The Diary Of Pamela D. (4 page)

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.