The Diary Of Pamela D. (3 page)

And so it was settled. Mrs. Dewhurst sent her
back home in a cab. It took less than fifteen minutes to sort
through the few clothes and articles she would bring while the cab
driver sat in the kitchenette drinking the last of her instant
coffee. She finished by writing a note for the landlady. She then
put this in an envelope, along with her keys, and slipped it under
the landlady’s door.

‘Where you off to, Miss?’ the cab driver
asked her when they were under way.

‘Back to Mrs. Dewhurst’s-’

‘No, I mean I heard the two of you talking. I
thought I heard something about your going overseas.’

‘Yes,’ she said, feeling suddenly lightheaded
about the prospect, ‘I’m going to a place called Yorkshire in the
morning.’

‘Oh, yeah. That’s in England, up north on the
east side, just below Scotland.’

‘Oh,’ Pamela muttered. ‘I
didn’t realise that Yorkshire wasn’t . . . like, a
country
or
something.’

The cab driver, an older
fellow, chuckled. ‘It is to most of the people who live there.
Never travelled before? Well, take it from me, I’m just a broken
down old cab driver, without much
ejumucation
, but I’ve travelled a bit,
and if I’ve learned anything from the experience, it’s that you’re
never the same afterwards. Broadens your view of the world and your
place in it. Besides, it’s not a good thing to be stuck in one
place your whole life, especially at your age. No, you mark my
words: when you get back, you’ll be a whole new person.’

‘I don’t plan on
coming
back,’ she replied
defensively, feeling threatened by the notion.

‘Oh, you’ll come back all right,’ the cab
driver said with a knowing smile. ‘They always do. No one ever
really leaves this place.’

That thought struck a chill down her spine,
and she didn’t answer. But she pretended to agree with the man, and
smiled politely when he helped her with her dilapidated suitcase.
But for the rest of the evening, the background of her thoughts was
dogged by the man’s words, distracting her from what Mrs. Dewhurst
was saying.

At last, the woman said
apologetically, ‘My dear, I
am
sorry! Here I am, prattling along like a giddy old
matron at a social tea, and you’re obviously too tired to pay
attention. Run along now- have a nice long bath and go to bed. I’ll
wake you in the morning, and we’ll begin what it is hoped will be a
long and happy adventure together.’

Pamela luxuriated in the tub
for almost an hour.
Bath salts! Bubble
bath!
Hot water that was really hot, not
lukewarm because the owner was too cheap to turn the boiler up. It
turned out that she and Mrs. Dewhurst were sharing the same bed but
the woman was busy at the desk, staying up late. Pamela went to bed
and lay awake for a long time, enjoying the
silence
, the lack of traffic noise, of
public disturbances, of smashing beer bottles tossed carelessly
from car windows. The bed was so
big
, and soft . . .

Her thoughts turned again to
Mrs. Dewhurst. Who
was
this woman? Why was she being so kind? What could she possibly
see in a girl like Pamela, someone with no money, no class, no real
education or experience . . . with no family or friends, with no
one of quality in her life whom she could present as an equal, or
even as a friend? How was the woman able to make up her mind so
quickly? Was it that she, Pamela, was
that
unsophisticated and therefore
transparent?

And what of this business
with Mrs. Dewhurst’s son . . . what was his name . . . Leo? No, it
was . . .
Theo
,
that was it. Theo, short for Theodore. What sort of man was he? How
old was he? And what did Mrs. Dewhurst mean by
distraction
?
Assistance
she well understood,
but
distraction
?
What was
that
supposed to mean? Was she supposed to keep him entertained,
or-

A sudden thought gave her a
stab of anxiety. Surely they didn’t expect her to . . . to be
his
mistress
or
something?

She shook her head. ‘I’m
being stupid. It’s just the way Mrs. Dewhurst talks. She uses words
differently than we do. She probably just wants me around to give
him the opportunity of having someone in the house he can talk to.
After all, she told me that everyone else in the house is really
old. But why would a rich guy talk to a servant, or a
domicile
, or whatever it
is that Mrs. Dewhurst calls it?

