Chapter 11
ELEVEN
10 MAY 2005
How different the house feels now! I was woken this morning not by the sound of rain coming through the leaking roof – which still leaks; it’s a specialist job to fix, according to Luke, who I have no reason to doubt – or even by the persistent kneading of Maud’s paws on my chest, but by the sound of a hairdryer – an unpleasant reminder that the electrics, like the roof, will need fully replacing by an expert at vast expense.
Beatrice was up, getting ready to go off to her nannying job – incredible to me, since Beatrice seems little more than a child herself. How different she is to Livvie, who from the moment she moved in has also mucked in, helping Luke with tasks that need an extra pair of hands, pulling up weeds with me in the garden, even topping up Maud’s water bowl if she’s passing and sees it running low.
Beatrice – well. There is something about her that I find mysterious. It’s not that she lacks maturity in contrast to the others: Luke is definitely an old head on young shoulders, and Livvie is clearly a girl who has had to grow up fast – when I ask her about her family, she answers as briefly as she can, and I sense that there is some deep hurt there she isn’t willing or ready to share with me, so I back off and resolve not to meddle until the next time curiosity gets the better of me.
Beatrice is different. She chats openly about her parents: her doting, overprotective mom and dad in Philadelphia who reluctantly allowed her to go off on this adventure by herself, only insisting that she find a Nice Job with a Nice Family before paying for her open return ticket. But I can’t help feeling that she is holding something back.
She says she needed a place to live, and I daresay she did. But why here? Why this wreck of a house with its damaged occupants, when she could be living literally anywhere? Anywhere within commuting distance of her employers’ luxury penthouse, at least. She seems to be fascinated by the house and its history and, by extension, curious about me.
Curious – but also disappointed. I can still feel as if it happened five minutes ago the cool pressure of her fingers in mine when we shook hands on meeting. I told her my name and she smiled, but her smile looked as if it was hiding something – disappointment? Incredulity? As if she was thinking, Orla Clifford? Really? Is that all?
And since then, there have been times when she has fixed me with those wide eyes – so innocent, but also not innocent at all – and asked me to tell her more about my grandparents. Go on, Orla, it must be such a fascinating story.
I have told her that my grandfather bought the house but never lived in it. That I never intended to live in it either, and don’t know how long I will stay here now that I am. And that’s as much as I am willing to disclose to her, or any of them – at least for now.