She glimpsed him again as they filed into church, the male staff at one side, the females at the other. Not all the staff were present, but what there were made a good third of the congregation.
She was in the very back row seated between Jean Bitton and Julie Fenmore, and when, after some ten minutes, there was a stir at the front of the church towards the altar, it was Julie who, with her hand over her mouth, whispered, ‘The family’s in.’
Up till then she hadn’t seen any member of the family. She had no idea what they were like and so, letting her imagination run riot, she saw them sitting in their gallery, stately superior, on a par with the gods and goddesses she had read so much about over the past years.
She was bored with the service. She had nothing to read. During the sermon Parson Weeks’s voice almost sent her to sleep. She told herself she’d ask her mother for her father’s Bible when next she went home. But taking in the rows of still figures, hands joined on laps, she wondered if it would be a wise thing to do, especially as reading was frowned upon.
The day was bright and frosty and as the cart travelled back along the road the girls chatted to each other; but she sat quiet, looking out through the wooden slats that bordered the sides, and again she was crying inside, If only I could go home.
Once they were down from the cart Jean explained the procedure: they were to go to their room and change into their working clothes, then have their bite, which was their midday meal, after which they’d collect the dirty laundry and sort it all up, soak it ready for the early start in the morning.
She had never worked so much on a Sunday even when they hadn’t gone to church; her mother had considered it a day of rest. In the summer they had all gone down to the river and had games in the field. The tears came to her eyes when she thought of the wonderful life she had had in that house. She hadn’t been aware of it at the time, she had taken it for granted, thinking it would go on forever. If only the master had lived, he would never have let her work in a laundry.
It was as they were later sorting the clothes that Jean said, ‘Would you read me a story the night, Biddy?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’ She was flattered at the request and she added, ‘I’d love to. What d’you like?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, anything; I just like to listen to people reading, like the parson this morning, about the comin’ of the Lord an’ things.’
‘Well, I haven’t a Bible with me, but I’ll bring it next time I go home. There’s some lovely Bible stories. There are others though that are not so nice; they’re all about killings and things. But I’ve got a book of tales with me, and I’ll read you one of those.’
‘Oh, ta. Look.’ Jean leant towards her and in a conspiratorial whisper said, ‘We’ll snuff the candle an’ get undressed in the dark, an’ that’ll save it a bit, so you can read more.’
‘That’s a good idea. Yes, we’ll do that.’
For the first time since coming into this strange world she felt the return of her old excited self. Somebody was interested in reading. Perhaps she might even be interested in learning to write. Now it was her turn to whisper. ‘Would you like to write your name, Jean?’
‘Me, write me name? Me own name?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Oh, aye, that would be wonderful. Eeh, nobody can write their name here! Well, I expect the butler an’ the housekeeper can likely. Oh aye, they’ll likely be able to write their own names. And people like the lady’s maid. An’ of course Miss Collins, the governess. Oh, but fancy me being able to write me name.’ She now stopped her work and, gripping Biddy’s cold wet hands, she said, ‘Eeh! I am glad you come, Biddy. Eeh! I am. I’ve never had a friend afore.’
Biddy was both touched and flattered at this demonstration and, her thoughts jumping ahead, she said to herself, And I’ll not only teach her to write her name, I’ll teach her to read an’ all, and anybody else that wants to. Aye, I will. And that’ll show Mrs Fitzsimmons, because she doesn’t know ‘B’ from a bull’s foot. As the master might have said, she is proficient in ignorance.
At this she began to laugh as she told herself that that was a fancy bit of thinking. And Jean, looking at her, laughed too as she asked, ‘What you laughing at, Biddy?’
Lifting up a long white lawn nightdress by the arms, Biddy danced it up and down over the tub of cold water as she said, ‘I just thought of something funny.’
‘What kind of funny? Tell me.’
What good would it be repeating a saying of the master’s to Jean, and so, swinging the nightdress widely from one side to the other in the water, she said, ‘I was imaginin’ this was Mrs Fitzsimmons and I was dooking her.’