She tried to form an image
in her mind of what Mrs. Dewhurst’s house must look like. Was it a
big house with lots of yard? Did it have balconies? Were there
neighbours close by? Or was it secluded, out somewhere, in some
remote place, all by itself? ‘It must be big if it has servants,’
she reasoned. And the nearby town, what was
it
like? Was it just a gas station
with a convenience store and a few other businesses, a small place
where outsiders weren’t welcome, except for the money they spent,
or- but no, she couldn’t imagine anything other than that she had
experienced.

Once again, unbidden, came
the memory of her old recurring dream, that of herself living in a
strange house in a strange place and with a strange, dangerous man.
Dangerous and desirable. She sighed, feeling at once empty and very
sad. Dream on! No one had ever wanted her, except to
use
her, which so far
hadn’t happened, touch wood!

No, that wasn’t fair. The
cantankerous old lady she had worked for for six years had been
good to her, in her gruff way. Old Father Mugford had been kind to
her, had got her off the streets and helped her find a job, and
later a place of her very own to live. But . . . no one had
ever
loved
her. Not
really. And not in the way she dreamed about, when she dared to
dream at all. She sighed. ‘What am I complaining about? Us strays
are impossible to love, that’s all. Pity is the best we can hope
for. I should just shut up and be thankful that someone is going to
feed me.’

With such thoughts, like so many phantom mice
being chased about in her head, she fell asleep.

-2-

Pamela started awake when someone sat on the
bed beside her.

‘Sorry to disturb you, my dear, but it’s time
to get up and go. I let you sleep in as long as I dared. There’s no
need to worry about breakfast; we shall have it on the plane.’

Pamela opened one bleary eye, ventured a peek
at the digital clock on the nightstand, and gaped. ‘Why didn’t you
wake me? I’ve never slept that long in my life! I’m sorry-’

‘Don’t be absurd! You were
exhausted, overwrought, and, if I may say so without bruising your
feelings, half-starved. You slept like the dead because you were
badly in need of sleep, that’s all. There’s no reason to apologise
for
that
. Now, by
the time you’re dressed, there will be a car waiting to take us to
the airport, so
vit!
vit!
’

Once in the cab, Pamela
yawned all the way to the airport. Mrs. Dewhurst was right
about
one
thing:
that comfortable bed, added to the older woman’s presence, had
caused her to entirely leave her guard down, so that everything
caught up with her at once. She had slept deeply for the first time
since she could remember simply because every fibre of her being
told her that it was safe to do so.

Pamela had never been to an
airport in her life. Nor had she ever flown before, or seen an
aeroplane close up. The sheer
size
of the British
Airways 747
was beyond anything she could have imagined. Once inside, however,
she stayed awake long enough to enjoy her first takeoff, a fairly
good breakfast, and that was all. She was only vaguely aware that
Mrs. Dewhurst reached across to trip the reclining mechanism, of
the light blanket that was carefully spread over her, the pillow
that was gently tucked beneath her head. In her sleep Pamela seemed
to struggle a moment, her features suffused as though she were
unable to come to terms with whatever she saw there, at last
mumbling a single word that clutched at Mrs. Amanda Dewhurst’s
throat like a vice.

‘Mom?’

‘Well, my dear,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said with a
sad, fond smile, ‘it’s a lucky thing for you that there is a world
of difference between stray cats and stray kittens.’

Pamela woke midway over the
Atlantic feeling as though she had crossed over into a waking
dream. Nothing felt quite real: riding and
sleeping
on an aeroplane, the woman
sitting beside her who seemed more fairy godmother than human,
seemingly poised in stasis at the top of the world, the dark blue
expanse of ocean far below; it seemed she was surrounded by and
passing through whole worlds.

