A short story set in 19th-century London, England. It tells the life of Moorish sculptor Achille Diouf through the eyes of his new housemaid, Hetty Thompson. The divergent worlds of Victorian Britain and African Moorish culture blend and collide, fr...
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There I stood, beneath the attic hatch, a statue. Curiosity had taken hold of me and locked me tightly in its sweet, inviting embrace. I could not resist its hitherto gesture. The hatch string stood very still above my head and despite my ears attentive and waiting, there was no sound from within the attic. The suspense rose from the tips of my toes to the core of my stomach and it balled itself up there, forming a vicious knot which traveled up to my throat, causing me discomfort. I felt my feet lose balance from standing so still and I caught myself before I drifted, my grip tightening on the silver serving tray. Hearing a clink of the sterling silver tea pot clashing against a fine porcelain teacup brought me to my senses at last and I shook my head, disappointed at both my own clumsiness and my own nosiness. I walked over to the stand against the wall and placed the serving tray down before brushing my hands against my pinafore.
"Well. That is that," I said to myself.
I turned my head to look at the attic hatch one last time and it was the same. Curiosity began to beckon me once more. With that, I turned on my heels and began my walk back to the kitchen to tidy up, finding myself wanting to get away from this childish fixation. "You are not a little girl anymore, Hetty," I chided myself. My mother's words. I had almost reached the entrance to the hallway when I heard a creak behind me; above me. I knew straight away the source of the sound and swallowed, finding myself a bundle of nerves despite the explanation being that Master Diouf was coming down from the attic. But when I turned around I saw the hatch ajar, its string swinging violently beneath it. I waited for my Master to appear and stood for a long time.
The church bells broke the silence from its distance in London's town square, announcing that it was now seven o' clock in the morning. There was still no Master Diouf and the hatch string now only vibrated. The confusion that I felt brought on a new manner of distress and within moments I found myself charging over to the cursed hatch with propelling speed and reaching for the string on my tiptoes, in a futile attempt to push the door back into the ceiling. Without my touching it the door snapped upward, and I cursed beneath my breath, entirely vexed by this ordeal. The ordeal that I, admittedly, could have avoided had I made a swift delivery of Master's breakfast instead of stalling.
Again the door opened. This time, completely, and just as quickly as the staircase was released, a fury of black blocked my vision and Master Diouf stood before me in an instant, the eccentrically long black cape of his inverness morning coat the culprit of my momentary blindness. He stood before me, now a nightmarish figure for having descended – and with such speed – from a forbidden and certainly questionable landscape: The attic. The attic, which my mind now associated with mystery. And for a moment I wondered whether I had shrunk since I last saw him or he had grown, for my existence felt small. His eyes tended a cold flame which I had not seen before and the corridor walls grew taller, the ceiling and its attic higher, and he continued to stand in front of me, peering down at me; a tall, dark tower, leaning forward ever so slightly. The Leaning Tower of Pisa my mother had told me stories of.
"What were you doing?" He asked hurriedly, the words connected in a way that made the question sound muddled. His accent, for the first time, sounded very French, but also like something else which I could not quite recognize. As the rushed question escaped his lips, his head turned slowly to the side, his eyes searching the hallway, searching for answers. The flame in his eyes seemed to quell once they reached the stand upon which his breakfast tray sat.
He turned back to face me, darkness encasing his almond shaped eyes, a lock of his ropelike black hair falling into his face, contrasting with his mahogany skin. He stared straight ahead, however, looking beyond me; his taller stature causing his line of sight to soar above my head, above my brunette curls. Distracted but present. Searching. His eyes were looking down the corridor and into the foyer, in the direction of the main entrance to the house. The corridor now seemed to shrink with us in it.
"I apologize, Master Diouf. I came to serve you your breakfast. I am late, I know. It will be the last day for such tardiness, I assure you. As for the hatch, I saw that it was ajar, sir, so I attempted to close it," I uttered.
He blinked and finally looked at me, his pupils but tiny grains of rice against the background of his brown eyes, the darkness encircling his eyes startling now that eye contact was made. The darkness caused his eyes to sink further into his skull, intensifying his gaze. It was clear that he had not slept a wink. A chill rattled every vertebra of my spine. He looked me up and down whilst simultaneously reaching for something inside of his coat. Perturbed yet taken briefly out of the moment of tension, I noticed how finely he was dressed: A black suit consisting of a white, high-collar dress shirt and ivory ascot tie; a black silk waistcoat with a silver watch chain draped against it; black leather gloves; black trousers and shiny, black lace-up boots. His stylish inverness wool coat completed the look. I, the daughter of a well-known seamstress, could at any given moment point out a well-dressed man.
"At what time do you arrive every morning?" He asked, ignoring my apology, my anxiety, and me altogether, his hands now holding a beautiful pocket watch. There seemed to be an engraving on it. It held his gaze now.
"Five, sir," I answered.
"Very well," He replied promptly. "Tomorrow and the days that follow you will arrive at four instead, serve me my breakfast no later than five, and begin your household duties immediately thereafter – posthaste. You know where to find me in the morning for breakfast," He trailed off and was setting down the hallway towards the foyer, brushing past me like one might brush past a child, his heels clicking on the polished oak floors. The clicking of his boots stopped suddenly and I turned slightly to look behind me. "Don't you?" He asked incredulously, finally closing his sentence. The scathing tone of his voice scalded my cheeks and the tips of my ears like boiling water. He released a scoff as if to say, "You are a dolt," before shaking his head and sliding his watch back into its hidden home behind the curtain of his coat. The only reprieve for my skin's searing state was the morning breeze that escaped down the hallway once he opened the front door and stepped out into the outside world. The walls trembled behind his forceful closing of the door, causing the breakfast tray to shake, its contents clinking.
I stood for an eternity and a day, my mind branding the scene which just took place into my memory, promising a long-term stay there. Frustration. Embarrassment. Disappointment. Regret. Anger. I felt them all. I picked up the breakfast tray and exhaled. The attic hatch string danced mockingly above my head as I managed my way back to the kitchen, my eyes clouded and stinging with the salty threat of tears.
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[Chapter two will be released some time during the first week of March. Follow me to stay up to date.]
