“Can’t I stay here?” I actually grip the kitchen table as if rooting myself to the small piece of flimsy pine furniture will help my situation.
“No, sweetheart, you can’t. Seven-year-old girls are not allowed to stay home alone even if you think you’re all grown up. Mummy would get into serious trouble, and you’d be taken away from me.” Her warning words send a panic to my heart, and my stomach rolls so much I get that watery liquid pool in my mouth, and I think I’m going to be sick. I don’t know where I would be taken, but she says this as a warning whenever I’m naughty, so I think it will be a very bad place. Almost as bad as the place she wants to take me to today, but still I’d rather stay at home.
“I wouldn’t tell, Mummy,” I plead as she manhandles me into my coat, roughly tugging the woollen hat over my ears. She drops down to help me into my wellington boots, and my heart just drops at the inevitability of this day, like every day of my school holiday. I hate it.
“I know, sweetheart, but you can’t stay here. You have to come with Mummy to the Hall. You can bring a colouring book, and I’m baking cookies today.” She tries to placate me with treats and even plants a soft kiss on my nose. I still don’t want to go, but the cookies do sound good.
“Really?”
“Yes.” She tugs me toward the door, and I fall into step right behind her.
“Is Cass going to be there?” I know the answer before she replies. If he was, we wouldn’t be having this daily battle.
“No, sweetheart, he’s still away at school.”
“Doesn’t his mummy love him?”
“Of course she does, why would you say that?” She stops at the door and spins to face me, shock and outrage on her face.
“She sent him away.” I explain my summation of what seems to me a very obvious observation of the Cass situation. She shakes her head emphatically.
“No, no, darling, he went to boarding school. She hasn’t sent him away, and yes, she loves him very much. That’s why he’s gone to the best school in England, because his mummy wants what’s best for him,” she adds with a strange sense of misplaced pride.
“Oh.” I shrug because I really don’t understand.
“And I want what’s best for you, but we will have to wait for that day to come,” she mutters as she opens the back door and we brave an icy February dawn
“Hmm?”
“Nothing sweetheart, come on, let’s get moving. It might only be a short walk up the drive, but it snowed last night, and it’s freezing, so no time to be dallying. I can’t have you catching a cold.”
“Okay, Mummy.” She locks the back door, holds my mitten-covered hand, and tugs me the length of the drive.
I hate having to go with my mother when Cass isn’t there, I know I’m not welcome. Mrs Kruse rarely comes downstairs to where my mother spends most of her time. However, when she does, she makes a point of ignoring me and looking down her nose at my mother. Not that my mother seems to notice or mind. She is so grateful for the job, she practically kisses the ground that snotty woman walks on. Working as housekeeper gives us free accommodation and security. The latter is of the upmost importance since Mum told me my dad left the day he found out I was more than just a bad case of stomach flu.
There are two drives to the main house, one from the main gatehouse where the head gardener lives and one at the rear of the property to our lodge. This gravel drive is lined with overbearing oak trees. The branches hang low, and in the winter, they seem to reach out for you as you walk beneath them. I cling to my mother’s hand and try to calm my overactive imagination. It’s only about a half-mile walk, but to my little legs, it feels much longer. My skin is red raw under my sweatpants by the time we walk the distance in several feet of snow. Chilblains are my own personal hell. Tight swollen skin that prickles and feels like it’s on fire the second we get inside. After a start to the day like that, I never get warm; even huddled next to the open fire in the kitchen trying to thaw out, I never manage to get toasty. I just defrost enough to not die of hypothermia.
It isn’t just the sense that I’m not welcome, but the house itself is terrifying to most adults, let alone a child. It’s a Gothic monstrosity. Some of the older parts were built in the twelfth century, although only the East tower resembles a typical Castle structure with battlements, arrow loops and a turret. It was renamed Tartarus Hall when it was extended and updated in the nineteenth century. It has hundreds of rooms spread over three stories. It sprawls in a hexagonal shape, has an East and West tower and five angled ranges, the sixth being open and giving the perfect view down to the gatehouse. Some of the rooms are enormous; the great hall, I think, is larger than our entire house, yet it has such small panes of heavily leaded windows that they barely let in any sunlight. The smaller rooms are worse, and with the thick velvet curtains always only partially drawn open, it feels like night time all the time.
