DREAM OF SHADOWS(Jane Lockyer Willis) DREAM OF SHADOWS

Jane Lockyer Willis


Kate sits on the sofa. For twenty minutes she has waited. Now gets up, stretches her legs, walks to the window. The view is a diversion, settles her nerves. A quiet area of London this, with its large terraced Victorian houses and avenue of small trees.
Her back aches. A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss. She looks at her watch. Another five minutes gone. Is he going to come, or not? Perhaps, if she’s careful, her money might stretch for one more month. The rent's paid up for the next four weeks. But after that … She scans the room for the umpteenth time. Large, dusty not much in it: A few pieces of porcelain scattered around with oil paintings cluttering the walls. Yes, this would be an easy enough room to clean.
The front door bangs shut. At last!
Breathless, smiling, he walks into the room and shoots out his hand for her to shake. She notes the gold cuff links and finely woven jacket.
‘You must be Kate. So, so sorry I’m late. Traffic jam.’
‘I’d nearly given you up, Mr Brown.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t. Do sit down. May I offer you a sherry?’
‘I didn’t think people drank sherry any more.’
‘My dear young woman. This may be the year two thousand, but I drink sherry. Would you like one?’
She accepts. Gazes into the honey coloured liquid. Sips while he takes.
a seat opposite Kate. He Leans forward his lined face eager, worried. ‘I’ll tell you what it is I’d like you to do. And please don’t be alarmed.’
Kate freezes. ‘What would you like me to do, Mr Brown?’
‘I’d like you to help me overcome my fear.’
She stares. Did she hear right? ‘But I’ve come about the cleaning job!’
‘I know.' Mr Brown clasps and unclasps his hands. 'Kate, please hear me out. The domestic agency you’re registered with, sent you with my full knowledge of your credentials. A resting actress! How sophisticated. I love the stage. I’m sorry I startled you, but I’m a great believer in coming quickly to the point. You see, the last person I'd want to help me with my fear is a psychologist with all their preconceived ideas. I desire someone fresh, far removed from the archetype theorist book-driven towards unsatisfactory conclusions. No, you my dear young woman, fresh and uncomplicated may, if I may say so, be ideal.’
‘You may not say so, Mr Brown, if I may so so.’
His laugh rings out and the smile, although discomforting, intrigues.
‘I like a woman with spirit. All right, Kate. Shall we strike a bargain? You dust and do a little hoovering and in addition I’d like, and would immensely appreciate your helping me with my problem. I’ll pay you a good fee. Very good. Both for the cleaning and your guidance. How does that sound?’
‘Mr Brown! You don’t look to be a man with any fears. Fearfully confident I should say, sir.’
‘In some areas I don’t deny I’m confident, but in this one area of my life I most certainly am not. Will you at least consider?’
Her mind does a somersault. Either the agency have sent her here under false pretences which is highly unlikely, or this man had not been up front with them. Such a risk. They never mentioned this additional requirement. Presumably they know nothing about it. Thoughts crash around in her head whilst Mr Brown sits quietly. Waiting. The money, if good, would enable her to stay on at the flat; help pay towards her rent, her over- draft. But what sort of fear was he on about? It could be anything. Would she be safe alone with this man? There was the elderly woman who’d let her in, of course. Did she live with him – his wife perhaps? And as though reading her thoughts:
‘The person who showed you in, Kate, was Lily.' And noting her blank expression: ‘Lily is mother.’
Mother! He looks too old to have a mother with his grey beard, lined face and slight limp..
‘Lily shall remain in the house at all times, never fear.’ He eyes her keenly. ‘So what do you say, Kate?
‘You still haven’t told me what your fear is, Mr Brown.’
‘That disclosure must keep until we meet on more professional terms. It’s a private matter, of a personal nature. If I were to disclose now, you could walk away and I might never see you again. Rest assured, my dear, you’ll be completely safe with me. On that point you must trust. Of course, I understand that I’m asking a good deal.' He inspects his fingernails, smooth and manicured. ‘I put it to you Kate, that you come here for three hours twice weekly: On each occasion, two hours housework and one hour of - ' He stops.
‘Of the other?’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I think you have the wrong person in your sight-lines, Mr Brown.’
‘Six hundred pounds for the six hours. Does that suit?’
So much? Kate lets out a sigh of undisguised surprise and relief. Whilst her conscience rebels, her deciding factor lies with bills, rent, food, overdraft. She’d risk it and hope for the best.
‘I accept. But on the condition that your mother remains in the house at all times. And I would like that in writing, please, Mr Brown.’
‘But of course.’
With this transaction completed, he gets to his feet.‘ You’ll start next Monday. Is that convenient, Kate? Mondays and Thursdays. Mornings are best, I think. For three hours, each of the days. Six hours a week. Six hundred pounds. A nice round figure.'
‘One more thing, Mr Brown. May I be introduced to your mother before I go?’
‘Ah yes. Of course.’
Kate detects a slight limp as he walks to the door. A few moments later he returns with the woman who had shown Kate into the house: Elderly, small and plump with a mop of frizzy grey hair.
‘This is mother. You will call her Lily. Mother, this is Kate who’s coming to help out with the dusting and so forth. You’ll stay in the house during those times, please.’
Lily nods. Silent, she appraises Kate, her sharp, brown eyes taking in every feature. They shake hands and stand awkwardly as though awaiting further instruction.
‘Lily, will show you where everything is when you come: the hoover and such-like.'
Assured that there are no further questions, he shows Kate to the front door.
'Well goodbye, my dear. I look forward to our next meeting.’ He gives a small bow and is gone, closing the front door gently behind him.

