The Woman In The Mirror. Rebecca James
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Oatley, the ground sticks fast, so fast I feel myself drowning.
The tea turns tepid, the deep cracked brown of a terracotta pot, and a fleck of milk powder floats depressingly on its surface. The man next to me grins, flips out his newspaper: India Wins Independence: British Rule Ends. I sense him about to speak and so stand before he can, buttoning my coat and checking my reflection in the smeared window. I pull open the café door, its chime offering a weak ring.
There it is, then. No. 46. Across the road, the genteel townhouse bears down, its glossy black door and polished copper bell push like a delicately wrapped present that my fumbling fingers are desperate, yet fearful, to open. Before we begin, it has me on the back foot. I need it more than it needs me. This job is my ticket out of London, away from the past, away from my secrets. This job is escape.
*
‘Welcome, Miss Miller. Do please sit down.’
I peel off my gloves and set them neatly on the desk before changing my mind and scooping them into my bag. I set the bag on my lap, then have nowhere to put my hands, so I place the bag on the floor, next to my ankles.
He doesn’t appear to notice this display, or perhaps he is too polite to acknowledge it. Instead, he takes a file from the drawer and flicks through it for several moments. The top of his head, as he bends, is bald, and clean as a marble.
‘Thank you for meeting us at short notice,’ he says, with a quick smile. ‘My client, as you’ll understand, prefers to be discreet, and often that means securing results swiftly. We would prefer to resolve the appointment as soon as possible.’
‘Of course.’
‘You have experience with children?’
‘I used to nanny our neighbours’ infants, before the war.’
He nods. ‘My client’s children require tutelage as well as pastoral care. We are concerned with the curriculum but also with a comprehensive education in nature, the arts, sports and games – and, naturally, refinement of etiquette and propriety.’
I sit straighter. ‘Naturally.’
‘The twins are eight years old.’ His eyes meet mine for the first time, sharp and glassy as a crow’s.
‘Very good.’
‘I’m afraid this isn’t the sort of position you can abandon after a month,’ he says. ‘If you find it a challenge, you can begin your instruction by teaching these children the knack of perseverance.’ He puts his fingers together. ‘I mention this because my client lost his last governess suddenly and without warning.’
‘Oh.’
‘As a widower, he has understandably struggled. These are difficult times.’
I’m surprised. ‘Did his wife die recently?’
Immediately I know I have spoken out of turn. I am not here to question this man; he is here to question me. My interest is unwelcome.
‘Tell me, Miss Miller,’ he says, bypassing my enquiry with ease, ‘what occupation did you hold during the war?’
‘I volunteered with the WVS.’
The man teases the end of his moustache. ‘Nurturing yet capable: would that be a fair assessment?’
‘I’d suggest the two aren’t mutually exclusive.’
He writes something down.
‘Have you always lived in London?’
‘I grew up in Surrey.’
‘And attended which school…?’
‘Burstead.’
His eyebrow snags, impressed but not liking to show it. I know my education was among the finest in the country. My mother was schooled at Burstead, and my grandmother before that. There was never any question that my parents would send me there. I tighten my fists in my lap, remembering my father’s face over that Sunday lunch in 1940. The ticking of the mantle clock, the shaft of winter sunlight that bounced off the table, the smell of burned fruit crumble… His rage when I told him what I had done. That the education they had bought for me had instead brought a nightmare to their door. The sound of smashing glass as my mother walked in, letting the tumbler fall, shattering into a thousand splinters on the treacle-coloured carpet.
He clears his throat, tapping the page with his pen. I see my own handwriting.
‘In your letter,’ he says, ‘you say you are keen to move away from the city. Why?’
‘Aren’t we all?’ I answer a little indecorously, because this is easy, this is what he expects to hear. ‘I would never care to repeat the things I have seen or done over the past six years. The city holds no magic for me any more.’
He sees my automatic answer for what it is.
‘But you, personally,’ he presses, those eyes training into me again. ‘I am interested in what makes you want to leave.’
A moment passes, an open door, the person on each side questioning if the other will walk through – before it closes. The man sits forward.
‘You might deem me improper,’ he says, ‘but my inquests are made purely on my client’s behalf. We understand that the setting of your new appointment is a far cry from the capital. Are you used to isolation, Miss Miller? Are you accustomed to being on your own?’
‘I am very comfortable on my own.’
‘My client needs to know if you have the vigour for it. As I said previously, he does not wish to be hiring a third governess in a few weeks’ time.’
‘I’ve no doubt.’
‘Therefore, if you will forgive my impudence, could you reassure us that you have no medical history of mental disturbances?’
‘Disturbances?’
‘Depressive episodes, attacks of anxiety, that sort of thing.’
I pause. ‘No.’
‘You cannot reassure us, or you can that you haven’t?’
For the first time, there is the trace of a smile. I am almost there. Almost. I don’t have to tell him the truth. I don’t have to tell him anything.
‘I can reassure you that I am perfectly well,’ I say, and it trips off my tongue as smoothly as my name.
The man assesses me, then squares the paper in front of him and replaces it in its folder. When he leans back in his chair, I hear the creak of leather.
‘Very well, Miss Miller,’ he says. ‘My client entrusts me with the authority to hire at will in light of my appraisal of an applicant’s suitability, and I am pleased to offer you the position of governess at the Polcreath estate with immediate effect.’
I rein in my delight. ‘Thank you.’
‘Before you accept, is there anything you would like to ask us?’
‘Your client’s name, and the name of the house.’
‘Then I must insist on your signature.’
He slides a piece of paper across the desk, a contract of sorts, listing my start date as this coming week, the broad terms of my responsibilities towards the children, and that my bed and board will be provided. There is a dotted line at the foot, awaiting my pen. ‘I understand it is unorthodox,’ he says, ‘but my client is a private man. We need assurance of your allegiance before I’m permitted to give details.’
‘But until I have details I have little idea what I am signing.’
The man holds his hands up, as if helpless. I wait a moment, but there is never any hesitation in my mind. I collect the pen and sign my name.