Chapter 6
6
JONATHAN
A fter dinner, Meredith takes me upstairs with the children. While they go to the playroom, Meredith gives me a more thorough tour and tells me about their routine.
“Dinner ran late tonight. Usually they’re ready for bed by eight.” She indicates the bathroom that Adam pointed out earlier. It has both a bath and a shower and is tiled in white. A picture of lilies hangs above the tub in a gilded frame that matches the light fixtures, but other than that, the bathroom is merely practical.
“Since Lily-Iris refuses to sleep in the house, you will be responsible for them between bedtime and sunrise. But they’re quite independent and they mostly see to themselves when it comes to ablutions. Lily-Iris will return at six to get them up and ready for the day ahead. Breakfast is at seven. We expect classes to start at eight.”
“What about the little one? Enrique?” He surely still needs a lot of care at that age.
“Oh, you needn’t worry. Alisha will look after him.”
She pushes open one of the bedroom doors. There’s no sign of the mysterious interior designer’s hand in this space. It’s neat and practical—whitewashed walls, a single bed covered in white linen. Sure, there’s a down duvet and a soft olive-colored rug and comforter, but this might as well be a single sleeper at a generic hotel, or a boarding house. Above the bed, inlaid shelves offer space for books or personal items (none) and there’s a chest of drawers at the foot of the bed for clothes.
It does not surprise me, although it does sadden me, that each of the other rooms is exactly alike. Enrique’s room is unique only in that there’s a railing on the side of his bed—likely to stop him rolling out. Although, my memory of my nieces and nephews at four is that they refused to sleep in their own beds most nights. Does Enrique actually sleep in here? I suspect, from what I’ve seen so far, that he likely bunks with Alisha.
“How old is Alisha?” I ask.
“Sixteen.”
Too young to be responsible for a four-year-old.
“Mal is eleven going on twelve,” she adds. “Benjamin is eight going on eighty.”
“Should I take them to say goodnight to, uh, Beast? Once they’re ready for bed?”
“No,” she says it as if I’ve suggested I take them dancing in the rain. “The west wing is off limits.”
“Oh, I know, I just meant… never mind.” Irritation rises in my chest. This may all be for publicity, but these are children , not hired actors. And this is their real life. Their only childhood. The house may be large and beautiful, and they clearly have nice clothes and good food, but that’s not enough. That’s not nearly enough.
I try to calm myself while Meredith talks me through the details of the rest of their routine, but every sentence winds my annoyance higher. Lessons start at eight and go on until five, with a break for lunch at 12.
“I’m sorry,” I interject, “but I don’t see how a four-year-old will focus for that long.”
I’m not even certain how I’ll focus for that long.
Meredith folds her arms. “Mister Belle, while I sympathize with your concerns, you need to understand that these children have had a difficult start. They’re likely far behind their peers. It is our expectation that they will be brought up to speed over the next few months.”
“Miss…” I fumble for a last name, realize I don’t know it, clear my throat. “Meredith, far beyond any ‘difficult start’, they’ve missed half of the school year. I don’t see how that’s possible.”
She frowns. “May I ask, what do you know of our foundation?”
“It’s a charity for children in need.”
“To be more specific, our focus is on reforming the foster system. There are currently over four hundred thousand children in foster care in the US. Over half will drop out of school. Twenty thousand will age out every year and find themselves on their own. There are good people in the system, people who want to create change—but it is drastically under-resourced.
“We don’t have the resources to change the system alone, but The Beast has influence. By demonstrating how these children can thrive when given the proper support, we can show the country why it’s essential to reform the system.”
“Reform the children, reform the system.” I don’t hide my bitterness. Given the circumstances, I probably should. But this isn’t about me, it’s about what’s best for Alisha, Mal, Ben and Enrique.
“I’ll be candid with you Mister Belle,” Meredith says.
“Please, by all means.”
“This is what you’ve signed on for. In August we plan to put on a show for our donors, with or without your participation. If you’re not up for the task, then perhaps we should find ourselves another teacher?”
August. That would be ambitious even if there wasn’t a pandemic.
“So, you’re giving me five months to play Pygmalion.”
“Pygmalion?”
“George Bernard Shaw?”
She stares at me blankly.
“Never mind.”
