Malham was far too small a place for
anything to be kept secret. It was a far-flung village and parish, too far out
to be a post town, its main businesses being its farms, gardens, festivals and
tourism. Everyone knew each other by name or face. Everyone knew about Joan
Tribley’s affair with the baker’s son and about how the Shiptons’ son was not
the wife’s. Everyone knew when there was a visitor or a new tenant in the local
inn. Everyone knew when it was someone’s birthday, or if there was a birth or
death or wedding. But the one major mystery in Malham was the man who lived in Madden
House.
Some folks called him Mister
Havisham. Others called him the local Boo Radley. Nat called him Grandpa.
He had slipped away when his
friends had declared after school that they were going to go out to the tarn to
try and find the monster that lived in it. He had been tempted to join them,
but had quietly asked Dom to cover for him and had escaped the group unseen. He
trudged uphill towards Madden House, scarf wrapped tight around his ears
against the cold wind of the waning autumn.
It was a three-story townhouse
with ivy climbing over the white walls of the façade and lining the curtained
windows. There was a garden out front with Worcester apple trees and Yorkshire
roses lined with carefully arranged flagstones and a cherub fountain. The
garden was immaculate, but strangely lonely, a silent companion to a seemingly
empty house. Only one man was ever seen coming and leaving the estate, James
the Housekeeper, known by no surname. He opened the heavy door when Nat
knocked.
“Evenin’, James,” he greeted,
wiping the mud from his shoes on the mat.
“Good evening, Master Woods,” he
replied, his inscrutable face shifting into a small smile. No matter how much
Nat complained or protested, James never called him by anything less formal.
“The Master has been waiting for you.”
“How is he today?” he asked, shucking off his coat and letting
the housekeeper hang it off a stand.
“A bit better,” the housekeeper
replied. “He managed to finish lunch.”
“That’s good. Did he ask you to
read to him?”
“Yes, we read a chapter of Dickens
today. He may ask you to carry on.”
Nat’s brows rose. “Oh, he spoke to
you? That’s good.”
“Even asked a question, Master
Woods. Come, he has been asking for you.”
Nat followed James the Housekeeper
up the stairs, throwing surreptitious glances around him. He had been coming to
Madden House regularly without the knowledge of his parents or friends for over
four months, but never ceased to be intrigued by the telltale objects that lay
around to give a clue about the mysterious master of the house. Thick
leather-bound tomes lined the bookshelves, untouched by dust, but clearly long
unread. Tiny curios lay strewn here and there: a rosewood crucifix with
mother-of-pearl inlays on a wall, a porcelain angel on a table, an exquisite
ship in a bottle sitting on a mantel, a wooden flute painted with tribal
designs in an open case. They were all clean and tidily kept, all cared for by
the taciturn housekeeper, but all still so oddly lonely, silent residents of a
close-curtained house that told no tales outside its walls.
“Master George has arrived, sir,”
James announced, ushering the boy into a bedroom on the first floor. It was a
large sunny space with a wide window on one side and a roaring fireplace. Nat’s
eyes roved over the ornate grandfather clock and the framed pictures that
littered the mantel. Some of them showed an elegant dark-haired woman at
various ages, one a strapping young man with a dead buck and a shotgun and a
number of them described a smiling boy with dark hair that fluffed oddly in the
front just like Nat’s did.
“Hi, Grandpa,” said Nat with a
wide grin, dropping his satchel onto the thick rug and plopping down on the
armchair situated next to the bed. A man was sitting up in it, dressed in thick
pajamas and propped up on a number of pillows. Wispy strands of white hair
clung to the top of his head and his hands were frail and lined, pale spiders
against the dark red tartan quilt that lay over his legs. He did not look at
the boy immediately, but kept his gaze out the window, staring over the dales.
“It’s real parky outside,” Nat
commented airily, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. “The mates have
gone off to the tarn; mad lot. They say they wanna find the ol’ Malgun monster.
They’re gonna freeze their arses off. Ought to just sit in by a fire with a
nice hot pikelet. Ta, James,” he told the housekeeper as the man placed a tray
of hot crumpets with cream cheese and raspberry jam on the side table, along
with two glasses of warm milk.
