‘Yes, he was.’
‘Did…did he ever talk to you?’
Biddy opened her eyes in surprise. ‘Talk to me? He…he taught us, all of us.’
‘Oh aye, yes’—Julie nodded now—‘of course, your brother’s in the stables. ’Tis said he can read an’ write. Can you read an’ write?’
‘Yes, I can read and write.’
‘My, my. Well’—she now bent towards Biddy, saying softly, ‘I wouldn’t let on to anybody about that if I was you, ’cos it might get up to Mr Froggett. He’s the butler, and he’s been here a long time an’ all, an’ he’s got the master’s ear, an’ the master doesn’t hold with readin’ an’ writin’. I know that much. I bet he doesn’t know that your brother can do it or he wouldn’t reign long. You see, the gentry’—she jerked her thumb upwards now—‘they look upon things like that as an aggravation. It makes people unsettled. And they’re right, you know, in a way…Well, come on, else we’ll starve to death out here.’ And she laughed; but Biddy didn’t laugh.
They entered the laundry by way of a heavy door giving no hint of what was beyond it; but having passed through it she was immediately enveloped by the smell of washing. It was so strong that it stung her nostrils. She had a sensitive nose, and now she sneezed in the steaming atmosphere of soapsuds, hot irons and the peculiar stench that arises from water on hot ash.
Through the mist she made out four pairs of eyes directed towards her. The first pair were small and round, set in a large red face on top of a bulky body. This she guessed must be Mrs Fitzsimmons.
This woman was standing behind a table in the process of ironing some flimsy material; when she put her hand under it, it seemed to float away from her. The second pair of eyes were like slits in the thin face of a woman slightly younger. She was ironing aprons. The third pair were inserted in a round fat face above a plump body. The girl was standing in front of a bench that had a trough at the side, and she had been in the process of scrubbing some garment. She looked about sixteen or seventeen, and her face was running with sweat. The fourth pair of eyes just seemed to peep at her before vanishing.
The head laundress left her table and walked slowly towards a glowing round iron stove that was set on some stone slabs at the end of the room. The five platforms round it for different sized irons gave it the appearance of a pyramid. Biddy watched the woman put her iron into a space, then pick up another, turn it towards her face and spit on it before walking back to the table, where she rubbed it on what looked like a greasy pad before placing it on an iron slab; and then she emitted the word, ‘Well?’
‘This is the new girl, Mrs Fitzsimmons. Mrs Fulton gave orders to bring her over. She’s not properly uniformed yet, but she will be the morrow.’
The big woman left her table now and stood in front of them, and concentrating her gaze down on Biddy, she said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Bridget Millican.’
‘Bridget Millican. Well, forget it as long as you’re inside here; you’ll be Number Four from now on. Understand?’
Biddy made no reply to this, and the woman barked at her, ‘I was talking to ya!’ And at this Biddy remarked sharply, ‘Yes, I understand.’ Again her tone had changed, but unconsciously this time, and the woman stared at her for a moment before glancing at the seamstress as if for explanation. Then she turned and called to the small girl, shouting, ‘You! Three.’ And when the small girl came running, she said, ‘Show her the ropes.’ At this Julie turned away and the small girl held her hand out in a beckoning motion towards Biddy.
The head laundress returned to her table and for a moment there was only the sound of the banging of the flat irons interspersed with the grating sound of the scrubbing brush.
The room was a long one, running lengthwise each side of the main door; but at one side it took on an ‘L’ shape and the young girl led Biddy round into this section, which was a separate wash-house and, like the rest of the laundry, stone floored; and there she turned to Biddy and whispered, ‘I’ll show you everythin’. Don’t worry; I’ll show you everythin’.’
Biddy nodded at her and waited, and the girl said, ‘Me name’s Jean Bitton. Because you’ve come I’ve been moved up; I’m a staff scrubber now. You’ll be doing what I used to do, so I’ll show you.’ Her head was nodding again and she was smiling widely; then putting her face close to Biddy’s, she said, ‘Don’t worry. You get used to it.’
She would never get used to it. For the first time she could remember she felt afraid, not so much of the people but of the work. It was all so strange. Whereas, she told herself, she could learn from books like lightning, she felt she’d never learn the things she had to do in this place.
‘Look, first thing in the morning, you see to the stove. It’s kept on all the time; you bank it up at night, but you’ve got to fill up first thing in the morning. It needs four buckets. Those are the buckets.’ She pointed to two large wooden buckets standing against a door which she now opened and, motioning with her head towards some doors at the far end of a yard, she said, ‘Them’s the coalhouses and the netties.’ She closed the door again and then went on, ‘Well, your next job is here.’ She now led her to two large low tubs and, pointing down to them, she said, ‘You put the roughs in there to soak overnight and you wring them out first thing in the mornin’ through the mangle. The water gets freezin’ this time of the year, but you get used to it.’ She was nodding brightly all the time she was talking.
The mangle was the only recognisable piece of equipment in this whole place. It was like the one they had back home. She thought of the house she had left only a few hours ago as home, and always would. And on the thought it came to her again that the master would have been upset, very upset, had he known what work she was about to take on.
