رازها

Chapter eleven

Secrets

When I said earlier that this evening’s events had been extremely difficult, I was not only referring to the fact that I had had to walk for half an hour in complete darkness across muddy fields. In many ways, what occurred during supper with Mr and Mrs Taylor and their neighbours was even worse than that. After supper, it was a great relief for me to come up to this room and to be alone with my thoughts and my memories.

I have recently been spending more and more time thinking about the old days at Darlington Hall. Since I received the letter from Miss Kenton, I have tried to understand what happened to our relationship. We had developed a fine professional understanding over many years. Then, in 1935 or 1936, things started to go wrong between us. By the end of this period, we had even abandoned our routine cup of cocoa together at the end of the day. But, despite all the time I have spent thinking about this, I have never been able to decide the exact moment when things between us began to change.

1935-36

One important turning point in our relationship might have been the evening when Miss Kenton came uninvited into my office. I cannot remember now why she came. However, I do clearly remember her words: ‘Mr Stevens, your room looks even worse at night than it does in the day. That electric bulb isn’t bright enough. You’ll ruin your eyes trying to read by that light.’

‘It is perfectly comfortable, thank you, Miss Kenton.’

‘Really, Mr Stevens. This room looks like a prison cell.’

I did not reply to this. I continued with my reading, waiting for Miss Kenton to excuse herself and leave. But a few minutes later I was surprised to hear her voice again: ‘I wonder what you are reading there, Mr Stevens.’

‘Simply a book, Miss Kenton.’

‘But what sort of book?’

I looked up and saw Miss Kenton walking towards me. I shut the book and rose to my feet.

‘Really, Miss Kenton,’ I said, holding the book close to me, ‘this is my own private time. I must ask you not to disturb me like this.’

‘But why are you so shy about your book, Mr Stevens? Is it something embarrassing? A naughty book, perhaps?’

‘There are no “naughty” books - as you call them - on his lordship’s shelves.’

‘Then you have no reason to be shy, Mr Stevens. So you can let me see what you are reading.’

‘Miss Kenton, I must ask you to leave me alone. I do not have much free time for myself, and you are disturbing the little free time that I have.’

But Miss Kenton continued to advance. I was tempted for a moment to lock the book away in my desk, but this seemed over-dramatic. I took a few steps back.

‘Please show me the book,’ Miss Kenton insisted. ‘Then I promise I will leave you alone to your reading.’

‘The book is not important, Miss Kenton,’ I replied. ‘But I do object to this interruption of my private time.’

She continued to smile playfully. ‘Perhaps, Mr Stevens, the book is so naughty that you want to protect me from its shocking influence?’

She was now standing in front of me, and my back was pressed against the wall. Then suddenly there was a peculiar change in the atmosphere. I am afraid it is not easy to describe what I mean by this. I can only say that everything around us suddenly became very still. Miss Kenton’s playful smile disappeared and there was a sudden seriousness in her expression. She seemed to be almost frightened of something.

‘Please, Mr Stevens. Let me see your book.’

She reached forward and began gently to release the book from my grip. I judged it best to look away while she did this. However, because her face was so close to mine, I had to twist my head away from her at a very unnatural angle. Miss Kenton continued to lift my fingers off the book - one at a time - until finally I heard her say: ‘Mr Stevens, this book isn’t naughty at all. It’s simply a love story.’

At these words, I decided that I could stand no more. I cannot remember exactly what I said, but I remember showing Miss Kenton firmly out of the office.

Perhaps I should explain here something about the book I was reading. It is true, it was only a love story - one of many kept in the library and guest bedrooms for the entertainment of lady visitors. I agree that these love stories are usually very silly, and I rarely had the time or the desire to read any of them from cover to cover. But I had a simple reason for reading these books: it was an efficient way of developing my command of the English language.

In my opinion, it is extremely important for a butler to have a good accent and command of language, and I have always considered it my duty to develop them as much as I could. One way of doing this is to read a few pages of a well-written book whenever one has a spare moment. Love stories are, in my opinion, especially suitable for developing one’s command of language. The characters speak in an elegant way, which is of great practical value to me. A more serious book may improve one’s mind, but would not develop one’s ability to hold normal conversations with ladies and gentlemen.

But I am moving away from the incident with Miss Kenton in my office. It brought to my attention something that I had not realized before: the fact that things between Miss Kenton and myself had gradually become, over a period of many months, too familiar. After I had shown Miss Kenton from my office, I decided that we had to return to a more professional relationship in future.

This was not, however, the only incident between Miss Kenton and myself that led to the great changes in our relationship. There were other equally important developments that might explain what took place later. For example, there was the matter of Miss Kenton’s free days.

Until about a month before the incident with my book, Miss Kenton’s free days had followed a regular pattern. Every six weeks she would take two days off to visit her aunt in Southampton. Apart from this, she would follow my example of only taking days off if we were going through a quiet time.

