Mothering Sunday

by Rosie Goodwin

  ‘Ah, so you arrived then,’ the farmer said, throwing his grubby hat onto the clean table. Sunday had approached him in the market some weeks before after hearing that he was looking for indoor help at his farm. She hadn’t liked him then and she liked him even less now. His son didn’t look to be of a friendlier disposition either. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a ruddy complexion, and as she thought of the playful banter she had shared with Mrs Spooner’s lodgers a lump formed in her throat.

  ‘This is our Bill,’ the farmer told her then, nodding towards his son.

  The young man was avidly watching her and Sunday felt as if he was undressing her with his dull grey eyes, but she inclined her head politely all the same. There was no sense in getting off on the wrong foot and things might improve with time.

  The two men seated themselves at the table and, wiping her hands on her apron, Sunday went and took down two bowls from the dusty dresser that stood against one wall and ladled stew into them before fetching a loaf from the pantry.

  The two men fell on the food like pigs, grunting and slurping as if they hadn’t eaten for a month but neither of them thanked her or commented on the quality of the meal. She then spooned a smaller portion into a bowl for the missus but the woman merely pushed it around with the spoon and hardly ate anything. When no one invited her to join them, Sunday finally helped herself to a portion and sat at the table as far away from the men as she possibly could.

  Once the men’s bowls were empty they held them out to her for another helping and when they had eaten that too, they belched, rose from the table and left the room without a word.

  Manners cost nothing, Sunday thought as she carried the empty bowls to the sink, but she didn’t say anything; she merely went back to sweeping the floor.

  It was dark when the men next appeared and the missus told her, ‘Make a pot o’ tea and set out bread, cheese an’ pickles from the pantry, Girl. You’ll need to bake tomorrow. Yer can make bread, can’t yer?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ Sunday answered stiffly as she went off to do as she was told, noting that neither man had even attempted to wash his hands before going to the table. After the meal the farmer sat reading the paper whilst the son disappeared off to the local inn, still wearing the clothes he had been working in all day. The missus was dozing by the fire by then and Sunday asked her, ‘May I go up and clean my room now? And may I have some bedding?’

  ‘You’ll find beddin’ in the ottoman in my bedroom. It’s through that door over there – but don’t go touchin’ nothin’ else, mind!’

  ‘I am not in the habit of touching things that don’t belong to me,’ Sunday said indignantly and bustled away to return minutes later with clean sheets and some blankets. She hoisted them up the ladder, and once upstairs she wrapped her shawl about her in the chilly air as she shook the mattress and made her bed up. All she had to see by was the light of a candle so the main cleaning would have to wait until morning, for it was as black as pitch up there. By now she was exhausted, and deciding that she’d had quite enough for one day she washed in the cold water that she’d poured into the jug earlier in the day and after hooking her nightgown out of the bag that she hadn’t had time to unpack, she slipped it on and climbed into the bed shivering. The blankets were itchy and she curled into a ball feeling thoroughly sorry for herself.

  Suddenly the happy life she had led at Mrs Spooner’s seemed a distant memory but she knew that she was going to have to grit her teeth and make the best of things, for her own safety and that of those most dear to her.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  ‘I was wondering if I might have Sunday afternoon off this week,’ Sunday said to the missus early in February. She had been working on the farm for over a month now, and she was keen to see Cissie. There was little danger of Mr Pinnegar finding her at Treetops Manor.

  The woman looked shocked. ‘I would have thought yer’d settle in afore yer went askin’ fer time off.’

  Sunday stood her ground and faced her squarely. ‘Everyone, even servants, is entitled to some free time,’ she answered spiritedly. ‘It was part of the agreement I made with your husband before I came here that I should have every Sunday afternoon off. I’ve been here for over a month now and not had any time at all to myself as yet since there was so much to do. And you can’t deny I’ve worked very hard.’

