31. I Know Thy Name #2
I stop myself from dissecting why he struggled with those particular words when his penmanship is so elegant everywhere else.
The thought makes me feel like a deer petrified beneath a huntsman’s blade.
To find the answer would mean to skin me until I’m left raw, so I shove it aside in favour of the letter written on the pastedown page.
Francesca,
Consider this a repository for your thoughts, in case you ever go full ‘Cathy’ on me and misplace your mind.
I’ve got to admit, the first page was almost mine.
I debated starting the repository with a thought about you.
One page out of three hundred and fifty: mine.
Not much of a claim, yet it would’ve been enough.
But then I realised how disingenuous that would be against everything I’m yet to discover.
The first page should belong to you, the girl whose mind will live within this journal.
So I claimed the front endpaper instead, the page that exists before the story begins and still falls part of it.
You’ll see it every time you open the cover: my place is there.
Part of your story without laying claim to it.
You’re probably wondering—why Wordsworth? Now, I’m not prone to jealousy, but for him I’ll make an exception. Short answer is: he got to meet you first. He put you in ink two centuries before I would even be born.
It’s wholly absurd, and still, I resent him for it, because reading this poem only reminds me that you’ve been this haunting thing far longer than I thought possible. The dead man, however, can keep his poem.
Unlike him, I know the name of the phantom.
Though it’s your birthday, please indulge me in my request. Stay visible today. Please. I find the girl infinitely more enthralling than the ghost she pretends to be.
Happy Birthday, Baskerville,
Eric
I finish reading, a lump in my throat, and set the journal down on my lap before immediately picking it back up.
For a long while, I just sit there feeling—no, I don’t even know what I feel.
‘Grateful’ seems too insubstantial for whatever it is my lungs are doing right now.
It’s unfair. He can’t… He can’t just write things like this.
Things that crawl through me long after the page has fallen from view.
Absolutely bloody ridiculous to even suggest that Wordsworth (of all poets!) could ever have written about me.
As though the man encountered some psychic experience, had a vision of a girl in a nightdress with a bruised neck and thought, ‘Ah, yes, let’s immortalise her!
’. I should laugh at the arrogance of even entertaining the idea, but instead I’m trying not to combust because Eric delivers a report where others give compliments.
Anyone else, and I’d think he’s just trying to flatter me, but I can’t breathe because he’s only stating facts, which means this is how he sees me.
I’m going to fucking cry.
Oh no, it’s coming, the hot sting in my eyes, and obviously I make the mistake of glancing back at the letter as though it will steady me. What pushes me over the edge isn’t even the reread but the fact that his name is smudged, and in managing to do so, he’s left behind his fingerprint.
That’s him. Eric Atherbourne is here, pressed into the paper of my journal.
If he still believes himself to be the unreliable narrator in my story, well then, my thumb currently hovers over proof that he’s failed.
Beautifully so.
F or all my effort to stitch my composure back together, Lydia manages to undo it the minute I step into the kitchens.
Lunch prep for the guests is in full swing, pots and pans clanging, knives drilling against chopping boards and the occasional yell to watch the stove.
A full culinary siege has taken over because there are already those stressing about starters for the ball tonight.
There’s a chorus of a semi-distracted “Happy birthday, my lady” whenever they spot me between juggling trays and fighting with the biryani pots, and I give an exaggerated curtsy that only widens their grins.
Lydia stands at the far corner of the massive space, commandeering a squad on the thickness of the dough when it comes to koesisters.
She doesn’t finish her sentence, gaze finding mine through all the noise and steam.
There’s this flash in her eyes, like she’s holding out her hands and weighing all the birthdays we’ve shared without her .
Without Beatrice Lanorythe. I don’t know what to call that.
Pride. Grief? I’m glad she’s already walking towards me because I don’t think I can name the emotion without choking on it.
Suddenly she’s at my side, arms wrapped around my waist and whispering, “ Gelukkige verjaarsdag, Wrentjie .”? 1
My cheek catches on the name tag pinned to her jumper as I melt into her hold, inhaling the heavy scent of cinnamon.
I’ve sought her during the busier dips in her schedule, desperation guiding me forward.
Her arms are probably the safest place since Mum died, and now I’m folded here, but my brain’s a right bastard.
