by Rose Meddon
‘And how is…’ What on earth was the first name of that fellow Liddy had married? ‘Charles?’ Yes, that was it: she had gone from being in service at Woodicombe to marry Charles Tucker, a stitcher at the glove factory. Smitten with him, she’d been.
‘Laid-off from Pilton’s three weeks back, him an’ half a dozen others. Factory manager said winter orders from the big shops in London have dried up. Don’t make sense to me. Like Charlie said, gentry folk will always have need of kid gloves. Either way, end of his shift, he was out on his arse. Left with no choice but to try for odd jobs down at the harbourside. Trouble is, there’s plenty of others doing the self-same thing. Even when he is lucky enough to get summat, ‘tis just the one trip at a time; tedn’t steady work. It’s what brings me back up here.’ Gesturing over her shoulder with her head, she went on, ‘Young girl from the kitchen’s gone off to find your Ma. I’ve come to see if she can see her way to giving me some work. I don’t mind what I do, honest to God, put me to work in the kitchen, you won’t get no complaint out of me. Maid-of-all-work? I’ll make a good job of it.’ Down at their feet, the second of Liddy’s three children had begun to grizzle. ‘For heaven’s sake, hold your noise, Clementine. Carrying on like that won’t do neither of us no good.’
Kate exhaled heavily. Did Liddy really think that Ma would give her a job? Had she not looked in a mirror lately? In that state, Ma would send her away with a flea in her ear. ‘How old are your little ones?’ she asked, feeling guilty at the speed with which she had rushed to judgement.
‘Frank turned three a month or so back, Clemmie will be two come September, and this one, well, truth to tell, I’ve lost track, what with the lack of sleep. Must be nigh-on ten weeks now, near as makes no odds.’
‘Goodness.’ It was the only thing Kate could think to say. Three children in four years. Three.
‘Look, Kate,’ Liddy lowered her voice to say, ‘you remember how hard I used to work, don’t you? Well, I ain’t changed. An’ I’ll do anything, honest. Please, speak for me to your ma, will you?’
With much difficulty, Kate contained a sigh. What on earth did she say? ‘You, as well as anyone, know how Ma can be,’ she said softly, uneasy that Liddy should put her in such a position. ‘No one was ever able to persuade her against her own mind. Least of all me.’
‘Please, Kate. If Charlie don’t chance upon some proper work soon, he’s said he’ll be left with no choice but to go over an’ join the Devonshires an’ go soldiering. And some folk do say there be a war coming. So please, I beg you, just remind her how hard I used to work. Not too much to ask of you, is it?’
‘All right,’ Kate said, trying to conceal her reluctance. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘God bless you, Kate. I shan’t let you down, honest to goodness I shan’t.’
‘Liddy Tucker? Or do my eyes deceive me?’
With her mother now coming along the corridor towards them, Kate felt Liddy grasp her fingers and squeeze them tightly. ‘Thanks ever so, Kate,’ she whispered and then, turning away from her and hitching her baby higher in her arms, rushed to say, ‘No, Mrs Bratton, ‘tis no mistake. It’s me, all grown up and with three of my own now.’
Grown up or grown old, Kate wondered as she took the chance to slip away. Ducking out of sight into the still room, she stood shaking her head in dismay. Who would have thought that in the space of four short years, Liddy Beer, scarcely six months older than her and always the prettiest of the housemaids, could so quickly have lost her looks and ended up so worn-down and desperate?
Leaning against the stone bench, she shivered. While she wouldn’t recognize Charlie Beer from Adam, word among the housemaids at the time had been that he was quite a catch, opinion being that by marrying him, Liddy was doing quite well for herself. He didn’t come home covered in dung from a day spent labouring in the fields, nor did he go to sea and come back reeking of fish. He wasn’t even in service; he’d had a job in a factory that came with the chance of one day being made up to overseer. But now, seemingly, he was forced to try his luck down at the harbour, presumably in the hope of helping out on one of the day-boats. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it was poor Liddy herself, who seemed to have slid into a state of slovenliness and been worn to shreds by the demands of three small children. What on earth sort of life was that for a woman of barely two-and-twenty years old? One she had to make good and sure of avoiding for herself, that’s what it was.
