Christian Yorke

Grimy morning light drew patterns over the orangery’s stone floor where Evelyn paced, too edgy to sit. She had called for Chelsea, to dish out the orders, and to make sure that she kept out of her way. She hugged herself to feel the warmth of her teal jumper, then began reviewing the morning post that she vetted each day.

“Gotcha,” she whispered vindictively, recognising the feminine, back slanted handwriting on the manilla envelope. The reply address on the back read St Tropez and the package still had a hint of Allure. Evelyn calmly unlocked the large cherry wood side drawer and threw it in with the rest.

“Alright Evelyn,” piped Chelsea.

Startled, Evelyn turned, tongue out like a serpent. “Ah there you are little one. How perfectly timed. Now before we start I’ve got a bone to pick with you. I’m not angry, but I am very disappointed. Don’t look like that girl, we both know your work was below par yesterday. I have standards and they must be upheld. I know that this is quite a big place, not like a bedsit or maisonette, but you must manage better, if you want to stay on here. Understand?”

Little one? Maisonettes? Chelsea was not following at all. What was she being asked to agree to? Mrs Minge was not making it easy, just staring at her waiting for a response.

“I think so Evelyn. I can do better, I promise. Maybe I ain’t been meself lately or something. Got trouble with me dentist see.”

Evelyn walked closer, so the two women were within inches of each other. “I imagine you probably believe that,” said Evelyn regally, “you’re a good girl deep down and that affects my verdict. I will take half a day’s wages from your next cheque and we’ll say no more about it.”

Up close Evelyn’s skin was tight over her slight chin, straining when she spoke, almost tearing when she sealed her compromise with a smile.

“Now child, I’ve got some friends over this morning as you know. I will receive them in the library and you will bring them through when they arrive. And I warn you, none of that filthy backchat this time. Is that clear child?”

Chelsea’s head sagged, counting her losses. “Yeah, but what about me cleaning and all me other duties?” whispered Chelsea trying not to cry in front of this horror, still eager to impress with her diligence.

“There you go again child, thinking. You are a feisty one. Sharp. When you have done this for me I want you out of this house. Go over to the flats and give them a once over.”

Chelsea gave a double blink, mouth wide, because the flats were usually off limits. Mr Minge lived there most of the time, except when he slept on the third floor, or when he disappeared for days on end.

Mrs Minge scooped the keys off the table and handed them over. Chelsea stared helplessly as Evelyn’s jumper gaped displaying a red peep hole bra. She wore a sexy platinum choker and had washed her hair so it had to be a special occasion. Her light grey trousers were flattering, although they bagged at the back because Eve had a skinny bum.

“These will let you in little one. My husband is out today, somewhere, so you won’t be disturbed. Give them back at the end of the day. And don’t lose them.”

“I ain’t gonna lose ‘em Evelyn. I’ll take good care of ‘em no problem.”

Evelyn’s peepers peered into Chelsea’s bright emerald eyes, so close that Chelsea could make out her own old features in Eve’s glistening orbs.

“I know you won’t dear.” Evelyn’s hot, minty breath rustled Chelsea’s blond hair.

The auspicious knock at the door was like canon fire. “Don’t let me down. Now trot on!” ordered Evelyn before scuttling off through the music room. As she vanished through the dark doorways Chelsea thought she heard Evelyn squeal and clap her hands, with excitement or delight.

Chelsea trousered the keys, strutted through to the hallway and heaved at the door. There before her, behind steamy breath, were three men. Two of them were big bastards, probably about Eve’s age. They wore open necked shirts and gold. Even their skin seemed golden. Between them was a little lad who was much, much younger. Probably the same age as her baby brother Ryan, who was 17. One of the old men had a bag that clinked with the sound of glass, or metal. Chelsea knew the old men; Mrs Minge’s intellectual friends, entertained so often. Chelsea felt sorry for the young fella. No doubt he was going to be bored to tears with stories of opera and poetry recitals, or something.

“Mornin’ gents,” said Chelsea looking at the rain, “follow me.”

The three men followed her down the hallway and an old one spoke.

“Why don’t you join us this morning? We’re not so bad. We don’t bite. You might have some fun. You like having fun little lady?”

“Now, now Lucius,” said the other old one, “put her down. I can see you dribbling from here. Remember that the lady of the house doesn’t like to share.”

