by Maggie Ford
Though she sought to thank her employer, she’d only set eyes on him while waiting at table and then he had not once looked in her direction. Her attention had been more taken up with his wife, who also hadn’t looked her way – it might have been a phantom serving her, there being not the smallest response to the food laid before her.
Doctor Lowe would give an almost imperceptible nod of the head as she carefully ladled soup, held the meat or vegetable dishes for him to help himself or replenished his wine glass. He hardly took his eyes off his wife when not concentrating on his meals. She, on the other hand, did not once glance up from her plate to look his way. It was indeed an atmosphere one could have cut with a knife. For Ellie, meal times were proving to be far from the privilege she’d imagined.
It wasn’t only this that dulled the elation she’d first felt; it was a dawning awareness of something about her body not being quite as right it should be. The next morning, as she rose at six – in daylight now, which would normally have been heartening – she threw herself out of bed to grab the chamber pot underneath, just in time before bringing up last night’s supper.
Florrie, already out of her bed, was staring as Ellie looked up from the receptacle. ‘You orright?’
‘I’m orright now,’ she answered. ‘I think,’ she added, as another convulsion threatened, one that she managed to contain as she pushed the pot out of Florrie’s sight. ‘Something I must’ve eaten.’
It could only be that. She could think of nothing else that would have made her so violently sick completely out of the blue. Usually, when one is going to be sick, it takes some while, the sufferer tossing and turning and heaving before the offending food finally decides to vacate the stomach.
‘I ’ad the same as you,’ Florrie said. ‘I feel orright.’
‘Well, I’m orright now,’ Ellie said sharply. ‘We’d best get downstairs. We can’t be late.’
She’d hardly got to the kitchen when a second attack, though not so fierce, had her running outside to the yard. She returned to find Cook gazing at her.
‘What’s the matter with you, girl?’
‘I think it might be something I might’ve eaten.’
There came a deep, accusing frown. ‘Are you saying I’ve given you something that’s gone off?’
‘No, Cook, supper was lovely and no one else is ill. It’s only me.’
‘That’s true.’ She jerked her head. ‘Come over here a minute.’ Ellie came and had Mrs Jenkins look into her eyes. She saw her frown as she straightened up. ‘When did you see your last monthlies, girl?’
‘It was… I’m… not sure.’
It was rather late in her fourteenth year when she’d first realized she’d become a woman. But it had never been much of an inconvenience, arriving only spasmodically, just four or five times over that year.
When she’d spoken to her mother about it, the awkward, off-handed reply was that it sometimes happened that way when young girls first started, but people didn’t talk about such things. She had continued to be irregular and thought no more of it, supposing it would always be this way with her.
‘I can’t remember either,’ Mrs Jenkins was saying. It was she who took charge of the pail of salt water in which the soiled towelling squares were left soaking in salt water to lift the dried-in bloodstains. They’d then be boiled with the rest of the laundry, the skivvy’s job to stand over the boiling suds and push the linen with the copper stick.
‘I ain’t got time to count months and days, but you should know,’ Mrs Jenkins said in a distracted sort of way as she continued to study Ellie’s face. ‘But surely you must know.’ Ellie shook her head, trying to think back. It had been some time – maybe three months – but she’d been too busy to bother counting when and how long she was last on and even then she hadn’t thought much about it.
‘And now you’ve been sick,’ Mrs Jenkins said in a low voice. ‘Is there anything else that seems queer about you? Not quite right, I mean. Not ill, but not quite right.’
Yes, there had been something – something strange she wasn’t sure of. Like an odd tenderness lately when she brushed her breasts with a careless arm when working. Small though her breasts were, they seemed to her to have somehow got bigger in the last couple of weeks and that didn’t feel right either. She was sure she must be sickening for something. But what? She felt well enough in herself.
‘Do you think there’s something wrong with me, Cook?’ she asked after answering Mrs Jenkins’s question.
