The Diary Of Pamela D. (6 page)

‘Do you have any idea how to set up a fax
machine? I bought the infernal thing almost a year ago now; it’s
hardly been out of the case.’

Pamela took a cursory look at the writing on
the box. ‘I can’t promise anything,’ she said carefully. ‘All I can
do is give it a try.’

He nodded. ‘Well, do the best you can.’ He
left her to manage on her own.

After twenty minutes or so she came
downstairs and found him speaking with his mother and three of
their business associates. She was about to leave them to it, to
choose a better time, but he noticed her presence.

‘No luck?’ he said brusquely, as though
certain her efforts hadn’t met with success.

She swallowed, intimidated by his abruptness
and by the subtle but intimidating way he communicated to her that
he was quickly dismissing her presence because she was a
distraction to the meeting. ‘I think it’s working,’ she said
quickly, hoping he wouldn’t require an explanation, ‘but I won’t
know until someone tries to send you a fax or an e-mail.’

He quirked an eyebrow, unable to conceal his
surprise. ‘E-mail?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re set up
for it now. At least, the line was already hooked up. I tried it
just to be sure. And the computer
says
everything checks out . . .
’

She thought he looked annoyed as he said to
his guests, ‘Would you excuse me a moment, please?’ Then, taking
Pamela firmly by the arm, he said, ‘Now, suppose you show me what
it is that you’ve done.’

After she had shown him how
to operate both fax and e-mail, he said, ‘Would you kindly stop
hovering and
sit down
! I don’t make you that nervous, do I?’ Taking in her visage,
he sighed. ‘No doubt, now that you’ve seen fit to display your
hidden talents, you’ll be wanting to make use of these. So we’d
better set some rules so that there are no more unfortunate
misunderstandings.’

She looked a question at him.

‘When you contact your family-’

‘I haven’t
got
any family!’ She
hadn’t meant to blurt it out so bitterly, and found herself at once
embarrassed and angry for letting her unruly emotions get the
better of her.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake! Would
you stop crying? What do you mean, you haven’t any family? Surely
there must be
someone
!’

She wanted to get up off her chair and flee,
to run away from him, but he was kneeling in front of her, blocking
her in.

‘But I thought . . . ’ He
stopped himself, considering her carefully. At last, apparently
angry, he got up and turned away from her. ‘
Bloody
hell
!’

‘I’m sorry-’

‘What? What on earth are you
on about? Why do you feel it necessary to keep apologizing? Now
look . . .’ he reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope and
handed it to her, ‘you’re to go to Haworth today with Mrs. Pascoe
to purchase some suitable clothing. Consider this a gift from my
mother. You’ll need something to wear to church, and winter, the
really inhospitable part, is just around the corner. And
do
get some proper
footwear. I want you to retire those shoes the moment you get
yourself a new pair.’

When she got to her feet, something totally
unexpected happened. He approached her, put his arm around her slim
waist, drew her to him. At once, she gasped in fear, her heart
began hammering uncontrollably. She knew that she would be able to
sense the sheer size and strength of him even if she were to close
her eyes. She thought for a moment that he was going to kiss
her.

Instead, his brow furrowed, and he said
doubtfully, ‘You’re trembling like a leaf! What are you so afraid
of?’

Then, she fled, tripping over her skirt a
couple of times in her haste to be away from him. She almost ran
into Mrs. Pascoe as she rounded the corner into the hallway.

‘Whoa, Pamela! What’s your rush? Unless
you’re in a hurry to get changed. Well, come along! We haven’t got
all day.’

‘
Haworth is where we go to do our
shopping,’ Mrs. Pascoe said as soon as the two got into her faded
blue Volvo. ‘We sometimes go to Bradford, but it’s a little further
out of the way. Besides, I’m not partial to Bradford. You’ll like
Haworth. That’s where the Brontë family was from.’

‘Who?’