“I suppose you’re right. Maybe I should employ her and we could have some fun that way. What about that?” he said menacingly. “Do you want to work for me? Do my scrubbing? I’d pay well.”

Chelsea looked back, to share the joke, and saw the one called Lucius examining her bottom. It felt exposed in her battered Levis. She quick-marched a few paces ahead, humiliated by the denim straining at the seam. She had seen many men curl their lips at her like that. It usually preceded, or followed, earnest slurs and attempts to drop her knickers. She judged that Lucius was probably fantasising about sniffing her gusset or burying his tongue up her peachy ass. She expected that he already had a stiffy, genuinely dribbling at the thought of rodding her.

Chelsea almost ran past the boiler room into the rear lobby. She halted at the library and knocked. When Evelyn called them in Chelsea pushed back the door revealing her mistress reclined in a staged pose on a long sofa. She had fixed herself a drink and feigned surprise. “Gosh gentlemen, you’re early. Come in, come in.” 

The men bundled past Chelsea. Her skin crawled as a lingering hand brushed her bum. Lucius lead, kissing Eve on both cheeks. He held his broad arm round her petite waist so that Chelsea could not be certain of it’s intentions.

The other old man bundled over, arms wide.

“Jolly good to see you Sebastian,” sighed Evelyn beneath another double peck.

“Thrilled to be here,” he replied. “Mind if I fix myself a drink?”

“You don’t have to ask. Treat this place as your own. Take whatever you want. You know that by now.”

As Sebastian lurched away, searching for scotch, Evelyn regarded the boy who had held back. “And you must be Gregory. I’ve heard so much about you. A talented fellow by all accounts.”

Gregory hesitated.

“Don’t be shy, boy. We’re all friends here. Old friends. You must relax. That’s what we do here. We take time to get to know each other properly. And to know ourselves, our true selves, more intimately.” Her voice was almost hypnotic. “Sebastian, the boy requires a stiff drink. What do you like Gregory?”

Gregory shifted uneasily, tugging the collar of the shirt and tie combination that he had been made to wear. “Don’t mind,” he said, young forehead creased. His voice sounded foreign; maybe he was Irish because he spoke a bit like Tommo’s bricky mates over from Antrim who laboured for envelopes of cash.

“I know,” said Lucius, “make him a Dirty Banana. You do have bananas Eve?”

“Always Lucius. Fresh in today, by the window,” she said pointing, wrist to the ceiling, for Sebastian’s benefit. “Next to the Tia Maria.” She turned and stared deeply at the undernourished boy. Her dark make-up almost disguised the lines around her eyes, and she confidently brushed an imaginary strand of hair from her face.

“Now Gregory,” she breathed, through circean lips, aiming her hand at the youngster, “come hither and sit next to me so we can talk like adults.” 

Lucius nodded and Gregory succumbed. Evelyn looked at Chelsea and said “That will be all girl. Now off with you.”

Chelsea gladly obeyed. She hated intellectuals. She closed the door on the bunch of bloody bookworms, not expecting anyone to leave much before nightfall.

As she left the house she overheard Eve giggling like a schoolgirl and the sound of classical music made up by someone who died about two million years ago. Chelsea lifted her bag of cleaning things over her head, because it was pissing down. She jogged over the gravel, to the west of the house, and the large garage buildings. She crunched to the back and used her new keys to open the door that lead up the narrow steps to the first floor landing. There were two flats over the garages, and flat B accommodated Mr Minge; the Beta male.

Ignoring flat A Chelsea entered Minge man’s private world. She felt strangely excited when she wondered what he’d do if he found her in his lair. She paused in the small hall. To her left was a little bathroom, ahead of her was a spacious living room and to her right was first a small guest bedroom and just beyond that the master bedroom. It was the sought of place that Chelsea dreamt of renting one day.

She thought about a snooze, but could not afford to be docked any more money and ventured hesitantly into the bathroom. Start in the bog and work up from there, at least that’s what her mum always used to say. 

Chelsea yelped when she lifted the toilet seat. Mr Minge had obviously left in a hurry, because a pythonic poo was floating in the bowl like an unexploded torpedo. Obviously Chelsea had seen big poos before, living with three brothers, but this was most unusual. It was at least 11 inches long and had stained the water toffee as it rotted. She tried to flush it away four times before she started retching. The sickly sweet bouquet and the thought of man Minge squatting, underpants round his ankles, squeezing one out, buckled her knees.