“I do believe you’re far too thin
for a boy your age, Master George,” the housekeeper chided quietly.
“You worry too much, James,” Nat
replied with a sideways grin, “and I told you, it’s just George. I’ve known you
all my life.”
“Nevertheless, young master,” said
James relentlessly with a pointed look and a hidden smile. He placed a pill
next to one of the glasses and handed a book to Nat. “The pill is in case your
head aches you too much, sir,” he added, addressing the aged man in the bed,
who had not moved a muscle. “Master George suggested continuing reading from
where we left it this afternoon. If you need anything, do ring for me.” He
inclined his head in a polite gesture and exited the room, leaving the boy
alone with the old man.
“I like ‘Great Expectations’,” Nat
quipped, spreading cream cheese and jam over a crumpet before stuffing half of
it into his mouth. “I read it from the library last week after I found out that
you like Dickens, Grandpa. Miss Havisham is a right old bat, but it’s easy to
feel sorry for her. And I like Pip; decent fellow, if not a bit dumb. It’s
rather silly for a man to moon so madly after a girl. I bet Lia Whitley is
prettier than her, and even so. I know I’d never be so mad. What do you think,
Grandpa?”
Old Madden turned his head and looked
at him with pale eyes that looked sunken in his aged face. Nat kept his smile
up as he swallowed the rest of his crumpet and wiped his fingers on a napkin.
“I bet you’d agree with Pip, eh,
Grandpa?” He ran a finger along the spine of the book, seeking out the embossed
whorls in the leather binding. “You once told me that you called Grandma your
Estella. It sounds a wee bit corny, but she must have liked it.” He fingered
the hem of the dark green ribbon that marked the place in the book. “Are you in
the mood to read a bit more now, or would you like to do something else?”
Madden’s gaze had not left Nat’s
face. He was not unaccustomed to having the old man’s eyes bore so hard into
him. It happened occasionally, on those evenings when Nat came to visit him and
the man looked upon him as if he were a complete stranger. Otherwise, his mouth
would stretch into a smile that was missing two teeth and his eyes would
twinkle like little blue stars. Sometimes he spoke words of affection and
interest in a hoarse, quavering voice. Other times, he laughed at something
funny Nat would say: a thin, shaky sound that sounded half like a cough. If he
did neither and was not in a mood to talk, he’d merely sit and listen with a
smile to whatever stories Nat would tell him about his school and friends.
James said that he was rarely aware anymore, that such moments were so fleeting
that he believed them almost gone.
“Are you thirsty, Grandpa?” asked
Nat, edging forward on his seat and holding up one of the glasses of milk.
“It’ll get cold if you don’t drink it sometime soon.”
Old Madden’s eyes looked like
smooth stones of the palest blue. Lines branched out on the skin around them,
some deep like crevasses, made from age and laughter and weariness, some so
faint that they seemed drawn with a pencil. He glanced at the glass in Nat’s
hand before lightly shaking his head. Nat smiled ruefully; the man needed to
consume something and was stubborn when he refused, but the fact that he gave
any sort of reaction in itself was a good thing.
“Fine then,” he shrugged, setting
it back on the side table next to the table lamp. “James said that you finished
all of lunch today, but you need to eat a bit more if you’re going to keep up your
strength. Maybe when you get a bit better, we can take a walk out to the cove
or we can visit the tarn. I know that I mentioned a monster in it, but that’s
just some silly story the mums around here make up to stop their kids from
going. Not that it really stops us, but it’s really nothing.”
Madden gave no reply, but kept
staring at Nat.
“If you get a lot better soon, I
bet we could even go out onto the water: you, me and James, too, of course.
We’d have to borrow Widow Fisher’s boat and her son, Ned, could take us out. Of
course,” he winced, “she’d have to let us. Widow Fisher doesn’t like me much.”
The man’s gaze was unwavering,
boring into Nat’s face like a pair of lances.