  Selah Barnes sniffed. ‘Perhaps just one Sunday afternoon a month then,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But you’re not to go nowhere till you’ve cooked the dinner an’ cleared the pots.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Sunday fully intended to take every Sunday afternoon off from now on as had been agreed but didn’t bother to argue the point just then.

  If the woman heard the sarcasm in Sunday’s voice she chose to ignore it. She had to admit the girl had the house looking as neat as a new pin from top to bottom now – not that she would have told her that, of course. That was what she was paid to do, after all.

  There had been times during that month when Sunday had come close to packing her things and just walking out, particularly after Bill was starting to become over-familiar with her every chance he got, but somehow she had forced herself to stay. Only the day before, she had slapped his face after he had pinched her bottom as she staggered to the sink with an armful of pots. She had carefully placed them down on the enormous wooden draining board and then crossing back to him, she had lifted her arm and whacked him. The trouble was, it had made him laugh rather than deter him from doing it again.

  ‘I like a lass wi’ a bit o’ spirit,’ he had grinned as he rubbed his reddened cheek and Sunday had stalked off up to her room in a sulk. The man was hateful and every day she spent with him made her detest him a little bit more.

  ‘Play yer cards right, Girl, an’ our Bill might just put a ring on yer finger. Him an’ his dad will need someone to keep house for ’em after I’ve gone,’ Selah Barnes had told her weakly when Sunday finally ventured back down the ladder after making sure that Bill had gone out again.

  The very thought turned Sunday’s stomach but all she said was, ‘I don’t intend to let anyone put a ring on my finger for some long time, thank you, missus.’ She was tempted to add that even when she did, it certainly wouldn’t be her brute of a son, but she was too polite to say so.

  The woman started to cough again then, and despite the fact that she was very difficult to get on with, Sunday couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. She was clearly dying of consumption if the blood-stained rags Sunday had to leave in the soak bucket each night were anything to go by. Sunday waited on her hand and foot and tried to make her as comfortable as possible, yet she had never heard her son or her husband offer Selah one kind word. Nor was there a single word of thanks for all that Sunday herself did – not that she expected it any more. It had become clear within the first week that she was classed as no more than a skivvy.

  Leaving the dough that she was kneading on the table, Sunday crossed to the sink to fetch her employer a drink from the pail of fresh water she kept there. All the water was supplied by a well in the farmyard and sometimes she felt as if she spent half her life walking to and fro from it.

  The woman took it and sipped at it noisily before saying, ‘Go an’ fetch me pearls from the bedroom, would yer? An’ yer can brush me hair then when you’ve finished that bread.’

  Sunday quickly covered the dough and left it to rise on the hearth before doing as she was told. She fastened the string of pearls about the woman’s scraggy throat before reaching for the hairbrush. She found it poignant that the woman insisted on wearing her pearls each day. They looked rather out of place on her neck, which at least was clean now, thanks to Sunday giving her a warm wash every day when the men were out in the fields – but appeared to be the only things of worth that Selah owned, apart from her worn gold wedding band. She had once told Sunday in one of her rare friendlier moments that the pearls had belonged to her mother, and she clearly treasured them. Now as she twisted the woman’s thinning
hair into a plait, Sunday felt her heart grow lighter. For the last month she had felt like a prisoner at times but now at least she had her afternoon off to look forward to – and she couldn’t wait to hear from Cissie how everyone she cared about was doing.

  Sunday was a day like any other until after lunch. Sunday washed and dried the dishes then climbed the ladder to her room to get ready for her outing. Once upstairs she glanced around with a sigh. Only the week before, she had insisted on some arsenic-laced bread being laid up there and sure enough she had woken the next morning to find a rat, almost as big as one of the farmyard cats, lying dead only inches away from her mattress. Bill had thought it was a huge joke and had taunted her with it when he went up to fetch it down, leaving her near hysteria; ever since, she had hardly slept a wink. But it won’t be for much longer, she promised herself. Even living in the workhouse had been marginally better than working at Yew Tree Farm and she intended to start looking around for a new position just as soon as the weather improved.

