Past Present (11 page)

Following his shopping orders I decide to try a creamy colour, which looks a little darker than my flesh but sweet, pure, untried. I attract the girl’s attention. She catches my eye effortlessly and glides towards me as if she walks on air, and I notice her properly for the first time. About the same age as me, there the similarity ends because the girl is extremely dark, with glossy blue-black hair and tiny features. She looks stunning. The contrast between my fair features and her dark will be a pretty detail to share in my journal.

“How can I help you madam?” A stunning smile reaches her eyes, disarming me.

“I’d like a cream basque, matching panties and natural coloured stockings with a deep cream lace top,” I reel off. “Rather than hooks, I’d like a basque which ties with laces along the back. Will you help me, please? I’d like to try everything on.”

“Certainly, madam. Our cream collection is displayed on the far wall,” she says, leading the way. Together, we pick out a number of items. Some heavily corseted, some with simple bones, some without structure.

“I’ll show you to the changing room and bring the selection along to you. I’ll help when you’re ready. Through here.” She opens a damask curtain, and I walk through, my head already occupying Matthew’s world, my body ready to do his bidding, branded in my mind from the moment I read the task. A rush of heat warms my skin, followed instantly by a flurry of goosebumps, raising the surface, causing a slight shiver.

“Are you cold, madam? The temperature can be adjusted if you wish.”

“No. No, thank you,” I say. “Someone just walked over my grave.” And her shiver matches mine.

“Excuse me, I’ll go and fetch the garments we picked out,” she says, smoothing her expression, along with her skirt.

“Thank you.” I stow my things on a pretty chair, which matches the curtains.

A row of hooks holds a range of kimonos, supplied for customers’ modesty and I look along the rainbow of colours, finally pausing at mandarin. It reminds me of a picture I inherited from my parents. Although sometimes the image is painful, it’s comforting too. It has just been rehung after being in storage and it brings them closer to me again. I feel their presence at Falconworth, especially daddy. I know he’d disapprove of me and Matthew, just as Julie and Bob do. Still, I reassure myself with the thought that Julie doesn’t know everything about Matthew. Who knows everything about anyone? I push the unwelcome thoughts aside and wrap the rich silk around me. The burst of orange reflected so bright it almost hurts my eyes, radiating warmth and depth, rich, vibrant and decadent. Just like autumn.

Orange, mandarin, I wonder if it clashes with my Chanel red lips and nails, but decide it doesn’t matter, certain shades of orange, like terracotta, are tonal, more subtle than red. Sienna, baked clay, emits earthy, soothing warmth, and I wonder whether to try a different shade of lipstick. The fruity hue of the loose fitting robe suits my fair colouring and lights my complexion. I imagine an artist whirling his brush in sunshine yellow, dipping the tip into coral, creating whorls on his palette of the colour I now wear. I resolve to investigate the complementary colours sometime, expand my wardrobe to match the seasons. I once read that orange combines the energy of red and the happiness of yellow. The kimonos jostle, each vibrant silk holds its own, and yet hanging together, they fit somehow as if they belong on the same rail, should always be there. I thought that by removing one and putting it on, there would be a vacant space, but the others seem to have moved closer together to make up for the loss. The warm silk embraces my bare skin, I think about Matthew’s task, burning a hole in my handbag, I feel my heat shimmering, rising in a haze as if from melting tarmac on a blistering day. I move my fingers to the source of combustion at my core and work towards a swift conclusion.

Arriving home, I add the events of the day to my journal. I’m hungry, and I need coffee. In our small, private kitchen, I filter my customary strength five choclately Italian, add a splash of skimmed milk, fetch chocolate biscuits and take the tray into the snug. Deciding to dash off a quick text to Julie, I send the message before settling down to catch up on my research for the Falconworth website.

White Lady

Eleanor rarely felt afraid during the nights that Matthew was away. Used to dealing with all kinds of situations for much of her adult life, little fazes her. Orphaned at seventeen by a car accident, she had been poised to join the air force and without family to rely upon, the services had become home and family in one swoop. She had chosen to specialise in nursing on completion of her basic training and had been lucky enough to serve overseas before being stationed in England.