Mrs. Pascoe gave her a
not-quite-mock scandalized look. ‘
Surely
you’ve heard of the Brontë
sisters, Anne, Emily and Charlotte, and their ne’er-do-well brother
Branwell? No? Well, if you’re going to live in this part of the
world, you had better learn! A knowledge of the Brontës is
essential if you want to be accepted by certain circles. When we
get back, ask Mr. Theo if he will allow you access to the library.
But don’t tell
him
what you want to read! He has no patience with what he
calls
fluff.
’

‘What did the Brontës do?’ Pamela asked,
innocently.

‘They wrote Gothic love stories,’ Mrs. Pascoe
told her, ‘in the early part of the 19th century. They didn’t live
for very long, poor things. Something about the proximity of the
graveyard to their water supply, from what I understand. Anne was a
bit of a feminist, if that sort of thing interests you. She was
many years ahead of her time . . .’

All the way to Haworth,
Pamela’s thoughts ran in counterpoint to Mrs. Pascoe’s pleasant and
interesting ramblings. It turned out that she
had
heard of stories like
Wuthering Heights
and
Jane Eyre
.
They were so famous as to be common household words, like salt and
pepper. But she had never read either story, or seen cinematic
renditions.

Once at Haworth they didn’t make their way to
the top of the steep main street where the church and museum,
formerly the Haworth Parsonage, were situated. Instead they went
directly to a clothing store where Mrs. Pascoe closely supervised
Pamela’s purchases, warning her about the coming winter weather.
Afterwards, Mrs. Pascoe allowed Pamela to go to Deluxe Junk, a
secondhand clothing store, where she got a number of utilitarian
items: some heavy, warm outdoor clothes, a good pair of wellies
with a lot of wear left in them, two pairs of walking shoes that
appeared almost new, a tall, wooden plant stand she herself
wouldn’t have minded owning. After leaving, they put Pamela’s
parcels in the boot of Mrs. Pascoe’s car and made their way to the
Black Bull. On the way, Pamela took in the names of other
businesses for future reference- The Stable Door, The Copper
Kettle, Spook Books . . .

‘It’s relatively quiet, for a change,’ Mrs.
Pascoe said with obvious relief, appraising the interior of the
Black Bull as she removed her outer garments and hung them up. When
Pamela had followed suit and they had seated themselves, she added,
‘Suits me just fine, without all those obnoxious tourists
cluttering up the place. Now, d’you know what you’d like?’

Pamela gazed at the menu, feeling blank. ‘I
don’t know. What are “game pies?” And what are “pasties?”’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs. Pascoe
with mock exasperation, ‘you
do
need educating.
I’ll
order, how will that be?’ She
ordered two “best” and some “pasties,” which turned out to be a
couple of pints of beer or ale (Pamela didn’t know the difference)
and meat and vegetable filled pastries. Pamela balked when she saw
the beer but decided to drink it out of politeness. ‘Now, then,’
Mrs. Pascoe said, ‘let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s going on
between you and young Mr. Dewhurst? And don’t you try to deny it! I
saw you standing there in his arms- ’

‘It wasn’t anything!’ Pamela retorted in a
desperate whisper, thoroughly flustered. ‘I don’t know why he did
that.’

‘Did what? Did he try to kiss you?’

‘No!’ Pamela almost shouted, and then,
quietly, ‘No. He didn’t do anything. I think he was just trying to
be nice to me because I was so upset, but I got scared and
ran-’

‘Hello, hello, and what have we here?’ It was
the big blonde fellow from the farm, who stood over the two women,
leering at Pamela. He was obviously a bit drunk.

‘Get lost, Albert,’ Mrs. Pascoe said. ‘We’re
busy talking, and you’re obviously busy getting stewed to the
gills, so go back to it.’

‘I jus’ want to have a word with Miss Prissy
Pants,’ he said, sitting down beside Pamela, leaning over her and
trying to put his arm around her. When she flinched away he only
laughed and put his arm around her. ‘We’ll have none of that!’ he
said, drunkenly. ‘Come on, lass, how abou- ow, OW!’

Pamela had taken two of his fingers and bent
them backwards. She then scooted away from him, put her back to the
wall, and used her legs to push the loutish Albert unceremoniously
off the seat onto the floor, prompting a couple of staff members to
investigate.

‘He bothering you women?’

‘Yes!’

