Twenty
Wearing a cap pulled down tight on his head, Finn fought through a dusty curtain of cobwebs, which glowed eerily in the light from the three lanterns he had hung on nails from the overhead beams. By rights, the spiders that had made this clinging mass should be at least as large as sparrows, with hairy legs and feelers like pikestaffs. A mouse scuttled away from his feet and seemed bigger than the usual greyish variety. Its nails made loud scratching noises and Finn fancied those nails would make deep cuts through human flesh. This happened on the first day he had ventured down the narrow creaking stairs of the larger of the two storage cellars, this one running under the kitchen and ancillary rooms. The first thing he had come face to face with was a skeleton – a real one, he was to learn, for it was a relic of a former Mitchelmore who had been interested in medicine.
He could mention all this to Mrs R and she could form a funny or perhaps a spooky poem out of it. But Mrs Mitchelmore would not approve. She guarded the privacy of her not particularly historic home, striving for the same sense of mystery, Mrs R had remarked to Finn, that the Royals kept themselves in to remain above all other folk.
Finn found Mrs Mitchelmore bossy and starchy, with a hint of kindness, but also personal reserves. While spelling out her first instructions it seemed she quickly became aware she was standing too close to him and she’d backed away.
‘You are to tidy and stack, tidy and stack, that’s all you need to do,’ she had barked at the outset, leading him out from the scullery where he had entered the house. ‘Before my husband’s day everything unneeded was just pushed down into the cellars and they’re in a right merry mess. Except the wine cellar; Mr Mitchelmore was most particular about the way he kept his wine. You’ll find all sorts, from old clothes, unwanted furniture and a hideous rocking horse – that can come up, I’ll see if it’s worth restoring. Put it carefully in the corridor. When you’re completely done, Finn, I’ll take a look and see if there’s anything noteworthy or of value. Take the rubbish outside and make a bonfire of it. Ellery will tell you where.
‘Right, now to safety measures. I’ve propped the door open so it doesn’t get accidentally shut on you. There are no windows down there so don’t stay down too long at a time. Be careful you don’t pull something down on yourself. There’s the toolbox for you in case it’s needed, and brushes, a dustpan and rags.
‘I’ve shown you where the cloakroom is. Soap and towels have been put in there for you. Wash up at several intervals. I don’t want to see you looking like a coalman.’ The cellar door in question was opposite the side of the descending servants’ stairs and next to the laundry room. A narrow bench ran between the two rooms. The walls towering upwards were of flaking greenish paint – shabby, but in a proud aristocratic way. ‘A jug of water and tumbler will be placed on the bench for you. Have you brought a packed lunch and something for mid-morning?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Finn had patted the rucksack hanging over his shoulder. ‘A flask of tea and sandwiches.’
‘Good chap, your mother packed it for you, I’m sure, but tell her there was no need – Mitchelmores have never begrudged hospitality to casual workers. Food and drink will be provided for you from tomorrow. If you have any questions, then clean up and seek someone out and ask. I’ll stick my nose in on you from time to time. Let me know the minute you’ve finished all. Well, good luck and get to it!’
Finn had found the darkest recesses of the cellar had been left empty. He could understand the servants of former times not wanting to venture so deep into the corners. The jumble of discards had been packed almost to the bottom of the stairs, the last of it, he fancied, just chucked in on top. First he had squeezed into the recess behind the stairs and swept it out, coughing and choking until he took off his shirt and wrapped it around his nose and mouth. It was hot and airless and stuffy and he sweated, in his words, ‘like a hog on a spit’. Time and again he filled the giant-sized metal dustpan full of dust, splinters and masonry debris then tipped it into a box he had emptied of dog-eared papers to carry outside to the dustbins. It was a long trek down to the kitchen garden and beyond it with the burnable rubbish but his lungs gratefully inhaled the fresh air, damp today from the light misty rain.
