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My Father was a man of many drawers. One wall of his study was entirely covered with them, the result of a project that he had worked on, now and then, over several years. Not long after my eighth birthday they were as good as finished, or at least, so close to finished that Father never quite summoned the energy to finish them entirely. So, they were rough around the edges, a little haphazard here and there, and occasionally gave me splinters. He had fronted the drawers with mis-matched off-cuts of wood, and made handles from whatever had been to hand at the time. Some had tiny brass knobs, perfect for the purpose, ordered when the project was in its infancy from a shop that had never been visited again. At least one had a large doorknob, slightly rusty, and many either had a bent nail to hook a finger beneath, or even just a drilled hole.
The wall of tiny drawers, many less than six inches wide, was fascinating to me. As a child I would sit and look at them for as long as Father would let me, which never seemed long enough. The contents of the drawers interested me less than the characters of the fronts. They often repulsed me, actually, and often I had not dared to wriggle those stiff little drawers open for fear of what insect carcasses I might disturb.
By the time I had reached nine, Father had enlisted my help in his work. At his direction and in my neatest print, I copied from a list of long Latin names in his notebook, onto little scraps of paper which were pasted to the front of each drawer. As each label was written, Father would prise the corresponding drawer from the wall and tell me about what was in it. I tried to be interested in the gruesome contents, but with each drawer I saw, the more my fascination with the wall seemed to wane.
After a month, the labels were complete, but there were three drawers, right in the top corner, which remained unlabelled. Father toyed with naming them “Misc.”, but ultimately decided against it. My fascination returned, intensified and magnified, centred entirely upon these three drawers, far out of my reach, mysteriously nameless but for “Misc.”, a word I did not understand.
From that moment on, whenever I was left alone in Father’s study to write up his notes, I would, after a sly glance at the door, run to the wall of drawers, climb the chair and stretch as far as I could to try and reach them. Only an inch or two higher than my fingertips, they seemed tantalisingly close but at the same time, miles away. I resigned myself to never knowing, at least not until the eons had passed until I was, perhaps, ten years old, when I hoped to be tall enough to reach.
I imagine now, although of course I don’t know, that all children and even adults would be curious about those drawers, but at the time I was easily persuaded otherwise.
Salvation came one miserable day when the sun shone on my little garden and the trees tapped on the window, their branches beckoning fingers, pleading with me to go out and play. I was shut in the study. Father was fractious and had been mumbling something about deadlines and publishers all day. I had to remain at the desk until I had finished copying out all his notes, even, he had said with a very stern look on his face, if it took me all summer. Looking at the thick pile of papers, it certainly felt as though I would be there until mid-autumn at the very earliest. My mind skimmed over the long words I didn’t understand, flitting onto what work I longed to be doing outside.
I sighed and shifted on the chair, swinging my legs and trying to get comfortable. My foot struck something, and I wriggled down from the chair and crawled under the desk to investigate. It was a squat, round footstool, upholstered with vine green velvet. Threadbare in places, the brass studs around the cushion were tarnished and, more often than not, missing.
I looked at it, and thought. Then I crawled from under the desk and looked at it again. With barely a thought to the idea that what I was doing might be wrong, I pulled out the footstool and placed it onto the seat of the chair. It wobbled slightly, but that was nothing to mind.
It was the work of mere moments to push the chair up to the wall of drawers and hop on, steadying myself against the wall when the stool wobbled and shifted on the shiny wooden seat. It seemed a lot more wobbly up there, and I froze for a moment, taking deep breaths. The floor seemed so much further away. I decided that I wasn’t so bothered about growing that extra six inches, if this was what it was like.
The lowest of the three drawers was within easy reach now, but it felt perilous and foolish to try and wriggle it out. Yet since I was there and had come so far, I decided to do it anyway, although my enthusiasm at the illusive “Misc.” was fading fast.
After a series of jerks and squeaks that very nearly unbalanced me, I had managed to open the drawer far enough to get my hand in. Considering the likelihood of the drawer containing papery wings or shiny beetle backs, this was probably foolish, and I flinched when my fingers brushed against something cold and smooth.
‘Fleur.’
