The Diary Of Pamela D. Read online

  ‘He doesn’t even like me,’ Pamela said quietly. ‘He always makes me feel like an intruder . . . which I am, sort of-’

  ‘Stop talking nonsense! You don’t know what’s going through that head of his. Theo just isn’t very good at showing how he feels.’

  ‘Yes, well he doesn’t seem to have any difficulty showing how he feels when he’s angry with me.’

  ‘Anger, that’s easy,’ Mrs. Pascoe said with a wry smile. ‘Love, on the other hand- that can be very hard.’

  ‘Love?’ Pamela said. ‘He doesn’t seem to have any trouble expressing his feelings to his mother.’

  Mrs. Pascoe gave her a wry look. ‘This isn’t exactly his mother we’re talking about, now, is it?’

  ‘But . . . what are we talking about?’

  ‘Pamela! Come on, finish your lunch. It’s time we were getting back. If you need me to tell you something like that, well! You’re just going to have to muddle through this one on your own.’

  That Sunday they went to church, and Pamela discovered that, as Mrs. Dewhurst had said, church was a household affair. To her surprise, she found the experience enjoyable. As well, it brought her one step closer to feeling as though she truly belonged to something. The only other time she had experienced anything similar was during Christmas at the Mission. But this experience was wholly different: it was more far-reaching, in ways she couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t a sentiment that began and ended with the holiday season; it was an ongoing tradition that permeated the lives of the people she lived amongst, and she found herself wanting very much to be a part of things.

  When it came time to sing hymns, however, she found that the choir-director had actually turned and was looking right at her. Thinking that she was singing too loud, or off-key, or something, she flushed with embarrassment, dropped her gaze to the vicinity of the floor and mouthed the rest of the words.

  At the end of the service, as the congregation was breaking up, she watched with her heart in her mouth as the choir-director approached her. Flustered, she said, ‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry . . . ’

  ‘Mr. Howard, meet the newest addition to our staff, Miss Pamela Dee,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said. ‘And don’t mind her. She’s always apologizing for something, whether she needs to or not!’

  ‘You have a North American accent,’ he said to Pamela. ‘Where are you from?’

  Pamela told him.

  ‘And how long do you intend on staying . . . ?’ His eyes strayed to Mrs. Dewhurst as he said this.

  ‘Why, she is living with us more or less permanently, Mr. Howard.’

  ‘Indeed? Then perhaps Miss Dee would be so kind as to lend our little choir the use of her beautiful soprano voice?’

  ‘Wha- I can’t sing!’ Pamela blurted, turning crimson.

  To her surprise, Mr. Howard and the people standing near to her chuckled in response.

  ‘My dear,’ Mr. Howard told her, ‘if you truly cannot sing, then I hope to enjoy endless hours of your alleged inability in the weeks, months and years to come.’

  ‘She’ll be at choir practice on Wednesday,’ said Mrs. Dewhurst, without waiting for an affirmation or refusal from Pamela.

  ‘Splendid! I’ll arrange transportation for her . . . ’

  The conversation became desultory after that, during which Pamela noticed Theo watching her with an odd expression- she couldn’t tell whether he was angry with her or what. He had given her a similar look when he had first seen her wearing one of her new outfits, an autumn-rust-coloured sweater, heavy thigh-length forest-green wool skirt, comfortable black hose, the first she had ever worn in her life, sensible leather shoes, a fashionable-looking beret and warm quilted jacket. His eyes, then as now, strayed almost unwillingly to her legs, her bust, her overall form, as though he was satisfied with what he saw- if “satisfied” was the right word. She found herself squirming under his scrutiny, but not as though she didn’t like his attention, but rather because she found herself wishing . . . what? That he would come to her and- do what? Once again, her gaze caught by his, she found something disturbing in his gaze that took her breath away, made her heart pound uncontrollably. But she didn’t look away, afraid that if she did so, he would too, would lose interest in whatever it was he saw in her.

  ‘Pamela! Are you coming?’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry . . . I’m coming, Mrs. Pascoe.’

  ‘Pamela Dee, if I hear you apologise to me once more, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap!’