“Fuck it,” said Chelsea, deciding to do a light tidy round instead of a proper clean. She tramped through the living room into the kitchen where she got the kettle boiling. Whilst waiting, she took off her tracksuit top because she preferred to work in her bright white vest. It was swollen by her heavy boobs,  and hugged her trim tum like second skin. She pulled a floral bandana from her bag and tied it over her blond hair. As the old fashioned kettle whistled she stood  in her faded jeans like a funky little pirate, with attitude.

Chelsea needed some music to practice singing to and found some CDs. Minge only had three as far as Chelsea could tell.

She examined the first one. Andrew Lloyd Weber: Pan Pipes Album. There was a picture of an elderly man on the back, who must have been a heavy smoker as a boy because the doctors had amputated part of his face. He was left with only his upper jaw and Chelsea felt sorry for him. She knew his suffering after her brush with a dentist, and worried about how he chewed his food. She wanted to give the ugly freak a big cuddle to stop his tears. But he was not there, not in the room, so instead she shuffled the box to the bottom of the pile.

The next CD was by something called E.Y. “Yip” Harburg. Chelsea giggled. She loved the fab names these pop stars thought up. She really needed a stage name. That was what held her back. His album was called Yipsingsharburg. All one word. On the back was another picture of an elderly man. Maybe it was meant to be ironic. Sometimes boy bands used pictures of old people, perhaps to widen their appeal to the mums and grans. Chelsea thought about this for some seconds. Was that right, or had she imagined it, or had Darrell told her? She wasn’t sure and felt uneasy about Yip. If only she had known that he was behind the songs of the Wizard of Oz she may have given it a spin. Sadly little Chelsea was yet to receive her Diploma, and she tossed Yip to the floor. 

The third offering was by a group called Gilbert and Sullivan. She had heard of them. It had been one of her dad’s favourites back when he was around. She remembered the long drive up to Clethorpes as a very young girl for the summer holidays. She felt sad, because the songs were sad, and because she thought that her dad had been a sad man. She clearly remembered that the lead singer looked like a little monk, and the other one looked like he was an ex-smoker who used electric shock treatment to help him quit the evil weed. She also liked the fact that they were just a couple of straight forward northern lads who sang about a funfair up in Scarborough, where she went for a day trip once. Chelsea loved the fair. All that candy floss!

It was make your mind up time. Gilbert and Sullivan were too depressing for a miserable winter’s day, and Yip looked like a child infector. Chels went for the man with half a head. The sympathy vote. She pressed play and waited to experience a piece of Minge life.

The silence was broken gently, by the haunting opening bars of Don’t Cry For Me Argentina. Performed deliciously, and quite literally, by one man and his pan pipes.

Chelsea gurned involuntarily. “Fahkin’ ‘ell!” she cried, hitting stop, forgetting her brew. She popped the radio on instead. Busted. That was more like it.

She discovered the vacuum cleaner in a cupboard and dragged it into the main bedroom that smelt musty, like groin sweat. She opened the curtains, which meant leaning across Mr Minge’s desk. She noticed some writing things and felt obliged to check them out, but got confused by the radio and started singing along about a flux capacitor. Little Chelsea loved to sing, and as a feeling of euphoria overcame her she danced, using the handle of the vacuum cleaner as a prop. She bopped in front of a tall mirror, like in a video or a recording studio. She looked so cool when she screwed her eyes up to fully express the emotion in the lyrics. Her Christmas presents bobbed about, bra-less, her vest tickling her. She pointed at her reflection and squeezed her tits in the way that Darrell liked. She almost popped one out to tease with her tongue, but the song ended, ruining everything. Suddenly she could not be arsed nibbling a nipple, not even her own, and put herself down.

She returned to the desk and picked up a half written letter, even though she had never been too good at reading. This one was really difficult because it was in ink; actual handwriting, all scribbly and ornate, nothing like a text message or the internet.  The literature that she read usually had pictures nearby to help. If the article was about the star of a fitness video on holiday then Chelsea usually recognised the star, and could see the beach, all from the picture. If the person had been in a soap opera 14 years ago and had now put on weight then Chelsea could pick this up from the headline and the photo of a fat baldy bastard. In a way the words didn’t matter. Chelsea got through life just fine without much reading.