The furniture and deep carpets are in keeping with a more modern period. Mrs Kruse kept some of the authentic pieces, but she isn’t one to sacrifice luxury, style, or comfort in order to maintain authenticity or a more sympathetic interior to the period of the house.
The artwork, however, is an acquired taste and one that I hope I never acquire. In most of the reception rooms, the walls are dominated by the most horrendous oil paintings. Whole walls depicting some bloody battle or mythical underworld carnage, even the smaller portraits of Kruse ancestors sends an icy chill through my veins, if I was unfortunate enough to accidentally catch a glimpse.
My mother is the only housekeeper, and I am more than happy to stay in the kitchen and not keep her company on her rounds cleaning the rooms in rotation. She prefers it that way too, since I’m apparently always under her feet. The family employ some extra staff that come in to help for special occasions, like holidays and if they are having guests to stay. Extra waiting staff and Michelin starred chefs are brought in for those special events, but other than that, my mother takes care of the house and the meals when the family are in residence. It’s more than a full-time job.
She told me once that old houses are special and need extra care, because they hold on to the secrets of whoever lived there, past, present, and future. This didn’t help me to warm to the place. If anything, that makes it just a little creepier and as far as I am concerned, secures my spot by the fireplace in the kitchen until I am old enough to stay at home alone.
At that time I didn’t realise Tartarus Hall was very special. I was unaware it had secret passageways, corridors, hidden staircases, or an attic that was a labyrinth from which you could access the entire house. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was happy in the kitchen, either drawing at the table or curled up in the old saggy armchair by the fire, reading or more likely falling asleep from boredom.
Then I met Cass.
I’m not sure how I had missed him before that day. He was like a bolt of lightning entering the room. He rushed over to me and grabbed my hand. He yelled at my mother that he was taking me to find treasure, and we disappeared for the whole day.
He was eight years old, and I was five. It was the best day of my life.
Every day with Atticus is the best. Each school holiday after that day we were inseparable. He is like a force of nature, so much energy and spirit. He has so many stories his grandfather had told him that he wanted to share with me, it is like having my own personal walking, talking library. When I get tired, he pulls the cushions to the floor in whatever room we happened to find ourselves, and he makes a fort to protect us both. While I nap, he stands guard or sometimes falls asleep right beside me.
He is naughty too, opening up rooms that are forbidden and taking me beyond the boundary of the walled garden where I know I’m not allowed to go. I’d always pull to a standstill when he tried to drag me somewhere we shouldn’t be, and I’d argue or shake my head. However, I wasn’t so good at coming up with reasons why we shouldn’t, not when he was so good with all the reasons why we should. The bottom line is I can’t say no to him if I want to, and I knew in my heart, even then, I didn’t want to deny him anything.
He showed me all the secrets of Tartarus Hall. At the time, I wasn’t sure if knowing more helped or just made the place more terrifying. I soon learned it wasn’t the house I needed to be afraid of.
I asked him at the time why he came for me that day, and he told me that I didn’t look sick. He’d heard me laughing and wanted to play. I was confused, but he explained his mother had said I was sick and to stay away from me. She had said that every time he asked about me. We had lived in the lodge for over two years, and I’d been in his house a hundred times, and every time his mother had said I was sick and to stay away.
I wasn’t allowed to have friends come over and play from school. Mrs Kruse didn’t want the local children snooping, and my mother wasn’t fond of other people’s children. It was a grey and lonely childhood, and when Cass was home, my whole world ignited into a high definition adventure in glorious Technicolor.
I hear the sharp clicking heels of Mrs Kruse, and I curl up tighter into the armchair, not that she will acknowledge me, but I’d rather not be here at all. I camouflage myself with the cushions and a worn blanket that hangs over the back of the chair. Closing my eyes, I simply imagine myself anywhere but here.
“Margaret!” Her thick Swedish accent is highlighted by the sharp shrill of her voice as she calls out for my mother. “Margaret!”
“I’m in the pantry, Mrs Kruse, I won’t be a moment,” my mother replies with a bright breezy tone.