‘Your timing is impeccable,’ Mrs. Dewhurst
told her. ‘You’re just in time for lunch.’

Embarrassed, flustered,
Pamela blurted, ‘I’m sorry! I don’t know why I fell asleep like
that. I feel all . . . kind of
funny
now . . . like I’m still asleep.’

‘Well, let me assure you, you are quite
awake. Ah, here comes the trolley. I trust your little nap hasn’t
spoiled your appetite?’

They talked for some time, Mrs. Dewhurst
all-too-obviously avoiding referring directly to her Yorkshire
home, except when she let something slip. This invariably involved
her son, Theo, and when Pamela became curious enough to ask
questions, the woman’s replies were somewhat cryptic.

‘Oh, my Theo is
strong-willed and rather willful, the truth be known,’ she allowed
at one point. ‘He can also be rather pigheaded when his mind is
made up about something, and he can sometimes be . . .
forceful
. . . when it
comes to getting what he wants. But you mustn’t let that worry you!
He is a perfect gentleman, or rather, he
can
be, when the right person comes
along to put him in his place, which unfortunately doesn’t happen
very often.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid that trying
to fill his father’s shoes has left its mark. You see, when you’re
very young the impression you have of your parents is that they’re
larger than life. Then, as you grow up, your impressions change to
suit the reality. Except-’ she said, pointedly, ‘when that parent
becomes lost to you, or misplaced. When that happens, a person ends
up becoming an adult that still holds to that larger than life
image, with the consequence that one either breaks trying to
measure up or becomes driven to fill a larger than life mould.
Either way, the consequences almost always lead to strain and
unhappiness . . .’

As Mrs. Dewhurst spoke of her son in such
terms, Pamela couldn’t quite tell at times whether the woman was
speaking of her son Theo or of Pamela herself. But one thing became
abundantly clear: that Theo Dewhurst was a force to be reckoned
with, and probably avoided!

They arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport at
midnight London time. A chauffeured limousine was waiting for them.
The chauffeur, who was dressed in a smart blue-grey uniform trimmed
with maroon, tipped his hat at them, got the two women settled, and
put their luggage in the boot. As he got behind the wheel and
closed the door, he said, ‘Hotel or home, Mrs. D.?’

‘The hotel, Mr. Pascoe. I’m simply
exhausted.’

He nodded. ‘Theo’s there, so I assume he
means to join us in the morning.’

‘Did you speak with him?’

The chauffeur shook his head. ‘Not a word. He
saw me and nodded, though.’

Feeling guilty, Pamela said
to Mrs. Dewhurst, ‘Why didn’t
you
sleep on the plane?’

The older woman smiled
benevolently. ‘My dear,
I
have been awake since early yesterday, except for
a brief catnap. It’s the best way I know of to deal with jet-lag.
And stop looking as though every little thing you do is somehow
reprehensible! If you actually
do
do something wrong, I won’t hesitate to let you
know it.’ She smiled to offset the threat.

Pamela found that she very
much wanted to please Mrs. Dewhurst, that she didn’t want to
do
anything
which
might jeopardise the woman’s kindness towards her.

The hotel turned out to be of a similar type
to that they’d left. Mrs. Dewhurst left most of her luggage in the
limousine. Pamela noted that it was a larger but similar version of
the car that the woman had been driving when they first met, with
the same hood-ornament which resembled a swimmer standing at the
edge of a pool, poised to take the plunge; except that the
limousine’s steering wheel was on the ‘wrong’ side, and it was as
long as a city block.

To her surprise, after
sharing a late snack with her fairy godmother, Pamela found that
she could easily sleep once more, and did. As she drifted off,
something of the reversed cars and roads she had seen haunted the
background of her thoughts, causing her to feel as though she had
strayed through a mirror, like
Alice in
Wonderland
. ‘Just as long as there are no
talking giant white rabbits,’ she mused as sleep overcame
her.