THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twenty
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twenty
When I came in for lunch after class on Monday, I found a clean-shaven Mr. Ratliffe sweeping the kitchen while Mrs. Scott was setting out the things for tea.
“Ah, Miss Lucy. I’m glad you’re here,” Mrs. Scott began when she caught sight of me. “There’s some bad news, I’m afraid. Mrs. Khumari’s had a bit of an accident and won’t be in this week.”
“Is she okay?” I asked, setting down my bookbag.
“So far as we know it’s nothing too serious. She twisted her ankle stepping off a curb. The doctor’s said it’s only a sprain, but it’s terribly swollen, and she’s to keep weight off it for several days. In the meantime, we’ll all have to do our bit to keep things running.”
“Oh, that’s not why I’m sweeping,” Mr. Ratliffe said, pausing to lean against the broom handle. “I only read that Betty Friedan said ‘no woman gets an orgasm from shining the kitchen floor,’ so I thought I’d see what happens if a man tries it. I’m planning to write up the results in my final essay.”
“Really, Adam,” Mrs. Scott said, rolling her eyes as she switched on the electric kettle.
“Well, nothing yet,” he said with a wicked grin. “Still, perhaps I’d better have a go at the drawing room.” He emptied the dustpan into the trash can and headed out of the room.
“Don’t take forever about it,” Mrs. Scott called after him. “Tea’s almost ready.” She turned to me, settled into my usual seat at the island. “Sorry about that. He really thinks he’s funny, you know.”
“Yeah, I get it. I think I just misunderstood him before.”
Mrs. Scott set a napkin and a mug in front of me. “Well, I’m glad you two seem to have smoothed things over. I’d be more worried for the week ahead if you hadn’t. I’ll be spending a bit more time at Mr. Geoffrey’s house while Mrs. Khumari is out, and it so happens that Mrs. Ashby will be out as well. She’s catering her niece’s wedding on Friday.”
“No worries,” I said. “I can help out with cleaning and stuff.”
Mrs. Scott looked relieved and asked if I could give the bathroom a quick once-over during the week and help keep the kitchen tidy. “I’ll bring in some groceries this afternoon and some easy things for you and Mr. Adam to make for dinner. The number for the other house is just there, if you need anything at all.” She pointed to a neat inscription on a post-it beside the kitchen phone.
The electric kettle began to pump out steam, and Mrs. Scott came over to pour my tea before she set about making sandwiches for lunch. When Mr. Ratliffe returned, he emptied the dustpan and broom, saying it was an incredibly un-thrilling experience and had “quite the effect of the opposite,” which made us all laugh.
“By the way,” Mrs. Scott said as she handed a sandwich plate to each of us, “Mr. Franklin said he won’t be able to trim the grass while he’s supervising the new installation at the manor.”
“Oh, that.” Mr. Ratliffe waved his hand. “I don’t know why Geoffrey can’t leave well enough alone. He’s going to ruin a perfectly good garden with all those hideous statues.”
“Perhaps it’ll look better once it’s in.”
“Doubtful. Well, if the mower in the garage still works, I’ll cut the grass myself. It’s getting rather longish already with all this rain.”
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I’d never heard the lawnmower at the Ratliffe House, though the grass was always neat and trim. I guessed the mysterious Mr. Franklin, whoever he was, only showed up while I was in class to cut the grass and bushes and disappear into the ether. But that afternoon, I heard a loud humming outside my window while reading up for tutorials. I peeked out the window and saw the back of Mr. Ratliffe, pushing a lawnmower across the front yard. At least, I thought it was him. He had the figure of Mr. Ratliffe—dark hair and not-terribly-tall frame—but instead of the typical long-sleeved plaid shirt or gray cardigan with khakis, he wore jeans and a black t-shirt.
In curiosity, I edged closer to the window and watched him turn a corner along the edge of the low stone wall. Yep, it was definitely Mr. Ratliffe. I could tell by the eyebrows. A drip of sweat rolled down his temple, and he paused to rub his face against his sleeve. It was then that I noticed his arms, braced against the mower handles, were not the flabby pale noodles I expected, but lean and muscular. Does he work out? Mr. Ratliffe guided the mower to the edge of the front walkway and turned toward the house. I only had time to notice the OASIS logo on his t-shirt before I whipped myself behind the curtain and out of sight.
