chapters 8 and 9

A bit more for your pleasure.
xx
chapter 8
Now
Agatha
Agatha stood on top of the kitchen counter hanging on for dear life and cursing herself for wearing a short dress. Her three guests were currently crawling on the floor looking for the mouse that she had seen and Agatha, scared out of her wits, would not come down until it had been taken away. But still…the dress was so short that she had caught Charles in the act of sneaking a glance, then looking away red faced from embarrassment.
   “It’s no good,” Ben sighed, standing up and brushing down his trousers, “I think it’s gone under the cupboards. You may as well come down, it won’t come out again tonight.”
    “I can’t,” Agatha said, “you don’t understand. I’m terrified of them, I’m really quite paralysed with fear right now.”
    “Look it’s alright,” Ben said patiently, “I’ll help you down…let me lift you. I’m stronger than I look.”
    “And I’m heavier than I look,” said Agatha, trying for the second time that night to keep the tears back. “Maybe…maybe you should all just go. We don’t need to do this.”
    “What, and leave you up there for the rest of the night?” This was from Ruby, who was also now standing and leaning against the fridge.
    “I’m fine, really,” said Agatha, trying to stand in a casual way, whilst holding onto her dress with one hand and to the kitchen cupboards with the other. “You just go, and have a nice christmas.”
    Agatha looked down at her guests - Ben who was looking up at her sympathetically, Ruby who was trying not to laugh and Charles who was still on the floor with one arm under the oven, a look of concentration on his face.
    “We’re not going Agatha so either come down here now or I’m going to have to manhandle you, and with the length of that dress I’m not sure you’re going to come away with any dignity,” said Ben with what he hoped was his stern voice.
    Agatha looked down and took a deep breath. She couldn’t hear a squeak and couldn’t see a tail…maybe she should just climb down. She started to lower herself but her foot suddenly slipped from under her and she fell into Ben’s arms clumsily, him only catching her at the last second. He held her there for a moment, Agatha looking into his eyes, until they were interrupted by Charles who stood triumphantly with the wriggling mouse in his hand.
    “Got him,” he exclaimed proudly, dangling the offending creature just inches away from Agatha’s face. She screamed loudly into Ben’s ear, scrambling as fast as she could to get back up onto the counter, which resulted in an elbow into Ruby’s face, a kick into Ben’s groin and a nudge in the way of Charles’ hand which sent the mouse flying into the sink. Charles moved quickly and recaptured the mouse, this time holding it in both hands securely.
    Ben was groaning, bending over and clutching his manhood, and Ruby was cursing a steady stream of expletives whilst tears streamed from her gradually blackening eye. Agatha had run from the room, seeing that as her only way of being protection. She ran and hid in the shoe closet.

Charles
The crazy one had been standing on the kitchen top in her tiny short dress and Charles had been unable to look away. He knew it was wrong and he knew what his mother would say but still…she had good legs. He set himself the easy task of finding the mouse, and shut off all the distractions whilst he felt about under the oven. This he could do…he knew how to catch mice, he was patient and calm and had had plenty of practise. He suddenly felt the warm furry body and as fast as he could wrapped his hand around the tail, and held on tight. He hadn’t anticipated the reaction from Agatha though, resulting in the mouse being knocked out of his hands. Carnage ensued but he managed to grab the mouse again before he scampered off. This night just got weirder.

Ruby
‘Ow, freaking ow’, thought Ruby as she saw stars. Wait, had she spoken out loud? Judging by people’s reactions she had spoken out loud, and had said a lot worse than ‘freaking’.

Ben
‘What was that? That…look.’ Ben was groaning and clutching his balls but he was pleasantly distracted by the way her legs felt in his arms and the way her pretty brown eyes looked into his. He waited for the burning sensation to ease before he went to look for her. But damn he had forgotten how much this could hurt.

Agatha
Agatha ran into her bedroom and shut the door, barricading herself in by moving the chair. She shuddered, unable to get the image of the mouse wriggling in front of her. She felt dirty so stripped down to her underwear, throwing her dress into the corner of the room to deal with later. She ran to the wardrobe and searched quickly for something else to wear. So absorbed was she in finding an outfit that she didn’t hear the knock on the door. The next thing she saw was Ben and Charles bursting into her bedroom, knocking over the chair and standing with their mouths agape at Agatha in just her underwear.

