Gertrude's Palace

Navy Blue Suit

Nowadays, as in, the day before my 14th birthday, I live with just my father, Henry, in what he calls 'his palace'. According to him, he bought the house himself as an anniversary gift, after mother and him got married. His house sits at the end of a long, twisting, and hilly driveway, far in the countryside where it was almost impossible to find us. The nearest town was Greenvale, thirty minutes away by car, and in-between Greenvale and us, was the beautiful oak forest. The house has three stories. The top floor, with my bedroom and the attic; the second floor, with all my mother's things stuffed in the study, and finally the kitchen and father's room downstairs.

Before mother died, he used to come upstairs to my bedroom quite often, but now he stays on the ground floor, and my room has never been cleaner. When mother was alive, we used to have dress-ups in daddy's closet downstairs when he was at work, and pretend we were men, although I never touch Daddy's clothes anymore. She would put on this deep voice and complain about "The taxes, honey!" and I would tell her, in the deepest voice I could muster at 8 years old, that "It's this damn government!" and we would cackle some more. That was another of the little secrets between mother and I.

For the first time in six months, I heard the sound of father's brass doorknocker from two storeys up, as I was dressing and doing my hair. "Hello there darling, you must be Mr Turner's daughter. May I speak with him?" The man was short, shorter than I, and extremely round and something, maybe my height or demeanour or my mother's pants or my messy hair had made him uncomfortable, as he sweat his navy-blue suit. "Apologies Sir, he's not available at the moment, but you can talk to me?"

I was not afraid, in fact I was amused- to me he was an oblivious rat, and I was a lion. He shrivelled just a little bit with annoyance. "Sorry miss, but you wouldn't know anything about the electricity bills or due payments or loans..." He refused to look me in the eye as he said this, instead looking me up and down. "How about you get fetch daddy, so we can chat, and while you're there, make me some tea." It wasn't a question, or a request. I looked down, his knuckles were bruised. "Silly daddy," I sighed sweetly "He often forgets things you know, where he is and what day of the week it is, bills, especially now with mummy gone..."

When he raised his voice, I could no longer hear him. I had my own magical sound shield that mother gave me when father would yell, and it protected me today, from the short, round, suited man, and his tantrum. Maybe he had a wife. Or some daughters. Thankfully, I like the dark better anyway.