Thank you for the lovely reviews! I wasn't expecting such positive feedback! :) Really glad you guys are enjoying my story :) I'll be updating less regularly from now on because I'm getting a bit of writer's block, but hopefully not for too long! Anyway, enjoy :)
Chapter Four.
Many days passed with the same rhythm, though Alfred avoided asking anything he shouldn't: Instead, he became more observant, looking for changes in expression or whispered words that might give him a clue as to what on Earth was going on in the house. However, much to his chagrin, he heard absolutely nothing. To make things worse, Arthur avoided him like the plague, always slipping away before Alfred could so much as look at him.
On Saturday morning, the American woke to find the Sun shining through his dark red curtains, highlighting the motes that drifted lazily in the still air of the room. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned loudly, wondering what the time was, and why he hadn't been woken early like all the mornings before. He gently slipped the cover off himself and placed his feet onto the rug by the bed. It looked to be handmade, his mind told him sleepily. For the first time since his arrival, he wondered briefly who had made it. As he placed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and peered around the dim room, it occurred to him that he hadn't really explored yet, since he hadn't been given the time to do so.
And if there was anything that Alfred loved, it was exploring.
And hamburgers, but that wasn't relevant.
With newfound excitement, he padded softly over to the small wooden desk on the other side of the room; upon closer inspection, Alfred saw that it was worn and battered, but the wood from which it was made still held a beautiful golden colour and the knots within the thick panels added to its rustic charm. Alfred's hand went out instinctively to the handle of one of the six drawers that lay beneath the desk top. He felt the excitement build within him as his fingers came into contact with the cold metal handle: With a quiet determination, he pulled it open gently to reveal…
A pile of books.
Alfred huffed in disappointment- he'd hoped for something way more interesting! Well, these would have to do, he thought, and he quickly set about removing the books from the top drawer; they were all classic novels, he noticed, and pretty hefty too- someone in the house was clearly into reading. He flipped through them, hoping to find anything of interest between the pages- a photo perhaps, or a secret love note. But he found nothing.
It was at that very moment that someone knocked on the door; Alfred jumped and the book began to slip from his loosened grip. He juggled with it for a few seconds, and miraculously managed to keep hold of it so that it did not fall to the wooden floor below and arouse suspicion.
"Alfred, are you up yet?" The voice was Fleta's.
"Yeah, hang on a second!" Alfred called back in the most nonchalant tone he could muster. He wasn't sure why he felt as if he was doing something bad- after all, this was his room now! Yes! He could explore if he darn well wanted to! Alfred mentally made a note to continue searching for hidden treasure that evening as he gently replaced the books and closed the drawer before tip toeing over to the heavy oak door to his room.
As he opened it, he was met with Fleta's smiling face. "Hello Alfred!" She chirped, "We thought we'd let you have a lie-in; this week has been a little brutal for you, I think!" Alfred nodded vigorously at this, making Fleta chuckle gently.
"Don't worry, you'll be helping me today!" Alfred had to stop his face from falling- he didn't want to help with cooking! He sucked at it and it was super boring! Fleta seemed to pick up on his disappointment, because she shook her head and, as if reading his thoughts, she continued, "We're not cooking yet- I thought you might want to pop to town to help me with groceries".
At this, Alfred perked up considerably; there was a town nearby? What a relief! He had been worried that he would not encounter any other civilisation in his whole stay at the Kirkland cottage. It almost felt as if the family lived in a dimension that was completely and utterly void of other human beings…
Once Alfred was washed and dressed, he came downstairs to find the house surprisingly silent. Looking around, he couldn't see anyone, save himself and Fleta, who was humming gently as she prepared his breakfast in the kitchen.
He perked his ears: Still nothing.
Then a thought struck him, and he headed to one of the small windows through which the open fields of barley could be seen. Sure enough, if Alfred squinted hard enough he could just about see figures in the distance, clearly hard at work with machinery and tools. He shook his head in disbelief. These people never rest! he thought to himself as he sat down at the strangely empty dining table.
The ride to town was bumpy in the rusty blue truck, since the trail up to the cottage was little more than a stony, muddy slope. Alfred felt that the possibility of vomiting all over the inside of the old vehicle was becoming more and more likely, and was relieved when they reached the paved road to town with his dignity still intact.
As Fleta spoke of the animals and plants that could be found in North Yorkshire, Alfred had his nose glued to the window as he watched the countryside go by; on his first journey to the cottage, what with the horrendous weather and equally awful taxi ride, he hadn't truly appreciated just how beautiful the scenery was. The landscape was devoid of houses, save for the odd farmhouse and barn; for the rest of the time, the only thing visible was vast stretches of what Fleta called 'heathland'. Swathes of purple flowers and tall, golden grass with the occasional windswept, gnarled tree. It was almost hostile, but Alfred found it tremendously beautiful. The emptiness made him feel calm- it was a world away from the hustle and bustle of New York, with its continuous flow of traffic and the hum of electric lights lining the skyscrapers above. He wound down the stiff window to let the crisp, fresh breeze smother his senses as he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
This was heaven.