He spoke quietly, but there was no mistaking the danger in his voice. I jumped at the sound and knocked the drawer out of the wall, sending it with a splintering crack onto the wooden floor. It spun away from me, landing with a thud against the door at Father’s feet, leaving a trail of folded pieces of paper, scraps of fabric and the locket that I would come to know so well. I wobbled helplessly on my perch, feeling ridiculous and sick to my stomach.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I wasn’t, I didn’t-’
‘I don’t recall,’ Father continued, his face and voice both tight with anger. ‘Asking you what you weren’t doing. I can see for myself that you aren’t doing the work I set you. That I asked you to do. The work that is very important to me and the upkeep of this house. The work that allows you to flit about in that garden. That keeps you in shoes and frocks, and buys food for our table. I can see very well for myself that you aren’t doing that. So, I ask you again what you are doing.’
I couldn’t look at him, nor could I stop myself from trembling. The stool wobbled ominously, and Father picked his way across the room through the scattered debris and with one arm and an unexpected strength, whisked me off the chair and set me firmly down on the floor. He moved the footstool before picking me up again and sitting me roughly on the chair, where I was even smaller, all the better to loom over and frighten.
‘Since you seem to have lost your tongue, I shall answer my own question. What you were doing, Fleur, was abusing my trust. What you were doing was going through my things. Did it occur to you that there might be a reason that I keep things in places where dirty, thieving hands can’t reach them? That there might be some part of my life that I don’t wish to be forced to share with you? That I might have some claim to a life of my own, not entirely governed by you and what you want? No?’
He had grasped me by the shoulder and shook me roughly with every question. I began to cry, and couldn’t look at him, the face I knew so well contorted beyond recognition, the eyes which were usually so tired and small now opened wide and alight with rage.
‘Have I not taught you the difference between right and wrong? Have the hours I’ve spent trying to educate you all been in vain? Do you know what the bible means, Fleur? Do you know what the words you say every night in your prayers mean?’
Father shook me still, more roughly with every question and my head glanced against the back of the chair and I cried out in pain. He dropped my shoulders with disgust and stepped away, turning to survey the damage to the drawer on the floor.
‘All these things... and you thought you had the right...’
He knelt among the debris, trailing trembling fingers over the creased papers, his touch a lingering caress. With shaking hands, he brushed them into a pile, and stared in silence, gently rocking on his heels. He seemed to have forgotten me, and I shifted on the stool, wondering if I should leave.
‘Keep still,’ he bit out. ‘I haven’t finished with you. Did you read any of these? Did you stoop so low as to read my personal, private correspondence?’
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘Say again,’ my father barked, like an animal crouched on the floor, gloating over his possessions, and defending them against my intrusion.
‘No, Father,’ I said again, louder this time. My nose began to drip from my tears, and I fought the urge to sniff or reach for my handkerchief. I must stay still. His hand twitched at his side, and I knew he was on the edge of lunging at me, of attacking me and beating me and pulling my hair and scratching my face. Every second he leaned over that pile of papers, he seemed to grow angrier. He reached out and scooped up the locket, cradling it in his palm.
‘Your mother gave her life for you, Fleur. Do you remember that? She died that you might live. I gave up my life, my career, my studies and my travel, to look after you. We both died, at least a little, that you might have this life. Have I not been kind to you? Have I not?’
‘You have,’ I whispered.
‘And yet, you do this. You make me wish that she had been the one to survive that day, and not you. You waste the life she gave you, fritter it away in sin. There is right, and there is wrong, Fleur. A clear, defined line between the two, and what you have done today is wrong. Evil, sin, hell, wrong. The devil was with you when you sinned, you let the devil in. There is evil in your heart, and you let it triumph.’
Father sank to the ground and began to shake, his forehead rubbing against the rug on the floor.
‘This locket was your mother’s,’ he said quietly, so quietly. ‘She wore it as she died. She said you should have it when you were old enough. Do you think you deserve it? Do you think you will ever deserve it?’
‘No, Father.’
And I knew I was right. I was the lowest of the low, detritus and dirty, besmirching the memory of the woman who had loved me so much she had allowed me to kill her by being born. I looked at the locket, the chain visible between the fingers of Father’s clenched fist, and longed for it more than anything.
‘All I have left of her are these memories. And you try to spoil them, to befoul them with your touch. I cannot trust you. I try so hard, I try to love you like she asked me to, but you will not help me in this. Say you won’t look in these again. Say it.’
‘I won’t look, I won’t. I promise.’
‘Words,’ Father spat. ‘Just words, meaningless words and lies from your forked tongue. Get out.’
I grasped the chair with both hands.
‘I said get out. Go to your room. You shan’t leave until I tell you to. Take the work with you. You can begin to repay your debt to me, at least.’