  Crossing to her bag, she started to lift out her coat and good boots. She hadn’t had cause to wear them since arriving but today she wanted to make an effort. It was as she was unpacking them that she noticed the brown paper package tied with string that had been handed to her when she left the workhouse. It probably contained the garments she had been wearing on the day she had been left on the steps of the workhouse . . . but even now, after all this time, it had remained unopened. For some strange reason hidden to herself, Sunday hadn’t wanted to look at them. The tiny items must surely have been handled by the woman who had given birth to her, and until recently she had hoped that her mother would come back to claim her. Superstitiously, she had feared that opening the package would break the spell and jinx her dream of ever coming true. But, a little voice in her head told her, there’s no chance of that happening now, so what could be the harm in looking at them?

  Laying the small parcel on the floor she finished getting ready, keeping her eye on it the whole time. Should she or shouldn’t she open it? And then finally curiosity got the better of her. Sitting on the side of the mattress she pulled the parcel towards her, carefully untied the string and turned back the paper, which was now brittle with age. What was revealed made her gasp, for inside was a small nightgown and a beautiful lacy shawl fit for a princess. They were clearly very expensive items and now her mind whirled. Her mother must have had money to afford such things! There was also something about the shawl that was vaguely familiar but for the life of her she couldn’t think what it was. After fingering the delicate items for a moment or two she tried to conjure up a picture of the woman who would have dressed her in them, feeling the sense of abandonment she had experienced as a child all over again. Then resolutely she wrapped them back up and placed them in a drawer before shrugging her coat on. What did it matter now who her mother had been? She clearly hadn’t wanted her and Sunday was used to fending for herself now. Tying the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin, she made her way down the ladder into the kitchen, careful not to trip on her long, elegant coat from Liberty’s.

  Bill was standing by the kitchen table when she descended and his eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sight of her. He’d never seen her in her best clothes before and whistled beneath his breath.

  ‘I were just sayin’ to me ma that you might make me a good wife,’ he told her as if he were doing her some great favour. ‘Yer a bit skinny admittedly an’ yer were brought up in t’workhouse but I might be prepared to overlook that. Yer a good worker though, so what do yer say?’

  Sunday could hardly believe her ears. ‘Was that some sort of a marriage proposal?’ She enquired icily.

  ‘Aye, I dare say it were so – what’s yer answer?’ He hooked his fingers into his braces and swaggered, certain that she would jump at the chance of being his wife.

  ‘I have no intentions of marrying you or anybody else for some long time,’ she said primly. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me I must be off. It is my free afternoon, after all.’

  He scowled as he watched her walk towards the door, clearly amazed by her response. ‘Well, think on it then. You’ll do no better. You’re a pauper bastard, after all, wi’ no idea where yer came from – an’ most blokes wouldn’t touch yer.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Sunday told him sarcastically, and without another glance in his direction she marched out of the farmbouse.

  It was less than an hour’s walk to Treetops Manor and she fumed all the way as she thought of the cruel remarks he had made . . . but then, not wishing to spoil her afternoon she tried to push the thoughts aside, and as she turned into the drive her spirits lifted again just as they always did whenever she visited this lovely home. One thing was for certain, now that Bill had set his sights on her, the sooner she was gone from Yew Tree Farm the better. After making her way round to the kitchen door she tapped and entered – and there was Cissie sitting with George at the kitchen table.

  ‘Sunday!’ The girl’s whole face lit up at the sight of her friend and she shot across the room to wrap her in a warm hug. ‘Oh . . . it’s just so lovely to see you. Are you settled at the farm? We’ve all missed you so much. Come and sit down and tell us what you’ve been up to.’

  Sunday giggled, not able to get a word in edgeways as Cissie dragged her to the table and lifted the big brown teapot.

  ‘Take your coat off else you won’t feel it when you go back out,’ she urged. ‘And get this warm tea down you. You look frozen through. We’ve got so much to tell you.’