But she did want to know what was in the letter and studied it. For a long time. To Chelsea the gist of it was something like;

My darling Charmian,

What is it that I have done that you find so terrible? I think of you always, now more than ever before. I miss you being around, being with me, so much that I cannot function. I am desperately alone and feel such a sense of loss.

I realise that you must find my circumstances very difficult, because of what I did. I cannot explain in words on a page. But really, is it so bad? I am still me.

Even though you do not reply now I hope that I am still in your thoughts, at least some of the time. I promise that you are always in mine. If you need me, whenever you are ready, then I am here waiting for you. I will never question you, or be angry.

I wait for the day that I see your beautiful sparkling eyes again. I pray that it will not be too much longer.

I am with you always…

The dirty bugger, thought Chelsea; Charmian sounded like some high class piece of ass. But how had he pissed her off? He’d probably got two or three Charmians on the go and maybe he got caught out. All  of them after his money no doubt, because as far as Chelsea could tell Mr Minge had fuck all else going for him. But what a soppy fag he was, writing all that hearts and flowers shit. Enough to make any girl run a mile. What he wants to do, if he really wants to see those sparkly eyes again, is to send her some luxuries. Buy his way back into her affection. Handbags, or shoes, or both, or underwear, or makeup or jewels. That would get her hot again. Back in the sack.

“It’s not brain science, fatboy,” said Chelsea out loud.

She was bored of his stupid letter and rooted through the desk, pulling out a wad of paper out for perusal. The top sheet was a list of names, and next to some names there was a phone number. Next to others was an address and most names had random comments. The list was something like:

-Puppy Monroe

19 Caltshot Lane. Giant. Bendy. Black. The ultimate warrior. Nettlebedder.

-Kelly Jayne Maye

Staines. A squirter! Fat. Sweaty.

-Courtney Silver

Twyford. Long journey. Worth it. Black. Hairy++. Fleshy.

-Becky Winters

19 Caltshot Lane. Young+. Filthy. Strange ears. 08323 353169

-Ratvindah Jalswahni

19 Caltshot Lane (Tuesdays)-Black. Big++. Hairy++. A crier.

-Roxie Hsu

Staines-Rinkydinkychinkydo-Noisy. No hair. Has friends.

-Masha Galitsin

Don’t go back. Experimental. God help me.

-Carol Shreves

19 Caltshot Lane-old++. good use of apparatus. Bed wetter. Good language skills.

-Kitty Chow

Injured+.(www.swingalingadingdong.co.uk)

-Aleksandra La Battidorah

Staines-outdoors. Freestyle motocross?? Must try more. Hair.

-Masshumi Shangrila

Slough-Pro-outdoors-groups-the future. Internet (password protected). Wednesdays and Sundays.

-Claudette and Marie-France Trou Collant

19 Caltshot Lane-Double trouble. Outdoors. Hairy. Small++.

-Mallhandrah Kaur Vitale

old++. Basic. No Visa.

Chelsea paused, utterly befuddled. There were pages of this nonsense. 

Who, or what, was a Puppy Monroe? What was all this about strange ears, experimental, outdoors, motocross and good language skills? And this hair thing with all the pluses? He’s a bloody nutter!

As her little brain went haywire she felt a buzzing against her thigh. It was Darrell, so she let the phone buzz on, preferring to snaffle some of Minge’s lists. Even though he made Lucius seem normal, and was probably capable of terrible violence, she was confident that the dummy would never miss a couple of sheets from the middle. Maybe she would show them to Trinity, or maybe even Darrell if he was really lucky.

In the living room she felt cold. It was still raining. She listened to The Ting Ting’s latest release as she neatly folded the lists and slipped them into her cleaning bag. It was almost midday. Five hours to go before she could get home and make her mum some tea before she went on her shift. Chelsea decided to take her new keys home so that her mum could get one of the blokes down the call centre to cut her a set. As she always did. She needed a cuddle and hoped that her brothers would be out on the piss so that she could spend some time with Darrell. She hoped that her dole money had come through so that she would be flush for The Two Twigs after what Evelyn had done to her.

As she stood, alone in the cold room, tired and unfulfilled, she still had hope.