The Housekeeper

The Housekeeper

I lived with Mary for ten years. Her pale oval face was highlighted by wonderful green eyes that sparkled with life. She was young at heart, though I suspected she was older than she appeared. From her accent, I guessed she came from southern Ireland. She was tall, almost my height, and carried herself with quiet dignity. Her manner was firm but gentle, and she spoke with an old-world precision that is rare today. I loved her, but Mary didn’t know she was dead.

         I’ll start at the beginning so it makes sense. My world changed with my divorce and a bucketful of debt. More to the point, I was homeless.

         I scoured property listings but found nothing suitable. Through a solicitor’s grimy window, I saw: Vacant Possession. Four-bedroom Georgian house, extensive gardens on seafront location: 

         The salesperson called it the ‘unwanted house’. I arranged an appointment to view that afternoon. I sat in my car and waited for a solicitor’s clerk to arrive. A heavy rainstorm pounded on the roof. The noise was deafening, not exactly a good sign. A car pulled alongside mine, and the driver’s window opened. I opened mine.

         “Mr Westlake?”

         I nodded.

      He passed across two keys. “The large one is for the front door. The other is for the inner door. I’ll park and wait. I don’t expect you to be long; the inside of the house is a disaster area.” His window closed.

         I groped for my umbrella and jumped out. The front gate hung on one hinge, and the garden was a jungle. I climbed the once white steps to the peeling, black-painted door, inserted the key, and turned it. When the door opened, I stepped into a time capsule. A thick layer of sand from the beach covered the stone floor. I think Edison himself installed the electrics, and, apart from a large cast-iron range, there was no hot water supply. Gas mantles projected from the walls. Under normal circumstances, everything about the house told me to walk away. But I was homeless, and the price fit my meagre budget. I sat on the stairs, and my mind wandered. If I ignored every warning sign, the house was at least wind and watertight, and when need is great, desperation wins. I needed one room to live and sleep in. The rest could wait.

         Two months later, with my few possessions, I moved in. With help from my friends, I refurbished one room, the kitchen and the bathroom.

         One morning, as I left my living/bedroom, a draught of cold air struck me. In the kitchen, a woman stood next to the table.

         “What the… Who are you? How did you get in?” I stammered.

         “Thank goodness those noisy people have gone. They gave me a headache with all that banging and scraping. I thought this house might collapse. Now, go and put your clothes on. I’m Mary, your housekeeper. I’ve looked after this house since old Mrs Henderson took me in.”

         “You didn’t answer my question.”

         “I live here. I have a room in the basement, Snug as a bug I am.”

         As I walked towards her, she stepped back. That’s when I realised she had passed straight through a chair. “What are you?” I asked.

         She turned away, walked towards the hall cupboard, opened the door, and stated, “I am your housekeeper, sir.” The door closed.

         I ran to the door, wrenched it open, and nothing. That evening, I removed a pile of rubbish from the cupboard and, by tapping the plaster at the back, discovered it was hollow. I wondered whether I might find the skeleton of a long-dead visitor. Hammer and crowbar at the ready, I smashed my way into a void. Before me, vanishing into darkness, was a worn spiral stone staircase. With my torch, I descended. At the bottom, I entered a wide passage. Chilly, damp sea air wafted along its length. My torchlight barely penetrated the gloom as I investigated four dank, empty rooms. With my search done, I returned to the stairs.

         From behind me came her melodic voice, “Is there something you want, Sir?”

         I turned to see her, not a hair out of place, perfectly groomed. “No, thank you.”

         “Well, I’ll be going back to my room then. If you need anything, sir, pull the cord, and it’ll ring the bell.” She disappeared into a room. Her retreating footsteps made no sound.

         Totally confused, I sat on the stairs and stared into the dark.

         I became used to Mary flitting around and scolding me for being untidy or for letting the washing pile up. Although she did nothing, my life became organised. 

         Sometimes I’d wake in the night and find her sitting on the edge of my bed. Once fully awake, she said, “Don’t worry yourself, sir, everything will be all right,” then she’d leave. She was my surrogate mother and guardian angel.

         The trouble started when I invited my lady-friends back for coffee. More than one relationship failed to meet with Mary’s approval.

      Mary declared one a hussy, another a tart, a third no good, and none of them good enough for me. I tried to reason, but she shouted it was her God-given duty to keep me on the straight and narrow until I met a proper lady.

      I’d had enough. Much as I loved Mary, she had to go. For a while, I considered an exorcism, but I abandoned the idea almost immediately. If Mary had her way, I was destined for a life of celibacy.

      Months later, I met a woman, and we went out several nights every week. At the end of a wonderful evening, I helped her into a taxi to go home.

         One evening, she asked why she had never even seen my house. What could I say? “Mary might not like you. Oh, and she’s been dead for a hundred years.”

         Sheila loved the house, stayed the night, and we married twelve months later. During this time, Mary never appeared. One morning, I opened the hall cupboard and called her name. I heard the rustle of her skirts, and I knew she was standing behind me.

         Tears glistened in her eyes. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

         “I must leave. Two women in the same kitchen will never work. Will you accept a week’s notice?”

         “Mary, no one wants you to leave. This is your home.”

         “Oh, thank you, sir. I promise I won’t be any bother.”

         Mary returned to her room below stairs, and I never saw her again. Sometimes, when we’re away for the weekend, she comes upstairs, opens drawers, and moves things.

         We leave these items where they are. Mary knows best.