1 Alabaster Terrace part 1

Contorting herself so as to fit through the narrow doorway, the girl entered 1 Alabaster Terrace, Vertigo Gardens followed by a rather battered monochrome golfing umbrella. Shaking it out over the door mat she nipped up to her bedroom to leave her bag before returning back down into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“How were lectures?” a voice called from the study. The voice was followed by the appearance of Horatio Maxwell Hamilton, known as HM to his friends.
“Oh alright I guess,” the girl replied as she fished a rather damp white hamster out of the willow pattern teapot. The hamster burrowed into one of her pockets, raising its nose skywards as if to thank providence that it had escaped the stream of boiling water now entering the pot. “We have to stop Julian from doing this, HM. He is risking life and limb by sleeping in the kitchen. He very narrowly escaped being bruleed last week when I found him napping in the oven during a dinner party.”

HM nodded, disentangling his spectacles from his fringe in order to dust them. He then removed Julian from the girl’s pocket and raised the hamster up to eye level before addressing him in his sternest voice, one he had learnt from his prep school Latin master. The master in question was undeniably stern, with a habit of crashing his hardback version of Ecce Romani onto the desks of idle pupils. The voice should, HM hoped, inspire respect and fear into the mind of Julian.

“JULIAN.” He paused for dramatic effect. “JULIAN, you must NOT sleep ANYWHERE in the kitchen. The kitchen is a place of WORK and HEAT and not a place for IDLE young hamsters with a lethargic disposition.” HM settled into a more conversational tone; “If you must sleep, do what your brother Peregrine does, sleep in the chiffonier. There is an empty compartment where I used to keep tie pins.”
At the end of this lengthy reprimand Julian waggled his snout in a fashion somewhat resembling a nod, leapt into the air and headed for the study.

“Julian gives his profoundest apologies, my dear.” HM smiled at the girl. “Now tell me what your workload is like.”
“Not too bad this week, actually.” She paused to sip at a cup of rather hairy Earl Grey. “I have to write an essay on Jane Austen’s Emma from a feminist perspective. Two thousand words by Friday. There’s plenty of time to help out at the exhibition. I'm heading out to the shops later today, if you need anything.” she passed a cup of tea to HM, having poured it through a strainer to remove any traces of Julian.
“Excellent, thank you. Just let me know if you need more time for work. Time to read the book, perhaps” HM winked at her and returned to his study, humming to himself.

The domestic situation at Alabaster Terrace was a slightly unusual one, as far as living companions go. HM, a fairly well-to-do gallery owner and part time artist having inherited a rather large town house with more space than he knew what to do with, decided he needed some sort of assistance. Through a friend at the local university, he discovered a student (Alice) who was willing to cook, clean and look after the small menagerie of furry companions HM had acquired over the years, in return for rent-free accommodation. This arrangement suited both parties better than they could have expected – Alice was fascinated by art and helped out at the gallery whenever she could, whilst HM in turn was equally delighted to aid the girl with her literature research. Alice had also, with her insider knowledge of the female mind, enabled HM to avoid one or two potentially dangerous situations regarding unexpected romantic encounters. Whilst ruminating over a cup of tea in his study HM often considered how fortunate he had been to have the advice of Alice in the case of Cecelia Pendleton. If she had not been on hand, he would most likely have found himself unwillingly cleaved to Ms Pendleton permanently.

“It’s not that I object to the institution of marriage,” HM found himself telling Julian, who was sitting in the inkwell, black eyes fixed on HM in a manner somewhat resembling concern. “It is simply that Madame Pendleton and I would not do it justice, I fear. She is a woman of a regimented lifestyle, with a strong aversion to animals.” This was enough for Julian, who leapt out of the inkwell and scampered away leaving a trail of blue ink, before his owner could disturb him further. HM sighed, nodded at Julian’s eminently appropriate reaction, then looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I agree, Julian. Time for a drink.”

Alice smiled as she heard the front door slam behind HM as he left for the Maltese Falcon public house to meet his circle of artsy friends for a drink. Her employer was what her parents would call “quite a character,” her tutors “eccentric” and her friends “completely barmy.” In her opinion he was quite simply a lovely, friendly man who did not really belong to this century. In that sense, he was well suited to Vertigo Gardens, an enclosed square of Victorian town houses looking out onto a deceptively large shared wilderness. The other houses were mostly converted into flats for wealthy professionals; a few Alice knew to be financial executives, judges and possibly a civil servant or two.

Alice began to prepare a dinner of fisherman’s pie using the cod caught by HM on one of his country weekends. She was becoming very good at eating for practically nothing - money was getting very tight; the end of term approaching and her student loan thinning out. As she mashed the potato, a black cat dropped on to her shoulders from atop the fridge and began attempting to paw at the saucepan. “Hello Benjy” she greeted him as he nuzzled her cheek. “Your dinner is over there” pointing to the cat biscuits in an old teacup on the floor. Benjamin looked at the teacup, gave a sound closely resembling a snort and continued to reach for the mash. Alice placed a plate over the pan, lifted the cat off her shoulders on to the floor by the teacup. “This is good for you Benjy. Think how sleek your fur will be, all the lady cats will be after you.” The cat wriggled away from her and leapt back on to the counter advancing toward the pie. Sighing, she scooped a small amount into a bowl for him, “Just like your owner, aren’t you Benjy.? Your way is the only way.” After giving her an old-fashioned look, Benjy finished his helping and returned to his perch on the fridge.

Once she had eaten her dinner and wrapped up the rest for HM, Alice changed into a dark grey shirt and trousers, tied her hair back and left for the Caledonian Whisky Bar where she served as a cloakroom attendant and general dogsbody.