Lucy, what are you doing? You can’t just stare at him like that! He’s your housemate, remember? Not just some guy on the street. True, we had just made peace the night before. No point in making it awkward again already. I sat back down in my desk chair, thoughts swimming in the noisy hum of the lawnmower as it passed by again and again, and fought off the urge to gaze on the sphinx in normal guy clothes. Once the sound faded to the back of the house, I decided I should probably go to the kitchen and make some tea before I got back to studying. Not that I would be watching through the back window or anything. I’d just have my tea and come straight back to my room.
I propped my copy of The Importance of Being Earnest against my laptop screen to remind myself to study when I got back, and tripped off the to the kitchen. The lawnmower and its operator were out of sight now somewhere behind the garage, and I filled the electric kettle with enough water for two cups of tea. Just in case.
I laid out some teabags and went to the bathroom, which took a little while since I decided to pin up the side of my hair with bobby pins, and then added a burst of hairspray to settle the flyaways. When I returned to the kitchen, the kettle was finished and the lawnmower was silent. I guess I missed him. Feeling disappointed, and then feeling stupid for feeling disappointed, I set pulled a mug out of the cabinet and spooned in some sugar. I had just begun to steep my tea when I heard heavy steps at the back door, and Mr. Ratliffe entered.
“Hello there,” he said, looking a bit surprised to see me. His breath was heavy, a few beads of sweat still rolling down his face, but most unexpectedly his hair was sticking up with little bits of red all in it. I couldn’t help staring this time. “What is it? Do I have something on my face?” he asked.
I pointed to the top of his head. “There’s these little red things in your hair. They look like seeds.”
He reached up, felt around, pulled one out, and examined it. “Oh. Herb Bennet burrs. Probably got me when I was trying to catch the hedgehog beside the garden wall.” Mr. Ratliffe shook his head. “I almost had him too.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? Like, don’t they have quills that spike you?”
“Hedgehogs? No, nothing like that. They’re quite harmless if you handle them gently. Very small. Not like your American porcupines. These, on the other hand,” he said, reaching up to his head for another burr, “are quite the nasty little buggers. I’ll have a time getting them out. Does there look like a lot of them?” he asked, bending his head down for me to see. I stood on my tippy-toes to look.
“Oh yeah. They’re all over.”
“Fantastic. Well, I’ll have some tea first, and then see if I can find a fine-toothed comb. Oh good, you’ve already set up the kettle.”
I tried not to keep looking at the seeds dotted all over his head, but it was just too funny. It reminded me of the time my grandma’s bichon frise went rolling in a patch of Spanish Needle flowers and we spent hours pulling every single sharp seed out of her curly fur. Despite my attempts to observe discretely over the top of my tea mug, Mr. Ratliffe took notice.
“You know, Miss Lucy, it’s not polite to stare at people, even when they look ridiculous,” he admonished me with a smile as he poured his tea. “This was for your benefit, after all.”
“My benefit?”
“Yes. I was going to show you the hedgehog. They’re sort of cute. I thought you’d like it. Unless you don’t like animals.” His eyebrows contracted, as though he hadn’t considered this possibility.
“Oh no, I do,” I rushed to say. “I guess I just haven’t spent enough time outside to notice a lot of the animals here.”
Mr. Ratliffe brightened. “Well then, next time I see one nosing around the shrubbery, I’ll come and find you.”
“Cool.”
We smiled at each other and sipped our tea in silence for a moment. To avoid feeling awkward, I turned my gaze to the window. A few wild birds had begun to settle on the lawn, now restored to peace in the absence of the mower. One finch, with brilliant feathers of cobalt and rust, cocked its head and began preening itself, discarding nits and broken feathers.
My eyes returned to Mr. Ratliffe, who was looking out the window too. I studied his bespeckled hair, and imagined him craning his neck in front of a tiny bathroom mirror, trying to remove the sticky seeds from the back of his head. But Mr. Ratliffe was no bird. He’d probably end up walking away to shower and still have several seeds left where he couldn’t see, which was kind of embarrassing. He’d show up to dinner, and then I’d feel all weird about wondering if I should say something or not. “A little to the left, no, up a little more….”
Naturally, there was only one thing to do. I should offer to help him now. Right? I mean, it was the nice thing to do. Before I lost my nerve, I spoke up.
“I could help you,” I said.
Mr. Ratliffe turned around. “What’s that?”
“I could help you with the seeds,” I said, pointing to his hair. “I could pull them out for you.”
His eyebrows rose. “Are you sure? I’m a bit of a sweaty mess at the moment.”
