be able to sense the sheer size and strength of him even if she were to close her eyes. She thought for a moment that he was going to kiss her.

  Instead, his brow furrowed, and he said doubtfully, ‘You’re trembling like a leaf! What are you so afraid of?’

  Then, she fled, tripping over her skirt a couple of times in her haste to be away from him. She almost ran into Mrs. Pascoe as she rounded the corner into the hallway.

  ‘Whoa, Pamela! What’s your rush? Unless you’re in a hurry to get changed. Well, come along! We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Haworth is where we go to do our shopping,’ Mrs. Pascoe said as soon as the two got into her faded blue Volvo. ‘We sometimes go to Bradford, but it’s a little further out of the way. Besides, I’m not partial to Bradford. You’ll like Haworth. That’s where the Brontë family was from.’

  ‘Who?’

  Mrs. Pascoe gave her a not-quite-mock scandalized look. ‘Surely you’ve heard of the Brontë sisters, Anne, Emily and Charlotte, and their ne’er-do-well brother Branwell? No? Well, if you’re going to live in this part of the world, you had better learn! A knowledge of the Brontës is essential if you want to be accepted by certain circles. When we get back, ask Mr. Theo if he will allow you access to the library. But don’t tell him what you want to read! He has no patience with what he calls fluff.’

  ‘What did the Brontës do?’ Pamela asked, innocently.

  ‘They wrote Gothic love stories,’ Mrs. Pascoe told her, ‘in the early part of the 19th century. They didn’t live for very long, poor things. Something about the proximity of the graveyard to their water supply, from what I understand. Anne was a bit of a feminist, if that sort of thing interests you. She was many years ahead of her time . . .’

  All the way to Haworth, Pamela’s thoughts ran in counterpoint to Mrs. Pascoe’s pleasant and interesting ramblings. It turned out that she had heard of stories like Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. They were so famous as to be common household words, like salt and pepper. But she had never read either story, or seen cinematic renditions.

  Once at Haworth they didn’t make their way to the top of the steep main street where the church and museum, formerly the Haworth Parsonage, were situated. Instead they went directly to a clothing store where Mrs. Pascoe closely supervised Pamela’s purchases, warning her about the coming winter weather. Afterwards, Mrs. Pascoe allowed Pamela to go to Deluxe Junk, a secondhand clothing store, where she got a number of utilitarian items: some heavy, warm outdoor clothes, a good pair of wellies with a lot of wear left in them, two pairs of walking shoes that appeared almost new, a tall, wooden plant stand she herself wouldn’t have minded owning. After leaving, they put Pamela’s parcels in the boot of Mrs. Pascoe’s car and made their way to the Black Bull. On the way, Pamela took in the names of other businesses for future reference- The Stable Door, The Copper Kettle, Spook Books . . .

  ‘It’s relatively quiet, for a change,’ Mrs. Pascoe said with obvious relief, appraising the interior of the Black Bull as she removed her outer garments and hung them up. When Pamela had followed suit and they had seated themselves, she added, ‘Suits me just fine, without all those obnoxious tourists cluttering up the place. Now, d’you know what you’d like?’

  Pamela gazed at the menu, feeling blank. ‘I don’t know. What are “game pies?” And what are “pasties?”’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs. Pascoe with mock exasperation, ‘you do need educating. I’ll order, how will that be?’ She ordered two “best” and some “pasties,” which turned out to be a couple of pints of beer or ale (Pamela didn’t know the difference) and meat and vegetable filled pastries. Pamela balked when she saw the beer but decided to drink it out of politeness. ‘Now, then,’ Mrs. Pascoe said, ‘let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s going on between you and young Mr. Dewhurst? And don’t you try to deny it! I saw you standing there in his arms- ’

  ‘It wasn’t anything!’ Pamela retorted in a desperate whisper, thoroughly flustered. ‘I don’t know why he did that.’

  ‘Did what? Did he try to kiss you?’

  ‘No!’ Pamela almost shouted, and then, quietly, ‘No. He didn’t do anything. I think he was just trying to be nice to me because I was so upset, but I got scared and ran-’

  ‘Hello, hello, and what have we here?’ It was the big blonde fellow from the farm, who stood over the two women, leering at Pamela. He was obviously a bit drunk.

  ‘Get lost, Albert,’ Mrs. Pascoe said. ‘We’re busy talking, and you’re obviously busy getting stewed to the gills, so go back to it.’

  ‘I jus’ want to have a word with Miss Prissy Pants,’ he said, sitting down beside Pamela, leaning over her and trying to put his arm around her. When she flinched away he only laughed and put his arm around her. ‘We’ll have none of that!’ he said, drunkenly. ‘Come on, lass, how abou- ow, OW!’

  Pamela had taken two of his fingers and bent them backwards. She then scooted away from him, put her back to the wall, and used her legs to push the loutish Albert unceremoniously off the seat onto the floor, prompting a couple of staff members to investigate.

  ‘He bothering you women?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘He is!’ the two women said together.

  ‘Come on, you,’ the barkeep said, ‘sit down! And not with the women! Go back to where you were, with your friends. Once more and you’ll be out of here for good.’

  As Albert was led away, Mrs. Pascoe said to him, ‘Little kittens got claws sometimes, Albert,’ prompting him to make an obscene gesture. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ she told Pamela. ‘He’s not a bad fellow, really. He’s just a wee bit . . . coarse. I liked the way yo
u handled him, though,’ she added with a wide grin. ‘You should have hauled off and nutted him a good one. I’d’uv paid good money to see that!’

  ‘That bitch, Miss Prissy Pants, she’s the one as broke my fingers . . . ’

  The two women shared a look and, along with Albert’s companions, burst into laughter.

  ‘Well, so much for a quiet time,’ Pamela said.

  ‘She did! She broke my hand- no, my fingers. Right here, see?’

  This was received with more unsympathetic laughter.

  ‘Poor Albert doesn’t seem to have a very receptive audience, does he?’ Mrs. Pascoe said. ‘I do wish he’d shut up! How’s your pastie?’

  ‘Hot!’ Pamela said, only having managed a nibble or two so far. ‘By the way, I don’t quite get this exchange thing. How much is a British pound worth, exactly?’

  ‘As compared to what?’ Mrs. Pascoe said, dryly. Then, she told her.

  ‘I spent how much? Oh, no! Mrs. Dewhurst’s going to be so mad at me-’

  ‘Don’t be daft! You were supposed to spend all of it! Mrs. Dewhurst, indeed.’

  This last remark was utterly lost on Pamela, who looked in her purse and estimated how much she had left.

  ‘What in Heaven’s name is wrong now?’

  ‘This can’t be right,’ Pamela said, her face pale. ‘This is more money than I’ve ever made in-’

  ‘As I said before, “Don’t be daft!” “Mrs. Dewhurst” gave you that money to spend because he- she, rather, cares about you. Spend it. It’ll make her feel good, as well as yourself. For God’s sake, luv,’ she said, reaching across and sorting out some of the girl’s unruly curls, said, ‘you’ve got to understand that you’re living with people who care about you, who’ll do more than just talk about it. Besides,’ she added with a wicked grin, ‘if some of what you got doesn’t catch Mr. Theo’s eye, nothing will.’