by Lucy Appleby
At first, Martha dismissed the advertisement that appeared in the newsagent's window. It advertised the position of housekeeper, but given that the person who required a housekeeper had the surname Flemscrape, she initially thought the ad was some silly hoax. She filled in an application form anyway. Was Mr Flemscrape for real? Apparently so. He telephoned her two days later and arranged an interview.
Putting on her one and only suit, Martha adjusted her hair, applied a subtle touch of colour to her cheeks and a mellow peach gloss lipstick. The reflection in the mirror looked smart and businesslike. Inspired with a rarely-felt confidence, she smiled, straightened back her shoulders, and left her small apartment, arriving at Lavender Hill some thirty minutes later.
Lavender Hill. It sounded like an old peoples' home, but it looked amazing - being a large house, part of it dating from the Elizabethan period. It was situated in its own grounds at the end of a quiet leafy suburb. Martha's heels tapped on the flagged path. The house was quite beautiful, with mellow stone, wisteria-covered walls and mullioned windows. She reached the front door and rang the bell. From behind the glass panel of the door, she saw a shadow advancing, solidifying as it drew nearer, taking on the form and substance of ... a middle aged man. He opened the door, his face impassive, yet Martha felt herself being under scrutiny.
"Miss Waterstone?" His voice was well modulated, his diction perfect.
Martha nodded, wearing her best smile.
"Martha." His expression softened as he returned her smile. "How nice of you to come along. And how punctual you are." He looked at his watch. It was 2 15pm exactly. "I am most impressed." He smiled and opened the door wider. "Do come in."
"Thank you." She accepted graciously and followed him down the long hallway. He opened the door of a room on the left which led through to a comfortable sitting room, elegantly and tastefully furnished in shades of mahogany complemented by gilt-framed pictures and claret-coloured swagged curtains. A large sparkling crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling.
"As you see, this is a large house," said Mr Flemscrape. "I need someone who is discreet and trustworthy." He paused.
Martha nodded in tacit agreement. "Of course."
"I think you will find my terms are more than reasonable. You will be required to prepare breakfast, to be served promptly at 8 30am every day except Wednesday and Thursday. From 8 30 until noon you will engage in doing the laundry, cleaning the house, and preparing a light luncheon to be served promptly at 1pm. You may then take the afternoon off and resume your duties at 6 15pm, during which time you will prepare dinner, to be served promptly at 8 15pm. The rest of the evening is yours, and I do not object to the dinner plates being cleared away the following morning, providing the dining room is clean and tidy in time for breakfast. You will have Wednesdays and Thursdays off." He smiled. "I will manage to make myself a cold breakfast on both of your days off, and I will usually eat out for the remainder of the time, placing no demands on your services at all."
"Mr Flemscrape, you speak as though the position is mine already," began Martha.
"But of course. It is. Assuming you would like it, that is?"
"Oh!" She was genuinely surprised.
"But how rude of me. I have not yet mentioned remuneration. I will pay you in cash every week." He then specified a figure that was double the going rate.
"That .. that is very generous Mr Flemscrape." Martha could scarcely believe her good fortune.
"And before I forget, you have the ground-floor of the east wing as your living quarters."
"I didn't realise this was a live-in position," gawped Martha. The east wing for my living quarters? Bloody hell. I've struck gold.
"Will that present a problem?" enquired her new employer solicitously. "If it does, I'm sure we can come to some other arrangement."
"No. That will be fine. Perfect, even. My apartment is very cramped and I had every intention of finding somewhere bigger."
"And now you have. Come - let me show you round the place, and if you accept the job you can sign a 12 month contract. I must say, I think you will fit in wonderfully."
Three weeks later, Martha was firmly ensconced in her new life at Lavender Hill. She had rented out her small apartment to help pay off her overdraft, and meanwhile she was living here in the east wing of this splendid house.
Her duties were not onerous, her salary was exceptional, and Mr Flemscrape was always courteous and polite. On her first day he made a point of explaining the three house rules. She should not, under any circumstances, venture down into the cellars. Mr Flemscrape's study was also out of bounds. The third rule was that she should not remain in the main part of the house after 8 30pm as her employer wished to maintain his privacy.
"I have no problem in adhering to the rules," Martha said. "They seem very reasonable."
"They are," nodded Mr Flemscrape. "And they are not to be broken."
But perhaps Martha had overlooked the fact that curiosity is a basic and powerful human emotion - one which, over time, increases as the need to acquire knowledge of what is forbidden grows out of all proportion. Over the next few days, Mr Flemscrape's house rules were always uppermost in her mind, and she began imagining the secrets hidden in the cellar and study to a point where she finally acceded she had developed a burning compulsion to know. And why would he forbid her access to the main part of the house in the evening? It was very odd. She simply must find out. So what if she decided to take a peek? He would never know if she was careful.