Alfred found that he was almost sad when a cluster of buildings came into view ahead, but the feeling quickly vanished as he excitedly imagined what he would find there: Was it big? Were there sweet shops? He wondered if he could get souvenirs for his dad.
Unfortunately, Alfred quickly realised that he had vastly overestimated what 'town' meant to Fleta. As they pulled up, the American gazed around avidly, only to see that this was little more than a village market.
In the middle of nowhere.
Never mind, he thought solemnly, I'm sure this'll be fun.
"We're here!" Fleta announced, as if the fact that she had parked up and was in the process of getting out of the truck did not give that fact away.
Alfred jumped out too and was handed several fabric bags. "I hope you don't mind carrying a little" Fleta had told him, "because there'll be too much for me to carry by myself!"
"It's ok, I'll help as much as I can Mrs. Kirkland!" Alfred beamed. The older woman blinked in surprise, then chuckled and ruffled Alfred's hair. "Call me Fleta!" She chided jokingly as they crossed the street to the market stands ahead.
For what felt like the millionth time during his short stay, Alfred found the sights surrounding him oddly alien and new; this market wasn't like the huge, writhing high streets of New York, nor like the indoor kerfuffle of the Chinese markets in Chinatown. Instead, it seemed to Alfred very quaint and dainty: the market consisted of a considerable row of stands, each sheltered by a canvas roof and lined with coloured bunting that fluttered gently in the crisp breeze cruising off the hills around them. The stands themselves were covered with a multitude of grown goods: Huge, red apples with the leafy stems still attached; a strange plant that looked a little like rhubarb (which Alfred was later told was called chard); little tubs of basil, fennel, parsley and coriander; strangely shaped carrots; freshly cut corn; blackberries; gooseberries…. The list went on and on. Alfred didn't even know what half of the displayed foods were, and he cursed his addiction to fast food and his ignorance to homegrown goods. Fleta, however, seemed to come into her own as she passed each stand, chatting easily to each owner about everything and nothing all at the same time- how the harvest had been, how the kids were, and oh! How nice the beetroots looked this year.
Alfred was whisked along, his mind trying desperately to take in the words that were flying around him and the new atmosphere that enveloped him as they continued. He enjoyed it, he decided; though it was totally foreign to what he knew and loved, Alfred felt that the whole experience was friendly, comforting almost. He quickly settled into the routine of opening the fabric bags for Fleta to place newly-purchased fruit and vegetables into. The American noted as the conversations around him continued that the people here, much like Mr. Kirkland, had strong, rich accents that rounded the syllables of every word in a way that was somewhat pleasant on the ears. Fleta, on the other hand, possessed a clear, well pronounced British accent that stood out in both its tone and flow. Alfred briefly wondered where she was from.
After a while, he noticed that they were approaching the last of the stands. It was not especially interesting with it's red, blue and white bunting lining the front of its wooden structure. Behind the trays of cheese and whole beetroots laid out on display a blonde, busty woman was staring at Alfred and Fleta with a look in her piercing blue eyes that Alfred couldn't quite place. It looked almost like… Resentment? Anger? Alfred searched for the right word as they approached, but he became distracted when he noticed Fleta's shoulders stiffen- it was very slight, almost unnoticeable really, but Alfred sensed himself becoming slightly anxious too, though the reason escaped him completely. Fleta seemed to change in that moment- her aura of friendliness dissipated and was replaced instead by a cold indifference. She eyed the cheeses with the scrutiny of a competition judge, then lifted her head to look at the blonde, who was eyeing her suspiciously. Fleta's eyes widened as if she'd only just noticed the other woman, and a plastic smile spread on her lips like a mask.
"Why hello there Melissa! How nice to see you again. Your cheeses look delightful" The words held a strange lilt to them that felt forced in every sense. Alfred cringed a little and kept his eyes down. The other woman, however, took the same method:
"Good day to you too Fleta," She simpered in a sickly-sweet tone, "how are the children?"
"Oh, they're very well, thank you for asking"
"Oh good. And what about Arthur? How is he?" Fleta's jaw visibly tightened. "He's doing great" She snapped flatly at the blonde before placing an arm on Alfred's shoulder and pulling him forwards rather more briskly than Alfred was prepared for.
"This is Alfred- he'll be staying with us for a while since his father is doing important business in his large company. in America".
