Chains in Mind Read online

  “There’s a bucket and some rags in the boot,” she told him. “Here’s the boot key.” The key she gave him clearly opened the boot only: a security feature: she didn’t need to entrust him with the proper key.

  He did the best job he could, taking most of the hour: he didn’t have any lunch to go for, in any case. Hunger was making him feel tired, making the job much more exhausting. He took the key back to her in the cafeteria, where she was sitting with Margaret and Sophie, laughing and chatting over coffee.

  He approached her awkwardly, waiting for a gap in the ladies’ conversation. They could see him standing there, but they let him wait for a couple of minutes.

  “Finished, have you?” Christine asked, at last. “Is it gleaming?” The other two women smirked.

  “Yes, Christine.” He wanted to sink through the floor. He handed her the key, and waited for payment. She rooted around in her capacious handbag, and came up with a pound bag of peanuts.

  “What’s this?” he asked, confused.

  She looked offended at his surprise. “I said I’d keep you. Here’s your food for the day. Very nutritious: peanuts are. So long as they’re unsalted, like these.”

  “But, I ..., I ...” He couldn’t think what to do. She hadn’t broken her word. He needed to eat. He hadn’t any money. “Uh, thank you, Christine.”

  She smiled. “You’re welcome. Come over to the flat for eight in the morning, and I’ll have something else for you. Oh, and Simon,”

  “Yes?”

  “Do try and get that contract report in my in-tray any time today, so I can read it on Monday. I would have thought even you could manage that.”

  “Yes, Christine.”

  Christine, he noticed, left at about half-four; going shopping, he suspected. Simon finished the report at about nine o’clock. He put it in the in-tray that sat outside her locked office, and trudged home through the dark autumn evening.

  The bedsit didn’t have a television: none of the four of them could afford the licence, and Liz Stewart, their bossy young landlord, had warned them she would report them if she found an unlicensed one on one of her frequent inspections. Simon shared some of his peanuts: the other guys - from other departments - weren’t in much better shape than him, and none of them had a manager taking a special interest, as Christine seemed to do. He sat slumped in one of the dingy, broken, armchairs, and stared into space. They didn’t talk much: they had nothing cheering to say to each other.

  In the morning, he breakfasted on the last of the peanuts - he was already sick of them, but there was nothing else - and walked the four miles to his old flat. Christine, her hair tousled, yawning, let him in, wearing pale yellow satin pyjamas. She was pale, and wincing at the daylight. Obviously a bit of a hangover. Still, she looked ravishing, standing there in her bare feet.

  “Oh, Simon,” she said. She moved back to let him come in and shut the door behind him. She looked at him, in a bit of a daze, blinking. The flat looked very much as he had left it: she had put up her own ornaments and pictures, but she hadn’t redecorated. Nevertheless, those few possessions had given the place a feminine feel. He felt almost like an intruder.

  “I’m going back to bed,” she told him. “Just clean the kitchen and the bathroom, thoroughly.” She turned away from him and stumbled away from him back towards the master bedroom. “And silently,” she added, without looking round.

  He went to the kitchen that used to be his. It was a tip: worse than he had ever left it. Christine must have just stopped washing up about three days ago. Perhaps she had already been planning that he would be round to clear up. Streaks of some kind of tomato-based cooking sauce were all over the stove and the worktop. Vegetable peelings were sitting in the sink, and dirty crockery and saucepans covered most of the available surfaces.

  He sighed. He was tired because he was hungry, and he was tired because he was working fourteen-hour days at the office, and he was tired because he was depressed, because his life was going down the drain and he didn’t know what to do about it. He wished he could focus, get a grip, make a plan, but somehow his mind wouldn’t deal with the problem. This in front of him, however, he knew how to handle. He rolled up his sleeves and set to work, taking care not to clatter the crockery.

  The fridge and the oven both needed cleaning, and he did them. He thought he’d finished when he realised that he’d forgotten the floor, which was splattered with spots of dried gravy, a little spill of instant coffee granules, and a dusting of flour, as well as a generally grimy look. Christine didn’t seem to have a long-handled mop, so he had to get down on his hands and knees with a cloth and a bucket.