“Where’s your daughter?” I can just picture her disdain; her thin, wrinkled nose turned up, as if having to mention my name at all would cause a nasty smell.
“Oh, I’m not sure, she was here a moment ago; maybe she’s gone to the little girl’s room. She knows not to wander the house, Mrs Kruse. She only ever ventures out of this kitchen if Atticus is here.” My mother’s detailed explanation sounds more like an apology.
“Yes, Atticus, that’s what I want to talk to you about. He will be arriving home tomorrow.” Mrs Kruse’s haughty tone is clipped with irritation. Still, it takes all my effort to not squeal out with excitement. However, since my mother was also oblivious to my whereabouts, I’m more than happy to remain hidden. “I want you to keep your daughter away from him. He’s a difficult child, and I would rather he didn’t have friends like…well, they aren’t suited to play together.” She sniffs in a sharp breath, and her voice is sharp and harsh. I feel the sting of her words even if my mother doesn’t.
“I understand,” my mother agrees. I don’t, and I don’t understand why she isn’t saying anything. I don’t understand what ‘suited’ even means. Atticus is my best friend, and we have fun together. I simply can’t fathom why she doesn’t want me near her son, but that doesn’t matter. I’m seven years old, and now I’m not going to be allowed to play with my one and only friend in the world. I can feel my eyes tear up, and my shoulders shake, trying to keep the sobbing silent. I definitely don’t want to be discovered now, or ever, for all I cared.
My mother tells me the next day that I am to keep away from Atticus, even if that means I have to hide when he comes for me. When she tells me I’m not allowed to play with him, I don’t ask why. I don’t want to know her explanation, because it couldn’t possibly hurt any less with her made-up excuse.
I hear his footsteps above the kitchen, racing down the corridor and clearly on his way to find me. My mother flashes me a worried look.
“He’ll always come looking for me, Mum. If he wants to find me, he will.” I shrug my shoulders, and she rushes over to me, helping me put my things back in my rucksack.
“No, no, he won’t,” she flusters, and I get a painful hit in my chest that she’s ashamed of me, just like Mrs Kruse. She’s so eager for me to be gone. “I’ll tell him you’re not here. I’ll tell him you’re staying with friends.” She smiles brightly, but it looks pained. I wonder for a moment if she feels a fraction of my pain, but then the panic in her eyes as the footsteps get nearer makes me realise she’s just worried for herself. She made a promise to Mrs Kruse, and she intends on keeping it, regardless of her own heartbroken daughter.
“Okay.” I don’t even feel bad that I should’ve told her he would know that was a lie. I want her to tell him exactly what she just told me she was going to say. He knows I have no friends, and he is going to know it’s all a lie.
Above my mother’s promise, above everything, I wanted him to come and find me.
I wanted Atticus.
I quickly pack up the rest of my stuff, my drawing book and pad, grab my pencils, and run up the servants’ staircase to the attic.
Tears are streaming down my face by the time I reach the end of the attic in the West Wing of the house. The door had been locked for centuries, but Atticus had found the key, and it was my favourite place, apart from the kitchen. The eaves close in on both sides, and there is only one window. It is large and oval, and the panes of glass are arranged in an intricate pattern and are held in place by thick lines of lead. The sun casts an ethereal shadow when it hits and the mix of floating dust particles, light, and shadow make the room feel like another world.
A dense supporting beam sits just below the window and gives me the perfect hiding place, with the most amazing view. From the doorway, I am invisible, yet I can see everything from where I lay, over the courtyard and right down the drive to the Gatehouse and lakes. On a clear day, the view stretches as far as the eye can see, far beyond the immaculate manicured lawns, rose garden, terraced flowerbeds, and ornamental ponds. It is the perfect vantage point to see over the hedges that are trimmed to artistic perfection and line the length of the drive with a menagerie of mystical creatures: Minotaur, mermaids, Hercules, and my favourite, Pegasus. I could draw this view all day.
My tummy wakes me with a loud rumble followed by a snicker. Only it’s not any snicker. I lift my head up and peek over the beam.
Of course, it’s Atticus.