* * *
‘Yes, I had a most pleasant afternoon, thank you.’
It was later that same day, and Naomi Russell’s reply was in response to what had, by now, become Kate’s customary enquiry at that hour.
‘That’s good, miss.’
‘Indeed,’ Naomi went on to elaborate, ‘it was made all the better for the fact that Aubrey took the Colbornes’ motor and went exploring with Lawrence and Ned. For once, I was able to sit in peace. Well, until Mamma summoned me to take tea with her and Aunt Cicely. Honestly, you can see where Aubrey gets it from – his dreariness, I mean.’
Picking up the hairbrush, Kate began to draw it carefully through Miss Naomi’s hair, her mind once again back on Liddy Tucker. Not surprisingly, Ma hadn’t offered her a job.
‘But what would you do with the little ones, dear?’ she was reported by Aggie, one of the maids in the scullery, as having asked. To that, Liddy had been overheard to reply, ‘Oh, they’ll be all right in the stables a few hours at a time.’ Shortly afterwards, Liddy had been seen leaving in tears.
Determining to stop thinking about Liddy and her plight – after all, she could do nothing for her – she snapped her attention back to the matter of Miss Naomi’s hair. ‘How would you like me to style it this evening, miss?’ she enquired.
Turning her head this way and that, Naomi appeared unable to decide. What poor Liddy Tucker would give to have the styling of her hair as her only concern, Kate found herself thinking as, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she waited for Naomi to make up her mind.
‘To be honest, I’m not especially fussed,’ Naomi Russell eventually replied, the accompanying wave of her hand an airy one. ‘That said, one daren’t risk displeasing Mamma with anything too casual. Pin it high, if you will. I’ve decided to wear the plum-coloured silk and it has rather a fussy neckline.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘As gowns go, I find it rather matronly, which is a shame because it cost Papa a small fortune. So far, I’ve only worn it for Henley. Do you know the Henley Royal Regatta?’ Understanding very little of Miss Naomi’s question, Kate shook her head. Gowns. Hairstyles. Fortunes, small or otherwise: all a far cry from Liddy’s plight and the likelihood of her husband now having to join the Devonshires. ‘No, why would you?’
Yes, why would she? ‘No, miss.’
‘Well, simply put, it’s rowing races on the Thames, with lots of spectators bobbing about in other little boats to watch. Although, to be fair, it’s rather grander than I’ve just managed to make it sound. Anyway, after the races, there are balls to enjoy, hence the new gown. It was on account of Henley – well, and through Mamma deciding at the last minute to go for a week to Marienbad – that we couldn’t travel down here any earlier. There’s an hotelier in Henley with whom Papa does business and so, every year, he reserves rooms for us. In the days beforehand, there’s always a tremendous fuss and sense of anticipation but, this year, the event itself turned out to be rather a let-down. One couldn’t complain about the weather, that was perfect. But, almost to a man, the English rowing crews were beaten by foreigners. And the balls seemed more subdued than previous years, too. Papa said it probably had to do with how unsettled things have become since the assassination of that archduke and his wife. Apparently, it’s almost certain to lead to war. Either way, I shan’t mind if I don’t go again.’
Go again? Presumably, Miss Naomi was referring to this Henley place, rather than to war. ‘No, miss.’
Pinning the final strand of Naomi Russell’s hai
r in place, Kate stood back. The evening sunshine slanting through the window was giving it an especially deep lustre.
‘I do declare you’re becoming quite proficient at this,’ Naomi Russell remarked, angling her head to examine the finished effect. ‘Easily as good as many of those women who do it for a living. Or the men, with their made-up French names and put-on accents.’
Kate smiled. It was rare for her to be complimented for her efforts. ‘Thank you, miss. But it’s easy with your hair. I’d be happy to get mine just to shine as nicely as yours, let alone to stay in place. Real lovely is how it looks in this light.’
