Time Given

by Melody Ferr

The cool, wet, autumn breeze rushed in through the open crack in the kitchen window, drying the tears Lydia had left on her cheeks. She didn’t care how the air stung them or that her hands were getting wrinkly inside her dishwashing gloves.

She used to hate how wet English falls were. Today it suited her fine. Dark, damp, dismal and lonely. The grounds of the estate echoed her insides.

She never would have imagined her life coming to this: divorced and alone in a huge mansion.

It was a favor, she reminded herself. Her coworker-friend, Andrea, knew the owner of this estate well, and knew they had rooms to spare. All their rooms, in fact.

Lydia hadn’t had many options. Her divorce had left her without a home or a plan. Renting a furnished room in this creepy house had been a way to afford something on her own so she could start rebuilding herself. A non-committal, Band-Aid fix, being that it was an informal month to month arrangement. The landlord clearly wasn’t sure how long this would last either.

Lydia did not blame him. The place was on its way out: huge wings neglected and cobwebbed, no house staff, poor heating… There was just the groundskeeper who lived in the converted stables, which would have been visible through the kitchen window if it hadn’t been pitch black out. The owner himself never came by, having a job and home of his own in London.

Her coworkers thought she was crazy to be moving “so far” from their own office in London.

Us Canadians are no strangers to commutes, Lydia thought with a wry grin.

Besides, it wouldn’t be for long. She didn’t have anything tying her to this country anymore.

She’d taken two weeks vacation hoping it would offer her time to process and regroup. Instead, it emphasized her loneliness.

Lydia sighed and finished up her dishes as best she could in the dim, dusty lighting.

She wiped her face with her sleeves, hung the gloves on the sink and pulled the window shut, making sure the centuries-old latch closed. If she was to go upstairs, she wanted to be certain everything was locked. Sure, it was unlikely for people to be walking around out this far in the countryside but she was a young woman, alone. She didn’t want to tempt fate.

After making sure the kitchen door that led outside was locked, she made her way upstairs flicking off switches behind her and flicking ones on ahead of her to keep the light moving with her.

She ignored the grand hallway entrance to her right, swathed in darkness, and the black hole of a hallway to the left as she made her way to the stairs. She found it easier to handle the creepiness of the house if she gave herself mental blinders.

When she’d reached the top floor with the creepy painting of a child in pantaloons, she heard a suspicious click from below.

The hairs on her body stood up. Only the door to the kitchen made that sound. It had to be close to 1 a.m. Who would sneak in at this time?

She crept down the stairs, cringing at every creak. It was so dark at the bottom. She hadn’t turned the entrance hall light back on.

Silence. Had she imagined the sound?

Then a light flickered on down the hallway, towards the landlord’s occasional quarters. She jumped, her breath caught in her throat.

A figure came into view, heading her direction, head hunched with a bowler cap.

Lydia let out a breath of relief. The groundskeeper. Would’ve been grand if one of these days he warned her when he was coming by.

“Do you ever sleep?” Lydia asked him, unable to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

The man looked up and stopped up short.

“Nope,” he muttered, lifting a step ladder over his arm and exiting out the kitchen door.

Lydia realized something as she let her eyes adjust to the light at the end of the hallway. That had been burnt out since day one. He had come all this way to fix a light in the hallway?

Peter, the owner, had warned her the man had a “nasty habit” of coming in and fixing things around the place at the most random times despite it not being part of his job description.

“Pay him no mind,” Peter had explained as he’d handed Lydia her keys. “Mr. Lee has been here since the beginning of time. Just ignore him and he’ll ignore you. He’s not friendly, but harmless.”

Andrea had also mentioned, “the mean old man,” that she’d be contending with.

Lydia shrugged and went back to her room to rummage for her nightclothes. Many of her belongings were still in boxes.

When she pushed a larger box aside, she let out a shriek of terror. The largest spider she’d ever seen streaked out. She didn’t know England had spiders that big.

She took deep breaths, keeping her eyes on it, but it disappeared into a crack under the wall. Gross.

A thundering in the hallway made her whip around.

Mr. Lee was in her doorway panting hard, his white hair sticking out on either side of his head.

“What was the matter?” he wheezed, leaning against her doorframe, his eyes big.

“Oh! Oh, sorry!” Lydia spluttered feeling her face flush. “It was a huge spider. It startled me.”

“One of the big’uns, eh?” he said, not a crack in his serious expression.

“Yes. Sorry.”

The man grunted and left back down the stairs.

Lydia watched him go. For a man that was mean, that sure was out of his way to check on her. A warmth came into her middle.

Don’t go trying to see kindness that isn’t there, a voice in her head warned her. Still, that was interesting.

