extreme.
I tackled him about it after seven days of this treatment. I had cooked what I hoped was a passable dinner. Mr Tweadle was in a very good mood: he had ordered in a jug of wine and was treating Nokes and himself to a glass or two.
âTo our customers!â he crowed, raising his vintage in the direction of the shop. âTo those who keep us in this delightful style.â His eyes flicked over to me, standing by the stove. âDo you want some, Cathy?â
âNo thank you, sir. But I was wondering if I might go out tomorrow â just for a half hour or so. I know a good butcherâs where I can get much better meat than the poor stuff Mr Nokes has been buying. That last bit of mutton was surely from a sheep that died of old age â you must have noticed how tough it was?â
Mr Tweadle frowned and put down his glass. âNo, Iâm afraid you canât go wandering.â
âI promise to go there and come straight back. I wonât talk to anyone.â
âI said no, Cathy. My word is final.â
Iâd had enough of being his slave. I took off my cap and began to untie my apron.
âWhat are you doing?â he asked sharply, all pretence at being friendly abandoned.
âIâm sorry, sir. I canât continue like this. Iâll go mad if I canât get out and about.â
âYou hear that?â he appealed to Nokes. âThe ungrateful girl frets over her freedom to roam the streets like some common hussy. You see how right I was to insist she stayed inside?â
âVery wise, sir,â Nokes intoned. âSheâs got to be kept close, this one, or your name will be mud.â
âI donât think a walk to a butcherâs shop would place Mr Tweadleâs name in peril, but as you both do, I had better take my leave. If I could have my manuscripts back, please?â I held out my hand.
My employer and Nokes exchanged looks.
âWhat manuscripts?â asked Mr Tweadle coldly.
âMy manuscripts â the ones I showed you last week!â I felt a rising sense of panic. I had to get them back â I had to!
âThere were no manuscripts.â
âThere were! In a canvas bag. You looked at them in the shop.â
âOh, those bits of old paper. I think I put them down somewhere â canât for the life of me remember what I did with them.â
âKindling for the fire, sir?â suggested Nokes with a malevolent grin at me.
âVery possibly. If youâre so worried about it, youâd better write some more, girl. Iâll give you pen and paper so you can keep up your little hobby. I like to encourage innocent pursuits. If youâre good, I might be able to remember what I did with them in a few days.â
âA few days!â I exclaimed. The slimy cheat was holding my manuscripts hostage to keep a cheap maid about the place.
Mr Tweadle got up. âIâll send Nokes back with the paper for you. I do so want you to be happy while you are staying here, Cathy. Youâll feel so much better if you let your mind rather than your person wander and write a few more stories to pass the time. You wonât mind if I lock you in now, will you? You have to understand itâs for your own good.â
Of course I minded, but they were gone and the bolt clunked into place.
That night, I considered my options. Mr Tweadle couldnât keep an eye on me forever â I had no fears about that locked door. If the worst came to the worst, Iâd simply climb over the back wall and make my escape that way. But he needed no real shackles â my manuscripts were like a ball and chain keeping me here. They were irreplaceable. No one else might have any use for them, but they were everything to me. Iâd have to find them, then flee â that was all there was to it.
To lull Mr Tweadle into a false sense of security, I scribbled down a little story that night â something about