At this Jean put her head back and let out a high scream of a laugh in which Biddy now joined her; then their laughter was cut off and they clutched at each other in fright as a tap came on a window some distance down the room. Slowly they turned their heads towards it; then Biddy, springing away from Jean, ran to the window and, pushing it up, she said, ‘Oh, hello, Davey. Hello.’
‘Hello, Biddy.’ He put out his hand and touched hers, then said, ‘How’s it goin’?’ It was some seconds before she answered, ‘Not very well. I don’t like it.’
‘I didn’t think you would. But you get used to these things. Give yourself time. I’m…I’m just on me way home. I’ll tell me ma I saw you.’
‘Ta…thanks, Davey. Oh, it’s nice seeing you.’ Had she ever called him loutish? At this moment, to her he looked as he had done years ago, beautiful. ‘How did you get round here?’ she asked.
‘Oh, there’s ways and means, an’ I’ve got a couple of lookouts.’ He nodded to both sides of him.
‘You won’t get wrong?’
‘No. No.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, you’re me sister, and I’m surely allowed to see me sister.’ His eyes moved from her now to the girl standing some way behind her, and Biddy turned and said, ‘This is my friend Jean. We sleep together. She’s been very good to me.’
He inclined his head towards Jean and said, ‘Hello, Jean.’
Jean made a muttering sound that could have been anything; then Davey said, ‘I’ll have to be off. I’ll see you now and again; an’ I’ll tell me ma you’re all right.’ He was already moving from the window when she said, ‘Davey.’
‘Aye?’
‘I wish I was coming with you. Do…do you think you could ask me ma to…well, take me back?’
After a long pause he said, ‘You know the situation as well as I do: she wants to stay on there, and she’s got to be kept.’
‘Aye, yes.’ She nodded at him. ‘All right.’ Then smiling, she added, ‘By, I’m glad to see you, Davey.’
‘And me you.’ He backed from her now, then turned and disappeared into the shrubbery behind the coalhouses.
When she closed the window and looked at Jean, she noted that her friend’s face was scarlet, and rather inanely she said, ‘That was our Davey.’
‘Yes.’ Jean nodded at her now and, her voice small, she said, ‘He’s lovely. His hair’s like those angels you see in the church painted on the windows.’
Yes, she supposed he did look like that to other people, even though his face had changed. He had certainly looked like an angel four years ago. That’s how the master must have seen him, like an angel, someone to adore. Of a sudden she felt sad. The laughter had gone from the washhouse. It was full of soiled clothes, dirty clothes, filthy clothes; and it came to her that it was because of that angel that had just disappeared into the shrubbery she was having to work among it all, because if he had never struck the master with the scythe, it was doubtful if the master’s heart would have given out as soon as it did. Yet, could she blame Davey? Because it hadn’t started with him, nor with her mother taking up the post at Moor House, it had started right back in the pit village when her da had died of cholera in that terrible year. Where then did blame start? The master could have answered it, at least explained if there was an answer to it at all.
That was anoth
er thing she was going to miss, was missing already, someone to talk to, discuss things with, explain things; someone to put her on the right path of thinking. But that would never happen now, for never again would she meet anyone like the master. From now on she’d have to think for herself. And she would do. Oh yes, she would do. As the master said, every available minute she got to herself, she must read. She wasn’t going to grow up and be like this lot here. Oh, she liked Jean, and she would help her all she could, because she wasn’t dull; but as for the rest, they were a lot of numskulls. Yes, yes, they were. But she would show them. And she surprised Jean by taking up a poss-stick and thumping a tub of linen into a soggy mass; then even more, by now drying her hands on her coarse apron and exclaiming loudly, ‘It’s Sunday. We shouldn’t be working on a Sunday. Come on over here in the corner and I’ll tell you a story,’
‘But what if…?’
‘We’ll hear the latch lift. Come on. I’ll tell you a story.’
