Linksfield

2- Secret

The weeks which followed were somewhat uneventful, those sort-of-weeks that blend into one another and offer little to remember or recount. Monty— though I hastened to call him that at the time— was true to his word, calling me Jack whenever it was we two and though he was still difficult to deal with, he had several good days among the bad ones. When he was genial, he made pleasant conversation and would even thank me for my work but when he was in one of his dark moods he would grumble and mutter under his breath, even snap at me and barely look me in the eye. I never knew which side of him would greet me when I arose from my bed each morning.

Sipping my black tea in the servants' hall one day, I was shaken from a daydream by a letter placed upon the table by Frank.

"Came for you in the second post," he said, "what do you think it is?"

"Hard to say without being able to read through paper," I joked to which he nudged me and laughed.

"Point taken. I'll leave you to it then."

I tore open the envelope, not using the paper knife the way sir would do it and glanced over the rather scruffy and ink-stained paper that was inside. I frowned. It felt as though my heart had stopped for a moment. I rose from my chair, slipping the paper into my breast pocket.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Boys?" Doris said observing me from across the table.

"I...yes...fine, you leave it to me."

I was in a complete muddle and so rushed to the attic room and threw myself down upon the bed. I didn't move for several moments. I didn't even think about getting the master dressed for dinner or what time or day it was. I simply sat and thought about the letter. I stared at the contents with its sloppy handwriting full of errors and I recognised the hand even before I read the name at the bottom. Blackmail. Pure and simple. Albert Selby was the writer of the note, an old acquaintance, a friend even; lived down the same street back when we were kids. But now he was in town and he wanted money, money to keep him quiet about the crime I had committed. The theft had been when I was nineteen— the theft I'd concealed from everyone ever since— the one which had me serving at His Majesty's Pleasure. But it was so long ago. I'd fought in a war since then, I'd built a career in service, why was this here to haunt me now?

My past had caught up with me and I was foolish to think that one's past digressions could ever be forgotten. No one could ever move on from such matters, they eventually caught up with you like a phantom in the night and I was apparently burdened to carry it with me for the rest of my days.

I thought back to those times, confined to that cell. I'd only been young, all my life ahead of me. I'd made mistakes, what man hasn't? But how I wanted to go back to those days, to meet myself and tell that young thin creature that there was another way and the sentence was not worth it. I felt some shame but I confess a big part of me was more regretful of being caught. Yes, I was a thief but was it as bad as people made out? I had nothing then. But was that an excuse?

Looking around my small attic room, I suddenly remembered the prison cell like I had been there yesterday. I remembered the smell of the damp and the sound of restless men roaming around like animals. I could almost hear their desperate cries in my mind. Oh, and the boredom of it all. Cramped rooms, the lack of sunlight, the missed loved ones. I had called the master's home a prison but in comparison it was my palace.

...

I moped around that afternoon with a face like thunder and nothing could rouse me from my troubles. Should the master find out, I'd be dismissed, sent packing without a reference for I had lied to secure the position, claimed I was whiter than white. But once a stain is placed on your character it is very hard to remove.