The order from the parents downstairs was greatly unappreciated by the boys, who had been playing a game hide and seek. I slumped down the stairs with the oldest boys, Lee and Blake in front, solemn and respectable. Behind me were Gregg and Joe, clumsiness in their footsteps and with half the grace of their elders.
The only thing that captured our eager senses was the sound of a soft jazz record crackling in the corner and the jug of lemonade set on the coffee table between us, cloudy and clinking with ice. But it was only when my uncle spoke that our glances was set to the mysterious new maid standing before us. Lee and Blake exchanged suspicious eyes, Gregg and Joe rolled their eyes but my eyes were frozen. It was hard to take them off her.
I suppose it was the oddness in her appearance with interested me the most. Her eyes were the first things you saw. Their colour resembled the flesh of a kiwifruit and her hair was its peel, brown and coarse. Like the sky in the morning, her smile was conspicuous yet distant. She waved politely and I saw her hand, those bitten nails that were somehow neat, and the soft peachy colour of her palm and the movement of her fingers that wanted to wrap around my hand and squeeze it to safety. She was introduced to everybody as the new maid, Helen.
When the boys left for a game of pool in the backroom and the Grown-Ups went to the terrace for drinks I followed her to the kitchen, where I sat on a stool at the end of the room and she began to go about making dinner.
She washed, scrubbed, peeled and placed. I watched her get through two chopping board’s worth of diced vegetables in moments, her fingers knowing and fluent. She turned to me every so often, the concentration draining from her face as she wiped carrot peel off her wrists. ‘You enjoy here?’ she asked, some sort of European accent revealed for the first time. Her kindness to me was surprising, but nice. Most maids didn’t even acknowledge me let alone be friendly with me. She commented on the vegetables, how fresh they were, how lucky I was to be able to have them straight from the gardens. I first spoke to her by saying how impressed I was that she had picked them herself. She laughed and lifted me up onto the worktop, where she let me help her with the chicken she was stuffing. I began telling her about different places in the house she should watch out for, like that steep drop on the third floor and the leaky spot in the roof. She laughed and listened and nodded and when all the food was on a tray and in the oven she said ‘tell me more…we go outside… you tell me in beautiful garden.’
And then she made me see why I should enjoy it here. The warmth of a hand curled around mine, and lead me to the garden, told me things. It wasn’t until Helen had been there that I could see that the gardens laid in immaculate rows behind the house were beautiful. That they weren’t only gardens; they were sanctuaries. She showed me the smooth petal of a rose, how it budded and shone under the sun like a gleaming ruby. She talked of the shrubs, young and bursting. She walked with me through the forests, and when she told me to look up I could see the treetops, and the gaps between them, letting the glitter of the sun drip through. We skipped through the vast fields and felt the breeze from the sky, where clouds looked down upon us, pregnant with teardrops.
It made it almost difficult to remember the long, cruel summers I had endured in these very fields. Memories of the overbearing sun were forgotten, the beating and the bashing of the boys were laughed about and cheerfulness was brought out in me.
After dinner I took her to the willow tree, I felt like I shared its height. Looking up to Helen again I saw the turn of her head was sympathetic, the narrowing of her eyes were understanding and the stretch of her smile was reassuring. There was nothing less and nothing more that I needed from the parental role in my case. She stroked my hair, lifted me to the branch, and up we went.
