‘So who does all the laundry?’ she asked Annie when breakfast was over.
‘The lodgers have local women do their washin’ and ironin’ for ’em, an’ all the bedding gets collected once a week by a laundry in town, but I’ve always done the missus’ and Jacobs’ washing for ’em. Per’aps that’s another job you could take off me hands?’ she suggested. ‘There’s a wash-room in the yard out the back with a dolly tub, a copper an’ a mangle. I usually tackle it on a Monday, weather permittin’. You could do your own at the same time.’
‘Yes, I could,’ Sunday agreed. She was just beginning to realise how enormous Annie’s workload was. It was no wonder the house had got into a state.
When the table had been cleared and the dirty pots had been washed, dried and put away, Sunday headed off to clean the dining room. Standing on a chair, she first unhooked the heavy curtains and carried them outside where she hung them across the line and gave them a good beating. As the dust flew into the air she was shocked to see a colour emerging. They were a lovely royal blue and by the time she carried them back indoors and rehung them they looked very smart indeed. She did the same with the rugs that were scattered about, then put them to one side as she tackled the floor. It was a beautiful wooden parquet and by lunchtime it was gleaming, having had a thorough mop and a polish. Annie came to the door then to summon her to the kitchen for something to eat and she looked around approvingly. The sideboard was shining with beeswax polish and Sunday had already made a start on the rest of the furniture. She’d also washed the windows, and now the sunshine was flooding into the room.
‘Blimey! I ain’t seen it look like this for many a long year,’ the old lady remarked. ‘I’ll hand it to you, lass, you ain’t afraid of hard work.’
Sunday smiled at the praise as she followed her back to the kitchen. ‘I should have it all finished for when the lodgers come home tonight,’ she told her. ‘I’m going to get through one of the downstairs rooms each day this week, then next week I can make a start upstairs, then I’ll have to go back and begin at the beginning again with a house this size.’
Lunch consisted of delicious fried eggs that Annie informed her had been bought from a local farm.
‘Biddy used to have half a dozen chickens of her own out the back,’ she informed the girl. ‘An’ there’s a lovely walled vegetable garden too, but sadly it’s all gone to ruin since the master died. He loved potterin’ about in there, he did, but these days I have to buy the veg from the market. It plays ’avoc wi’ my old legs, havin’ to go all that way into town.’
‘So you thought perhaps that could be another job I could take off your hands?’ Sunday said with a cheeky grin before Annie could suggest it.
Annie chuckled. ‘Well, the thought ’ad crossed me mind,’ she confessed. She liked someone with a lively sense of humour.
By Saturday of Sunday’s first week at Whittleford Lodge the whole of the downstairs had been transformed into a clean and orderly living space. She was tired but satisfied with what she had achieved, but now she was looking forward to seeing Mrs Lockett at church in the morning and Daisy and Tommy in the workhouse the same afternoon.
‘I have a carriage come to take me to church each Sunday morning so you can travel with me,’ Mrs Spooner said, and Sunday willingly accepted the kind offer although she did wonder why Mrs Spooner attended Chilvers Coton All Saints Church when St Paul’s was close by in Church Road. She had started to explore the area a little now when she had any spare time and was shocked at just how many different parishes there were in the town. Up until she had come to live with Mrs Spooner her whole world had revolved around the parish of Coton.
‘The master were born an’ bred in Coton,’ Annie explained when Sunday commented on it. ‘An’ they were wed at Chilvers Coton so she’s attended there ever since. So did he while he was alive, God rest his soul. He were a good man, were the master. They used to have their own pony an’ trap that they travelled about in but the missus let ’em go when the mister died.’
That night, Sunday again washed her hair and every inch of herself, ready for the outings the next day. Sewing by the light of the oil lamp in her room she had worked on one of the dresses Lady Huntley had given her for a couple of hours each night and now it was hanging up on the back of the door, all ready to be worn.
As Sunday lay in bed she admired it and could hardly wait to put it on. It was made of heavy cotton with a full skirt that cinched in tight to the waist. It was a very pale lemon colour sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-not flowers that exactly matched her eyes, and Sunday knew that she was going to feel like a princess in it. She yawned as she wondered what Daisy and Tommy would think of her in her new attire and fell asleep with a happy smile on her face.