‘And these’—the young girl was now pointing to a great pile of working trousers—‘them moleskins and corduroy breeches,’ she said, ‘are from the stables. It’s trouser week for them in the stables. These are mostly the lads’ stuff. They get mucky, very mucky, and you’ve nearly always got to scrub the bottoms after soaking afore they go into the hot wash. Never boil.’ This last was accompanied by a vigorous shake of her head and she repeated, ‘Oh, never boil them. But these boil,’ she said, pointing to another heap. These were shirts, all blue striped.
She was moving on again, and now she was looking into one of three bins. ‘These,’ she said, ‘are the rough coloureds, petticoats and that, from the sewing room, the kitchen staff, and ours in here; except Mrs Fitzsimmons, she has hers done with the middle staff lot, like the cook and the housemaid’s an’ such.’ She now peered into Biddy’s face and added, ‘You look flummoxed.’
Biddy nodded as she repeated, ‘Aye, I am a bit. Yes, I am a bit.’
‘Oh, you’ll soon come to it. Now this—’ she pointed to a large poss tub already half full of hot water and clothes, and she laughed as she said, ‘You’ve seen one of them afore I bet.’
‘Yes, yes, I have.’
‘But I bet you haven’t seen this kind of mangle.’ And she now took Biddy’s arm and pulled her towards a box that looked like three big coffins placed together. It was six feet long and about four and a half feet wide and under the two top boxes were two rollers, and as if the great cumbersome thing was the young girl’s own invention, she said proudly, ‘This is the presser. It’s as good as an iron for some things, like the trousers and the rough shirts and things like that. Put them through when they’re just off dry and they come out fine. Look.’ She now gripped a big handle attached to a wheel all of eighteen inches across, and it took all her strength to turn it, smiling broadly as she did so; and when she stopped she said, ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
To this Biddy answered in a voice little above a whisper, ‘I don’t think I ever shall.’
‘Oh, you will’—the smile left the girl’s face—‘you’ll have to. An’ you’ll get out at times durin’ the day an’ all. I’ll be goin’ along of you, takin’ the baskets back
and collectin’ the dirties.’ At this Biddy pricked up her ears and said, ‘We take the washing back? Will we take it to the stables?’
‘Eeh no!’ The girl pushed her. ‘They’re all left in the sortin’ room over in the house an’ the staff take it from there. Fancy you askin’ that.’ And she pushed her again.
Her face straight, Biddy said, ‘Me brother’s in the stables.’
‘Is he?’ There was awe in the girl’s voice. ‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s fair, very fair.’
‘Oh, that one. Oh, aye, I’ve glimpsed him.’
‘Glimpsed him? How long have you been here?’
The girl now bowed her head and said, ‘Oh, six years coming on.’
‘Six years? Well, our Davey’s been here over four.’
‘Oh aye. Yes, that could be.’ The girl was nodding at her solemnly now. ‘But you see we’re not allowed to mix. In church we can see who’s new an’ that, and at half-year pay day an’ Christmas when they have the staff get-together. But then, up till last year, you see, I had to just look on.’
‘Why?’
‘Well’—her head dropped again—‘I’m from the house, the poorhouse.’
‘Oh.’
The brown eyes were looking into hers now as she said, ‘An’ there’s two lads in the stables. They came at the same time as me. But, you see, we’re not allowed privileges like the others.’
‘But why?’
‘Well, ’cos we’re taken out of charity, see.’
The statement was made without bitterness. ‘And these are good jobs. I’ve been very lucky; so are the lads; ’cos they could have been sent for sweeps, an’ I could have been put into a factory, and some of them are worse than the House of Correction they say. Oh, I’m very lucky. And you’—she now caught hold of Biddy’s hand—‘you’ll get to like it. And the food’s fine. An’ you get your uniform and a present at Christmas an’ leave every fortnight. But—’ The brightness left her face as she added now, ‘we can’t go anywhere on our leave, the lads and me, unless…well, unless we’re invited, you know like somebody takes us.’
Terrible. Terrible. Terrible.
The word was yelling in Biddy’s mind. Eeh! When she looked back she’d had the life of a lady and she hadn’t known it.
‘What do you two think you’re up to? I thought you were told to show her the ropes.’
The young girl almost left the ground, so quickly did she spring round, crying now, ‘I…I have. I…I am, Mrs Fitzsimmons, and she’s taken it all in. She’ll be all right. I have. I’ll start her on.’
‘You do, an’ quick, an’ get back to that poss tub or I’ll know the reason why.’ Biddy made another mistake, she turned and looked fully at the woman; and now the bawl of the voice almost lifted her, too, from the ground as the laundress screamed, ‘Get your head down over that tub afore I duck you in it!’ And as Biddy now turned towards the tub of wet clothes the voice came at her, yelling, ‘An’ roll your sleeves up first, you idiot.’
It was with great difficulty that she stopped herself from obeying the flash of anger that spiralled up through her body carrying with it such words as, don’t you call me an idiot. I’m no idiot. If there’s an idiot round here I’m looking at her.
Eeh! She would never be able to stand this. She’d run away. But if she did, what then? She could only run back home, and there’d be another mouth to feed and no shilling a week coming in. And if her mother wanted to stay in the house, then they’d all have to work.