The woman was still looking at her, even more keenly now. ‘Have you been seeing someone?’
‘Seeing someone?’
‘On your last day off. Someone you met or’ve been meeting behind our backs. Servants your age aren’t encouraged to entertain young men. Have you been playing around with someone or other?’
‘No, I ain’t!’ Ellie had begun to feel annoyed. It was her business if she did have a young man, which she didn’t. What chance on one day off every month? ‘All I done on me last day off was go and see an old neighbour where I used to live.’
She’d gone there to see if they’d had any news of her father. They hadn’t. Not a peep. But Mrs Sharp had been pleased to see her and had her stay for dinner and tea. The woman had talked almost non-stop about this and that: the state of the area, the lack of policemen to patrol it, the crime, her noisy new neighbours, their horde of boisterous and unruly kids (not that her own youngsters were any better), the woman scruffy and her old man with the look of someone up to no good. ‘Different when your family was there,’ she said. ‘Now the place smells something awful. I’m sure ’er ole man can’t be bothered to walk two yards to the lav outside. I’ve seen ’im piddling up against me fence. I’ll ’ave ’im abart it one day, see if I don’t!’
The woman nattered on and on. Ellie would have made an excuse to leave much sooner if it hadn’t been for Mrs Sharp’s eldest son. It being Sunday, he wasn’t at work and Ellie’s mind was more taken up by him.
She’d never taken much notice of Ronnie Sharp when living next door. They’d grown up together as kids, but having been away for nigh on three months, she saw him in a new light. In that time he seemed to have grown taller and very upright. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, he’d always had a nice face. Now it caught her as being even nicer.
She listened entranced as he talked of his work in ‘the Print’, as he called it, the News Chronicle. He’d started there at fourteen as an office boy running errands and messages, picking up mailbags from the post office. She hadn’t been that interested in him then. Now she found herself all ears.
‘It’s a whopping big place,’ he said proudly. ‘They must have more’n a couple of thousand working there. Me – I work in the wire room, an important part of the paper. I’m still learnin’ of course – sort of apprentice. One of the blokes, Mr Middleton, says he sees I’m very interested. I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks’ time and he’s takin’ on teaching me. There’s lots to learn an’ it’s long hours – lots of night shifts – but it pays good. I get good overtime.’
After a while he had turned to asking her what she was doing.
‘I’m a parlourmaid,’ she told him as they ate the cakes his mother had made that morning. He had wrinkled his nose – a nice straight nose.
‘No money in that and I ’eard they make you work ’ard.’
‘I don’t mind,’ she’d said, taking delight in his attention.
‘Do you still draw them pictures you used to?’
‘Too busy.’ She’d forgotten how she’d once enjoyed drawing – things like horses and carts, people, buildings, sometimes trees – not many around here.
‘You used ter be really good at it,’ he muttered almost sorrowfully. ‘I used to think you was proper talented.’
She had thought so too. It would be nice to take it up again, but what time did she have? None whatsoever.
She had said goodbye reluctantly to Ronnie, having it in mind that on her next day off she would come and visi
t again, though it wouldn’t be for another month.
As for Cook accusing her of heaven knew what, she had never done them sort of things. At last she’d realized what the woman was getting at, and told her so in no uncertain terms, saying that whatever was wrong with her it wasn’t that. Her indignation stilled Mrs Jenkins into silence.
Nine
Listening through the open kitchen door this warm May morning to the sounds of vomiting coming from the outside lavatory, Mrs Jenkins made up her mind that Jay had certainly not told her the truth yesterday. If that girl wasn’t around three months gone, she’d eat her hat.
Her first thought was to go straight to the mistress and lay her suspicions at her feet, but kindness of heart stopped her. Mrs Lowe only needed one excuse to get rid of Jay. But she wouldn’t want to part with the girl’s younger sister, and Ellie would be all alone out there in that wide world.
