Mrs. Hoyt lived in the Mansion. Well, it wasn’t exactly a mansion, but it was the grandest house on Brunswick Street, and made all the other working class homes look shabby in comparison.
Nobody really knew the Mistress of the Manse, as some called her, because after the death of her husband, she retreated behind its huge stonewalls and was rarely seen in public.
I remember on the anniversary of her husband’s death, Mrs. Hoyt did venture out and made an appearance at Saint Hilda’s, the local Anglican Church—my Nanny referred to it as The Church of England or sometimes The High Church.
Anyway, Mrs. Hoyt certainly looked grand in an ankle-length mauve dress and matching broad-brimmed hat. The rumour went round the neighbourhood that Mrs. Hoyt had once been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of England.
Whether or not The Mistress of the Manse ever darkened the halls of Buckingham Palace, her position in the community was established and from then was referred to as Milady, a term that bespoke both derision and grudging respect.
I gave no further thought to Mrs. Hoyt, until one hot summer day, when Jacob Cunningham, her gardener, beckoned me aside from the other neighbourhood boys.
“The mistress wants to see you,” he confided, in the hushed whisper heard only in churches of either the high or low variety. He must have seen the terrified look on my face, because he added, “Don’t worry, Boy, she only wants to talk to you.”
Up the red crushed stone path we went, across the flagstone terrace and in through the lead glass doors. Mrs. Hoyt was sitting by the fire, a shawl draped over her knees.
I thought it odd a fire would be lit on such a hot day, but wisely held my tongue waiting to hear what she had to say.
“You’re Steven, aren’t you?” She spoke in a soft English accent that seemed to my childish ears grander than the posh room in which she sat. I nodded. She motioned me to a small leather hassock beside her chair.
“I watch you sometimes from my window,” she said in her cultured voice. “You’re not rough like the other children.”
My eyes widened. She chuckled softly, “I see everything that goes on outside—I have quite a good view.”
Jacob, who was standing a bit to my right, nudged me and hissed under his breath, “Has the cat got your tongue? Answer her Boy.”
“You do have quite a good view. Can you see the lake from the tower?”
I asked the question because it had always been a concern of mine—whether or not the turret room would afford such a perspective on the neighbourhood. The query elicited another soft chuckle.
“On a good day I can see the harbour and on a bad day—well, let’s just say, it’s a marvellous place to see a lightning storm.”
The thought intrigued me and I thought I’d very much like to be invited up to that turret room on either day.
“The reason I wanted to see you, Steven, is I heard you telling your friends about Sherlock Holmes. You like to read, don’t you?”
I nodded and then, feeling the gardener’s finger at my back, hastily added, “I just finished The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“Delightful. How would you like to read to me? I have a library full of books, but failing sight and poor Mr. Cunningham here tells me he didn’t learn his letters when in school. I’d be willing to pay you—What do you say?”
“I’d love to,” I blurted out, eager to get the chance to visit her again.
“Then, it’s settled,” she smiled. “Why don’t you come tomorrow at one and we’ll begin with The Adventure of the Speckled Band? —That’s a story I was always wanting to read, but never found the time.”
“I’ll be here at one,” I agreed.
The next day, promptly at one, I pushed open the Iron Gate to Mrs. Hoyt’s garden and was met by Jacob who once again ushered me into her presence.
This time, however, he was dismissed with a subtle waft of her hand.A side table was set for high tea. I must have stared dumbfounded, for Mrs. Hoyt gently took my wrist and steered me toward my place.
“We’ll read first and then have tea and visit after.”
I nodded dumbly and cracked open the text to where the bookmark was laid. I began reading in my high childish voice.
Mrs. Hoyt leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. I read for more than twenty minutes, judging by the progress of the hands on the mantel clock. I paused at the end of a section to check if she were awake or asleep.
She opened her eyes and asked, “What page are you on?”
“A hundred and ten,” I told her.
“Good. That’s fine for today. Shall we take tea?”
“I’d like some tea, Mrs. Hoyt—my throat feels dry.”
She smiled benignly. “Help yourself and take some sandwiches and cake, Steven.”
While we were sipping from the delicate china cups, Mrs. Hoyt peppered me with questions about the neighbours and various details of the neighbourhood. I got the distinct impression she seldom if ever went out.
“And now tell me, Steven, what do people say about me?”
“They say you’re grand, Mrs. Hoyt—that you were once a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.”
She arched an eyebrow and put down her cup.
“Really? Why would they think that?”
“I suppose it’s on account of your fine dresses and this house…” My explanation suddenly felt weak. There was a long pause.
“I see,” she said finally. She looked me straight in the eye and asked, “Did you ever see a photograph that was blurry and out of focus?”
I nodded.
“Why do you suppose that happens?”
I shrugged. I really had no idea.
“It happens,” she continued, “when the camera lens isn’t properly adjusted. Perhaps the person or object is too close or too far away to be clearly seen. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hoyt.”
“I am like that photograph, Steven. People far away from me often see me in a distorted way. Can you appreciate that?”
I said I could and felt like crying, because I also saw her that way.
“Now that you’re close to me, how do you see me?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Oh tosh—don’t be shy, or afraid you’ll offend me. Now that you’ve gotten to know me a bit, I want you to be honest with me. How do you see me?”
“I think you have a lovely accent.”
“Go on.”
“And I think your clothes and house are grand.”
“And what else?”
I hesitated, but she gave me a sharp look. “And I think you’re lonely.”
She reached over and patted my arm. “Very good, Steven. You’re a very perceptive young man.”
“May I go now, Mrs. Hoyt?”
“You may, but come again tomorrow and we’ll continue our story.”
Over the next few months our readings became a daily ritual. Often Mrs. Hoyt would ask my opinion on a story, but just as often she would ask my opinion on the town, the local gossip and goings-on in the neighbourhood.
In a way, I became her eyes and ears. In return, she gave me a ten-dollar bill each week and would often invite me up to the turret room to survey the neighbourhood.
Despite having such a good vantage point, Mrs. Hoyt needed my tales of local news to gain a real perspective on the people and places around her.
As for me, I learned to reserve judgment on anyone I knew only from afar and observe carefully those with whom I was close.
Over the years I learned much from Mrs. Hoyt.
Even now, as a man, I have treasured in my heart hundreds of mental snapshots of those near and far from me...
making the necessary adjustments, of course, to assure none of these was ever out of focus.