  Things took on a comfortable routine over the next several weeks, broken only by choir practice, church, and the odd foray into Haworth. As Christmas drew near, however, Pamela felt her spirits falling. It seemed that everyone was going away for the holidays. Everyone, that is, except herself. Soon it appeared as though she would be alone in the house over the holidays.

  The week before Christmas, as she and the others exchanged idle chitchat while they prepared supper, Ellie said suddenly, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come with Doris and me to Scarborough for the holidays? You’ll probably be bored to tears, sharing Christmas with a pair of dried-up old maids like us, but it’ud be much better than sitting here all by your lonesome.’

  ‘Besides,’ put in Doris, ‘we have a number of nieces your age, some of whom will be dropping by Christmas day, and some of whom will be staying over for the holidays.’

  ‘Well,’ Pamela said doubtfully, ‘if I’m not too much bother-’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Ellie said firmly. ‘We’ll put you to work making cookies and treats and Christmas pudding and rum cake. You’ll be no bother at all, and you’ll soon forget all about whatever it is that’s making you so quiet these days.’

  Ellie was as good as her word. Pamela had such a good time that when the holidays were finally over and they boarded the train to go home, she found she was genuinely going to miss the east coast and all the people she had met there; especially Tessa, Ellie and Doris’s youngest niece, who was almost exactly Pamela’s age. The two had promised to write to one another just as soon as they arrived at their respective homes.

  A few days later, as Mrs. Dewhurst and Theo were leaving with their driver, Mr. Pascoe, Pamela approached them awkwardly. Unfortunately it was Theo who was the last to leave the house, so she was forced to confront him with her request.

  ‘A letter? Well . . . of course, but . . . why didn’t you simply send it by e-mail?’

  Red-faced, Pamela stammered something unintelligible. She didn’t want to admit to him that she had never sent or received a real letter to a personal friend before. To her incomprehension, he checked outside to see if Mr. Pascoe and his mother were in the car, closed the door, took a quick glance about to make sure no one was watching, took her by the waist, drew her to him, and kissed her. Maddeningly, for the longest moment her body responded of its own accord, until she wrenched herself free from his grasp and stood before him, gasping for breath.

  She struck him before she realized she’d done it. He stood there for a moment, his features a mixture of frank astonishment, surprise at what he’d done and outright anger. Without another word or backward glance he spun on his heel and was out the door. She watched the car pull out of the drive from behind the drapes but couldn’t get a look at his face.

  ‘Except for the slap at the end, that was all very nice.’

  It was Ellie, who was making her way towards the kitchen. She had remarked in such a way as though what she had witnessed was no more remarkable than the weather. Behind her stood Mrs. Pascoe, who managed despite herself to look a little worried.

  ‘Oh, dear, I’m afraid you’ll have to be on your best behaviour for a while. It’s not often that young Mr. Theo gets his face slapped.’ With alacrity she followed Ellie into the kitchen.

  Pamela wasn’t sure, but she thought the two women were actually laughing. She, however, was in mortal agony. Why had she done that? He was only trying to be nice to her. Wasn’t he? She was tempted to go to her room and pack her things. Theo would no doubt w
ant to send her packing after this! Instead, feeling awkward, she made her way to the kitchen to lend Ellie and Mrs. Pascoe a hand. Both women looked a little red-faced and red-eyed.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said Ellie, her laughter threatening to bubble over once more, ‘it’s a good thing you didn’t take the nearest blunt object and nut him.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs. Pascoe. ‘When in doubt, do use some discretion. Did you see the look on his face?’

  At once, both women collapsed into helpless fits of laughter.

  ‘It isn’t funny!’ Pamela protested weakly, unable not to smile. ‘You two are going to get me into more trouble than I’m already in.’

  ‘We could do with a bit more of that sort of trouble around here,’ said Ellie. ‘Ah, me, that’s enough of that! I haven’t laughed so hard in such a long time . . . Pamela, do be a dear and roll out those pie crusts.’