  In everything he did, he worried about how it was going to be judged. When he - or most people, he thought - cleaned things for themselves, then it was just a perfectly adequate general effort; but if you went round afterwards with a really critical attitude, then you would still find little streaks in the hard-to-reach places: the crevice where a tap meets the sink-top, for example; or you’d find a greasy deposit around the screw that held the saucepan handle to the saucepan, where a finger couldn’t reach, that could only be dug out with a sharp-pointed knife; or the grill pan would still have stubborn burnt-on spots that you could only see if you held it to the light at just the right angle.

  It was horribly humiliating to be doing Christine’s housework, but it would be even worse if she rejected his efforts, and made him do it again: he worked obsessively, to put his work beyond criticism. He had never seen an old roasting tin, in any house, which had been scrubbed with wire wool sufficiently to remove all stains, and leave it gleaming like new, but he did it.

  The bathroom was less obviously filthy. He tidied up the various bottles of perfume and cosmetics and so forth that Christine had left about, and scrubbed until the surfaces shone. He cleaned the lavatory. When he had finished, he stood and put a hand to the small of his back as he stretched. His thoroughness had taken a lot of time: it was coming up to eleven, and he’d been working for three hours.

  At last, he heard movement; Christine surfaced, looking better, wearing a matching dressing gown over her pyjamas. Her pretty feet were still bare as she padded over the carpet. He had always liked the deep pile, the luxurious feel, of that carpet, but it wasn’t his anymore.

  Christine brushed past him, into the kitchen and looked around. She looked in the oven, and pulled out the fridge to inspect the space behind it. Fortunately, Simon had scrubbed there, too. She looked, and said nothing about it.

  “Okay, Simon,” she said at last, “make me a coffee, and a poached egg on toast; I like the yolk still runny.”

  He opened and shut his mouth.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Well, I’ve done all this work. I thought you were going to pay me. Or something.”

  Christine sighed: “Look, you need feeding every day of the week, yes? But you have more time on the weekends, yes? So you will work here all day, and if I’m satisfied, then I’ll give you something to eat this evening.” She gave him a look that gave nothing away. “Take it or leave it.”

  Simon bit his lip: “Yes, Christine.”

  “Well don’t just stand there: get into the kitchen, boy.”

  Christine had a leisurely breakfast - or brunch - at the table by the picture window in the lounge, looking out over the city. After Simon had served her, she set him to doing her washing, sorting out her dirty clothes from the basket, and putting loads in the machine. She showered and dressed.

  “I’m going out.” she told him, “so you can vacuum the flat while I’m not here - because that’s noisy - and then clean the windows, and polish the furniture, and then start the ironing.” Her eyes were bright with delight, as she listed the chores for him. Simon did as he was told. The vacuum cleaner was a cylinder type, that sat on the floor as one vacuumed with the brush; but the rigid tube sect
ion, that one could use as a handle while standing upright, seemed to be missing. He hunted for it, but it wasn’t anywhere in the flat. Simon had never seen a vacuum without one, so he suspected that Christine must have got rid of it on purpose: it meant that the little brush fitted straight onto the flexible tube, and the only way to use it was to get down on hands and knees, as if brushing the carpet by hand. It took longer, but it was perhaps more thorough. It was also humiliating, if anyone had been watching, which might have been the point.

  Around four, Christine came back. Simon was still ironing. He had done her underwear a little earlier. It was a strange feeling: a mixture of excitement at the flimsy, lacy, scraps of material; and humiliation, because he wasn’t handling them as he undressed a girl, but doing her intimate chores, while she did something more fun, somewhere else.

  She had a number of shopping bags; one of them obviously contained a new pair of shoes, but the rest were from the supermarket: that is, from the upmarket supermarket that Simon hadn’t been able to afford for four months. Behind her came another woman, a blonde. She was very young, and dressed in a designer tee-shirt, figure-hugging white jeans, and strappy sandals with high heels. Despite her age and dress, she looked haughty, and used to command, like an old-fashioned aristocrat. Christine dumped the food on the kitchen worktop.