Charles
Charles gulped.

Ruby
Ruby looked through the freezer for a bag of peas and spotted the shelves and shelves of ready meals and tubs of ice cream. ‘Healthy eater’, she thought sarcastically before settling on a bag of sweetcorn.

Ben
“Oh wow…I mean sorry, we were just making sure you were ok, but we can see you’re more than ok, I mean you look great, really great, but not because you’re almost naked, although that’s great too - not that I’m looking because that would be weird, but…ok we’ll just go and leave you to it.” Ben nudged Charles in the stomach and turned. Charles didn’t move so Ben went back and grabbed him by the sleeve. “Sorry again.”

Agatha
‘Will this night ever end,’ she asked herself before settling on a slightly more demure dress which fell below her knees and covered up a good part of her chest. ‘What oh what were you thinking Nan?’ She sighed and decided to face the music, first off readying herself to explain about the mouse thing.

Chapter 9
Four years earlier
Charles sneezed again and blew his nose with the over sized hankie that his mother insisted he carry in his pocket. He had tried to persuade her that he didn’t need hankies any more but she wasn’t one to break with tradition and continued to embroider his initials in the bottom lefthand corner as she had done for his father before him. She came running into the room on the next sneeze and felt his forehead with the back of her hand.
    “Charles darling, you’re all snuffly, you must go to bed.”
    “Oh mummy, stop fussing will you? I must finish these jumpers or they won’t be out by christmas.”
    “No darling, I’m not risking your health. Come on, to bed with you.”
    “NO. Mummy I’m not a little boy any more and I’m not going to die like Daddy and James.” He sneezed again.
    “Well at least let me get you a lemsip, or maybe a few spoonfuls of calpol.”
    “Calpol? Oh please. A lemsip will be fine. Thank you.”
    “Rightio. Though I’ll be back with a thermometer and if your temperature is too high I’ll be calling Dr Sanderson. No arguments.”
    Charles waited until his mother had left the room then put his hand over his forehead, willing the shivering to stop. She simply didn’t understand it - they had no money and if he didn’t complete these christmas jumpers then there would be no goose for christmas lunch, and no christmas presents under the tree.
    He forced himself to continue but knew it was only a matter of time before he’d have to stop. He tried to focus on the last few bits of detail but found himself sitting back in his chair and staring out of the window.
   Charles was a handsome 22 year old with a mop of curly brown hair and dark brown eyes that remained in a furrowed position almost all of the time. He lived with his mother on a grand estate in the beautiful countryside of Surrey, surrounded by fields and farms and picturesque brooks. It had been their family home for many generations, being passed down from son to son. It was a tradition that the Harrington family have sons and this generation had been no different. Unfortunately it had also become a traditon that the Harrington men died young from heart disease, so Charles had grown up without a father since the age of 3. He had had a brother too, James, who had tragically died as a toddler in a car accident. As a result Charles’ mother was very protective and smothering towards her only remaining relative.
    They had a good relationship however, and for the most part Charles was content living in the grand house. But money was scarce and before long they had to face facts that they could not afford to live in the house any longer. The roof was leaking, walls were starting to fall because of damp and bats had moved into the attic, all things they were unable to fix. Charles had spoken to the National Trust and now they had visitors from all over the country traipsing through their home on Tuesdays to Sundays and a lovely tea room in the old stables.
It was not perfect but at least they were left alone at night time.
 Of course, this had meant that all the rooms were maintained by the National Trust, which had only left five rooms available to them - a bedroom each, the kitchen, dining room and one of the drawing rooms, the smaller one that had fantastic light. When visitors arrived they shut themselves in their rooms and kept the curtains closed so nosey old women wouldn’t be tempted to see how the mighty had fallen. Charles didn’t mind it really, he sometimes walked through the gardens to listen to the guests gossip, or just to get fresh air. But his mother had struggled to come to terms with the arrangement, still living for better times when every room was available to her and every room was furnished beautifully.
    Theirs was a weird but wonderful relationship. He had been pampered and spoilt by his mother from the day he was born and there was not a day went by when he did not feel smothered by her. Yet he loved her so unconditionally that all her faults seemed small and inconsequential. He had no social life to speak of, no real job and he did not really know the things that flicked his switch.