It’s replaying last night, the candle burning in my room, one I trusted instinctively because this woman right here has been buying me candles since I could count.
It can’t be her. Not my Lydia. But the link is there, all rusted and wrong, so I hold her tighter in the hopes that I could smother that intrusive thought out of existence.
“ Dankie ? 2 ,” I mutter against her clavicle, the word nearly lost amongst the quick kisses she presses to my head. She cups my face and pulls back to land a wet one on my nose. “ Jy klink soos iemand wat net bly is ek het dit tot hier gemaak. ? 3 ”
She gives a teary laugh and pats down my cheeks, subconsciously searching for injuries. If she notices my tenseness as her hands approach my neck, she doesn’t reveal it.
“ Moenie speel nie, kindt van my. Ek’s eintlik bly jy’s nou hier, al is dit net om my senuwees te kalmeer. ”? 4
“ Jou toon maak my ’n bietjie bang, neh. Wat gaan aan? ”? 5
She pulls me aside and tucks us both into the alcove where a broken refrigerator used to be.
“Ai, I nearly had a heart attack when I heard people downstairs were getting sick. When Margot brought my dough and she said ‘flu’ , I thought that if there’s a germ in the air, it’s coming straight for you. ”
Well, she’s not wrong there. My immune system clocks out at the first sign of a sniffle. “I know my luck’s usually bad, but even I’m not that unlucky. C’mon, it’s my birthday.”
What happened wasn’t the flu; I seemed to have ordered the murder attempt instead. Nothing unusual for a Sheffolk girl, after all. No big deal.
Lydia doesn’t even crack a smile, just checks over her shoulder to see if anyone’s listening, but they’re too busy trying to keep up with Gran’s schedule.
“So after I hear that, I’m already planning the soup and looking for the Vicks, and then Susannah tells me it’s not the flu.
Eish, three juniors were smoking dagga ? 6 in their room while the rest of us are working ourselves into the ground!
Next thing, they’re all sick, and Susannah’s marching them out,” she hisses.
“ Fokkol ? 7 shame, and then they get themselves fired on ball day. Of all days, nogal ? 8 .”
But there’s a thorn beneath the thin skin of my throat, a warning trying to draw my attention to the map of last night’s violence. No such thing as a coincidence in the House of Sheffolk.
“What kind of sick, Aunty Lydia?”
“Eish, bad. They said their throats were burning and they couldn’t breathe properly.
Couldn’t stop coughing, and they were dizzy, man.
That skinny one, George, lost his voice for an hour.
Susannah said it was like they breathed in something bad, and I wanted to yell, ‘Ja, dagga!’ Fools, all of them, tsk . ”
Breathed in something bad.
The next few seconds pass by in a blur, Lydia whipping out her phone from her apron pocket. It folds over in the middle, and I remember the way she gasped the day I bought it for her, like the screen breaks and reheals itself every time. Next thing I know, there’s an email shoved into view.
Subject: Conduct Breach – Dormitory 4A
From: Susannah Thorpe [email protected]
To: Department Heads (Maintenance, Household, Events, Wardrobe, Kitchen)
Cc: HR; House Manager
Team,
In the early hours of this morning, 3 junior staff members were taken ill in Dormitory 4A after consuming what we believe to have been a contaminated cannabis mix.
The symptoms experienced – dizziness, nausea, ocular irritation, and respiratory irritation – required Security and House Manager intervention.
Air testing showed traces of cannabis, acetone and, alarmingly, formaldehyde. Read that again. Involved individuals are safe and have been removed from the rota. The area has been ventilated and cleared. Operations continue as scheduled.
This is your reminder:
· The possession or use of drugs/alcohol in staff areas is prohibited.
· If you engage in these activities off property, it is your responsibility to ensure it is safe and legal. Unknown mixes are not smart. Watch what you consume.
· Do not report for duty impaired.
· Do not endanger your colleagues by contaminating shared spaces.
Our commitment is to provide a safe working environment, and we encourage all to uphold that standard. Please keep movement calm and routine; we have a high-profile event and a full house. Pull it together. If you encounter a capacity gap, contact Pascoe for floaters.
Regards,
Susannah Thorpe
Head of Security, Redford Castle
Formaldehyde gives me all the confirmation I need. With a quick promise to come see Lydia after the ball, I flee the kitchens as though my ass is on fire.