Kate arrives the following Monday fortified with a packet of dusters, spray polish, and an apron which she intends to take out of her bag the moment she sees Mr Brown. She hopes that housework will stall things a bit, seek preference over the other; the latter filling her with dread. She rings the front door bell. Should she have gone to the tradesman’s entrance in the area below? Too late. The door creaks open and there stands Lily who greets her warmly before taking her along a dark passage to the kitchen, sitting her down at the table and presenting her with a mug of milky coffee.
‘Mr Brown sends his apologies. He’s indisposed at present.’
Indisposed. What does the woman mean?
‘He asks me to look after you, show you the ropes, and requests you stay for just the two hours today, seeing as he’s not himself. If that’s all right my dear.’ Her face breaks into a broad smile, displaying a row of shiny dentures.
‘Yes, yes, of course.' Kate hesitates, wanting to know more. ’You must be a great help to your son, Lily?’
The smile breaks into a raucous laugh. ‘Oh my lord! He’s not my son dear, just likes to think he is. Mother’s his nick name for me. His own died years back.' Her mood changes - suddenly solemn, she lowers her voice. 'I help out where I can. Every day at eight I come here, and am out and home by six sharp. No messing.' She waves a plump small hand at Kate's coffee mug. 'Here, drink up dear, and then you can get a move-on.’
Kate eyes the mug with caution. She takes a sip. Tastes fine. Nice and hot. Soothing. Lily helps herself to more instant coffee spooning it out of an outsized jar without a label.
‘I do all the cooking and that but I'm not too hot on the housework. So Mr Brown was ever so glad to have found you. We use that domestic agency that you’re with to hire the cleaners. Big house this. We’ve had quite a run on them of late. The cleaners, I mean.’
Kate’s pulse races. Why a run on them?
‘Don’t look so worried, dear. It's nice to have someone young about the house, for a change. It can get too much for the older ones. I see you brought your dusters and an apron. Very thoughtful I must say, but I keep everything to hand. Organised, that's me. You have to be when you work for a gentleman; they don't think the way we do. Perhaps once you’ve got the knack of the ancient hoover, you’d get cracking on the sitting room, and give it a flick round with your duster, dear.’
And so Kate begins and finishes her two hours without once setting eyes on Mr Brown. A manilla envelope propped up on the kitchen table contains, as promised, the money and the full amount at that. Should she accept the extra cash when not having seen or spoken to her employer? And dare she mention this to Lily who might not know details of the arrangement? Better not.

