I watch you come and go from the big house like you own it, and I bet you wish you did. I bet you like to imagine that you’re the mistress of that house, that you’re rich, don’t you? Sometimes you have that old bag on your arm and sometimes you’re alone. Well, you’re never actually alone. Because I’m always with you. You just don’t know it. And when you least expect it, I’ll pounce.
4
Una
Thankfully, I last the morning. I even make it to Wednesday – my day off.
I know it’s only a few days, but I can’t lie. There are times when I’m bored out of my skull in this job. I was so busy at the care home – there was always some duty to perform and because there were so many residents I had variety to my routine. Then, when my shift ended, I’d rush home to visit Mum. But here, with Elspeth, a large amount of my time is spent sitting next to her on the sofa while she reads – although I never actually see her turn a page – and nods off. Yesterday I made the mistake of getting up and exploring the house while she was napping, hoping to bump into Aggie or Lewis – anyone I could have a chat with – but when Elspeth woke up and found I wasn’t there she began calling for me, panic in her voice, as if I’d left her to die or something. I had to pretend I’d just gone to the loo.
The only time I have a small reprieve is when she asks me to go down to the kitchen and fetch her some tea. Then I can have a chat with Aggie, but not for too long or she comes to find me. I’ve not had a chance to ask about Jemima or Matilde again.
Luckily Elspeth is in bed by nine thirty so I can escape to my room, watch TV, while munching junk food, and take the smile off my face, as Mum would say. I never knew how emotionally draining it would be living and working in the same place. It’s like I’m never off duty.
Elspeth is an early riser so she expects me to get her up at six thirty. She likes to shower every morning, with my help. She doesn’t mind standing naked in front of me, not like some of the residents at the care home, who tried to hide themselves behind a towel. No, Elspeth is happy to walk around in the buff. I imagined she was like that as a younger woman, never worrying about her nakedness. I didn’t grow up in a household like that. My mum and I were much more prudish, even though it was just the two of us. And I’m expected to be by Elspeth’s side at all times. It’s only when she’s in bed that I can truly relax. I imagine this is what it must have been like over a hundred years ago being a lady’s maid.
This morning, because it’s my day off, I have a lie-in until nine o’clock. But even though the sleigh bed is large and comfortable, I can’t relax as I stare up at the beads of light dancing on the sloping ceiling, from the weak sun filtering through the cream curtains. I can hear traffic, the shriek of a child, a faraway police siren. What am I supposed to do all day? I can’t hang around in my room watching TV, and if I go downstairs I’ll feel like I’m working. I half expect Elspeth to be calling for me now, in her pinched, clipped tone.
I sit up and peer through the gap in the curtains. The sunshine glints off the suspension bridge, and the sky beyond is white, as if a screen has been pulled over the sun. In spite of my reservations about this job, I feel a rumble of excitement rippling through me that I’m living in such a stunning location. And, okay, my role might not be that exciting, yet – although Elspeth did promise me a theatre trip on Friday night, and talked about visiting an arcade she funds (I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about the sort of arcades I used to go to in Weston-super-Mare as a teenager) so at least I have those things to look forward to – but I’m right here, in the heart of this gorgeous city. In what my mum called ‘the posh part’, living in a house that I could only imagine existing. I’m so lucky to have landed this job. It’s an adjustment, that’s all.
I reach for my phone and text Courtney. It would be great to see her. It’s strange not living with her. She texts back straight away and we arrange to have lunch in Clifton. I shower, more energized now that I have a plan, and pull on jeans and a jumper in my en-suite bathroom – my en-suite. I still can’t get over it! I feel awkward when I get downstairs. It’s my day off, I remind myself. You’re not supposed to be working. So why do I feel as if I’m skiving? Elspeth keeps telling me to treat the house like my home, that even on my days off I can help myself to food and Aggie will cook for me if I want it. But I still feel uncomfortable because I don’t know if she’s just being polite. Sometimes I feel I need to read between the lines with Elspeth. Yesterday, for example, I left a scarf and a dog-eared paperback of Agatha Christie’s The Moving Finger on the coffee-table in the lounge (Elspeth always corrects me when I call it that – ‘It’s a sitting room, dear’) and she told me, curtly, that my things must stay in my room.
On Sunday, my first morning waking up in the house, I helped Elspeth dress, as she’d instructed me to do on my first day (I was shocked to see her wardrobe was filled with identical twinsets, just in different colours, not a pair of trousers in sight) and then we went down to the kitchen for breakfast. Elspeth had to cling to my arm because she was worried about losing her footing on the stairs (although that didn’t seem to be an issue on the occasions she’s come looking for me). Sunday, I was informed, was sausage, bacon and eggs day. Today is salmon and avocado on toast.
The house is eerily silent as I descend the stairs. Where is Elspeth? She told me yesterday that Kathryn would come over to look after her today but there’s no sign of either of them. I carry on down to the kitchen, hoping to bump into Aggie. But she’s not there either. Instead there’s a tray with a floral tea-towel laid over it. As I step closer I can see a note that reads: For Una. My heart swells. How lovely of Aggie to think of saving some breakfast for me. I remove the tea-towel, like a magician about to reveal a trick, expecting to see avocado on toast, but instead there is nothing. Just a large empty plate with a few crumbs and a chunk of tomato. I stare down at it in shock. I can’t believe someone has eaten the breakfast that was meant for me. Who would do that? I shrug it off. There must be some mistake, although I’m desperate for coffee.
I stare at the Aga hob. I have no idea how to use it. The kettle is one of those heavy orange affairs that you don’t have to plug into a socket. I’ve never used one of those, either. I suddenly feel like a Neanderthal. I place my hand against the side of the kettle and discover that it’s still warm. Then I open all the wall cupboards, trying to remember where Aggie kept the mugs, until I find one as well as a jar of coffee. I sit at the kitchen table with my freshly made coffee trying not to feel as though I’m trespassing.
‘Made yourself at home, I see.’
I jump. Kathryn is striding into the kitchen. She reminds me of the terrifying headmistress I had at school. She has on a navy wool coat and is wearing the frumpy skirt and sensible shoes she seems to favour. I look down at my jeans and jumper, feeling underdressed.
My cheeks grow hot and I’m annoyed at my body for betraying my feelings. ‘I … just made a coffee.’
‘Helped yourself to breakfast, too.’ She glances across at the empty plate on the kitchen island and the tea-towel I’d tossed aside.