‘He is!’ the two women said together.

‘Come on, you,’ the barkeep said, ‘sit down!
And not with the women! Go back to where you were, with your
friends. Once more and you’ll be out of here for good.’

As Albert was led away, Mrs.
Pascoe said to him, ‘Little kittens got claws sometimes, Albert,’
prompting him to make an obscene gesture. ‘Don’t worry about him,’
she told Pamela. ‘He’s not a bad fellow, really. He’s just a wee
bit . . .
coarse
. I
liked the way you handled him, though,’ she added with a wide grin.
‘You should have hauled off and nutted him a good one. I’d’uv paid
good money to see that!’

‘
That bitch, Miss Prissy Pants, she’s the one as broke my
fingers
. . . ’

The two women shared a look and, along with
Albert’s companions, burst into laughter.

‘Well, so much for a quiet time,’ Pamela
said.

‘
She
did! She broke my hand- no, my fingers. Right here,
see?’

This was received with more unsympathetic
laughter.

‘Poor Albert doesn’t seem to have a very
receptive audience, does he?’ Mrs. Pascoe said. ‘I do wish he’d
shut up! How’s your pastie?’

‘Hot!’ Pamela said, only
having managed a nibble or two so far. ‘By the way, I don’t quite
get this
exchange
thing. How much is a British pound worth, exactly?’

‘As compared to what?’ Mrs. Pascoe said,
dryly. Then, she told her.

‘I spent
how
much? Oh, no! Mrs. Dewhurst’s
going to be so mad at me-’

‘Don’t be daft! You were
supposed to spend
all
of it! Mrs. Dewhurst, indeed.’

This last remark was utterly lost on Pamela,
who looked in her purse and estimated how much she had left.

‘What in Heaven’s name is wrong now?’

‘This can’t be right,’ Pamela said, her face
pale. ‘This is more money than I’ve ever made in-’

‘As I said before, “Don’t be
daft!” “Mrs. Dewhurst” gave you that money to spend because he-
she, rather,
cares
about you. Spend it. It’ll make
her
feel good, as well as yourself.
For God’s sake, luv,’ she said, reaching across and sorting out
some of the girl’s unruly curls, said, ‘you’ve got to understand
that you’re living with people who care about you, who’ll do more
than just talk about it. Besides,’ she added with a wicked grin,
‘if some of what you got doesn’t catch Mr. Theo’s eye, nothing
will.’

‘He doesn’t even
like
me,’ Pamela said
quietly. ‘He always makes me feel like an intruder . . . which I
am, sort of-’

‘Stop talking nonsense! You don’t know what’s
going through that head of his. Theo just isn’t very good at
showing how he feels.’

‘Yes, well he doesn’t seem to have any
difficulty showing how he feels when he’s angry with me.’

‘Anger, that’s easy,’ Mrs. Pascoe said with a
wry smile. ‘Love, on the other hand- that can be very hard.’

‘Love?’ Pamela said. ‘He doesn’t seem to have
any trouble expressing his feelings to his mother.’

Mrs. Pascoe gave her a wry look. ‘This isn’t
exactly his mother we’re talking about, now, is it?’

‘But . . . what
are
we talking
about?’

‘Pamela! Come on, finish
your lunch. It’s time we were getting back. If you need me to tell
you something like
that
, well! You’re just going to have to muddle through this one
on your own.’

That Sunday they went to
church, and Pamela discovered that, as Mrs. Dewhurst had said,
church was a household affair. To her surprise, she found the
experience enjoyable. As well, it brought her one step closer to
feeling as though she truly
belonged
to something. The only other time she had
experienced anything similar was during Christmas at the Mission.
But this experience was wholly different: it was more far-reaching,
in ways she couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t a sentiment that
began and ended with the holiday season; it was an ongoing
tradition that permeated the lives of the people she lived amongst,
and she found herself wanting very much to be a part of
things.

When it came time to sing hymns, however, she
found that the choir-director had actually turned and was looking
right at her. Thinking that she was singing too loud, or off-key,
or something, she flushed with embarrassment, dropped her gaze to
the vicinity of the floor and mouthed the rest of the words.