    He did love to cook though. He really loved to cook. Many hours were spent in the kitchen tasting, stirring, creating new recipes. He had spent many a night watching cookery programmes with his mother, and such was his brain that he just had to read a recipe once and it stuck in his mind until an opportunity arose for him to try it. His mother found this hugely beneficial as her culinary expertise stopped at being able to cook the perfect boiled egg. They ate like kings every night and his mothers waist line was the proof.
    Charles and his mother had tried their hand at many things - dog training (they had one dog Womack who was old and had no teeth) but people only came with their dogs to nose into the grounds of the house. They had tried clay pigeon shooting lessons but the only people that ever booked was stag parties and they either never showed up or showed up drunk in their onesies, nearly killing each other in the process. They even tried horse riding lessons but they had had to borrow a neighbours horse and it turned out that they didn’t really know much about how to teach people to ride. In fact it turned out that the remaining Harrington family knew very little about anything, and didn’t really like people very much, so after that they decided to start a business in knitting.
    Charles’ mother Suzannah had been trained in knitting back in the day, before she was married and had any prospects. She had learnt from her mother and was actually rather good at it. But when she found, met, and married Charles’ father it was suggested to her that she keep this…gift quiet. In fact she never even mentioned to her husband that she could knit because such a concept was alien to the Harrington family. But when they were resigned to a life of rack and ruin, Suzannah taught her son everything she knew and so they began knitting and selling chrismtas jumpers, just before christmas jumpers became fashionable. Their produce was good quality - Charles had learnt quickly with something of a flair for knitting, and soon their website - the unoriginally named Harrington Christmas Knitwear - was inundated almost throughout the year.
    Charles lay his head down on the table for a moment and rested his eyes. The wood felt cool for his head and in no time he was drifting off to sleep. He was awoken suddenly by his mother who had panicked that he had gone into a coma, and that was that, he was shipped off to bed.
    He couldn’t argue any longer. The orders would have to wait, even though it was their busiest time of the year. He took some paracetemol and crawled under his bed covers, ignoring the distant sound of National Trust visitors and occasional shriek from a fed up child.
    It was a few hours later that he woke up to the sound of raised voices and the smashing of what sounded like glass. His clouded brain took a few moments to register what was happening and he shot out of bed, causing his head to explode in agonising pain. He heard more shouting and made his way in the dark room to the top of the stairs. He glanced at his watch which said 7pm - he had slept for 4 hours - and wondered who his mother could be shouting at. The NT guests would have left and they didn’t have any friends that ever came to visit. As he neared the sound, which was coming from the kitchen he realised that the other voice was a womans, one which sounded similar to his mother. He found himself eavesdropping, something he had never really learnt was wrong.
   “Suzannah, this has gone on long enough. What on earth would Charles say if he knew?”
    “Leave Charles out of this, he must never know. We’re happy like this.”
    Charles frowned, unsure that he was happy, but also unsure that he knew what happiness was. He decided that he would go and find out who the voice belonged to.
   He walked towards the kitchen but stepped on the creaky floorboard in the hall, and suddenly the voices stopped. He thought he could hear a “shhhing” but that could just have been the fuzziness of his head. His mother came running out to meet him before he could reach the kitchen.
   “Charles my love, what are you doing out of bed? Come on, lets get you back upstairs, you need your rest.”
   She tried herding him back towards his room but he kept looking at the kitchen and trying to get past. His mother was a force to be reckoned with and she had made it to the bottom step before he could ask the question “who is in the kitchen?”
    She stopped in her tracks and for a moment Charles thought she would tell him.
   “No-one you daft sausage,” she finally said airily, continuing to push him. But it was too late, he saw the lie in her eyes.
   “Who is it mummy? I heard a smashing sound.”
   “Oh that was just clumsy old me dropping a plate. I was talking to myself like I always do. Come on, up we go.”
   He felt so lightheaded that he thought he would pass out so decided to let his mother put him back in bed after all. His head hit the pillow and he was out cold again, sleeping until the next morning.
   He did not wake as the woman was forced out of his home, he did not wake as his mother slammed the door slightly louder than she had intended, and he did not wake to the sobs of his mother as she cried herself to sleep.

