Free The Pink House at Appleton by Jonathan Braham

like that no wonder he went mad,’ Papa tried to joke. ‘No family to look after him, probably all living in Birmingham, England.’
    The children trembled. Boyd strained his ears to hear Mitch Miller and “The Yellow Rose of Texas” from the golden depths of the Mullard radio.
The songs came from a magical place, far from their sombre drawing room. Outside, the night seemed to be crawling with burglars, waiting to shoot them down in cold blood or chop them up with the machetes the cane-cutters used. Poppy’s plaintive cry gave credence to the picture building up. He barked low, frightened low, and kept on scratching against the back door.
    â€˜What’s wrong with that dog?’
    â€˜He had his dinner,’ Mama said, as if dogs only barked when they were hungry.
    Papa was looking straight into the dining room and out through the green jalousies at the end of the room. Suddenly he bounded in a single movement into the pantry.
    â€˜Fire!’ Papa cried out, in a new voice that they did not know.
    He switched on the kitchen lights, flinging the back door open. In bounded Poppy, tail in a spin. In came the night air and out they all went behind Papa. The sky seemed like a red inferno. It was Agatha’s room. Shadows leaped like demons behind the windows and red flames shot out from the opened door. Agatha herself stood away from the building, Bible in hand, praying aloud.
    â€˜Lawd Jesus! Lawd Jesus!’ she kept muttering, oblivious of Papa, who rushed by her. ‘Help me, oh Lawd! Help me, oh Lawd!’
    Papa attached the writhing pink hose to the outside tap while Barrington, full of purpose, turned the handle all the way out. The water shot up in a white jet and they could hear it hitting the wooden walls. Papa got as far as the door but fresh flames leaped out.
    â€˜Back, back!’ Papa commanded, wrestling with the hose. Everyone clustered round Mama on the back verandah as Papa, in a heroic stance, mastered the flames. Barrington crouched as if awaiting another call to action. Agatha remained in the shadows, slapping her Bible with open palms and stomping about on the spot. A dreadful, burnt-wet smell hovered in the air and settled into their clothes.
    Agatha left at midday the next day, teary-eyed, her shadow slow on the ground. She did not hurl fierce malevolence at them, as Perlita had done, but went meekly, clearly filled to overflowing with the Biblical promise that the meek would inherit the earth.
    As Agatha departed, the estate carpenters arrived, sawing, hammering and planing until a new building appeared at the end of the day. But Mama’s brows wrinkled because she remembered Mrs Moore’s words:
Without a good maid, it’s difficult to run an estate house
. And Papa avoided discussing the matter because both his first and his second domestic appointments had failed spectacularly.
    At this time, several very concerned older women at the club took Mama under their wing and described the difficulty they, too, had had in finding a competent maid.
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ one woman said, ‘there are plenty of maids about. But can they cook, wash and iron? Can they take instruction? What about their hygiene?’
    â€˜It’s a tricky business,’ another woman, more serious-looking than the first, said. ‘You can find a girl who can cook like your mother but who has the most disgusting personal habits. And it’s not unknown to find them as clean as Sunlight soap but with the brains of an imbecile. Most are as
dark
as anything, not having completed elementary school or worse, unable to read or write. Watch out for those. They are the ones who believe in
Duppies
and
Rolling Calves
. Send them packing at once!’
    â€˜The best way to go about finding the right sort,’ the most concerned of the older women said, ‘is to employ them and watch their every move like a hawk. Search their rooms when they aren’t there. Keep a watch