The general maid had told him where to locate the rubbish heap. He had seen her at the Summer Fair, neat and shiny-faced in her dreary uniform of calf-length beige print dress, apron and cap, on duty and enjoying the sights she could not take part in while on duty. She had looked vaguely familiar and he realized why when she told him her name was Matilda Vercoe and she was a cousin to Jenna, and sister to Cathy who was in service at Meadows House. ‘Everyone calls me Tilly except Mrs Mitchelmore. I wish I could pull out the things down there with you,’ she had squealed excitedly. ‘Who know what you might come across – love letters, wedding dresses, photos torn up over a long lost sweetheart.’
Finn had taken to Tilly. She reminded him of Eloise, all sweet and pert and lots of chuckles. She was sixteen years old but looked a couple of years younger. ‘Can’t see there would be anything of the romantic kind in this rather dour place,’ Finn said to the dreamer, then whispering to her disappointed expression, ‘But I’ll let you know if there is.’
‘Wizard,’ Tilly trilled, obviously from something she had read in a storybook about posh children in a boarding school. ‘I’ll be bringing your crib and lunch from tomorrow.’
Every time he had scanned his gritty eyes over the piles of stuff he was to sort out he thought how Denny Vercoe would find this a treasure trove. No doubt, if Mrs Mitchelmore should find need of his services she would send word to him via Tilly. After clearing the recess Finn unearthed a badly marked hunt table and dragged it into the space he had made. There were a variety of unwanted stools and armless chairs and he placed these at either end of the hunt table. Now he had somewhere to push smaller items tidily underneath this irregular platform and he could stack larger items on top of it. He kept one sturdy stool to stand on. There were some hooks and nails along the stair rails and Finn planned to hang pictures from them. There were clearly a lot of paintings, all dreary and faded. On a long high shelf running along the length of the cellar he would replace the dust-laden odds and ends on it, all clearly rubbish, with anything ornamental he found.
Finn had brought his bicycle torch in with him so he could scrutinize items up close. He scratched at his grimy hair. Where to start? His skin leapt to find himself looking into the fearsome eyes of the dappled painted rocking horse that was peering out of stuff piled on and packed around it. He would get the wooden horse out of the cellar but first he had to remove the items blocking access to it. He loaded these on the hunt table, heavy dusty curtains, an Art Deco radio cabinet, a box of men’s grooming items, a dressing-table mirror, heavy pedestals. He put an empty broken suitcase on the stairs and filled it with mouse-eaten stuff for the rubbish heap – mouldy cloth, a battered squeeze-box and much more. With these out of the way he carefully lifted up and hefted away a wheelchair, a basic contraption probably used on outings for decrepit Mitchelmores. With the cellars full of redundant stuff Finn wondered what the attics were like. He was enjoying himself; even the most inconsequential thing he pulled out of the melee was of interest. Who had owned this? Why had it been consigned to dark seclusion? Some items were broken from being thrown in here, by laziness or perhaps bad temper, the culprits perhaps being scared of the dark or spiders and making a hasty retreat.
Finally he was able to drag the rocking horse – he had named it Old Beady Eyes – away from the huddle and haul it towards the stairs. It was as heavy as it was ugly, a job for two men, but Finn did not want to ask Ellery, an old grumpy man, for help on his first morning. Ducking down he put his shoulder under the horse’s belly and reached up and gripped the bridle with his hand. This was going to be dicey. If he fell or the weight of the horse was too much for him it would drag them both down, or the horse might get stuck on a stair, he could take a terrible tumble and be badly injured, but he was too stubborn to be sensible. It was a matter of honour to him to get the rocking horse, a goal mentioned by his employer, up top and on display. It would be a good time to take a break and a breather outside and have a smoke.
It was slower going than he anticipated. After the third step Old Beady Eyes was denting his shoulder and pressing down heavily on his neck. Finn was in pain, the strain was making his head throb and he imagined a blood vessel inside his skull might break. But he was not going to give up. Taking a deep breath, he charged upwards taking the next four steps in one mighty effort. If he fell now he was going to be horrendously hurt. He gasped in another breath and repeated the foolhardy risk on just one step. He was feeling light headed and sick. But he had given himself no choice but to keep going up the last three steps. The next big breath hurt his insides and he grunted and yelled in pain as he stumbled, one step at a time, until his shaking feet made the summit and he was out in the corridor.