Eleanor felt at home now that she was settled in the manor house. It was as if Falconworth knew her. As if she belonged. It helped that the site manager and one or two of the other workers stayed on site twenty-four-seven, housed in the cluster of mobile homes and huts temporarily dotted around the grounds. Eleanor had reservations about Eddie, the site manager, nothing she could put her finger on, just something, a feeling outside her periphery.

Eleanor’s research had taken her far deeper into the manor’s history than she needed for the website, but she was fired with a thirst for knowledge and excited about her discoveries. She had pencilled in the following morning at the local church, to follow up on a lead she’d discovered in the Parish Records. Apparently, Falconworth had been used as a hospital during the 1940s and early 1950s. Eleanor had nursed patients with TB, it had become antibiotic resistant in recent years but usually responded to modern intervention. In the period she’d unearthed, treatment was haphazard and experimental, the mortality rate high.

One of the former patients fascinated Eleanor, her grave in the small churchyard was well tended, and Eleanor discovered that a relative still lived in the village. Having written a short note, she intended to pop over and drop it in by hand.

oOo

The gate of the mid-terrace cottage creaked a little on its hinges. Eleanor turned and hooked it closed behind her and walked up the short path to the front door. Panelled wood shone and bristled with brass furniture, the stone step gleamed. Evidence of a house-proud occupant. Neat borders on either side of the pathway stood barren, awaiting fresh planting. “I’ll bet they look glorious in full bloom,” muttered Eleanor as she lifted the letterbox to deliver the note.

Suddenly, the door swung open, surprising both Eleanor and the woman who had been about to emerge.

“Oh, my, you gave me such a fright,” said the woman, clutching at her collar.

“I’m so sorry,” said Eleanor, “I just wanted to leave this note.”

“Oh?” The woman had collected herself and stood squarely in the doorway, though her slight figure hardly filled the space. Her dark coat and hat gave her an austerity which in spite of her lack of height was intimidating.

“I’m Eleanor Grant.” She offered her hand.

“Oh, yes. You’ll be the new missus up at the house.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No harm done, I have an appointment, or I’d ask you in for a cup of tea.” The woman pocketed the note. “I’m Nora Joyce, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“It’s lovely to meet you. Perhaps we could have that cup of tea another time?” said Eleanor

“Yes, perhaps.”

“Are you going to the village? Will you walk with me as far as the manor?” Eleanor smiled again and the women set off back the way she had come.

“Shall we have that tea tomorrow? Same time?”

“That would be lovely, yes, Mrs Joyce,” replied Eleanor.

“Call me Nora. I’ll see you tomorrow, goodbye for now,” said the woman, leaving Eleanor at the gates of the manor.

That night Eleanor didn’t sleep well. Fitful, she counted the hours and minutes until daybreak. As the days grew ever shorter and the hours of darkness lengthened, lonely nights and Matthew’s absence seemed to stretch in front of her. The pinpoint of his return grew distant. Smaller and smaller until it was so miniscule, she couldn’t make out where the darkness ended. Finally, in the hour before dawn, the realisation that work at Falconworth neared completion and the order of the manor would soon settle into a quieter routine, everything would still to a leisurely pace. Falconworth’s grand opening was scheduled for New Year’s Eve, and Eleanor’s excitement at the thought of Christmas alone at Falconworth with Matthew seeped into her cells.

Eleanor’s Journal: Eddie

I’m not sure about Eddie. Now the work is drawing to a close, he seems a little over the top. Oh, I know he has a face which looks as if it is reflected from the bowl of s spoon, which Matthew tells me is down to the fact that Eddie was a celebrated sportsman at his public school. Rugby, boxing and other contact sports will do that to the prettiest of faces, Eddie’s has been rearranged spectacularly. But it’s not that. People’s physicality has never been that significant to me, goodness knows, I’ve seen enough dreadful burn victims to last me a lifetime. No, it’s not his appearance that is sinister, it’s something else. Something that isn’t quite so easy to pinpoint. Everything about him has started to scrape at my bones. I dislike the way he walks, hate the way he talks. He’s like a shadow, a phantom. At times, he seems to appear out of nowhere as if he is somehow intrinsically woven into the fabric of Falconworth.