  “Simon, put this stuff away.”

  “Yes, Christine.”

  The other woman spoke up: “You let him use your first name?”

  Christine shrugged.

  “Well,” her friend said, “it’s up to you, but I wouldn’t dream of letting the domestic help use my first name.”

  Christine looked unsure. Clearly she valued her friend’s opinion.

  “Well, anyway,” she said, “Simon, this is Ms. Denton. We’ll have tea in the lounge.” She turned to her friend for reassurance that she had struck the right tone, and the two ladies smiled at each other. They went through together into the other room.

  Simon made a pot of tea, and put away the shopping. He took a tray through to the ladies. Christine was trying on her new shoes - strappy sandals of burgundy red leather, with an ankle buckle and high heels - while Ms. Denton made admiring noises.

  “Susan, you are staying for dinner, aren’t you?” Christine asked

  “Oh, of course, I’d love to.”

  “Right. Simon, that means there will be four of us. We’ll have the chicken paté with thin toast for a starter, and then the salmon with boiled potatoes and asparagus. Think you can manage that?”

  Simon looked surprised, and then unsure.

  “Well,” Christine said, “there’s a recipe book on the shelf by the stove. Bring it.”

  He did as he was told, and Christine pointed out a page on boiling asparagus, and one on cooking salmon.

  “There:” she said, “like that. Everything else is obvious. You can just serve the cheesecake I bought, for sweet. And don’t forget to chill the wine.”

  Simon retreated to the kitchen. He read the recipes through, to check when things needed to be started. Actually, she was right: the cooking wasn’t difficult: Christine had bought the paté ready-made, for example, and the hollandaise sauce for the fish. All he had to do was boil the vegetables, and heat things up. He realised he didn’t know when they wanted to eat, so he had to go back to the ladies to find out. Seven o’clock. He had time to finish the ironing.

  In fact, he had a lot more time than that. After he had taken the piles of clean laundry back to the airing cupboard, and to Christine’s wardrobe, he still had masses of time. He stood in the kitchen, uncertainly. There was no stool. Four months ago, even two months ago, he would have joined the ladies in the lounge without a second thought. It was different now, though. They wouldn’t accept him sitting with them. And he didn’t really want to go to them, anyway: Christine would probably just find him some more work to do. He sat on the kitchen floor, his hands on his knees, his back against one of the fitted units, and rested.

  Margaret and Sophie, from work, turned out to be the other two guests for dinner. They screeched with laughter when he emerged from the kitchen to serve the first course.

  “Oh, it’s Simon!” Margaret exclaimed. “Hello, Simon. Has Christine got you house-trained, now?”

  He shot a glance at his employer.

  “I, uh, I’m helping out,” he said, lamely, turning crimson.

  “You’re working for me in domestic service,” Christine corrected.

  He said nothing, placing the first course in front of each diner, keeping his eyes down. As he stood beside Sophie’s seat, she goosed him, grabbing his crotch from behind with her whole hand and pulling upwards, her nails digging in. He jumped and gave a little yell, twisting to look at her with shock: Sophie used to be such a quiet little thing. She blew him a mocking kiss, and the other women laughed at his expression. He clenched his jaw. There was nothing he could do. He poured the wine.

  At the end of the meal, he served coffee, and got on with the washing up. He hadn’t finished when Christine shouted for him. He went through, drying his hands.

  “Yes, Christine?” It was easier, emotionally, if he just accepted it: he was a servant. Christine was looking at Ms. Denton, looking unconvinced but tempted.

  “You really think so, Susan?”

  “Sure,” Ms. Denton coaxed. “It’ll be fun. Really. You know you want to.”

  “Well, okay.” Christine turned to him. “Simon, where are the scraps from our plates?”

  “Uh, in the kitchen bin, Christine.”

