Moorland Hall (FIRST DRAFT)

from 2-3 November 2010: Odelia

Waking up the next day, Julia needed a moment before she realised where she was. The four poster bed and the heavy, dark green draperies were so strange and so different to the bed she had slept in the past ... well, as far as she could remember. The sound of Cousin Erika and Cousin Gisela having a shouting match outside the door over who should get to use the bathroom first would have been a familiar addition to the morning, especially if both of them had been beaten to the post by Cousin Johan slamming the door behind them.

But there was no sound of fighting cousins.

The morning was still, tranquil. The sound of tiny footsteps ran toward my door, stopped, and then ran off again. Julia realised where she was and immediately got out of bed. What time was it? Hurrying into the en suite bathroom (now, there was a surprise – she thought that sort of thing only featured in hotels), she quickly made herself ready and grabbed some fresh clothes from out of her suitcase, making a mental note to unpack after breakfast.

The hallway outside lay empty and she didn’t wish to disturb the silence so walked softly toward the end she was fairly sure she had come from the night before. Making her way down the staircase, a dull November day brightened up the portraits on the walls, and suddenly the stern visages looked plain where they had looked majestic the night before, tame where they had been wild, and just a little bit dull where they had been frightening. Whatever was there to be scared of? After all, it was just a bit of paint on canvas.

‘Tell that to Dorian Gray,’ she thought to herself and stopped dead as she reached the ground floor. Where on earth would she find the kitchen? Unlike the airport, which was full of more or less friendly signs to point her in the right direction, Moorland House was explicitly quiet on the subject of directions, and Julia’s sense of navigation had always been unreliable, to say the least.

At least she didn’t have to wait long until she could hear the running footsteps approach again, and in their wake, a little girl with a dress the colour of bluebells on back to front. She had a pair of thick socks on but no shoes, and she slid across the polished stone floor of the entrance hall with a magnificent grin on her little face. Dark eyes sparkling, cheeks dimpled and hair that seemed to flow everywhere, she was definitely a sight for sore eyes.

‘Sind Sie Joooooooolia?’ she drawled, scrutinising the much older girl before her. Julia nodded. ‘Mein Au Pair?’

Oh dear, she didn’t just have to try and remember how to speak English, now she also had to remember all those seemingly endless days in school learning German.

‘Ja,’ said Julia. ‘Ich bin deiner Au Pair. Heiβt du Odelia?’

Julia hoped her language skills were up to scratch, but the little German girl didn’t seem to mind. Maybe she was correct after all, or maybe she just didn’t care. Hopefully the former.

‘Natürlich. Now come, bitte, Frau Deacon wants you.’

‘You speak English?’

‘Of course. My Daddy is English. Come!’

A warm little hand found Julia’s, and pulled her toward one of the hallways leading off to the left. On the way, Odelia was happy to chatter in a peculiar mixture of both languages. If words failed her in one, she’d use the other, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. She let Julia know everything about the fruit trees in the orchard and the fat tabby cat in the kitchen that she had given the name Katzi while Mrs. Deacon, or Frau Deacon as she was to the girl, insisted on calling it Tiggy; all the things she had learned about her new home in the short space of time she had been there. A time which, as it turned out, was no more than a couple of months or so.

‘Good morning, my dear!’ said Mrs. Deacon as they reached the kitchen. ‘I see you’ve met her already. She didn’t wake you up, I hope? I told her to stay away but there is just no holding her back.’ She gave the little girl an exasperated smile. ‘Is there, Odelia?’ The girl shook her head with a defiant smile.

‘I slept very well, thank you, Mrs. Deacon,’ Julia replied. ‘I think her dress is on the wrong way around, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘I put it on myself,’ the girl explained with a proud, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Can’t reach the buttons on my back.’

‘That explains it. Will you see to it, Julia? I’ll get you something to eat.’

‘Of course, thank you.’

Odelia was already half way down the row of buttons when Julia bent down to help her, and turning the dress the right way around took less time than it took to boil the kettle. Putting milk into tea, how bizarre, but Julia did nothing to stop the old woman, who had poured the milk automatically and without asking. The most natural thing in the world. What would it take to get a cup of herbal tea in this place? Had they even heard of such a thing? She would have to ask at some point, because this milky tea was so not her thing.

Breakfast turned out to be another interesting culture clash. Cereal and milk, that was her normal routine, or porridge and milk. This was a whole other kettle of fish.

Bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread, baked beans, toast … The toast she was okay with but the fried bread was taking things a little too far. Such a difference from what she was used to. Perhaps it was just a special thing, a treat because she was new in the house. She certainly hoped so, because having this for breakfast every day would not be a good thing. Not that she was too conscious about what she ate, and cholesterol wasn’t perhaps the biggest concern, but still, she preferred starting the day with a nice, plain bowl of bran flakes.

After breakfast, Odelia decided to show her around the house, skipping merrily along as she did so. They went to see the library, where a grand piano made for an imposing presence; the formal dining room, the long gallery, all the big bedrooms toward the front of the house, which did not, Julia noticed, include the room the girl declared was her father’s.

‘I don’t go in there,’ she said, ‘he won’t like it.’

There were so many rooms and they all seemed to be kept clean and prepared for use, which Mrs. Deacon soon provided the explanation for.

‘It’s Mr. Harrington. He always shows up unexpectedly, and he likes the house to be in order for when he does. As we’re never quite sure when he’ll be arriving, it’s just easiest to have them all done up and ready just in case.’

‘What is he like? What sort of a person is he?’

‘Oh, he’s a gentleman, no doubt about that,’ said Mrs. Deacon. ‘But he’s a troubled soul, poor chap. I’m afraid his father had made plans for him without properly asking first, but I’m not so sure about the details. He went to the West Indies and when he came back some years later, he was a changed man. No one quite knows why, but such is life, I suppose.’

‘Is he well liked?’

‘He’s … a little peculiar, if you don’t know him, I guess, but he was a very sweet boy, so mild-mannered and charming. Always one for telling a good joke. Couldn’t fault him. The family have always been well thought of around here. You know, the late Mrs. Rochester’s mother was actually a Deacon, a second cousin or such of my dear husband’s, but I wouldn’t want to presume on the connection.’

Over the next few days, Julia had her work cut out.