Fair Exchange words 2203

The breeze chills my skin and whips wisps of hair into my eyes. I ball fists into my pockets and hug my jacket close. Why the text? Meet me. Peacock Manor after work. Please come. Pretty please. What's Will up to? Peacock Manor. Sounds flash..

Where is this place anyway? Miles from the bus stop. Huge houses. Too posh by half. Too hilly in these heels - and all those tree roots bulging up out of the pavement. The wind's stronger up here, whistling through the branches. Makes me shiver. Wow. There's a massive pile. Stone gate posts, iron gates flat on the ground, graffitied boards. This must be it. Will didn't say it was a rubbish tip.

I'm not sure what to do now, but as I look at the house across the overgrown garden, an image of a peacock with a fanned-out tail fills my brain. Those birds give me the creeps. Supposed to mean something. But their neat little heads, beady eyes. Ugh. I squeeze past the graffiti and tiptoe over smashed tiles and clumpy grass to the covered porch. Its almost a house in itself. Bits of brick on the floor bite into my thin soles and I scrape a clear space to stand. The wind eddies dust across a bird picture on the tiles and onto the black suede of my boots. A dark blue eye from its peacock's tail leers up at me. Weird.

I'm freezing. No sign of Will. A stink of plaster and rot leaks round the front door. Some flash manor house! Look at the state of it! Broken door panes, scattered rubble, everything covered in brick dust – just like Will. Mum's voice fills my head. She's never backward in saying what she thinks.

'Builder's labourer! Never make anything of himself. The two of you'll never have enough money – never scrape up a deposit for a house. Better find yourself a bloke with a proper job!'

It's my life not hers. My look out.

Will's text said he had to stay late. No clue why he wants me here. I push the door. Coloured glass drops onto the picture. I scrape again. More peacock eyes. I can't stand to look at them. Wish I could remember what they are supposed to stand for. The eyes watch as I push harder so the door gives. |It snow-ploughs the rubbish into the hall.

'Will! You there? Will! Where are you? William!' Why did I call him that?

Two large flies crawl over a banana skin at the bottom of the stairs. Yuk! What am I doing here? Stupid or what? 'WILL!'

'In here.'

He's standing in a room at the back, tool-bag over his shoulder, dusty hair haloed in the late sunlight coming through some French doors. He's got that irritating grin on his face.

'Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.' He raises an eyebrow above the grin and gives me the look. Trying it on. Usually works. But not today. Bad timing. I'm not in the mood. 'Look at my boots and I'm freezing. Come on. Stop messing about! I'm not a kid. Why d'you want me to come?'

He keeps the grin – holds up his fist. 'Y'll never guess what I've found.'

'Why would I want to? It's filthy in here.'

'Come on Lizzie, you know you want to. I thought you liked surprises?' His blue eyes gaze out from beneath the cement-dusted lashes. I love those blue eyes. 'Well... No messing mind.'

'As if. Close your eyes and hold out your hand.'

Like a kid, I obey and he drops something into my palm.

I open my eyes onto a green leather box, old, scuffed at the edges, faint gold lines on the lid. It's heavy. 'Where’d you get this then?’

‘That’d be tellin.’ Annoying Cheshire-cat grin wider than ever, he takes the box, waves it in front of my face like a magician. His fingers reek of sweat, nicotine and soot.

‘Where've you nicked it from?

‘As if.’

‘Well! It in't yours.'

‘Nah. It’s yours - if you wannit’.

He drops his tool bag and pulls me into a cement-dusted clinch, one hand slides down to grip my bum.

‘Give over Will. Leave me alone.’

He draws back, turns the box in the air. Its clasp gleams. 'I'n’t you gunna open it?’

No harm I suppose. I take it and push the clasp, try not to break my nails. Only had them done yesterday. I don't want to ruin them this quick. The spring gives and the lid flips up. White fire flashes from a pair of earrings, fixed on a silk pad. I love dangly earrings, but these are dangly to die for – a glittering mass of sparkle. Glass natch, but pretty. Remind me of those Indian shops in Bradford with windows full of fancy bridal sets; pyramid tiaras; red-jewelled gold head-dresses with tassels and chains to fasten across your cheek onto nose-studs. No idea how people afford to buy all that gold just for one day. Gaudy mind you. Too flashy by half.

But these earrings aren't gaudy. Not so OTT. Well, maybe a bit OTT. Fake of course, but classy, very classy. Exquisite. The word just drops out of my mouth. Not quite sure what it means but it sounds right. The stones blaze, all joined together by curling gold-work. Old fashioned – must've been in the box for a long time.

Will is waiting for me to say something.

‘So, where are they from?’

‘Does it marra? I thought you'd like 'em. Don’t you like ‘em?’

‘Course I do, stupid!’

‘Well, put 'em on then and let's see.'

He shoves his tool bag to one side with a work-boot and gropes in his jeans for his lighter. I tiptoe through the mess on the floorboards to the fireplace. The stone surround's cracked down one side as if someone's taken a sledgehammer to it, but the mantelshelf is still there. Clearing a space on it for the box, I pull out my pink ear hoops in front of a weird old mirror. Its flaky gold frame has a curved roof at the top and a row of Chinese ladies holding umbrellas. I've never seen anything like it before. Pity about the cracked glass. Must’ve been lovely when it was new.