  “Well, get them out and put them in a bowl, and bring it out here.”

  Simon had a dawning suspicion, but no, she couldn’t, could she? Luckily, while cleaning the kitchen he had put a fresh, clean, liner in the bin, and there was nothing else in there. He took out some half-eaten toast, and fish skins, and the tough base of the asparagus stalks, and some crumbs of cheesecake, and a couple of cold potatoes. It made a bowlful. He took it to the lounge.

  Christine smiled broadly, in fact all the ladies seemed amused, as they sat in the comfortable easy chairs around the coffee table.

  “Put it down on the rug,” she told him. “Good, now you can eat it. That’s your dinner.”

  Yup, that’s what he’d thought. His face crumpled. But he was so hungry. And he needed her: he didn’t know how to survive if she dropped him.

  “Please, Christine.” There were tears in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Not like this,” he whispered.

  Christine set her mouth. “This is what I’m giving you. Take it or leave it.”

  Unstrung, he dropped to his knees, and then down to the floor, looking round at the semicircle of faces. He was the entertainment, and they were enjoying the show. He began eating the scraps with his fingers. Hunger improved the taste enormously, even the fish skins. He finished by wiping up the cold, congealed, sauce, and sucking it off his fingers. All the ladies smiled in triumph. Susan Denton looked calculating, appraising; the other three looked thrillingly, delightfully, scandalised.

  Christine, smirking, dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and he went back to finish the washing-up, and then sit on the kitchen floor until called upon.

  “Thank-you so much for dinner, Christine,” Margaret said, as Simon helped her on with her coat, “and Simon, it’s lovely to see you ...” - she paused for effect - “so domesticated.” She laughed, and he blushed again. She smacked him on the bottom, getting her whole arm behind the swing. He gasped, but managed to avoid crying out. All the ladies laughed.

  “Be a good boy, for Christine,” Sophie said, and smiled sweetly. She sniggered, and followed her friend out of the apartment. Ms. Denton looked quietly pleased at how things had gone, as she also took her leave.

  Christine let Simon go home straight afterwards, telling him to be back by
eight in the morning. He plodded back to the bedsit and his bunk, defeated. He didn’t want to speak to the other guys, didn’t want to meet their eyes.

  Sunday was a bit easier. Christine let him in and then made him bring her breakfast in bed; she sent him out to the newsagent for the paper - she had an account, so she didn’t need to let him handle money. After a lie-in and a leisurely shower, she fed him, letting him boil up one huge potato and a whole cabbage that she had bought specially for him.

  She gave him the key to the car, and got him to vacuum and brush and polish the interior. Then he made her a light lunch. After washing up, he approached her, hopefully.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Uh, could I have some lunch, please?”

  She frowned. “No, no: two meals a day is fine for you. I don’t mean you get less; I just mean it’s better divided into two portions a day, not three, so it doesn’t distract you from your duties during the day. Susan says males have bigger stomachs - they’re designed to hold food for longer.”

  He clenched his jaw. It was true that actually he still felt a bit bloated from the potato and cabbage, but he also felt hungry because it was lunchtime. Maybe that was just habit, and he could learn differently. Maybe he would have to.

  In the afternoon, Christine went out for a drive, after setting him to turning out the kitchen cupboards and cleaning them. When she got back, he served her tea, and then he had to press her skirts and dresses - virtually her whole wardrobe, using a hot iron and a damp cloth. It took hours.

  In the early evening she gave him an orange that was just beginning to grow a blue mould on the skin, and half a bag of peanuts, and let him go. He felt empty. Physically tired, yes, but also emotionally drained. He realised that he was beginning to accept his new status. He couldn’t fight it: he no longer knew how.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Simon, come to my office please.”

  Christine called him on the intercom at about eleven thirty on Monday morning - two hours after she had got to work, four and a half hours after he had. Time enough for her to read her e-mail, and read his report. It wasn’t great, he knew that, and he couldn’t seem to think how to put a good gloss on it: it wouldn’t have worked anyway: Christine knew how he was doing.