‘It’s a story in two volumes featuring a hastily shelved acting career and an aunt.’
I take a bite of sandwich and smile to myself. Cute that he’s referencing his life like the way books used to be printed.
‘Sounds intriguing.’
Dain leans back in his chair and folds his arms, which I’m starting to recognise is his go-to pose for having an in-depth conversation. ‘In high school, I was consumed by the idea of being the next great British theatre actor. You know, following in the footsteps of Laurence Olivier and the like. My parents encouraged me by paying for acting lessons and taking me to see local plays, and occasionally, we did the odd trip to London to the West End—we lived in Leeds, so it was a big adventure,’ he explains.
‘Gotcha.’
‘When my school put on a production ofJaneEyre, I auditioned and got a leading role.’
‘Great! Mr Rochester, I presume?’
‘No,’ replies Dain dryly. ‘His wife in the attic. I was at an all-boys school. I had to wear a dress and a wig.’
‘Oh dear.’ I suppress a smile, but not very well.
‘Yes, you may well laugh. Anyway, I got to knowJaneEyreinside out, back to front, and sideways. And I came to appreciate the storytelling and writing skills of Charlotte Brontë. I started reading another of her books, moved on to Emily, then Anne. By the time the play opened, I was a fan of all of them.’
‘How did the play go, though?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘It was a disaster. I got stage fright and forgot my lines in front of 200 people.’
‘Oh no! What did you do?’
‘Screamed and clawed the curtains. It was aneffective distraction from my deplorable acting ability.’
The woebegone look on his face makes me want togiggle and hug him simultaneously. I clear my throat, trying not to laugh. ‘OK, so the acting was a no go. What about the aunt?’
‘My mother’s sister, Abigail, lived here in Haworth. We used to come and stay with her when Dad went away on business trips. Since I was a fanboy of the Brontës by that stage, I used to spend a lot of time hanging around the parsonage and exploring the moors. At the time, I quite fancied myself as Heathcliff.’
‘I can imagine,’ I say, caught up in a romantic imagining of Dain striding over the moors, looking angsty and windswept.
‘Fast-forward ten years, and the lot at the parsonage got sick of me showing up and answering tourist questions ad hoc and suggested I become an official volunteer instead. I was studying the classics at Leeds Uni at the time, but I volunteered during the holidays. Then when my aunt died, I moved here permanently. My great-grandmother was friends with the Brontës’ maid, Martha, by the way,’ he adds casually.
I’ve been chewing on a bite of sandwich, and I gulp it down. ‘Seriously?’ Martha Brown was mentioned a lot in Charlotte’s biography, so I know exactly who he means.
Dain nods. ‘Yeah. Crazy, eh? It still blows my mind. Martha knew them when they were alive, and she was there nursing them on their final days. Well, Charlotte and Emily, not Anne.’
I lean forward with interest. ‘Did your aunt tell you any stories that had been handed down to her?’
‘Plenty when I was younger. It felt like having a privileged window into their lives. A lot has been kept out of the history books, especially certain things,’ he says, his tone lowering an octave.
My ears prick up at that.Certain things.‘So you’re saying you know stuff about the Brontës that no one else does?’
He downs the last of his Coke and taps his nose. ‘Possibly. But if I do, I’ll be taking them to my grave. I was sworn to secrecy by my aunt, God rest her soul.’ He winks at me, and I’m not sure if he’s joking or trying to arouse my interest by being mysterious.
Even though I’m burning with curiosity, I decide not to bite on the dangling carrot. ‘So do you live in the village?’
‘Yes, my aunt left her house to me since she didn’t have any children.’
‘Wow, lucky you.’Does he live alone?I wonder.
Dain supplies the answer without me having to ask. ‘It’s just me and Tabby, her cat. She’s named after the Brontës’ other maid, Tabitha, who lived to ninety. I’m not so sure her namesake will even make it to next year. She’s always getting into fights with the tom next door. But I think he secretly adores her.’
I giggle at that, and Dain grins widely. I’m definitely getting the sense he likes a captive audience. It’s a pity his acting career never took off. How does he earn money if he’s volunteering? He probably doesn’t have a mortgage if he owns his aunt’s house, but there must still be bills. I can’t ask about that, though. It’s too nosey. He’s not living with little Miss Paleface anyway. Perhaps they’re just friends since they work together?
‘Anyway, enough about me. I’ve been prattling on. You’re too good a listener,’ he says, picking up the other half of his sandwich and taking a bite.