The malicious weight of Old Beady Eyes brought him down on his knees and the horse’s rounded belly cracked him on the head. ‘Bastard!’ he rasped under his breath, hating the rocking horse, but he had climbed every one of the fifteen steps.
Thankfully there was no one striding along the long corridor while he panted and wiped off his sweat and pulled in his breath. The muscles of his arms shaking like thin bendy rubber, he lifted Old Beady Eyes against the wall opposite to the bench, but not touching the wall. It was too dusty. He drank the water left for him on the bench in one lusty draught.
The next time he climbed up to the corridor he found the horrid mocking rocking horse had been washed clean and in places where its paint had not been worn away it was gleaming. Each day Finn made sure he left here with a spotless face and scrubbed hands, smelling of Lifebuoy soap.
One afternoon he was on his way with armfuls of tat for the steadily growing rubbish heap and met Tilly on her way in lugging a heavy flasket of dried laundry on her hip. As always she greeted him cheerfully, as if she had known him for years. ‘I popped over to Uncle Denny’s yesterday. Jenna is happily walking out with your friend Sam Lawry. She’s only allowed to say goodbye over the garden gate, mind. Uncle Denny has threatened him with all sorts if he tries to misbehave.’
‘Good for him, I should think so too,’ Finn replied, giving her a pleasant smile. She always blushed a little when he smiled at her and Finn knew she was a touch in awe of him. Once he had gazed at her intensely and this had sent her into twittering shyness. Tilly likely had a bit of a crush on him. He doubted Tilly knew much about what her expression ‘tries to misbehave’ meant. If only his smiles had a similar effect on Belle; if only she saw him as a masculine being. That she would speak enthusiastically about just him, rather than this idea dreamt up for him to partner Mrs R in producing an illustrated children’s book. It was marvellous of Mr Greg, Guy, and his mother to have such belief in his and Mrs R’s abilities, to encourage them with a new project and possible future, and it would be wonderful to work at home and spend so much more time with Eloise, but his feelings, his love and desire for Belle were uppermost in his mind.
In his free time, when he couldn’t think up a reason to go to The Orchards, he fashioned sketches of Belle together with Eloise. Of his beautiful baby sister sleeping peacefully in Belle’s arms and Eloise reaching up her tiny arms to Belle, and giving Belle the glory of her first smiles. And as much as he loved Eloise and Belle he resented and loathed Charlie Lawry.
Once when Finn had taken Eloise to The Orchards and was with Sam and Belle, Charlie had popped in to make a telephone call, causing tight worms of discontent to churn in Finn’s gut. Those beastly worms twisted into iron-cold jealousy when the wretched man had nuzzled Belle’s ear and laughed, ‘We’ll have to keep trying for a girl, darling. There’s still plenty of time.’ Finn knew it was wicked but he couldn’t help himself, for his aching desire for Belle grew with every minute of every day, and he wished Charlie would meet and be seduced by a femme fatale and desert Belle. Or meet some quick and painless predestined death.
He always kept one drawing of Belle folded up deep inside his trouser pocket so when sure he was completely alone he could gaze at it and love Belle. He would touch his heart and swear there would not be another woman for him, and to wait for years for the chance to have Belle if that was how it turned out to be.
‘It’s the christening of your little sister this Sunday afternoon, isn’t it?’ Tilly cheeped. ‘Uncle Denny, Jenna and the family have been invited, um . . . I–I,’ she stuttered and bit her lip. ‘I’ve got the afternoon off . . . I, um . . .’
‘Come along with the other Vercoes,’ Finn said at once. ‘Three o’clock at the church.’
‘Thanks, I will! Oh thanks, Finn. I’d better run along or I’ll be in for it from the mistress if she sees me dawdling.’ Tilly hurried off, trilling, ‘Keep your sunny side up, up.’
Finn forgot about her immediately. He wasn’t looking forward to the church bit of Eloise’s christening, resenting the fact that the vicar’s lazy, stand-offish reputation meant Eloise wasn’t going to be given a proper, moving ceremony. But at least afterwards Belle would be at Merrivale for the spread his mother was laying on in celebration.