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday was up early the next morning and by the time the carriage arrived to take her and Mrs Spooner to church she had cleared the dining room and washed and dried the breakfast pots. The carriage was nowhere near as grand as the one she had arrived in with Lady Huntley, but all the same Sunday felt like royalty when it deposited them at the lych-gate of the church.
People were hurrying up the path, keen not to be late for the service, and they eyed Sunday curiously, wondering where they had seen her before. In her pretty new clothes, she looked completely different to the girl from the workhouse in the drab uniform they were accustomed to seeing.
Mrs Lockett was greeting the congregation with her husband at the door with baby Phoebe in her arms.
‘Why, just look at you! Don’t you look grand?’ she said as she pulled Sunday aside to have a private word. ‘But how is it going? Are they treating you all right?’
Sunday was quick to reassure her. ‘I’m fine and settling in very well, thank you. It’s hard work admittedly and I don’t get much time to myself but it’s a hundred times better than being shut away in the workhouse.’
Relief washed across the woman’s features but then she saw the party from the workhouse advancing up the path in a straight regimental line supervised by Miss Frost and murmured hastily, ‘I’ll come and have a word with you when the service is over, and perhaps you can introduce me to Mrs Spooner?’ She hurried back to her husband’s side then as Sunday quickly scanned the line for a sight of Daisy and Tommy. And then there they were and it would have been hard to tell who was the most delighted to see each other again. Sunday would have liked nothing more than to run up to them and tell them all her news. But this would only get them into trouble with the matron so she kept her eyes downcast as they filed past her. They would have to wait for a catch-up until she visited them in the workhouse later that afternoon. At the very back of the line was Mr Pinnegar, and when he came abreast of her he paused to ask, ‘How are you, Small?’
Just the sight of her looking so clean and pretty set his pulses throbbing. He had thought she had been an attractive girl dressed in the workhouse garb, but with her hair and her eyes shining and in that dress, it was all he could do to keep his hands off her.
‘I shall be calling to see you tomorrow to ask your new mistress how you are shaping up,’ he informed her and Sunday’s heart beat with alarm.
‘Mrs Spooner is here today, sir. Perhaps you could ask her now to save yourself a journey?’ she suggested tactfully. But the organ struck up a tune then and there was no more time for niceties so they both hurried into the church and took their seats in the pews.
As always, it was a lovely service and the voices of the congregation echoed from the rafters as they sang the much-loved hymns and listened to Edgar’s reading. When it was over, the vicar and his wife stood at the door saying goodbye to their parishioners as they left, and Sunday herself waited quietly for Mrs Spooner.
The workhouse inmates trooped past her, glancing at her curiously as she smiled at them, followed last of all by Miss Frost and Mr Pinnegar.
‘She looks well, does she not, Miss Frost?’ the housefather said as he eyed Sunday covetously.
Miss Frost sniffed
and looked Sunday up and down as if she were of no worth whatsoever.
‘Let us just hope she remembers who it was who gave her a start in life,’ she answered repressively, then taking the man’s arm she led him away without so much as a backward glance.
Minutes later Mrs Spooner arrived and hobbled painfully back to the lych-gate where the carriage was waiting for them. ‘It’s a shame the visiting hours at the workhouse aren’t earlier in the day. As it is you’ll have to come all the way back home only to return later,’ the woman commented and Sunday nodded in agreement. It was a fair walk back from Whittleford to the workhouse admittedly, but she would gladly have walked twice the distance if it meant being able to see her friends. If she could find her way there, that was!
Annie had a delicious roast dinner waiting for them and for once the house seemed full, as the lodgers had no work to go to on the Sabbath. Sunday still hadn’t been formally introduced to them all as yet, but Mrs Spooner intended to rectify that when she returned from visiting an old friend later that afternoon. Sunday was looking forward to it; they seemed a nice group of people and she had no doubt that she would soon get to know them if she was to live there.
After dinner she washed the pots, leaving them to drain and promising Annie that she would dry them and put them away when she returned.