And so she began to plan, resolving to begin her explorations of the forbidden parts of the house on Wednesday. As it was her day off, she would sit patiently by her window and watch and wait for Mr Flemscrape to leave the house. He always dined out in the evenings, and usually went out for lunch too. Martha waited and waited, her frustration increasing. By 2pm, Mr Flemscrape had not left the house and her heart sank at the prospect of an interminable wait until he went out for dinner.
She had almost nodded off in her chair when she heard the sound of a car door slam. Peering carefully through the net curtain, she saw that Mr Flemscrape had got the car out of the garage and parked it by the back door. She had a clear view as he returned to the house and came out again clutching a briefcase which he placed on the back seat of the vehicle, before getting in and driving off.
Now that her moment had come, Martha felt unsettled and panicky. How long would she have before he returned? Perhaps she would do better waiting until he left the house in the evening as she would then be guaranteed at least an hour's freedom to roam without fear of discovery. But no, she couldn't wait that long. She had to act now. Now.
The cellar door was locked as usual. The various keys to the house were kept on a row of hooks on the back wall of the kitchen. They were all neatly labelled, but there was no key for the cellar. 'So where would it be?' mused Martha. 'Why, in the study of course!' said an answering voice in her head.
She crept silently along the corridor and placed her hand on the handle of the study door. To her intense relief, the handle turned and the door opened inward. She stepped inside. Her first impression was that she had entered a male preserve for the room was very masculine, with dark wood and a dark green leather-topped desk. The chairs on either side of the fireplace were also upholstered in dark green and two of the walls were thickly lined with books behind glass-fronted bookshelves. The air was tinged with a faint yet aromatic fragrance from Mr Flemscrape's cigars.
Taking a deep breath, Martha stepped surreptitiously towards the desk, her eyes quickly scanning the surface for signs of a key amongst the blotter and pen jar, and the sheaf of papers under the heavy glass paperweight. There was no key to be seen. Perhaps it was in one of the desk drawers. Guiltily, she opened one. It contained stationery - pens and pencils, rolls of Sellotape and scissors, and a random assortment of paperclips, plus a few 1st class stamps and air mail stickers.
The second drawer she opened revealed a more interesting assortment. There was some high quality writing paper, envelopes, and a thick leather-bound book. She flicked through it quickly, knowing that she shouldn't, but what the hell - she may as well now that she was here. The book contained dozens of names and addresses, all penned in the impeccable handwriting of Mr Flemscrape. There was nothing extraordinary about the content, other than that the names appeared to be mostly female. And why not - he was a handsome man. But she felt cheated somehow, though goodness knows what she was expecting to find. Rousing herself, she resumed the search. She must focus on finding the key and ignoring everything else, for today at least ... she could always come back another time for a second snoop.
Reaching into the back of the drawer, her hand rested on something metal. It was attached to a soft and silky fabric. She drew out what she had found. It was a large brass key attached to a length of dark green satin ribbon. Could this be what she was looking for? Yes! She was sure it must be, but there was only one way to find out.
Fingers trembling with excitement, Martha inserted the key into the keyhole of the cellar door. It fitted perfectly. She turned the key. There was a click of the lock. She opened the door and peered down into complete darkness. Groping with her left hand, she quickly found a light switch on the cellar-head and once the switch was flicked, a long low flight of stone steps was revealed. Closing the door softly behind her, Martha began the descent.
The centre of each step dipped, worn smooth from the countless feet that had trodden upon them over the centuries. This must be the original part of the house, mused Martha, before the other parts were added almost haphazardly during later years. The walls on either side of the steps were solid blocks of cold grey stone. A handrail had been fastened to each wall. She grasped it thankfully and continued her descent, down an interminable number of steps and into the gloom beyond. This was some cellar!
It was. At one end there was a small room lined with shelves on three walls. The shelves were stacked with ancient dust-covered jars and pots, and in the centre of the room was a rectangular table topped with a stone slab. In an adjoining room was a huge area stacked with dozens of bags of coal to enable the additional comfort of open fires in the big old house during the long winter months. Walking on, Martha discovered the wine cellar with rack upon rack of wine bottles - clearly worth a fortune, assuming the wine was still drinkable. She suspected it was, but it wasn't the wine that interested her. Surely there must be more to the cellar than this? Where were the secrets? Or could hundreds of bottles of expensive wines be the reason no-one was allowed down here?
She wandered disconsolately up and down, her eyes becoming accustomed to the dingy glow cast by the low wattage light bulbs dangling on the end of wires at intervals. Martha didn't know what it was she was looking for, yet she knew instinctively that she would recognise it at once if she saw it. But as the minutes passed, she resigned herself to the fact that her clandestine little adventure was over. There was nothing to be seen. But wait, there was something ... something audible. Martha stood still, straining to hear the sounds - sounds of laughter coming from far away behind the wall.
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