But then the pattern changed. She suddenly began to use all her free time, and she disappeared regularly from the house without saying where she was going. Of course, she never took more time than she was allowed, so I felt it was not my business to ask her about her little trips. But I suppose this change in her routine did worry me a little, for I remember talking about it to Mr Graham. He was a regular visitor to our house because he was the butler to Sir James Chambers, an old friend of Lord Darlington’s.

I had not intended to talk to Mr Graham about Miss Kenton. I had only mentioned that the housekeeper had been ‘a little moody’ recently. I was therefore rather surprised when Mr Graham nodded, leaned towards me and said: ‘I’d been wondering how much longer it would be.’ When I asked him what he meant, Mr Graham explained: ‘How old is Miss Kenton now? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? She has missed her best mothering years, but it’s not too late yet.’

‘Miss Kenton,’ I assured him, ‘is a devoted professional. I know that she has no wish for a family.’

But Mr Graham smiled and shook his head, saying: ‘Never believe a housekeeper who tells you she doesn’t want a family. You and I have known at least a dozen housekeepers who said they didn’t want families, then got married and left the profession.’

I could not accept Mr Graham’s theory at first. Afterwards, however, I must admit that I began to suspect that Miss Kenton had an admirer. There were little signs which seemed to support Mr Graham’s theory. For instance, I noticed that Miss Kenton had started to receive letters about once a week. I also noticed sudden changes in her general mood which I had not noticed before. Sometimes she became extremely cheerful for no apparent reason. I do not know why, but this alarmed me more than the times when she suddenly became silent and depressed. She was always thoroughly professional, of course, and I had no reason to complain about her work. Nevertheless, it was my duty to think about the future of the house. I therefore asked her about her plans one evening while we were drinking our cocoa: ‘Will you be going out again on Thursday, Miss Kenton? On your day off, I mean.’

Instead of being angry at my question, as I had expected, Miss Kenton actually seemed rather pleased to discuss this topic with me.

‘Oh, Mr Stevens,’ she said, ‘it’s just someone I once knew when I was at Granchester Lodge. In fact, he was the butler there at the time, but now he’s left service altogether and he works for a local business. He somehow found out that I was here and started writing to me. In one of his letters a few weeks ago, he suggested that we meet occasionally in town.’

‘I see, Miss Kenton. I’m sure it is a good idea to leave the house at times.’

Miss Kenton agreed, and there was a short silence. Then she went on:

‘I remember when he was butler at Granchester Lodge, he had very ambitious ideas. I’m sure he planned, one day, to become butler of a house like this. Oh, but when I think of some of his methods! I’m not surprised that he never progressed in his career.’

I gave a small laugh. ‘At these higher levels, Miss Kenton, the profession is not for everybody. Without certain qualities, a butler will simply not progress beyond a certain point.’

Miss Kenton seemed to consider this for a moment, then said: ‘It occurs to me, Mr Stevens, that you are a contented man. You are at the top of your profession. I really cannot imagine what more you might wish for in life.’

I could think of no immediate response to this. There was an awkward silence, during which Miss Kenton stared down into her cocoa. In the end, after some consideration, I said: ‘I will not be perfectly content, Miss Kenton, until I have done everything I can to help his lordship through the great tasks that he has set himself. Only when his lordship’s work is complete, Miss Kenton, will I be able to call myself a contented man.’

She may have been a little puzzled by my words, or perhaps in some way they displeased her, for her mood suddenly seemed to change. Our conversation rapidly lost its personal tone and became more formal.

Not long after this, we stopped having meetings over cocoa in her room. In fact, I can remember our last cocoa together very clearly. I was discussing with her the complicated plans I had made for a weekend gathering of important people from Scotland. When I had been talking for a while, I realized that Miss Kenton was contributing very little to our conversation. It was obvious that she was thinking about something else. I did, from time to time, stop talking in order to ask her: ‘Do you understand, Miss Kenton?’ Then her attention would briefly return, before floating away again a few seconds later. After several more minutes of this, I finally said to her: ‘I’m sorry, Miss Kenton, but I can see no reason to continue our conversation. You do not seem to appreciate the importance of this discussion.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Stevens,’ she said, sitting up a little. ‘It’s just that I’m rather tired this evening.’

‘You are increasingly tired now, Miss Kenton. You never used to make tiredness your excuse.’

To my amazement, Miss Kenton responded to this with sudden anger:

‘Mr Stevens, I have had a very busy week. I am very, very tired, Mr Stevens. Can you not understand that?’

I decided not to enter into an argument with her. I paused for a moment before saying quite calmly:

‘If that is how you feel about it, Miss Kenton, there is no need for us to continue with these evening meetings. I had no idea how inconvenient they had become to you.’

‘Mr Stevens, I only said that I was tired tonight.’

‘No, no, Miss Kenton, it is perfectly understandable. There are many other ways for us to communicate with each other without having to meet every evening.’

Miss Kenton made more protests, but she could not change my mind. There was no point in continuing our evening meetings if she was always too tired to say anything.

‘May I suggest,’ I said finally, ‘that in future we communicate important information to each other during the working day. If we are unable to find each other, I suggest that we leave written messages. Now, Miss Kenton, I apologize for keeping you up so long. Thank you for the cocoa.’