The woman's whole demeanour changed upon hearing this and she suddenly smiled a large, toothy smile (which Alfred supposed was an attempt to be sexy) and leaned over the stand so that her breasts practically popped out of her low-cut blue top. Alfred tried his best to hide his disgust as he smiled and said just what a pleasure it was to meet her. This appeared to be a satisfactory response, because the blonde flipped her curly hair over her shoulder and laughed; it was probably supposed to sound bubbly and fun, but it came out a little whiny and close to hysterical. Fleta nodded a goodbye and they began to walk down the street to the permanent shops residing further on. But the woman suddenly called out to them, and with a loud sigh, Fleta turned her head and openly glared.
"Just to let you know" she paused for effect then continued; "rumour has it that the caravans are coming by again".
Alfred scrunched his brow in confusion- caravans? What did she mean? Perhaps a circus? But why on Earth would Fleta care about a circus?
It was a few moments later that Alfred noticed just how still Fleta had become; he turned his gaze on her only to find that her eyes had become glazed and distant.
He wasn't sure what do: Hell, he didn't even know what the two women were on about!
Tentatively, he placed his hand on her shoulder. At the sudden contact, she flinched visibly and snapped out of her trance-like state to stare in obvious confusion at the American beside her. She quickly tried to hide her strange behaviour by smiling reassuringly, but her lips trembled as they had when she'd talked to Alfred in the hallway and her eyes didn't focus on him. She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed it tightly.
"come on Alfred, let's go home" Alfred nodded dumbly and allowed himself to be whisked passed the stands at a cracking pace. As Alfred glanced back behind him, he caught the gaze of the blonde woman- Melissa- once again.
And in that moment, the sentiment hidden in her eyes became so clear it was almost radiating from her entire being:
She stared at them with utter, unadulterated disgust.
Alfred swallowed nervously and turned away from her, an uncomfortable swell of unknown emotions erupting within his body as he climbed into the truck once more.
The ride home was distressingly silent; Fleta gripped the steering wheel as if her life depended on it and her vivid blue eyes stayed glued to the road. Meanwhile, Alfred squirmed in his seat in his efforts to contain the multitude of questions that choked up his spinning mind.
What on earth was going on?
Alfred knew that he wasn't the brightest kid on the block, but something was wrong here- very wrong. From the moment he'd stepped into the Kirkland household, Alfred realised, something had been slightly off with the family. At this sudden realisation he felt himself shudder involuntarily.
He glanced sideways at Fleta, noting that her posture appeared a little more relaxed than earlier, though her eyes were still vacant and unseeing.
Alfred licked his lips nervously, mustering up the courage to ask one of the many questions that were threatening to spill from his dry lips.
"Um… Fleta?" The woman flinched and turned her head towards him- for a millisecond, her eyes widened, as if she had completely forgotten about the presence of the American in her truck, but she quickly recovered and forced a small, shaky smile onto her face.
"Sorry Alfred, I was just… Concentrating on the road" She licked her lips nervously; "Did you have a question?"
Alfred squirmed in his seat, debating as to whether or not it would be appropriate to confront the already shaken woman about the scene that had played out just minutes before. As per usual, his curiosity outweighed his politeness and his brow knitted itself into a confused frown.
"uh, yeah…. What was that all about? Back there in the market I mean. What was she on about?" Alfred gestured hopelessly with his hands, hoping that Fleta would cut in with a totally obvious answer that would set everything straight and remove the strange twisting feeling that was wrapping his gut with unease.
But Fleta stayed silent. After what felt like an eternity, Alfred was just about ready to excuse himself and tell her to forget he'd ever asked anything when she cleared her throat quietly. Alfred watched her intently, swallowing the lump in his own throat as he waited with baited breath.
Fleta sighed heavily as she glanced at the blonde beside her, and Alfred was bewildered to see a strange sort of sadness radiating from her moist blue eyes as she did so.
"Listen, Alfred… There's a lot that you don't know about us" she began, her voice low and secretive, as if others could possibly be overhearing their private utterings: "That woman doesn't like us because of something that happened a long time ago—but you mustn't take any notice!" She glanced at Alfred once again before continuing.
"What happened back then is history; she's just a bitter woman who likes to put others down. Don't worry about it, ok?"
Alfred nodded dumbly, but his mind was in a frenzy—
Why didn't she like the family?
What exactly had happened 'in the past'?
Fleta's answer had been too vague for his liking, but Alfred didn't want to push it further; after all, he still didn't know the Kirklands terribly well, and getting along with them had to be a priority.
"When we get back, I'll show you how to make Yorkshire puddings! They're also very traditional" Fleta chirped suddenly, making Alfred jump. Within a split second, her mood had altered totally, as if the recent exchange was nothing but a dream. She began chatting happily to the bemused American, and soon he too found himself back to his usual, high-spirited self. The niggling feeling at the back of his mind did not leave him however, even as he cooked alongside Fleta and tried to concentrate on her precise instructions for the meal, rather than the growing unease that had begun to grow unnoticed within him.