‘Will you just tell me the directions again?’ she asked Annie for at least the tenth time in as many minutes and the old woman sighed.
‘Out the front door and down the hill till you come to Church Road, left into that, straight to the top and turn left again, then when you reach Heath Road turn right an’ keep goin’ an’ you’ll come to the workhouse on the bend. Got it?’
Sunday nodded apologetically. She was not used to finding her way outside the workhouse But she didn’t want to be late for her visit and so she set off, allowing herself plenty of time to be there before two o’clock. It was a glorious day with the sun riding high in a cloudless blue sky and despite the fact that her boots were rubbing her heels, Sunday quite enjoyed the walk, promising herself that she would treat her feet to some new footwear just as soon as she was paid.
She sighed with relief when the workhouse came into view. At least she had managed to find her way there. A number of people were already assembled on the workhouse steps and it felt strange to be going there as a visitor rather than as a resident. At two o’clock sharp they heard the sound of the bolts being drawn and they began to file in. Sunday glanced ruefully down at the floor, wondering how many times she had been down on her hands and knees scrubbing it. That job would fall to some other poor soul now.
Miss Frost was waiting in the day room and when Sunday appeared she ignored her before telling one of the girls, ‘Go and fetch Daisy and Tommy Branning.’ She had no need to ask who Sunday had come to see. The girl scuttled away as Sunday settled on a chair at one of the tables to wait.
Tommy and Daisy soon appeared and hurried happily over to join her.
‘You look wonderful,’ Daisy said enviously as she stared at Sunday’s dress and Tommy blushed as he nodded in agreement. But the awkward moment soon passed as Sunday told them all about her new home.
‘There’s a lovely dog called Mabel and some cats,’ she said excitedly. ‘And they used to have their own chickens too. There’s a big walled vegetable garden as well and an orchard, but sadly there’s no one to tend it now and it’s all overgrown.’
‘I could tend it,’ Tommy muttered. ‘I like gardening.’
‘I’m sure you could,’ Sunday agreed, wishing with all her heart that she could just pick both her friends up and run away with them. She hated to think of them still there while she had her freedom. ‘But what have you both been doing?’
Daisy grimaced. ‘I’ve been on nursery duty for the last three nights. Ugh, all those soiled bindings to change. I don’t know how you enjoyed working up there, I really don’t.’
Tommy grinned at Sunday. ‘Our Daisy doesn’t seem to have the same maternal instincts you have,’ he teased his sister and she playfully slapped at his arm. There was so much to say and not enough time to say it in before Sunday would be gone again for another week.
The hour seemed to pass in a flash and when Miss Frost appeared and rang the bell to herald the end of visiting time, Daisy had to blink back tears.
‘I miss you something awful,’ she said chokily. ‘There’s no one else in the girls’ quarters I can really talk to now ’cos they’re all much younger than me.’ And Sunday’s kind heart went out to her.
‘I miss you too but it won’t be for ever. Somehow I’m going to get you out of here,’ she promised.
They said their goodbyes and Sunday left on legs that suddenly felt as heavy as lead. The return journey to Whittleford seemed to take twice as long and she constantly fretted that she was going the wrong way. When she eventually entered the house by the back door, Annie took one look at her and asked, ‘What’s wrong, lass? You look like yer lost a bob an’ found a tanner. Did the visit not go very well?’
‘Oh, it went very well. It’s just so hard to leave my friends there, I suppose,’ Sunday said miserably.
There was no answer to that so Annie went back to preparing the Sunday tea. There were hard-boiled eggs, a chicken pie, fresh-baked bread and pickles, as well as a large sponge cake oozing jam and cream that Annie had baked that afternoon. Already in just a few days, the elderly lady could see a change in Sunday. She was losing the sallow complexion so evident in people who came from the workhouse and now there were some roses in her cheeks. Annie thought her face had filled out slightly too, due to the good food she was now eating, and she just wished that she could help all the children that were incarcerated in that terrible place. Thank God her own eleven childer had escaped that fate.