The next morning, Lydia felt like a sack of potatoes. That spider had remained in the back of her mind all night.

The house always felt a like a different place in the day.

She wrapped herself in a shawl and made herself eggs.

As she ate, she saw movement out the front window on the misty driveway. Mr. Lee was trudging on a strange angle holding a huge sack.

Lydia set her food aside and quickly threw on some rain boots, tying the front ends of her shawl shut so it would stay snug.

“Can I help you with that, Mr. Lee?” Lydia called to him. She ran around the stone wall that enclosed the garden in front of the kitchen window.

“I should be fine, I, oh,” he reacted as Lydia took the end of the sack nearest her and lifted it, taking on half the weight.

He peered at her uncertainly as they side-stepped along. His grey eyes had something in them she hadn’t seen before. Innocence? Vulnerability?

“It’s to go here,” he grunted as they neared the side of the house. They dumped it on the ground by the garden bed there.

“How have you been carrying those things all by yourself all this time?”

“I manage,” he growled.

He turned to leave then paused, looking at the ground in front of her as he spoke. “Used to be a team here, you know. Lord Lanson had a whole staff. A cook, undercook, maids, a butler… You see, houses like these don’t pay like they used to. They cost,” he said sagely.

He looked at the house sadly. Lydia waited as a silence grew.

She wasn’t sure what she’d done for him to open up. She felt honored.

“That’s why you fix things?”

“Hm?” the man grunted, looking at her. “Oh. Not for that.” He waved his hand dismissively as he started across the driveway in his stiff, lumbering walk. Apparently, that was the end of the conversation.

Lydia sighed and went about filling her day with sorting through her things, even though she knew she wouldn’t be staying there long.

Then it was time to make herself supper.

She’d bought an entire salmon without thinking. It would expire long before she could finish it.

She seasoned it as she normally did, regardless, throwing it into the oven and chopping a too-large salad.

She looked out the kitchen window to see Mr. Lee working away at some hedges bordering the property.

She threw on her jacket from the coat rack by the door, slipped on her rain boots again and trudged to Mr. Lee.

“Um,” she began, as he snipped the plant aggressively. “Mr. Lee?”

“Hm?” he grunted, not looking up from his work.

“I have far too much food for dinner. I’m still not used to being on my own,” she laughed nervously.

Ignoring how idiotic she sounded, she pressed on, “Would you like to join me? It will go bad anyways without some help.”

He paused his snipping at that and looked at her straight in the eyes. His expression was hard to read but if Lydia had to guess she would say she’d taken him by surprise.

“I wouldn’t trouble yourself about me.”

“Oh, no, you would be doing me the favor,” Lydia said.

When he still didn’t answer she added, “It’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”

He looked away as if remembering himself and grunted. “I suppose that is as good a time as any for a break.”

Lydia smiled.

When he came inside he took his hat, jacket and shoes off, as if it was routine.

“Please,” Lydia gestured to the seat across from her.

“Water?” she asked as he sat.

He nodded, seeming in shock.

She poured from the little pitcher she’d filled from the tap and set it down.

He tucked in. They ate in silence while he shoveled food like he hadn’t eaten all week. Lydia made sure not to stare, giving him whatever privacy he might prefer as she ate hers in turn.

“More?” Lydia asked him as he took his last bite.

He shook his head, a little smile appearing on his face.

“I haven’…” He looked at her for the first time since he’d sat down. He looked down again. “I haven’ had someone cook for me since… well, since my Lizzy.”

“She was your wife?” Lydia asked gently.

He nodded to his plate.

There was another pause.

“I will get us some tea,” Lydia said, jumping to her feet. “Would you like some?”

“Yes, thank you,” he muttered.

Once she’d poured their teas and served him milk, he looked up again. His face had something like determination.

“Lizzy was the love of my life,” he said. “This place was her home, along with mine. I grew up here, see.”

“Oh,” Lydia said, putting the milk back in the fridge.

“She made this place sing with her smile and her kindness. We had a life here, she and I. I was the groundskeeper, after my father. Those days the grounds were never empty. There were always things to prepare for, weddings, parties…” The glitter in his eyes made him seem much younger. “Lizzy worked in the kitchens. She was a spritely little thing, full of life. She would have hurt something awful to see the house the way it is today. It was a thing of beauty… Then there was the tragedy where Lord and Lady Lanson lost their eldest son in the fire that destroyed the main estate, the one that was torn down. They moved in here after.”

“I never knew that. There was a bigger house before?” Lydia asked, savoring her mug’s warmth on her hands.

“Oh,” Mr. Lee chuckled. “Much bigger. Much grander,” he gleamed with pride. “But it was destroyed. Times were hard. The family lost money more and more after the war. Their younger son left to go make a fortune of his own in London.”