She had no doubts that, after a while, the girl would learn to fend for herself; but what if she was wrong and Jay hadn’t got herself pregnant? She might be the cause of her losing her position. No, it was best to tackle her before jumping the gun. Then it might be better to take the matter to the master himself. After all, he was a doctor and level-headed. His wife would probably take off in hysterics or something.
As Ellie came back into the kitchen, looking white and strained, to faintly mutter an apology for absenting herself from her work for a moment or two, she said sternly, ‘Come with me.’ Without waiting for a reply she made for her little parlour with Jay close behind, now with a hang-dog expression, no one being ordered into that holy of holies except for a dressing-down. ‘Close the door,’ she said abruptly.
‘Now, young lady,’ she began, turning to face her as Ellie did as she was told. ‘What lies have you been telling me?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Cook; I ain’t told you no lies.’ The tone was insolent and resentful.
Nora Jenkins tightened her lips. ‘Oh yes you have! Now I want the truth from you, girl. The truth! Have you been up to tricks with a bloke? And don’t you dare to turn your back on me!’
Her rather strident voice rose in volume as Ellie turned away. ‘Walk out of this kitchen, girl, and I’ll see that you’re out of this house – you hear me?’ she blared.
‘Now,’ she went on in a more moderate tone as Ellie turned back to face her, chastened, though the green eyes still stared resentfully from under the brows. ‘I don’t want trouble in this house, but if you are pregnant I will have to tell the mistress…’
She broke off as Ellie gave an alarmed gasp.
‘Or maybe the master,’ she added quickly. ‘This matter is really for a woman to hear, but I know how things stand between you and the mistress. I’ve not been cook/housekeeper here all these years without knowing the goings-on in my place of employment.’
Nora Jenkins gave a half-smile, which was not acknowledged. She let the smile vanish. ‘Now, before I do anything more, I need you to tell me exactly what’s been going on. Who is the lad?’
‘There isn’t a lad!’ The girl’s voice came plaintive and desperate. ‘I didn’t even know me condition until you put the thought in me ’ead, and now I don’t know what to do. You’ve scared me and now I’m praying to meself that it can’t be.’
‘Well, it looks to me like it can be,’ Nora said, more gently now. The girl did look scared and obviously had no idea what could come of what started out as an innocent kiss and cuddle. ‘I’m not going to fly off the handle at you. But if you know who the father is, you must tell me.’
‘Father?’ She seemed to cringe, then wilt.
‘Father!’ she repeated as if with sudden revelation, her eyes widening with something like revelation and loathing. ‘Me father. Oh, God! Oh dear God…’
Her voice seemed to float away. Her hand had gone to her mouth. Her eyes widened with horrified disbelief. Her lips twisted as she shook her head from side to side in negation of what had entered her mind.
‘What’re you saying, child?’ Nora Jenkins’s voice quivered as she too found herself unable to credit the thought that had crept into her own mind.
She steeled herself to speak, trying to keep her voice steady, hoping against hope that the thought in her head was wrong. ‘You said your father?’
Ellie’s breathing came quick and shallow, her face as pale as paper. She let her head hang, but she seemed to be nodding confirmation; yet even now Nora dared not think of it as that. ‘Child, surely not.’
‘It ’appened only three times.’
The girl hesitated, then went on, in a firmer tone. ‘Me brother, Charlie came in and caught him touching me like he did before making me go upstairs with ’im. Me mum was out. So was Dora. Charlie was out too and we was alone. He always waited till we was alone. But Charlie came in unexpected and he went for me dad and there was a terrible fight.’ She seemed to gain strength in keeping away from the more sordid part. ‘The furniture all got knocked about – we didn’t have much as it was – me brother giving ’im such a pasting; and then he left. Two days after that me mum went down with pneumonia.’