Matthew’s Maid

Matthew sat at the desk writing.
Your skin is like a chart, a map, spread out before me. You give yourself so freely, your exuberance and joy in everything is touching. You have embraced our lifestyle and my demands as if you’ve never known anything else and I love you for it. And…

Matthew looked out of the window and over the city. A mantle of low cloud obscured by taller buildings, and it promised to be a typical November day. He resolved to ask Eleanor if she looked at the house’s history for the seventeenth century, fearing that she may be stuck in the early middle ages.

In the bathroom, he shaved, took a quick shower and dressed. His breakfast would be delivered in ten minutes. He needed a coffee, at least one. He would conclude his business with the bank today. Needing to move some money around to pay for the final run of expenses, for now. They had set up a business account for day to day running costs. His next meeting with the bank would not be until the grand opening of Falconworth, he would be among the guests at the ball. Matthew’s military bearing gave him stature and a quiet strength, he exuded class and masculinity. Dressed in black jeans and a snow-white linen shirt, cuffs linked with gold, his hands dark against the bright fabric.

“Room service.”

Matthew opened the door.

“I’ll take that,” he said, “it looks heavy.”

“Oh, it’s okay sir, really.” A soft Irish accent arrested his attention, and he insisted on relieving the girl of her burden, and placed it on the table. Fishing in his pocket for a tip, his fingers grazed his cock, which sprang to life as it always did, when presented with an attractive woman or girl. “Thank you,” he said pressing a note into her tiny hand.

“Thank you, sir.”

She sparkled, her hazel eyes, soft, like a doe, her shining hair, burnished copper. He could tell she had trouble taming it for work because tendrils escaped entrapment, framing her pale, freckled face.

“A pleasure,” he smiled. The devastating, shining glint from emerald eyes that had floored Eleanor at their first meeting had a similar impact on the Irish girl.

Flustered, she made a hasty exit and Matthew allowed the glow of satisfaction to warm him while he poured the coffee and opened his email.

Darling, Matty,
I feel a little like Scheherazade. Not that I have to weave a story every night in order to save my skin and keep you interested in me. But, in carrying out your tasks, it is as if I am creating a new and captivating adventure every day…My experience is my erotic currency; flourishing heroines emerge from my life-story to create their own. Their male counterpart loosely based on a single person reborn. Moneyed, powerful, strong. Fragments of experience survive and are fitted together as if an archaeologist has carefully lifted each piece, clutched in the grasp of tweezers, held in latex gloved hands. Each tiny relic is assembled until it is almost whole again, lines and cracks criss-cross its surface, creating a path to the past.

Domestic spectacle is valuable, the personal dilemmas of others makes entertainment for the rest of us. It is the currency of shared experience, speaks to our emotions connecting us, intimately.

I look at the apple tree close to the ground floor window of the room where I now sit. The one that stands just inside the walled garden, its mid-September branches now laden with fruit. Every so often, an apple falls into the neglected flower beds at its base. A few bounce away trunk and roll across the uneven lawn reminding me that we need a gardener and that I could bake a pie. Your Puss.

Smiling, he conjured up the image of Eleanor wearing a light dusting of flower and little else, emanating the scent of nutmeg, cinnamon and baking apples, and pictured him taking her from behind across the large, oak table in the Falconworth kitchen. Matthew dashed off a quick reply to that effect.

“Book me a taxi for ten thirty, please,” he instructed into the house phone, before making final notes in preparation for his meeting.

Death in the Afternoon

“Did you have a pleasant trip?”

“Yes, very successful, I’ll tell you all about it shortly. I brought us back a little something, would you like to try it?”

“It looks intriguing, the perfect colour for Halloween. What is it?”

“Absinthe.”

“I’ve heard about it. Isn’t it very strong, I’ve heard that it causes hallucinations.”

“That’s just myth. It varies in strength depending on where it comes from. But just try it, I brought along everything we need. I’ll show you how to make a perfect
Death in the
Afternoon.
”

“Oh, Matty. Just like Halloween. Next year I have lots of plans to have themed evenings in October for Halloween and November for Guy Fawkes. What do you think?”