“Peter Lanson?” Lydia clarified.

“Just so,” the man nodded taking a sip. “When my Lord and Lady passed, the estate went to him, someone who had barely set foot in this place, who had never loved it to begin with.”

Mr. Lee shook his head, the lines in his face more pronounced. “Only after a year, he threw in the towel and fired all of the staff but me.”

“Why?” Lydia asked in horror.

Mr. Lee chuckled bitterly. “He didn’t know how to manage it. It was bleeding him money. Since I knew everything about the place, more than the butler, truth be told, he kept me on. Now I’m the only one who cares for the place. Futile, really, since they will tear her down eventually.”

“No! Really?” Lydia looked up at the wooden ceiling above them.

“It’s the way of it,” he said.

“I’ve never known another home,” he added quietly.

He grabbed his mouth reflexively and began to shake, like he was experiencing a private earthquake.

Lydia reached across the table and put a hand on his. He didn’t pull away.

They sat like that for some time until he wiped his eyes and took a long swig of his tea.

“You remind me of her, you know,” he said with a smile.

“Lizzy?” Lydia asked.

He nodded. “You have that same brightness.”

“Thank you,” Lydia said, feeling a brightness inside.

He gave her a deep nod before drinking more tea.

Something came to her at that moment.

“What if you were able to keep a part of this place so that even if they do have to tear it down you never really lose it?”

He grunted. “There’s nothing from the house I would want. No piece of it would capture its full beauty, the loving life it gave me and countless others.”

Lydia nodded, thinking.

“I wish I could bring it all back,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Thank you, kindly, love. I’ll be out of your hair now.”

He lifted the mug as if in salute before setting it down.

“You’re welcome, anytime,” she said, rising with him.

She waved as he crossed the property to his little ex-stable hovel.

No wonder he was awake at weird hours fixing things all the time. He was faced with his loss constantly.

A calm had settled over her as she cleaned up, the kind that you get with a clear purpose ahead of you.

The next day, the weather was perfect. The sun was bright and clear, the air crisp and dry. She had to wait for the afternoon when she knew Mr. Lee would be napping. That’s when she could do it without him noticing.

When the sun was at that orangey angle, Mr. Lee trudged back to his little home.

Lydia scrambled across the grounds with her wooden case and easel. She set her canvas on it and began something she hadn’t done for years: a proper painting.

She had always loved oil painting. She loved the smell of the linseed oil she used to dilute it. She loved the way oil paint could be played with on the canvas because of how long it took to dry. Ironically, being an illustrator hadn’t left her much time for art as a hobby. Not to mention how her ex had always managed to fill every space in their apartment with his junk.

As she worked, she noticed the subtle differences in hues on the wooden trusses, the yellows and greens of the ivy growing up the walls, the reds and browns and oranges in the roof and in the little gleaming edges of the window frames. It was a true beauty. She saw that now. She could imagine the life this place had and the memories it would have given Mr. Lee. She made sure to think beyond the structure before her, bringing back a time when it was in it’s prime, when it gleamed with vibrant color and nothing was in disrepair.

Being mindful of not being out when Mr. Lee was made it so she had to work on it gradually each day, bringing the wet painting back to her room before dinner. It was hard work but rewarding, carting it back and forth.

Mr. Lee appeared not to notice anything. Lydia still helped him with heavy bags of soil or mulch now and then. He still repaired things like a squeaky door here, or a missing panel there.

It took her right until her last day off to finish it.

She rapped on Mr. Lee’s door.

He opened it a crack a moment before he pulled it wide.

“This is for you,” Lydia said, holding out the painting. “It’s still wet, so be careful.”

He took it by the edges and turned it around. He stared at it for some time. She thought she saw a tremor in him again.

“I know it’s not the same as keeping the house for yourself, not nearly, but I thought –”

He stepped inside with it and slammed the door.

Lydia stood there, shocked. She wasn’t sure whether she should leave.

Just as she was about to, the door swung open again.

He was holding an ornate, wooden comb.

“This was hers. It was her favorite. I want you to have it,” he growled.

“Oh, I couldn’t – “

“I have no use for it. I’m an old man,” he said, holding it out further.

“Th-thank you.” Lydia took it gingerly.

“I wish I could do more,” she added.

He gave her a low nod again, his eyes glistening.

He opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “You have done more than you know,” he said.

He shut the door again.

Lydia felt a tingling through her. She had seen into this man’s heart.

When she was back at work, she was offering ideas on projects and working with almost more fervor than she had before the divorce.

“Lydia,” Andrea had laughed. “You’re on fire! You clearly needed that time for yourself!”

Lydia smiled. “It wasn’t the time I gave myself. It was the time I gave someone else.”