Ellie glanced up, now taken up by her tale. ‘Me mum hadn’t been well with a terrible cold and cough for days. After me brother bashed him up, me dad ’ad a go at Mum – I don’t know why, but he said he’d had enough of her always being ill and complaining and that he’d met someone else. He liked his women. And his drink. He was a beast. Then he left and he never came back. He don’t even know Mum’s dead and I don’t know where he is ter tell ’im. Or me brother either.’ Lowering her head again as the tale came to an end, she looked thoroughly subdued and Nora Jenkins felt her heart go out to her. The first thought was to take the girl to her bosom, but she resisted the impulse. Her first and most important task was to sort out this business. It certainly couldn’t be left as it was.
‘Go and wash your face,’ she told her brusquely. ‘Then go on about your work.’ As there came a look of doubt she added hastily, ‘Leave this with me, child. I’ll think of the best way of tackling it without you having to be dismissed. Go on now, child.’ She would speak to the master rather than his wife – catch him as soon as his morning surgery finished. She’d make sure he was in sympathy with the girl’s plight. This child was a victim. She deserved justice. The girl was telling the truth – she was sure of it. She could only pray that she was.
* * *
After Mrs Jenkins left his study, Bertram Lowe sat unmoving behind his desk, staring unfocused at the opposite wall. It was hung with yellowing diplomas and certificates in their dark frames. They belonged to his father, also a medical man – a surgeon.
Beside them hung those that were his, fresher, unstained by time. His father had automatically seen his son through university, happy for him to enter the medical profession. He could have equalled his father, with a place waiting for him at the King’s College Hospital, but events had changed all that. His father had died suddenly of a massive heart attack just as his son was due to leave university. His mother, deep in shock and pining, had followed her husband ten months later. By then he’d met the girl he would marry.
A timid, quiet little thing, Mary had stolen his heart, her quiet ways making him feel protective of her. When they’d had to marry rather suddenly, he’d opted to become a general practitioner, so as to be on hand. But the baby had been stillborn, as were the next two. Rather than join his father’s hospital – which would have meant long hours away from Mary who, having lost her own parents, feared the prospect of loneliness and pleaded not to be left – he had gone into private practice. It was sad not to have fulfilled his father’s hopes and become an important man in the field he’d enjoyed. He might have opted for a Harley Street practice but felt his skills were of more use in London’s deprived East End, though he often wondered if he’d been right.
Too late by the time Millicent was born. A healthy, pretty child, Mary’s life had become wrapped up in her and he’d found himself put aside, Mary wanting nothing to do with h
er marital obligations lest another baby suffer the same fate as her first three. But he suspected it was more because she did not wish to share her love for her daughter with any other child.
In his own loneliness he too had indulged in overprotecting Millicent, feeling he’d been right to set up in private medicine. Working in hospital he’d have seen far less of her. It had seemed like a judgement on that overindulgence when what had been a perfectly healthy child had succumbed to tuberculosis.
Tears stung his eyes, misting the wall and the dark-framed testimonials at which he had been staring.
Bertram came upright in his swivel chair, leaned his elbows on the desk and rubbed the moisture from his eyes with his fists. As he looked up, the room came back into focus when what Mrs Jenkins had told him leaped back into his mind. He needed to think.
What should be done with the girl? There was no question of turning her out. That would be cruel and would sit in his mind for the rest of his life. But how could she remain here, his wife seeing the girl growing bigger each day with the child she carried? He dared not think how Mary would react.
Yet it would tear him apart to have her go from here. It helped to see her about the house, a salve for the emptiness that still lay in his heart even after eighteen months. The sight of her helped assuage that grief, kept him going, though even he knew he couldn’t go on for ever pretending to himself this was his daughter he saw each morning. Now he was reaping the consequences.
What a fool he’d been to take the girl into his home in the first place. And what if the baby should prove to be not properly formed, or imbecile? There was every chance of that. Incest – its father the father of the mother who bore it, the child carrying the sin of the father in every way. What would they do with such a creature? God, it was a vile dilemma!
There came only one solution. For the mother’s own salvation the foetus must be aborted, and soon. Mrs Jenkins reckoned the mother was around three months pregnant. There was still time.