Reaching her flat, having completed her housework stint for that first day, she’s greeted with a pile of bills and one demand notice. That settles it. She has little option but to return. And so come Thursday, resolute she hurries her step towards the imposing house, where once more she is greeted by Lily and the mug of milky coffee. Still no sign of Mr Brown.
‘Would you like me to clean upstairs, Lily?’
‘I think it might disturb him.’
‘Is Mr Brown worse?’
‘Not too good.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’
Lily shrugs. ‘It’s his nerves, dear.’
These words spoken with such finality Kate senses she must not enquire further. All this money she’s getting, whilst solving her immediate debts, is nonetheless unsettling: How much does Lily know? What lies behind that smiling face? Are they planning something together? If so, what and when?
As she works, repeating the chores she had completed last time, the silence seems to pervade every corner. Even Lily is out of earshot. The hoover is the only noise for company. Forever looking behind her, she imagines Mr Brown's eyes following her every move. Soon the downstairs is ever more spotless leaving her with nothing more for her to do. She’s mopped the stone floors, hoovered the carpets, polished the furniture; even cleared out a few of the cupboards. Nothing suspicious there. Still no sign of Mr Brown.
Kate decides to creep upstairs, listen for movements. The landing is large and square with a corridor leading off to, she supposes, the bedrooms. There is a Victorian mahogany grandfather clock in the far corner that now chimes the hour. A swathe of cobwebs high on the hood prompts Kate to find a chair, reach up and dust. As she does so, her cloth touches a piece of card or is it paper? Spying one of Mr Brown’s ornate walking sticks she uses it to nudge the paper over the side of the clock and onto the floor. It drops amidst a cloud of dust. It's a photograph. A picture of a smiling, young blonde-haired woman. In the background are mountains. Kate turns it over but there is no date, no name.
A cough. She swings round.
‘What a diligent cleaner you are.'
Dropping the photo. 'Mr Brown!'
Can you guess who the woman is?’
‘I’ve no idea, Mr Brown’
‘Take a closer look.’
But she can only stare. Her body stiff with terror.
'What are you waiting for? Look! Look! I tell you.'
Hands trembling, she lowers her eyes, sees again the face, the smile, And this time, the likeness.
‘Your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your fear?’
‘Mt fear.’
He walks over to the chair sits and stares ahead. ‘Today is Emma’s thirtieth birthday. I shan’t be with her to help celebrate.’
. ‘But that’s nothing to be afraid of, surely,’ is all she can think of to say as relief floods through her veins.
‘Oh, but it is, Kate. When you lose the love of someone close. When a family row separates and they will not speak, or write and refuse to see you. When they are the only person in the world who really matter to you. When the isolation of being abandoned hits home, then you are afraid.’
'I'm sorry. I am very sorry Mr Brown.'
‘When I saw your photograph at the agency you reminded me of Emma: your looks, fair hair. I thought that perhaps by getting to know you a little, a woman of similar age; by talking to you about her, it might just ease the pain a little, bring her closer, lessen the fear of loss. But then on your first working day here, I realised it was wrong of me to do so, to burden you. It was very wrong’
‘Is that why you hid yourself away, Mr Brown?’
‘I’d be using you, you see; involving you in something out of your depth and out of mine. Money, I have and plenty of it. But you can’t buy peace of mind, Kate. I realise that now.’
‘I must repay you, Mr Brown. You have given me far too much.’
‘See it as a gift, Kate. It was my mistake. My conceit. I thank you most sincerely for having put up with me. I gave you no explanation. expected you to accept my provisos without question. Arrogance! A bad trait.'
‘And Lily? She isn’t your mother, is she?’
‘No.’
‘Then why the subterfuge?’
‘Lily chose the word, mother. She thought that it might help me feel less isolated. More ''family-like.'' He smiles. ‘It was more for her benefit than mine, although she doesn’t see it that way. Her kindness to me over several years, her sometimes exasperating fussiness, was, is very motherly. And so we accept our role plays. Lily’s without family, and so am I.’
‘But that’s not true, Mr Brown. You have your daughter.’
‘Yes. I have a daughter.’
He rises, walks to the window and gazes out. ‘I can’t thank you enough Kate for what you’ve unknowingly done.’
‘Done? But I haven’t done anything.’
‘On the contrary. You’ve restored the photograph to me. When I walked onto the landing and saw you standing there with it in your hand, everything became clearer. There was her picture, and there were you holding it. You brought the photo into the light. You’ve unwittingly enabled me to face my fear.’
She looks at him in amazement. 'Have I?'
‘I think so. I put the picture away from me. Hid it on top of the clock. I couldn’t bear to look at it: my beautiful daughter in happier times. I took that photo. We were holidaying in The Lake District. Emma was smiling at me. And you see, when I spotted your photograph at the agency, you reminded me of her, your youth, fair hair, your forthrightness. I thought that perhaps you could help me overcome my -’
‘Your grief, Mr Brown?’
He nods.
‘Then bring your daughter back to life. It's not too late.’
‘How?’
‘Start by sending her a birthday card or better still, give her a ‘phone call.’
He runs his hands through his hair. ‘I can’t. I can’t do that!’
‘Yes, you can. I don’t know what passed between you to cause this estrangement. But that doesn’t concern me and it shouldn’t stop you from contacting her. What matters is the contact and if she decides not to respond she'll know that you’ve remembered and still love her.'

Six months have past and Kate is heading for South Kensington underground. She is on her way to an acting audition. Walking on the opposite side of the road she spots Mr Brown. With him is a young, tall, blonde- haired woman. They talk animatedly. She takes his arm. He smiles.

THE END

Dream of Shadows is a fiction short story c: Jane Lockyer Willis
Picture: Acrylic Gate Crag Lake District

Plays and books please see my website: https://playsbyjanelockyerwillis.co.uk/

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