“I did it because Uncle Sandy said it was fun. He said he did it lots when he was a boy. I’ve been dying to give it a try because our stairs at home aren’t as big as these.”
“Dying to try it? Dying, really? Hugh, you might’ve gotten your wish! And do your stairs at home have a hallway with badly placed heirlooms?” Despite my grumbling complaints and the now headless Greek-looking statue, my concern is centred on Hugh as I run my hands over the back of his head, then down his shoulders and arms. “Archie said he thought you passed out.” No major lumps or bumps present, thank God.
“I was laughing. Silently. It was amazing, Holly!” His blue eyes are as wide as saucers, but his pupils are, thankfully, even and not at all dilated.
“Did you hit your head?”
“Nope. Not even a little bit.”
“You’re sure?” He gives an adamant shake of it that almost makes my head hurt. “No headache? Ringing in your ears?”
“I just bumped my knees on this.” He taps the tall pedestal the statue once stood on. “Really, I’m fine,” he insists with a dazed but happy smile.
“Okay.” I blow out a relieved breath. “I’m pleased to see you have all your arms and legs in the right places, though I’m not sure about your brain.” I suddenly feel sorry for his mother because something tells me this is the start of his career as an adrenaline junky.
“He hasn’t got any brains.” Archie giggles as he reaches the bottom of the staircase. “Uncle Sandy is going to flip when he sees what you’ve broken.”
“Maybe he won’t.” The older boy’s smile falters. “Maybe he’ll be too busy worrying about mummy when he sees how sad she is.” While his mom is trying hard to protect them both from the truth, Hugh seems to have an eight-year-old’s understanding of what she’s going through.
“Maybe we can fix it before your uncle gets back.” This elusive duke, the absentee overlord, who I imagine to be dark-haired, portly, and the future sufferer of gout. “First things first, we need to hide it.” Before Chrissy and the crew start work. Chrissy won’t tell, I don’t think, but Mari is another story. That bitch has got it in for me. In her eyes, not only did I get her job, but I also got a much better one on top. One that has brought me in from the cottage she’d apparently coveted to the castle itself. “Come on, let’s get you up.” Hugh grabs my offered hand, and I pull him to his feet. He seems pretty steady, so I turn to the next casualty. “What do you suppose his name is?”
“Unfortunate.” Hugh snickers, toeing a chip of marble by his foot.
“It is an unfortunate day when you lose your head,” I agree, picking up the decapitated piece. “Oof. This one’s got rocks in his head.”
“It is an unfortunate day when you lose your willie,” Archie asserts.
“His what?” My head whips around to what I thought was a stray chip of marble on the floor. “Unfortunate is right,” I agree, picking up the offending piece. Pieces? “It doesn’t look like he had a lot to lose in the first place.”
The boys set off laughing. I’m not sure if the sound is infectious or this is the way my body sees fit to rid itself of an excess of adrenaline because, before long, I have tears streaming down my face.
“Oh, my word. That is enough. We have to clean up this place before we get found out.”
“You mean you’re not going to tell?” Archie asks, his voice small.
“It’s okay, Holly. I did this,” his brother says, squaring his shoulders. “I should own up to it.”
“Well, that’s very noble of you, Hugh. But maybe you want to save your explanations for another day. I think your mom has enough to cope with today with those pesky contact lenses.” I send him a speaking look which he seems to understand.
“Well, if you’re sure. Of course, I will own up to it—explain to Mother another day.”
Mother. How grown up he’s trying to be. I find I’m biting the insides of my cheeks to stop myself from smiling.
“Meanwhile, I’ll just be hanging on to this, I think.” I pocket the tiny penis and almost tread on the tiny testicles.
“The man with the broken boaby.” Archie chortles.
“Boaby?” I repeat, looking down at the thing in my hand.
“Watch out for his balls!” Hugh calls out, which is something I never thought to hear yelled within these hallowed walls . . .
So I pocket the balls, along with the statue’s unfortunate and tiny phallus (also known as his boaby) before setting to work clearing up the evidence.
“We need to get this block of rock shifted.”
“Actually, that’s a marble pedestal.”
“Thanks for the clarification, Hugh.” I put the decapitated head down by the stairs. “Arch, open that door, please.”
Archie dashes over to a door in the wooden panelling that I know houses mops and buckets and other cleaning supplies, swinging it open. Then I roll the marble body out of the path I need to move the bigger piece of marble.
“Won’t Chrissy find it in there?” Hugh asks, moving behind to push the thing as I begin to drag the carpet runner, which in turn, moves the pedestal closer to the cleaning closet. Ingenious, no?
“Three weeks . . . and I’ve never seen anyone . . . Urgh! Push, Hugh!”
“I am pushing!” he grunts back, his teeth gritted, and his cheeks flushed red.
“Hold the door wider, Arch. There!”
We manage to push it into a corner before I drag an old-looking industrial floor buffing machine in front of it. I’ve never seen anyone use it. Besides, the cleaning crew seems to bring their own each week. Then Archie closes the cupboard door as I step out, then re-tucks his school shirt.
“Here.” I beckon him closer to rub my thumb against the corner of his mouth. “You have a smudge of jelly.”
“Silly Holly! We’re not allowed jelly for breakfast, either.”
“Really? Not even on a little wholewheat toast?” I tease.
He shakes his head earnestly. “Or ice cream.”
“Why would you want jelly on toast?” Hugh asked, perplexed.
Jeez. This is what happens when you tell kids they can’t watch TV. Pot-a-toe, pot-a-to. Or jelly, jam, and Jell-O. Talk about cross purposes.
But getting back to the task at hand.
“Help me with the carpet, Arch.” We each grab a side and pull it straight. “Do you think you could manage the head?” I ask, straightening again. He nods solemnly, so I pick up the casualty. I press the decapitated head into his hands, balancing mine under his, just in case. “Got it?” He nods. “Okay, now to get rid of the body.” My attention pivots to the other boy. “You and I need to carry the dearly departed—”
“Departed from his head?”
“Upstairs.”
I glance back at the row of statues, wondering if I should shuffle them a little closer together, but then think better of it. One headless heirloom is enough for one day. I have a better idea. Ducking back into the cupboard, I open a plastic box on the wall labelled LIGHTS. Locating the switch labelled SPOTLIGHTS/HALL, I flick it, and the lights go out.