“I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up.” He chuckles and crawls over from where he is setting up a picnic. He rests his arms on the beam and peers over at my sketches then back to me. His eyes fixed on mine. I rub the sleepy dust away and let out a long, slow yawn.
“How long have you been there?”
“I had to wait until Mother went out because I am supposed to be studying for some test to get into a school in the States, but I came to find you just as soon as she left. Why did your mother tell me you were with friends? I knew she was lying. You told me you don’t have any friends.” He doesn’t draw a breath, firing questions and his own answers at me.
“I don’t.” I drop my gaze and give a light shrug. I bet he has lots of friends, although he never has anyone over to visit at the Hall, just like me.
“You have me,” he states with misplaced conviction.
“Not any more.” I sit up and turn to rest my back against the beam, pulling my legs up and tucking my knees beneath my chin. Atticus hops over and lands gracefully beside me. Our thighs are pressed together. He turns to face me, then follows my gaze out over his family’s Estate.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother doesn’t think we should play together,” I say as a matter of fact, but I can’t hide the sadness in my voice. The prickle of tears is already fighting behind my nose and welling in my eyes. I draw in a steadying breath. “She said you’re a difficult child, and I’m not ‘suited’ to play with you.” He sniffs out a flat laugh and agrees, in part.
“I can be difficult, but you’re my only friend, too, Tia, and I want to play with you. I actually enjoy coming home now. I don’t want you to hide from me, ever. I will speak to Mother.” He brushes this situation off like it’s of no consequence. My jaw drops at his confidence, and I have to physically snap it shut to reply.
“Atticus, don’t, it’s not worth it. My mother would kill me if she loses this job and your Mother was deadly serious.” I shake my head at the thought of the trouble this could lead to. Letting out a heavy sigh, I add, “I think my mother agrees with your Mother anyway, so it’s probably for the best.”
“Do you know what having friends really means?” He ignores my concerns completely, barely registering that I have spoken at all when he voices his question.
“Not really,”
“It means I’m here for you, and I’ll prove it,” he states with absolute certainty. I’m kind of in awe of him, and a little bit scared, too. He has this dark look in his eyes, and his face no longer resembles a young boy; it’s sincere, serious, and stern.
“Cass, I don’t want you to get into trouble.” I nudge him, and he puffs out a breath that just adds to his general dismissive attitude regarding my concerns.
“Tia, I think that’s what the T in your name should stand for. A capital T for maximum trouble.” He laughs so much I have to join in; it’s infectious. He jumps to his feet and offers his hand to help me to mine. “It’s why we’re best friends, Tia, you’re trouble and I’m difficult; we’re a perfect pair. Besides, we’re more than friends, anyway. We’re like this really small gang.” He grins conspiratorially and leaps over the beam dragging me with him.
“A gang?” I stumble, but he catches me before I fall head first into the little carpet banquet he has prepared.
“Yep, and this gang is hungry. Want some lunch?” He stands proudly and sweeps his arm at the array of food he has laid out.
“I’m starving. What have you got?” I sit down cross-legged, and he does the same. With a flourish, he removes the cloth covering a small mound in the centre.
“I’ve got your favourite.” Stacked high is a pile of triangle white bread sandwiches that I immediately recognise.
“Really? Didn’t my mum ask why you wanted banana and sugar sandwiches?”
“She did, but in case you didn’t know, I’m a really, really good liar.” He tries to wink, but the two-lid scrunch thing he has mastered only makes me giggle. I fall quiet for a moment before I speak. He has a way of distracting me, but the underlying problem sits heavily in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing, Cass.” He narrows his eyes and takes a huge bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly, all the while keeping his eyes on me. He takes a sip from the juice carton and sets me straight.
“I like that I’m your only friend, Tia. It means you need me, and if I have to lie and cheat and steal to make sure I am here for you, then I don’t care if it’s right or wrong. It’s just what I will do for us.”
“I don’t need you, Cass, it’s just nicer with you here. This place is very boring when—” I can’t help loving the way he said us, even if I’m not especially pleased that he seems to know how I really feel.
He interrupts. “It’s okay, Tia, I need you too.” I put the feeling down to hunger, but I’m pretty sure that is the first time I feel the swarm of butterflies riot inside my tummy.