  When Theo and Mrs. Dewhurst arrived home later that afternoon, to Pamela’s lasting surprise nothing was mentioned about the incident. She surmised that Mrs. Dewhurst knew nothing about it but Theo acted as if nothing had happened between them, though come suppertime he regarded her once or twice with what appeared to be anger or amusement, though about either she couldn’t be sure.

  That evening, however, something happened that drove all thought of her misadventure with Theo from her mind. A man from a nearby farm came to the back door and asked for Mrs. Dewhurst.

  Standing in the trampled snow, shifting nervously from foot to foot, cap in hand, he said, ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Dewhurst, but it’s my daughter. She’s with child, and she’s in a bad way.’ It was snowing heavily, making the roads dangerous, if not impassable. The man had walked almost three miles through rough country, wearing clothing that looked hopelessly inadequate. For the first time since Pamela had known her, Mrs. Dewhurst appeared very upset.

  ‘How bad, Glen? Is it the weather, or has she fallen-?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said helplessly. ‘The way she’s going, we’re going to lose both her and the baby.’

  Mrs. Dewhurst sat down, looking shaken. To Pamela’s astonishment, there was helplessness in those eyes she had come to think of as dauntless. Mrs. Dewhurst looked to her son, who had just entered the room, and said, as though astonished and outraged at her own uselessness, ‘Bloody hell, Theo, I don’t know what to do! I can’t wade through that snow all the way to the Cross cottage!’

  ‘I’ll go.’ It wasn’t until all eyes were upon her that Pamela realized she had spoken. Finding her voice once more, she said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ve looked after people that were- I’ve helped deliver babies a couple of times before.’

  There was a long moment’s silence. Finally, it was broken by Theo.

  ‘That’s it, then. I’m coming with you.’

  It was a brutal three miles, wading through the snow and dense bush. It may as well have been thirty for all the headway they were making, stumbling blindly into the stinging bite of the wind. Theo caught her when she stumbled, which was often, but her mind was focused on what had to be done.

  ‘How far gone is she?’ Pamela asked as they pulled themselves over a fallen tree.

  ‘How what?’

  ‘How far into her pregnancy is your daughter, Mr. Cross?’

  ‘Oh,’ he replied uncomfortably. ‘Well, I’m not sure. If you mean, “How long has it been since she got herself pregnant,” then I can’t tell you, because I wasn’t there. You’ll have to ask her yourself.’

  Wonderful! Pamela ran over and over in her mind what little she had learned about birthing babies from the midwives and paramedics she had watched. They had all been difficult births, and by assisting she had learned far more than she wanted to know. Yet it seemed that now, when she needed to know, it wasn’t enough!

  Thankfully, when she fell and Theo caught her, he seemed as preoccupied as she, doing only what was necessary, his attention on getting them safely to the Cross cottage without mishap.

  Struggling into the howling wind was pure torture. Pamela’s forehead felt like beaten lead and her head ached interminably, despite the thick woolen scarf and warm hat she wore. And her mittens, though warm, were made for more casual use, not for wading about through snowstorms. They came only to her wrists, leaving her wrists red and raw and aching. Her thighs, too, ached from the exertion of having to lift her legs out of the deep snow. Just when Pamela thought the exposed skin of her face was going to freeze, they came to the bottom of a hill. At the top, upon the ridge, stood a cottage lighted from within by the yellow glow of oil lamps. They soon stumbled their way up the hill to the cottage, pulled open the door, went in, and shut the wind and snow outside.

  Mr. Cross wasted no time leading Pamela to the loft where the pregnant girl lay. Pamela soon noticed, however, the moment she pulled off mitts, scarf, hat and coat, that the air within the cottage was scarcely warmer than without.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mr. Cross, build up the fire . . . it’s freezing in here! And fill that large preserving kettle with water and boil it. No, that one, the big one by that pile of firewood. The tap’s frozen? Then use snow! Don’t you have any clean linen? Well . . . take what you’ve got, boil it on the stove and then hang it and dry it.’

  ‘Now, Emma,’ Pamela said, trying her best to sound brave and competent, ‘you’re obviously in labour, aren’t you?’