  She glanced at George then and blushed prettily before confiding, ‘Me and George are betrothed now. And the mistress has given us her blessin’. I’m going to live in the rooms above the stables with him after we’re married so I can go on working here. Well, at least until our family starts to come along,’ she ended with a shy peep at her man, who beamed at Sunday.

  ‘Why, that’s wonderful news!’ Sunday was genuinely thrilled for them, especially Cissie, and you only had to look at the couple to see how much in love they were.

  George then stood up and said his goodbyes, as he had work to be getting on with, in the stables.

  ‘I was wonderin’ if perhaps you’d be me bridesmaid when we do get wed,’ Cissie said when he’d gone, and Sunday nodded eagerly.

  ‘It would be my pleasure – but when is the big day to be?’

  Cissie became solemn. ‘To be honest it’s a case of the sooner the better for us, but we have to respect that Lady Huntley is still in mourning for Master Stephen so we’ve put it off till early next year.’

  ‘Poor thing, how is she?’ Sunday asked as she sipped at the hot sweet tea.

  ‘Not good.’ Cissie sighed. ‘She rarely goes out any more. But then they say time is a great healer and in the meantime Zillah fusses over her like a mother hen. Zillah asked me earlier on today to pack away the rest of Stephen’s baby clothes in the nursery; she says it’s too upsetting for the mistress to have to keep seeing them lying about. I was working up there this very afternoon as a matter of fact but I came down for a break. Perhaps yer could come an’ talk to me while I carry on?’

  ‘I will,’ Sunday agreed. ‘But I ought to pop in and see Lady Huntley first. She’s been so good to me one way and another over the years, and I haven’t seen her since the baby died so I’d like to go and pay my respects.’

  ‘Right you are. You can come up with me and I’ll show you which is her room.’

  And after briefly catching up on how Mrs Spooner and everyone at Whittleford Lodge was faring, the two girls made their way upstairs chattering away nonstop. There was so much to talk about.

  ‘That’s Lady Huntley’s bedroom door there,’ Cissie whispered once they reached the first-floor landing. ‘I shouldn’t go mentionin’ Master Ashley if I were you though,’ she advised. ‘She booted him out when he returned after the baby’s funeral but he dropped on his feet. That type allus do. He’s wealthy in his own right now, an’ livin’ the life o’ Riley by all accounts. St
ill, they do say that what goes around comes around, don’t they? So happen he’ll get his just deserts one day – an’ it won’t be a day too soon as far as I’m concerned. The rotten sod put the mistress through hell. I reckon she’s better off wi’out him.’

  She gave a cheery wave then and set off for the nursery floor as Sunday straightened her skirts, smoothed her hair and advanced on Lady Huntley’s bedroom door. She hadn’t set eyes on the dear woman since her baby’s death and had only heard worrying news . . . but she and Lavinia Huntley had always been easy in each other’s company, so she hoped the meeting would not be too difficult.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  It was Zillah who answered the tap on the door and she beamed in welcome when she saw who it was standing there.

  ‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ she gushed, grabbing Sunday’s arm and giving her a hug. ‘Look who is here, Lavinia. Isn’t she a sight for sore eyes? We’ve been wondering how you were getting on.’

  Lady Huntley was sitting reading and at a glance Sunday saw that she had lost a lot of weight. There were bags under her eyes too, but she smiled when she saw Sunday and held her hand out to her.

  ‘It is indeed lovely to see you, my dear. I know Mrs Spooner has worried about you although you’ve written to her a couple of times. Come and sit by me and tell us all about what you’ve been up to.’

  Zillah took the seat at the side of her and Sunday shrugged. ‘There’s not much to tell really,’ she admitted. ‘This is the first time I’ve left Yew Farm since I’ve worked there and I’ve been getting the house straight for them. Mrs Barnes has been ill for some time so it was in rather a state although I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate me telling you that.’