“I don’t mind. It would only take a minute. I’m sure it’d be easier than you doing it yourself in a mirror. You probably couldn’t even see the ones on the back of your head.”
“No, I suppose not.” Mr. Ratliffe appeared to consider it over a sip of tea, then said, “Well, if you really don’t mind too terribly… though I don’t know how we should go about it.” He glanced in the direction of the bathroom, as if considering it too strange and uncomfortable.
“How about the back steps?” I suggested. “I need to be taller than you to reach.”
Mr. Ratliffe looked relieved at this suggestion. “Alright. Only,” he lifted his mug, “could I keep my tea?”
Outside, he settled down on the bottom step, mug in hand, and I sat behind him on the top step. I leaned over and began to pluck, tucking the seeds into a paper napkin from the kitchen. I tried to ignore the strange tingling sensation I felt sticking my fingers into his thick black hair, with its surprisingly soft and wavy texture. Just keep it professional, Lucy. You’re helping a friend. Wait, are we friends now? Do friends play with each other’s hair? Not if it’s a guy and girl. But this is different. We’re housemates.
I needed to distract myself from the din of my thoughts, and I could see that Mr. Ratliffe was uncomfortable, his shoulder muscles tight and flinching beneath his t-shirt. Get him talking. You know how he likes to rattle on. I cast my net over the waters and pulled in the first thought that came to mind.
“So, do you chase hedgehogs often?”
Mr. Ratliffe chuckled. “Not since I was about eleven. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t seen many of them poking about lately. Too much neat work in the garden, perhaps. Hedgehogs prefer piles of leaves and sticks, thick underbrush, that sort of thing. But there is one spot near the garage,” he pointed toward the low green building down the walk, “that’s a bit neglected and overgrown. That’s where I caught sight of him, when I was wheeling in the lawnmower. So I thought, I’ll catch him, yes, and then what? Well, I’ll show Miss Lucy. I’m sure she’s not seen one before. But about the time I had crept ‘round the side and was ready to snatch him, he saw me and went scurrying along the edge of the building.”
While I continued to pick and pluck, Mr. Ratliffe explained how with every lunge, the little creature scooted away at the last moment. This left the man on his hands and knees crawling through the grass and reaching through a layer of weeds every few feet, so the seeds caught only on his hair, but not his shirt. In the end, the hedgehog made a run for it and escaped through a hole in the stone wall, leaving Mr. Ratliffe prostrate.
“Thanks for trying, anyway,” I said, noting that his shoulders had relaxed and ceased twitching for the duration of the tale. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Such is life,” he said with a warm voice, taking a sip of tea. “How’s your job coming on?”
“Almost done,” I said, picking the last one out of a lock beside his ear, just above the light stubble of his sideburns. “There.”
Mr. Ratliffe took a free hand and ran it along the top of his head. “Thank you, Miss Lucy.” He turned around, grinning, and held up his empty mug. “I’m eternally grateful. And I got to finish my tea all the same. That’s better service than the barber.”
I tried to be casual, still mildly embarrassed by my own enjoyment in the project. “No problem. And you can just call me Lucy. Y’know, housemates and all.”
“Yes. Absolutely. And you should call me Adam. My barber does, anyway.” He laughed a little at his own joke, then seemed to catch sight of my self-trimmed hair, and cleared his throat. “Ahem. Actually, you could’ve called me that all along. It’s only Mrs. Scott who calls me Mr. Ratliffe or Mr. Adam. She’s sort of old fashioned that way.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get cleaned up. I’m making a surprise for dinner tonight. Mrs. Scott should be along with the ingredients in a bit.”
He excused himself to the shower and I was left wondering what the mystery dinner would be. Maybe I should have offered to help him cook. But I guessed that would ruin the surprise, and besides I still had homework to do. I mean, I couldn’t let my grades slip just because I was hanging out with my housemate all the time. That’s if he even wanted to hang out with me. I shouldn’t put too much stock in one dinner conversation and an uncaught hedgehog. And after all, he was way older than me. We’d probably run out of things to talk about soon and settle into some kind of routine, “Hey, how are you?” at meals, becoming little more than ships passing in the night by the end of summer.
As I stood in the sunshine running through these thoughts, I rubbed the edge of the step with the toe of my shoe. When the last image of summer settled, I dropped my head and noticed a rogue Bennet seed stuck to a shoelace. I reached down and picked up the seed, pink and prickly, and closing my eyes rolled it between my fingers, hoping to erase the sensation of silky black hair.
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