I undo my pony-tail, twisting the elastic to put my hair up so I'll be able to see the earrings better. I like it up. Classy. Elegant. Another word! What's with this house? I like my hair up. Will reckons it makes me look old. Tough! Today he'll have to put up with elegant!

The wires are long, fiddly to get in. My reflection in the mirror is like an old photo - faint, hard to make out - but the jewels flash. The weight of them swings as I turn to Will, but he's not there. Typical. Gone for a fag I suppose. And it's almost dark in here now.

I make for the door but catch my foot and collapse onto something. Will’s damn tool bag! Trust him to leave it in the way! Tights probably ruined - and the nail veneers - never mind the boots! ‘Will! Where the hell are you?'

I lie there feeling stupid, but not uncomfortable. My cheek touches something soft – a rug - not gritty floorboards. The room is warm. Candles glow and a clock ticks in the silence as I struggle up from the floor, gasping with the grip of the tight corset and the dragging skirts of my dress. Corset? The last time I'd worn one of those was Jayne's hen night. What a laugh! Never again! But the skirts...?

#

Elizabeth untangled her dress from the carpet-bag she had fallen over and struggled to her feet. The room, as warm and familiar as the tick of the clock, was home. Somewhere safe. But not safe. She gripped the back of a chair, breathing shallowly in the tight lacing, her mind a confusion of emotion: apprehension; excitement; fear. I suppose I must have stumbled over the bag. How silly of me to leave it there!

The events of the evening slipped back into focus. After dismissing the servants early, which was the reason for the silence, she had packed her bag and unbolted the door for William. Now, trying to ignore her racing pulse, she clenched her hands until the nails bit into her palms. What am I doing? Giving her promise to William, imagining a perfect future, planning their escape had all been so simple – but now? Now or never! She must be brave, if she wanted to seize her chance to escape the misery of her existance in this gracious house for a new life with William. She looked around the exquisite room; candlelight danced on the polished mahogany chairs, the intricate foliage of the wallpaper and the gold-framed painting of Robert's woollen-mill. Her precious Chinoiserie looking-glass over the fireplace held her reflection, an elegant lady with piled-up hair, a low-cut gown and cascades of diamonds reaching from her ears to her shoulders - the priceless herloom, the bridal gift earrings from Robert. Elizabeth sighed at the memory of her wedding day, her flowers, her lovely dress, the prospect of a golden future. How happy she had been then, innocent of Robert's true nature. She had thought she could learn to love him, the gentle, older man, who stood at the altar with her, not knowing that everything would soon turn sour; not knowing this sumptuous house would become a place of misery; not knowing she would find happiness too late. A draught brushed her face, made the flames in the silver holders flicker, and she jumped at the sound of footsteps in the hall. William swept in, hat in hand, long riding coat buttoned up against the winter night.

‘Elizabeth, my love, there you are!' He beamed. 'Are you ready?’

She smiled into his eager face as he came close, bringing a breath of the sooty outside air with him. Mute at the enormity of her intentions, Elizabeth had no words and could only stare. He seized her carpetbag, touched her cheek, understood.

‘I promise you will never regret this my love, but it’s time to go. The carriage is waiting. We must leave now! I know you said Robert would be away tonight but we can't take chances.'

Elizabeth blinked hard, engulfed by panic, guilt and remorse, for the grand house, for the respectable life she was leaving and for fear of the scandal to come. William draped her cape around her shoulders and smiled at their reflection, at the handsome couple they made in the looking-glass. The earrings flashed.

‘Oh no, Elizabeth! You can’t take Robert’s diamonds, they'd be recognised anywhere. Leave them! We'll manage – somehow.’

Elizabeth hesitated, listening as the clock ticked like the heartbeat of the house. She gazed into the mirror, at William and herself on the silvered surface and her face glowed with the the anticipation of their future, the prospect of happiness. Fair exchange for the gems. Clenching her bottom lip between her teeth she removed the earrings, placed them in the box and snapped the lid shut like a slap, like a door slamming on the past.

She bent over the dying embers in the hearth to secrete the box in its hiding place in the stonework of the fire surround. By the time she had straightened up, William had left the room and taken her bag. The ticking of the clock urged her on. In the porch, her glance met the all-seeing eyes of the peacock glowing up from the mosaic floor; she'd never liked its gaze but she knew it represented rebirth, good fortune and immortality.

The stained-glass panels vibrated as she closed the front door for the last time and smiled into the embrace of a gentle breeze on the night air, knowing this to be her chance of re-birth and good fortune - if not immortality. The diamonds glimmered in her memory as she ran to the carriage.

#

I blink. Will's metal-toed boots are an inch from my nose. 'Help me up. Don't just stand there.'

'What are you doing on the floor? I can't leave you alone for five minutes can I? You'll be as filthy as your Mum always tells me I am.'

I grab his hand and pull myself upright trying to brush grit off my knees. In the darkness I can't really see the state of me but I can feel the weight of the dangling jewels in my ears. 'What are we going to do with these then?'

'Well - I could put 'em back if you want. The demolition gang's coming tomorrow. Or - we could put 'em towards a deposit on a flat.' He grins, raises an eyebrow and gives me the look. Trying it on again. This time I think it's a great idea. He shoulders his tool-bag and puts his arm around me; I no longer care about the brick-dust. Outside, the wind has dropped and the waving tree branches are quite still.