That story was the beginning of a chain of events of which even Biddy’s fertile mind could not present her with the ultimate picture.
During the following week, Biddy not only told Jean a story but she read her a story. She also taught her to write the first three letters of the alphabet; and she promised her that before Christmas she’d be writing her name and spelling cat and dog.
On the Sunday morning, the day of her leave, she counted the minutes during the service and after it, and up till one o’clock, when she was free to start on her journey home. But before she could leave the house she had to go to the housekeeper’s room for Mrs Fulton to look her over. Fault was found with her attire, from her hat to her boots. Her hat, Mrs Fulton said, should not be worn on the back of her head but well over her brow. As for her coat, it was creased. If it had been hung up it wouldn’t have been like that. With regard to her boots, they lacked shine. She had, Mrs Fulton said, a good mind to make her go back to her room and polish them, but as this was her first Sunday on leave, she would overlook her slovenly attire. And she finished by saying, ‘You may go.’
Biddy had all the trouble in the world to stop herself saying, ‘It’s clarty outside, the roads’ll be muddy, I could be up to me ankles in no time.’ Only the effect of that response on the housekeeper stopped her, for she knew the woman was quite capable of cancelling her whole leave. So once she had escaped through the back door and had walked sedately across the yard, as soon as she entered the long hedged path that bordered the grounds, she grabbed up her skirts and took to her heels and raced as if the devil were after her.
The coach road, as she had surmised, was very muddy, and in her running she had to skip and jump over the potholes; and she reckoned she had run almost half the distance to home when she had to stop and gasp for breath. She rested for a moment with her back against a tree at the side of the road before hurrying off again, not running now, yet not merely walking; her step was a trip as if she were about to go into a dance. And all the way along this road, on this Sunday, she hadn’t seen a living soul until she came to the old turnpike, and there she saw Tol. He wasn’t driving the wood cart today but walking and crossing from one side of the road to the other when she espied him and she cried, ‘Tol! Tol!’
He turned round and waited until she came breathlessly up to him, and, his face bright, he exclaimed, ‘Well! Well! Where are you running to with your face like a beetroot?’
‘Home.’
‘Of course, home.’ He nodded at her. ‘Your first leave day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you like it?’
The smile slid from her face and her mouth assumed a pout before she said, ‘No, Tol, I don’t like it. I hate it.’
‘Aye’—his voice was soft—‘I thought you would. I get word of your doings now and again through the lads in the stables. I bet you were pleased to see Davey that day.’
‘You know about that?’
‘Oh, I know lots of things.’ He turned his head to the side while keeping his eyes on her. And now she smiled at him, saying, ‘You always did.’
‘What time have you got to be back? Sixish, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I tell you what. I’ll meet you here with my…what do you think?’
‘The cart.’ She had poked her head up towards him. And now he shook his, saying, ‘No, not the old cart. Madam—’ he assumed a pose before going on, ‘I have acquired a trap.’
‘You haven’t, Tol! A trap?’
‘Aye. I just got it last week. There was a sale at Brampton Hall, Fellburn way. I went over with the groom. He was looking out for harness and there was this old trap. Hadn’t had a lick of paint on it for years and spokes missing. And a little old pony. He looked on his last legs. But you should see them both now. Anyway, I’ll be off duty around three the day and, madam’—he again assumed a pose—‘I will await you on this very spot.’
‘Oh, Tol.’ She had a desire to throw her arms round him. She had the added desire to beg him now: ‘Come on back home with me.’ But all she did was press her face against his arm while he held her to his side for a moment before, without another word, she ran off, asking herself as she did so, why in real happy moments she should want to cry…
Riah was waiting for her on the road outside the gate, and they both put their arms around each other and held tightly together, Riah knowing that she had missed the company of her daughter more than she would admit even to herself, and Biddy’s feelings telling her that she loved her mother and she always would.