Chapter 10
The next day Charles woke slowly, still feeling rough but feeling better, especially from the amount of sleep. He looked at the clock which said it was already 11 O’clock and pushed himself up in his bed. He needed to get back to the jumpers, some needed finishing but more importantly was the completed orders which needed to be taken to the post office. His mother was something of a recluse and hated going out anywhere…even a short walk to the village was a struggle for her, always feeling like the neighbours were laughing at her, and feeling like the open space was going to collapse on her. So Charles knew that he had to get out of the house, but that he may take some time to manage it.
    They had a car, an old Morris Minor that was kept in the garage, but Charles had never officially learnt how to drive so there it remained, rarely looked at and never used. His mother used to let him take it round the estate before the National Trust came in but now he didn’t touch it as he didn’t like the idea of knocking an old man in his wheelchair over. He enjoyed walking anyway, a trip to the village was a pleasant one and something he looked forward to. If his mother knew anything about couriers though he had a feeling he would never be allowed out of the house - which is why he kept quiet.
   He went downstairs and saw his mother watching a cheap TV christmas movie with dodgy actors and bad sound. He watched her for a moment, wondering how his life had ever ended up this way. When he was at school - the local village school instead of the boarding school his father had intended him to go - his teachers used to praise him and tell him he was destined for great things. He was consistently the top of the class and was considered a bright pupil. Socially he was lacking though and he had almost no friends in the small school where he was considered quiet and boring by the other children. His only friend was a girl who had learning difficulties. She never talked to him about spiderman - which held no interest for him - or asked him to play action man games like the other boys. They would sit without speaking and although Charles knew there was something strange about him he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to be more…normal.
    Watching his mother now though he knew that she was a big part of this. She had refused to send him to school for some time, stating that he didn’t need an education and that the world was too scary for a boy of Charles’ nature. But the authorities didn’t see it that way and so on his sixth birthday he left the house with his trousers out of fashion and too big and walked the half mile to school, his mother crying the whole way.
   She understandably had wanted to keep him safe, having had an awful time losing her husband and her son when they were both so young. Charles had grown up shouldering the responsibility that he must stay fit and healthy, that if he died then his mother would have no-one in the whole wide world. Her parents had died many years ago and she was an only child.
   When his mother finally looked up from her film he noticed a sadness in her eyes that he had not seen for some time. But she blinked and in an instant she had wiped it away with the strong iron will she possessed. She would never let him see her like that if she could help it.
   "How are you feeling my darling?" She exclaimed, standing up and cupping his face in her hands.
   "Much better thanks."
   "Good, good. Sit down and I'll get you breakfast. What do you want, bacon sandwich? Pancakes? Dippy egg with soldiers?" She giggled at the last option, still enjoying the joke they shared.
    "No, I don't want anything. I'm not hungry."
   "Oh my love you must eat," she said, absentmindedly stroking his hair.
   "No, really. I'm about to head to the post office."
   "No, you mustn't. You're not well enough to walk all that way. You should be back in bed."
   "No." He stood up abruptly. "Stop fussing over me mother, I'm not a child."
   She stood back as though he had struck her and kept her eyes low.
   "Who was it that was here last night? Tell me."
   "Honestly love, no one was here. You were hallucinating that's all. It was just me."
    "You're lying."
   "Charles!"
   "You're lying. And I know you are. I know what I heard and you're lying to me."
    She started crying, real tears falling down her cheeks, and she ran out of the room and went up to her bedroom. Angrily Charles stood up and left the house, making sure he slammed the door for effect. Of course, he had to sneak back in quietly when he realised he had forgotten the parcels and his wallet. But hopefully she would never know.