Through the mirror, Naomi Russell looked back at her and then, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, said, ‘I do have a little help. I use the same balsam by which Mamma swears. Don’t ask me what’s in it, but she gets it from an old-fashioned apothecary in Bond Street. It’s terribly expensive. Thankfully, a little of it goes a long way.’
Having been hoping to learn that Miss Naomi used something she could put to work on her own lacklustre strands, Kate gave a sigh of disappointment. How typical that only women of privilege got to have pretty locks.
‘Well, it certainly does its job, miss. Worth every penny, I’d say.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? Although I have heard that rinsing with a little apple-cider vinegar can be just as efficacious.’
Effie-what? Presumably, that meant it was a good thing. ‘Vinegar, miss?’
‘Apparently so. One or two of the girls I finished with swore by it. Rather cheaper, too, I should imagine. And more easily come by.’
For a moment Kate stood, motionless. There was bound to be some vinegar in the pantry. Whether or not it was of the apple-cider variety, she had no idea. But, if she waited until after the dinner-service, she could go and take a look. Even if she could only make her hair look half as shiny as Miss Naomi’s, it would be an improvement. After all, no harm was ever had from looking nice.
And so, much later that evening, with the Russells and their guests gathered on the terrace to enjoy the sunset, and with the kitchens having fallen still for the day, Kate stole down to the pantry and stood scanning the shelves. There. Sarson’s: that was vinegar. She reached for the bottle and peered through the glass at its contents, the decidedly murky shade of brown hardly reassuring. Well, it would have to do; if she dallied too long she risked getting caught and having her entire plan go awry. And anyway, surely even the wrong sort of vinegar was better than none at all?
As was later to become apparent, procuring the vinegar was merely the first obstacle in her path to shiny hair. The second, was where to go about her task such that she wouldn’t be discovered, every bathroom on every landing having been assigned to a guest or guests. After much deliberating, the safest place seemed to be the sink in the laundry. With that decided – and having managed to cross the kitchen yard unseen – the next obstacle was a rather more vexatious one: what to actually do with the vinegar? Should she try and wash her hair with it? Rinse it with it? Rub it on and leave it to soak in? Resting against the edge of the sink, she stared at the bottle – not that the label was going to offer step-by-step instructions for the use she was about to put it to. She peered more closely at it anyway. Badly smudged, it appeared to offer advice only for How to Make a Pickling Brine. Not much help there, then.
In the end, dismayed and irritated by her lack of progress, she pressed the plug into the sink, turned on the tap and unpinned her plait. Watching the dribble of water creeping slowly up the side of the sink, and growing fed up with waiting, she bent her head directly under the tap. Gasping at the shocking cold of it, she immediately shot back up, striking her skull on the tap as she did so. Cursing loudly, she swung about to check that she was still alone.
Rubbing at the back of her head, she cursed afresh. So far, all she had to show for her trouble was a wet patch on the front of her skirt and a dull ache to the back of her head. Damn her impetuousness! Why couldn’t she have thought this through properly and waited for a better opportunity to carry it out? Because patience wasn’t one of her virtues, that was why. Never had been. Probably never would be.
Turning off the tap, she stared at the inch or so of water in the bottom of the sink. It would have to do. She had a clump of cold wet hair dripping on the floor and a damp skirt; she had to get on with it.
Doubling over the sink, she made the remainder of her hair as wet as she could. Then, reaching for the vinegar bottle, she undid the cap, the pungent fumes making her feel as though she was going to sneeze. Well, here goes. Miss Naomi had better be right about this.
Bent over the sink, she started to pour the liquid over the back of her head, feeling the chill of it trickling down her cheeks. Good job it was a big bottle, she thought, engulfed in a cloud of bitter fumes, because her hair seemed to be soaking it up. The bottle feeling almost empty, she set it on the side of the sink and ran her fingers down through her hair. With a crick in her neck and her eyes running, she could only hope that all the discomfort was going to be worth it.
When holding her head upside down became too uncomfortable to bear any longer, she reached about for the tap, turned it on and let the water run over her head. With no idea how much rinsing was required, she persisted for what felt to be several minutes. Then, finally, she wrung the water from her hair and, winding it into a rope, held it to the top of her head. Careful this time to avoid the tap, she raised herself upright, felt about for her towel, and wrapped it about her wet hair. Now to make her way back upstairs without being seen.