As she plunged her arms up to the elbows into the ice-cold water and dragged out of it a heavy garment, there now rose in her a feeling of resentment that overshadowed that which she had for the laundress, and this feeling was against her mother.
Two
For the first week, as she told herself, she didn’t know where she was. The work in the laundry didn’t seem to get easier with the days, but harder; and Mrs Fitzsimmons piled more and more work on her. She had been used to grubbing in the ground in the cold weather, she was no stranger to back-breaking work such as digging, but this, having to skitter from one job to another under the yelled orders of the laundress, had become a torture to her. For the first three nights she had cried herself to sleep. Her fingers were numb with wringing out heavy working clothes in cold water; her shoulders ached with possing and scrubbing; her nose wrinkled in distaste when she even thought of the garments she’d had to scrub. When, at night, she had muttered to Jean Bitton, ‘They must all be filthy,’ Jean had said, ‘They’re no different, Biddy, from the house clothes and those of the gentry. Eeh! You wouldn’t believe. I’ve seen some of them, an’ they’re changed every day you know.’
‘Every day?’ She had widened her tear-dimmed eyes at this new friend and Jean had nodded vigorously as she whispered, ‘Oh, yes. The mistress and old madam change every day. And the master and Mr Stephen, they can go through three shirts a day sometimes. Then there’s Mr Laurence. But you don’t have much from him as he only comes home for the holidays. But from the two young rascals, Mr Paul and Miss Lucy, you can have three changes a day for them, especially if they’re going visiting. And Miss May’s as bad. But of course, she’s a young lady.’
It was only at the end of the first week that Biddy began to work out in her mind the household staff. She had learned that there were eight in the master’s family, one of whom was old madam, who had all the west wing to herself and who very rarely appeared with the rest of the family. She had learned that the butler was one Thomas Froggett. He was fiftyish, thin, and had a wily look; he wore fancy clothes and had garters at the top of his stockings. And the first footman was James Simpson. He was younger, but taller and fatter. The second footman was one John Thompson. He was younger still, a small man and looked ordinary. Then there was somebody called Mr Buckley. He was the valet. But up till now she hadn’t seen one of these men, and she had merely glimpsed the first and second housemaids, Mary Watts and June Cordell. They were grown women, as were the first and second chambermaids. The first chambermaid’s name was Peggy Tile. She was older than the previous two, well into her forties. But the second chambermaid was younger. Her name was Chrissy Moore. She had merely glimpsed people as she and the laundry staff filed into the servants’ hall to have their one sit-down meal of the day. This was at half past six after the rest of the staff had eaten. They were accompanied by the lower kitchen staff. The cook, as did the head seamstress, ate with the upper household staff; the valet and the housekeeper and the governess ate in the latter’s sitting room. It astounded her that it took twenty-one indoor staff to look after eight people, seven if you don’t count the one who was away most of the time. Then, as she reckoned from Jean’s talk, there were thirteen outdoor staff, which included the laundry and the lodgekeeper and his wife. But this wasn’t taking into account the home farm and the blacksmith and the three wall men. These, she understood, were a separate unit altogether and miles away at the other end of the estate.
What she had come to fully understand in this short time was that the laundry staff were the lowest in the hierarchy, and she herself was the lowest in that section; also that, in each section in the household there was someone who considered himself or herself superior to the rest. It even happened at the last table, as their meal was called, when Anna Smith, the assistant cook, took the head of it and directed when they could start to eat and when they were finished. She also dictated the time when talking was permissible.
The whole system was so bewildering that Biddy constantly told herself that she would never get used to it. Nor did she want to get used to it. Time and again during the last few days she had been for walking out, just like that. She had imagined herself walking up to the laundress and saying, ‘Well now, Mrs Fitzsimmons, you big loud-mouthed individual, there’s the washing and if you want it done, get at it!’ She was continually forming such cutting sentences in her mind and imagining the ensuing look of utter amazement on the laundress’s face.
Looking back over the
week, Biddy could see that the laundress’s manner towards her had from the first been rough, but on the second day after the housekeeper had made her daily inspection, the woman’s attitude towards her had worsened. It was as if she had been told to find fault with everything she did.
It was on the third day she had said to Jean, ‘Do you think I could slip along to the stables to see our Davey during the dinner break?’ This was a meal of cheese and bread and ale brought to them at twelve o’clock, and they were given forty-five minutes in which to eat it, clean their room, and attend to the wants of nature. It was during this latter period that Biddy thought she would have time to dash around to the stables, but Jean was horrified at the suggestion and warned her that if Mr Mottram or Mr Lowther or the bigger stable boys saw her they would split on her, because one of the lads had been dismissed for keeping company in secret with a girl in the kitchen. They had both been sent packing.
So it wasn’t until Sunday when she was being packed into the back of a cart lined with wooden forms that she saw Davey. He was walking with two other young men towards the wagon that was the third in the procession and he turned and smiled at her, and it was a nice smile, a warming smile, and she answered it and nodded at him before she was pushed up into the cart and along the form.
The Black Velvet Gown Page 22