  The girl, who appeared about Pamela’s age, was brown-haired, her complexion pale and puffy-looking. She was weeping and looked terrified. ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’

  ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous! Now, tell me, Emma, are you in labour? And how far into your pregnancy are you? And don’t fib to me about it! Your dad’s outside with Theo filling pots and kettles with snow; neither of them can hear. Emma, this is very important: how many months along are you?’

  ‘Uh! It’s nine! It’s nine months! But don’t tell my father! Please! He’ll kill me!’

  ‘If he tries anything of the sort, then I’ll beat him within an inch of his life,’ Pamela said, trying to sound as though she meant it. After checking the girl’s belly, what she discovered almost made her balk. Pausing to take a deep breath, carefully schooling her features to conceal her own anxiety, she said, ‘Okay, Emma, your baby’s not in the right position to be born. That means I’m going to have to reach inside you and turn the baby so that it can come out. This is going to hurt like hell, but I want you to be very brave, and bite down on this.’ She rolled up a facecloth and stuck it in the girl’s mouth. ‘Now, you can scream all you like, but don’t worry about it too much. You’re not going to die. It’s only pain. In a few hours the pain will be nothing more than a memory, and you’ll have a brand-new life to look after.’

  After some time, it occurred to Pamela that Mr. Cross hadn’t come near the loft, except to stand at the foot of the stair and shout about clean linen and hot water. Theo did ask whether or not she wanted help but Pamela declined, going down once, taking Theo aside and asking him to keep a rein on Mr. Cross, who sat at the kitchen table cursing his daughter’s indiscretion, seeming not to care who heard. After a few more minutes of this, Pamela heard Theo raise his voice only once, and nothing further was heard from Mr. Cross.

  About three in the morning, a red-faced, healthy baby boy screamed his protest over being brought into this world of uncertainty. Soon after, Pamela came down the stairs of the loft, white-faced and unsteady. Theo quickly got to his feet and led her to the table. Mr. Cross sat on a small stool by the stove with his arms crossed, trying to look defiant. But he said, ‘It’s over, then, isn’t it? My Emma, she’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘No, Mr. Cross,’ Pamela said, taking the tea Theo handed to her. ‘She and the baby are just fine. You have a grandson.’

  ‘A grandson?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Cross. Why don’t you go up and see him?’

  It seemed he wasn’t going to reply at first. Yet when Pamela least expected it, he abruptly lost his composure, his gruff exterior and bravado falling away like a broken c
urtain. ‘Oh, my poor little Emma! I’ve been such an unconscionable bastard!’ He put his head in his hands and wept. ‘She’ll never forgive me.’

  Setting down her tea, going to Mr. Cross and kneeling before him, Pamela said, ‘I think everything will be fine from now on, Mr. Cross. An unwanted pregnancy is a hard thing to deal with, but this is your grandson. Emma will want you to see him.’

  Mr. Cross took her hands, tears spilling unashamedly from his eyes. ‘God bless you, lass! You’re a saint, that’s what you are!’ He got to his feet, took a deep breath as though considering how to face whatever was waiting for him atop the loft, and began the ascent.

  ‘Is Her Saintship ready to go home?’ Theo said. His smile, for once, though slightly mocking, couldn’t conceal the kindness that lay behind it.

  ‘Her Saintship isn’t looking forward to making that journey twice,’ Pamela said, and took a sip of her tea. ‘But we’d better get on with it before I fall asleep.’

  It was nearly seven when Pamela stumbled back to the Dewhurst mansion, leaning on Theo’s arm for support, unaware that she was doing so, and all but prostrate from exhaustion. Without saying a word to anyone she made her way upstairs, threw herself prone upon her bed without first removing her clothing, and was instantly asleep.

  -4-

  Pamela slept remarkably few hours (for her), waking up at one o’clock in the afternoon. Getting out of bed she noted belatedly that she was dressed in warm bedclothes, a realisation that caused her to flush with embarrassment. ‘Someone undressed me completely and put me to bed!’ Yet at the same time this discovery brought out feelings she hadn’t experienced since she was a little girl. That someone, probably Ellie and Doris, had taken care of her, had dressed her in a heavy flannel nightgown and put her to bed. She found that it was a good feeling, like being picked up and held in someone’s arms.