Eventually, arriving back in her room, she stood puffing lightly. Stripping off her skirt and blouse, she hung them over the bedstead in the hope that they would dry of their own accord. Then, pulling open the top drawer of her chest, she gathered together her curling rags and laid them in a row.
The process of twisting her hair, rolling the lengths up to her scalp and then securing the ends of the rags was laborious and, quickly wearying of the task, she remembered why, some time back, she’d vowed not to bother with it any more. Having started, though, she now had to stick at it and, eventually, with the last section tied in place, she heaved a sigh of relief. Of course, now, on account of the knobbly lumps fastened to her head, she would probably have difficulty sleeping. Well, a few hours of slumber could be caught up on any old night, whereas nice hair was important; poor Liddy Tucker all too plain a reminder of what happened when you didn’t look after yourself.
The following morning, dragging herself out of bed after a night of rather broken sleep, she drew back the curtain to find that it was a glorious day, dewy and fresh with clear skies that hinted at the prospect of a proper summer’s day ahead. Not a single cloud threatened the unbroken blue of Mother Nature’s ceiling, not a breath of breeze disturbed the green of her summer mantle. It was a joyous discovery: on nice days, it always felt as though anything was possible.
Still drowsy, she set about the tedious business of unravelling the rags from her hair. Then, holding her breath, she peered at the tiny mirror propped up on her chest of drawers. She needn’t have worried: rewarding her wariness was the most unlikely mass of glossy waves. And for that, she had Mr Sarson and his vinegar to thank.
Her problem now, she realized, unable to draw herself away from the mirror, was how to show off her shiny locks without drawing attention from the wrong quarters – namely, Edith and Ma. Were either of them to notice anything different about her appearance, she would be left facing all manner of questions, which would, in turn, require an equal number of lies.
Ruing that she couldn’t simply wear her hair loose, she decided to settle for the next best thing. She would carefully draw it back to the top of her head and tie it into a high pony-tail. Then, with the ends of her ringlets loosely pinned, the shape could be made to accommodate her cap but the style would still be soft and loose.
Once complete, to her own eyes at least, the result was startling. Later that same morning, she even caught Miss Naomi studying her in the
mirror.
‘You’re wearing your hair differently,’ she remarked. And, when Kate offered her best attempt at a light and unconcerned smile, Miss Naomi went on to say, ‘It’s very fetching – glamorous, almost.’
For Kate, though, it almost turned out to be a case of pride preceding a fall. Just before the dinner-gong later that same day, as she was about to make her way up to Miss Naomi’s room to finish readying her change of outfit, she was waylaid by her mother stepping purposefully into her path.
‘Everything all right?’ Mabel Bratton asked.
At the uncharacteristic vagueness of her question, Kate instantly suspected a trap. Indeed, the familiar tautness gripping her insides – an unfortunate side-effect of practicing deceit – reminded her of being about ten years old and the scrapes she and Luke used to be reprimanded over. Heavens, the adventures they’d had.
‘Fine, thank you,’ she answered as lightly as she could.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary to report? No unusual requests been made of you?’
She frowned. To what was Ma alluding? Stuck to think of anything, her conscience, for once, relatively clear, she shook her head. ‘No, nothing unusual,’ she replied. The question burning away at her was ‘unusual how?’ Experience, though, told her that it was usually better not to take the lids off any cans of worms; the creatures having a habit of wriggling their own way loose without any help from her. ‘Well,’ she said, smiling brightly, ‘I’d best go and finish getting Miss Naomi’s change ready.’
‘Before you do—’
Damn: so close. Re-affixing her smile, she turned back. ‘Yes, Ma?’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?’ From behind her back, Mabel Bratton produced the vinegar bottle, holding it out in front of her as though it was a fine wine requiring her approval.
She stiffened. How on earth…? ‘It’s a bottle,’ she chose to observe. ‘From the look of it, an almost empty one.’