Johnny and Maggie came running across the yard and there followed more hugging and questions came at her from all sides: Did she like it up there? How long had she to work? What did she have to eat? Had she a nice bedroom? And she answered all their questions, not all truthfully, because she couldn’t say to her mother as she had done to Tol that she hated the place; at least, not yet, not in front of the other two, because that would have spoiled the merry atmosphere. And it was merry…and yet sad, and the sadness was emphasised when she entered the library. And she was near to tears again as her fingers gently stroked the table where she had sat each morning in the week, year after year, as she sometimes imagined, since she was born, because she could not recall life before she had come under the master’s teaching. Over a tea of bread and jam and scones and apple pie, she had to describe to the two youngsters the duties of the different members of the staff. But when she was asked about the house and its occupants, she had to admit she hadn’t seen any of them, which even surprised Riah, for she said, ‘You’ve never clapped eyes on the master or mistress yet?’
‘No, Ma; and I don’t suppose I will, not till half-year pay day, and then Christmas. Jean, she’s my friend that I told you about, has been there for years, and she only ever sees the mistress when she hands her her present at Christmas.’
‘You get a present?’ Maggie was looking at her starry-eyed, and when Biddy nodded, saying, ‘Everybody gets one,’ both children shook their heads in wonder.
It wasn’t until it was almost time to leave that Biddy was alone with her mother, and Riah then, straight-faced, asked, ‘How’s it really going?’
And Biddy answered truthfully. ‘I don’t like it, Ma,’ she said. ‘The work’s awful, but…but I could put up with that. It’s the laundress. She’s a nasty woman and she doesn’t like me. And the housekeeper doesn’t like me.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
‘Oh, no I’m not, Ma. But of the two, Mrs Fitzsimmons is the worse, ’cos I’m with her all day. Still’—her face took on a little lightness—‘you know what I’m doing, Ma? I’m teaching Jean her letters and how to do her name and…’
‘Now, now, lass. Now look. I’d be careful along those lines. Now I warned you about that.’ Riah was wagging her finger in Biddy’s face. ‘They don’t like it, not only gentry, but servants in such houses. You see, when people rise in that kind of service they get ideas about themselves. An’ it’s got nothing to do with reading and writing
, it’s the difference—’ Her voice trailed away now because she found that she hadn’t the words to explain thoughts in her mind with regard to underlings who had risen in a household and were still unable to read or write their own name. But deep within her she had the explanation, for although she herself could read and write there were times when this young daughter of hers, who could rattle off quotations and talk like the master had done, aroused in her a feeling of inferiority, which, in its turn, bred animosity.
But Biddy reassured her now, saying, ‘It won’t cause any trouble, Ma. And Jean won’t let on. Ma…Ma, would you mind if I bring her home on me next leave? She can never go out anywhere on her leave ’cos she has nobody belonging to her. She was from the poorhouse.’
‘Oh, poor bairn. Yes, yes, of course, you may bring her.’
‘Oh, thanks Ma…Ma—’ She turned from Riah now and walked down the drawing room and into the hall. Still with her back towards her mother, she said, ‘I saw Tol when I was coming. He was by himself, Ma.’ She didn’t point out that Tol had a Sunday duty to do, too. ‘And Ma, he…he asked after you.’
‘Did he?’
‘Aye,’ she lied glibly. ‘He said to give you his regards…You know what he’s got, Ma?’
‘No.’
They were in the kitchen now, ‘He’s got a trap, Ma, and a pony.’
‘Very nice for him.’
‘And he’s going to meet me and take me back on it.’
‘Well, well, now, aren’t you lucky?’ They were standing in front of the fire and facing each other, and Riah said, ‘In that case, it’s time you were going. Get your things on.’
‘Ma…’
‘Get your things on, Biddy.’
Biddy got her things on.
The light was fast going as they crossed the drive and Biddy drew them to a halt as she turned and looked along the length of the house and quietly she said, ‘I love this house, Ma. I hope you never have to leave it.’
The Black Velvet Gown Page 23