“Vincent Falkner is getting
married next week,” the boy continued to babble, drumming his fingers on the
face of the book. “He’s marrying Sally Taylor. The whole village is abuzz about
it. Sally’s mum has been bustling around with dresses, ribbons and invitations,
yelling at everyone involved in the preparations. Right old harpy, that woman,
but I like Sally. She makes nice pies and always lets me have a piece on the
sly. I don’t know Vincent that well; I only know that he used to be an altar
boy at the church. Apparently, the whole village has been waiting for them to
tie the knot already. If you get a bit more of your strength back, we can all
dress up in our Sunday best and go. It’ll be fun. What do you think, Grandpa?”
Madden’s eyes roved over Nat’s
face in a strange way that made him oddly uncomfortable. He had been visiting
for a long time, but the man had never stared at him in such a penetrating way.
“What’s your name, boy?”
Nat blinked, frozen. He had only
ever heard old Albert Madden speak a handful of times, all times speaking fond
words in a wheezing voice that was heavily unused. This time, there was no
trace of the familiar fondness and his tone rang with clarity.
“George Madden.” Nat laughed
nervously. “That was your Papa’s name; you named me. Don’t you know me,
Grandpa?”
Madden’s face was not the gentle
aged face that Nat had become used to. It wore the hard expression of a
stranger whom he had never before set eyes on. The old man shook his head and
coughed; the action seemed to cost him so much strength. Nat nearly jumped out
of his chair to ease Madden into his pillows and push a glass of water to his
thin lips, but his wariness kept him frozen. His eyes flicked momentarily to
the rope of the bell at the side of the bed.
“My grandson died of pox years
ago, taking with him my name,” Madden spoke. His tone was hoarse, the words
spoken without any emotion. “What is your name?” he repeated. A hard frown
creased his brow, deepening the thin lines around his eyes. “And speak the
truth, boy. I’m not always a doddery old fool.”
Albert Madden’s eyes were sharp
and clear, unlike the haziness that usually permeated them. Nat stared in shock
and fear, unsure of how to reply. How could he break the truth to a man who had
called him by another name for so long, simply because he coincidentally
resembled a dead boy whom he had doted upon? How could he lie to the mild old
man whom he had tended to, read to and cared for every day for the past four
months?
“N-Nathaniel,” he stammered. His
hands trembled as they clenched the expensive upholstery of the armchair. “Nathaniel
Woods.”
Madden stared at him for a moment
longer, as if screening him for any sign of a falsehood. He turned away and
leaned back into his pillows, closing his eyes tiredly.
“Nathaniel Woods,” he murmured. Nat
remained fearfully motionless, wondering wildly if Albert Madden was going to
forget about his real name or punish him for his lies. A moment later, he heard
a soft snore as the old man exhaled in his sleep, his breath rustling the hairs
of his sparse white moustache and beard. Suddenly terrified, he dropped the
elegant copy of ‘Great Expectations’ on the floor, grabbed his satchel and
sprinted out the door, snatching up his coat and scarf and ignoring James’s
startled shout.
A week passed after Madden’s
questions, during which Nat did not dare to return for fear of rejection or
punishment. He spent his evenings with his friends, attended Sally Taylor’s
wedding and fixed the broken chain on his bicycle, staying as far away from
Madden House as possible. He was almost becoming used to the change in routine
when James the Housekeeper came to his house dressed in a crisp black suit and
accompanied by a lawyer. Nat barely heard any of his mother’s gasps and his
father’s exclamations when James, now named James Browning, informed them about
Nat’s relationship with Albert Madden and announced gravely that the old man
had died in his sleep.
“In his last words, he had asked
for George,” he added, glancing at Nat’s stricken face. His tone was in no way
accusing, nor was it sympathetic. Nat wondered quietly if James the Housekeeper
had any emotions or any other purpose in life besides serving Albert Madden.
When the lawyer read out the
testament, the words ‘old friend of nobility’, ‘Duke of York’, ‘estate and
belongings’ and ‘left to Nathaniel Woods’ swam around in his mind, but Nat
could only think of the lonely old man with a failing memory, a wheezing laugh
and a kind, lined face, the man who had called him grandson. When James reached
into a bag and handed him the fine leather-bound copy of ‘Great Expectations’,
Nat opened it to where the green ribbon marked its place and began to read
aloud.