Meredith sighs. “The children are aware of what’s expected of them. They will need to work hard, as will you, as will all of us. But if we succeed, the end result will be more than worthwhile.”
As soon as Meredith’s gone, I poke my head into the playroom. It’s large and covered in a rich burgundy carpet, but there are no windows, only artificial light coming from a large hanging lamp in the center of the room and the flat-screen TV that the children are gathered in front of.
They’re playing the latest wrestling video game. And they’re laughing while Mal beats the living daylights out of Adam “The Beast” De Villeneuve.
Well, that’s healthy.
They don’t notice me. I watch a while before I say, “It really doesn’t give a proper sense of scale, does it?”
They whip around. Mal goes even paler than he is already.
I come further into the room. “He’s huge in real life, but not quite that impressive on screen. I suppose when you have two of them next to each other it’s rather difficult to get a proper sense of scale? Like the way they say most Hollywood actors are short. But we’d never know, because we have nothing to measure them against when they’re on screen with other tiny actors.”
No one responds.
“We didn’t have much time to talk at dinner. Do you mind if I join you?”
Of course they mind. They mind very much. It’s a rhetorical question. I take a seat beside Mal on the sofa. He’s still staring at me, hand frozen on the controller. His wrestler K.O.s and he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Lily-Iris will be up to put us to bed soon,” Alisha says. She’s seated on the floor with Enrique who has a fist around a toy car.
Ben is sitting on the opposite arm of the sofa, huddled up with his knees in front of his chest. “Are you going to be looking after us now?”
“Sometimes. I’ll be sleeping at the end of the passage if you need anything during the night and we’ll be spending the days together. Lily-Iris will still help, though. Does she care for her father? Is that why she doesn’t sleep with you in the house?”
“No, she—” Ben starts but Alisha shakes her head at him, almost imperceptibly. Which, of course, makes me even more curious.
“Go on?” I prompt.
“She just doesn’t.” Ben presses his lips together.
“‘Cause it’s haunted,” Mal says.
“Mal!” Alisha scolds.
“What? It’s true.”
“It’s not true, it’s just what you overheard her say.” To me, she adds, “He overheard her arguing with Meredith one day. She’s superstitious. The house isn’t haunted, it’s just old.”
“It is haunted,” Mal insists. “Geoff also said so.”
“Geoff was just trying to scare you.”
Ben pulls himself up tighter. “I saw the ghost,” he whispers.
“No, you didn’t. You were half asleep and imagined it,” Alisha insists. “Ghosts aren’t real, right Mister Belle?”
“Right.”
“See?”
That night I lie awake for ages staring up at the strange shadows playing across the top of the four-poster. The drizzle I arrived to has become a full-on downpour. I generally find the sound of the rain soothing, but tonight it plays a loud tattoo across my fractured nerves.
I somehow, miraculously, pulled it off. I’m here and Dad is not. And I have not been arrested. So why don’t I feel happier?
“These children are in need of so much more than me,” I whisper into the darkness. “They deserve so much more than this.” They deserve Dad.
My window rattles and my heart leaps into my throat. I am reminded of Lockwood on the first few pages of Wuthering Heights, ensconced in a forgotten room in Heathcliff’s neglected manor. Rattling windows, a ghostly presence, Heathcliff’s forlorn late soulmate calling his name and asking to be let in.
Stop it. Ghosts aren’t real.
I pull the blanket up to my chin and roll over, focusing on the strange shadows the rain is casting across the opposite wall.
I don’t have to stay. Meredith asked if I was up to the task. I could tell her I’m not. Get away, home free. Find a job I’m actually qualified for. Move on with my life while they find a different teacher who’s not Dad.
But then what would happen to these children? These young souls who’ve seen enough upheaval in their short lives without being shipped across the world as part of a publicity campaign.
These children might require a firm hand, Mister Belle.
If I leave, who’s to say the next hire won’t be perfectly willing to drive them hard and work them to tears in the name of the good salary and prestige? If Adam and Meredith’s only priority is the foundation, then what would they let such a person get away with? A cane to match the Victorian classroom? Only a few doors away, Mal is probably lying in the dark struggling to sleep while his stomach rumbles. He left his stew untouched and was not permitted to eat anything different.
There isn’t a choice. Not really.
I climb out of bed and throw on my dressing gown.