After tea, Mrs Spooner called Sunday into the drawing room and introduced her to the lodgers. Sunday didn’t really think of them as lodgers at all as Annie had confided that many of them had lived there for some years.
‘This is Mr Greaves, Sunny,’ Mrs Spooner told her, referring to an elderly gentleman who looked as neat as a new pin. He was sitting in the window seat reading a newspaper. His hair and moustache looked as if they had been painted silver but his twinkling grey eyes were lively and alert.
He extended his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you I’m sure, my dear. And may I say what a wonderful job you’ve done of tidying up the downstairs rooms? It’s a pleasure to come home each day now.’
‘Thank you kindly for noticing, sir.’ Sunday bobbed her knee respectfully and he beamed.
‘Mrs Spooner’s husband Herbert and I were great friends and worked together for many years at the brickworks,’ he told her then. ‘Sadly, this dear lady and I lost our spouses within weeks of each other so I decided to sell my house and move in here.’ He winked at her then. ‘I’m afraid we men are not much use on our own and Annie’s culinary skills are legendary around here.’
‘She is a wonderful cook,’ Sunday agreed, smiling back at him.
‘And this here is Miss Bailey,’ Mrs Spooner said, introducing a very elderly lady who was busily working on an embroidery frame. ‘Miss Bailey used to be the headmistress at Stockingford School until she retired.’
Sunday was struck by the difference in the two women. Where Mrs Spooner was very flamboyant and extrovert in her dress, Miss Bailey was the complete opposite and looked every inch the spinster in a severely cut high-necked gown that had no adornment of any kind. Her grey hair was pinned back from her face and she reminded Sunday of a little bird.
‘Good afternoon,’ Miss Bailey said politely. ‘Mrs Spooner informs me that you enjoy reading and writing, Miss Small.’
Sunday nodded. ‘Yes, indeed I do, Miss Bailey. But please call me Sunday.’
‘Pah!’ Mrs Spooner waved her hand airily. ‘Sunday indeed! It’s Sunny while you live here.’ She then turned to a much younger woman who seemed to be a bundle of nerves. ‘This is Miss Falconer. She’s only been with us for a few m
onths and she’s working in the solicitor’s office in town.’
‘How do you do,’ the woman said, and shook her hand. ‘I would like to add my praise to that of Mr Greaves. The house is looking wonderful. You’ve done remarkably well with it in less than a week.’ Sunday noted that she was very tall for a woman, and quite plain, but she seemed pleasant enough. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties and Sunday wondered why such a young woman was living in a lodging house, although she didn’t dare to question her until she had got to know her a little better. Her soft brown hair was brushed into a neat, shining arrangement, and her dress was a pale dove grey and rather reserved for someone so young. Through the gold-framed spectacles she wore, Sunday could see that her eyes were a lovely shade of green and she found herself thinking that the woman could be quite attractive. Everyone had a past and a story, the girl found herself thinking.
‘And finally my nephew, Jacob Bartlett – but I think you’ve already met, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, we have.’ Sunday blushed as he looked up from the book he was reading on the couch and smiled at her, and now that the introductions had been made, she turned to go back to the kitchen. Annie would be leaving any time now and the rest of the evening was hers to do what she liked with, once she had prepared the dining-room table for breakfast and tidied the kitchen. Already she was getting into a routine. Strangely, even though she could now go to bed at whatever time she liked within reason, Sunday found that her body was used to workhouse hours and after seven o’clock she couldn’t seem to stop yawning. But then she had lived by such a strict regime that she realised with a little shock that it was going to take some time to get used to her new way of life.
‘So you’ve met the crew then?’ Annie chirped when Sunday entered the kitchen.
‘Yes, and they all seem very nice.’
Annie sighed as she stabbed a hat-pin into her old felt hat. ‘They are, but there was a time when every room in this place were full. Trouble is, there’s too much to do for one person to see to any more lodgers, so there’s four rooms stood empty. An’ the jobs that need doin’ about the place . . . the front needs a lick o’ paint, the gardens are overgrown. Huh! We could do wi’ a live-in handyman-cum-gardener. It’s costin’ the missus a small fortune to keep havin’ tradesmen in.’
Mothering Sunday Page 13