After posting his parcels Charles spent some time in the village, taking his time before he would have to head home and pretend like nothing had happened. Yet another strange event in his life that would remain unmentioned, unavailable to him. First though he would do something he was rarely able to do..,go and have cake at The Pot, the local cafe. Fran and her husband George were well liked in the village, and their cakes and coffee were some of the greatest Charles had ever tasted. In fact on the rare occasion that he went in and allowed himself an indulgence he found himself talking to Fran for hours about lemon drizzle cakes and drop scones. They were kindred spirits and she was one person he allowed himself to be real with.
   George, her husband, tolerated him but only because his wife would give him a look...a look which said 'leave the poor boy alone, what's he ever done to you.' Charles had a feeling that they laughed about him behind his back but she was the only person that made him feel normal, like a human.
    Charles pushed the door and saw with dismay that the cafe was busy and that Fran wasn't even there. George and the local girl were serving people, balancing trays and cleaning tables as soon as they became available. Charles was about to walk back out of the door but he caught the eye of an old lady and felt drawn to her. She nodded her head towards the spare seat at her table and he found himself walking to her, as if she was using magnetic rays to pull him in.
   "Come and sit with me Charlie, I have a spare seat."
   He faltered, nothing like this had ever happened to him before. She seemed safe enough but what would his mother say?
   "Oh come on Charlie, it's high time we spoke. I think there are some things you should know."
   He looked towards the door and back at the woman. He looked at George who had stopped with his arms folded, almost threateningly. He made to leave but then realised something. That voice. Her voice...he had heard it before. It was the voice from the kitchen.

   "Now I'll be having the Chelsea bun because I have a thing for raisins and Fran does make them with an extra helping. What will you be having Charlie?"
    "My name is Charles."
   "I know. But back when I was a young girl there was a boy that looked exactly like you, curls and all, and he liked to be called Charlie. Do you have any objections?"
   Charles thought long and hard. He had been called Charlie in school, and although he had objected to the nickname, back then it had been used with venom from the other school children who used it to taunt him. From this lady it seemed...it felt like she was a kindly relative who had a soft spot for him. But he had never met her before so how could that be?
   "I suppose we could give it a go," he said tentatively.
   "Good," she said, tapping his hand affectionately.
   George chose this moment to come and take their order, worrying no doubt that Charles was somehow mistreating this sweet old lady.
    "Morning George. My usual please. Now what do you want Charlie? I hear the croissants are good this morning."
   "I'm not hungry. I think..,I'll just have a cappuccino."
   George looked at him puzzled.
   "Nothing to eat? But you always have something to eat."
   "I think Charlie has been unwell, he may need to build his appetite back up slowly."
    George shrugged and shuffled away and Charles found himself staring at the woman before him. She looked vaguely familiar but she couldn't think why. Before he could stop himself however, he blurted out "you were in my kitchen last night weren't you?"
   The old lady looked at him long and hard but didn't say anything for some time. Charles felt time ticking away but didn't feel the need to speak or break eye contact with her.  
   George came back noisily with his tray and almost dropped it on the table in front of them.
   "Thank you George, this looks as lovely as always. Is Fran ok?"
   "Oh yes, the sickness is beginning to pass. I'll be glad when she's back on her feet again that's for sure."
   The old lady looked sympathetic and nodded her head.
   "The first trimester is always the hardest George. She'll be right as rain."
   "First trimester?" Asked Charles confused.
   "Yes. We're having a baby."
    "But...but you're too old," Charles blurted out before he realised that this was one of those thoughts that was supposed to stay inside his head.
   George's shoulders raised like the shackles on a cat and his face turned a bright shade of puce.
   "How dare you, you little -"
    "It's alright George come on. It's not like you're a pair of spring chickens is it? What Charlie means to say is congratulations, isn't that right Charlie?"
    Charles, stlll getting used to the way his nickname sounded on him, snapped out of his thoughts and nodded.
   "Yes. Um, congratulations George."
   George looked unsettled but seemed to accept it as he placed the food on the table. He nodded once at Charles before heading back to the kitchen.
   "So you still haven't told me why you were in my kitchen."
   "Well technically you didn't ask why, you just asked if I was. And no, I haven't answered yet, because I'm trying to decide if I should override your mothers wishes to keep it a secret."
    Charles felt as though he needed another sleep. The room started spinning and he gripped the table until his knuckles went white.
   "Oh come on now, don't be so melodramatic," the old lady said rolling her eyes. He snapped his head up to look at her and was so taken aback that he felt the panic dissolve and actually smiled.