Eve

by Beverley Hughesdon

  My trunk was labelled and deposited in the guard’s van, alongside the Stokesley laundry baskets; apparently when they were in London they sent all the dirty linen down to Wenlock Court, to be washed there – another peculiar tribal ritual. The baskets and me would be met at Bromfield. Mrs Salter had given me my train fare, so now, ticket in hand, I jumped on the train.

  Excitement kept me awake until the change at Shrewsbury, but I had had a very busy week, so I was dozing by Craven Arms and nearly missed Bromfield. Luckily the porter’s call woke me up, and I stumbled out. It was getting on for nine o’clock by then, and already dark. My trunk was on the platform beside the laundry baskets. A man appeared, and asked, ‘You for the Court?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Cart’s outside.’

  The journey was very slow. The man only spoke to the horse, and the steady clip-clop was as soporific as a lullaby. I kept jerking up to stop myself falling off the high seat. We were passing trees and fields, and the air was sparkling with freshness – but not fresh enough to wake me up. I nodded for miles and miles – well, about five, anyway. Then a lodge gate was opened in front of us. ‘Evening, Jarge.’ George raised his whip in acknowledgement and we clip-clopped through on to a long pale ribbon of road.

  Eventually a dark mass of buildings loomed up, and hooves struck cobbles. The laundry baskets were unloaded – I climbed down, ‘This’n way.’ It was all like a dream by now. A woman’s voice said, ‘You’ll be the new Fourth – come along.’ A passage way, a room with bright lights – I sat down and a plate of buttered scones and a pot of tea were plonked down in front of me. ‘I’ll tell Doris you’re here.’

  I ate and drank until an older woman appeared. ‘Follow me.’ Along another passage, up a flight of stairs, into a smaller room – a woman approached me with a tape measure – Doris told her, ‘You’d better hurry up, Lucy – she’s asleep on her feet.’

  Yet more stairs, another corridor, ‘Here’s the W.C.’ I went in. Doris was waiting when I came out again. ‘Your room’s along here,’ This room was even smaller – quite tiny, in fact; my trunk and kari were already waiting on the floor. Doris said, ‘I’m afraid you’re on your own.’ Afraid! What bliss. ‘There’s hot water in the jug, and that’s your overall for tomorrow. Rising bell at 6.00. Good night.’ The door closed behind her.

  I washed my hands and face, pulled all my clothes off, and then deciding it was too much trouble to unpack, tumbled into bed just as I was.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  It was just beginning to get light as I woke up the next morning. For a moment I just lay in bed, basking in satisfaction. I’d got a job, I had a room to myself, and I was in a completely new and different place – what more could anybody ask? Leaping up I pulled the long-sleeved brown holland overall around me and started to unpack.

  My clothes were soon either hanging from hooks behind the curtain in one corner or stowed away in the chest of drawers alongside. The only other furniture was a towel rail, a three-legged enamelled iron washstand, holding bowl, slop bucket and water jug, and a bedside cabinet concealing a china chamber pot – which I certainly wasn’t going to use. Polished brown lino covered the floor, with a matting rug next to the bed. I gazed round proudly – all mine. The only flaw was the window, which was high up with a wall outside, and only a narrow strip of sky visible. I flicked the switch by the door up and down; despite being in the depths of the country Wenlock Court boasted electric light – better and better. Sponge in hand I yanked the towel off the rail and set off in search of a bathroom.

  I was still enjoying my lukewarm dip when the rising bell whirred. I rushed back, leapt into my underwear, tied the belt of my overall and shot out – almost knocking down a fair-headed girl dressed the same as me. She announced, ‘I’m Gladys, the Third.’

  ‘Ma name’s Eve – I’m the new Fourth.’

  ‘This way,’ she set off at a brisk pace, calling over her shoulder, ‘You from Scotland?’

  ‘Aye, frae near Wick.’ I preened myself on the success of my accent – not that it was anything like the way people spoke in Wick, but Gladys wasn’t as sharp as Horseface on that one.

  As we reached the stairs Gladys said, ‘Doris told me to bring you down – we call her H.H., by the way.’

  ‘For Head Housemaid?’

  ‘Nah – Her Highness.’ Gladys sniggered. ‘But don’t tell her that.’

  After a quick cup of tea and even quicker slice of bread and butter H.H. escorted me back along the corridor to collect the tools of my trade from the housemaids’ pantry, then on through a green baize-backed door. We crossed a great, square hall to the garden entrance – my first job was to scrub the floor of its vestibule and the flight of stairs leading down from there. ‘I’ll be back later, Eve, to see how you’re getting on,’ Doris informed me.

  The minute the skirt of her brown overall whisked out of sight I rushed down the stairs under the high stone archway and out into the morning sun. I found myself on a broad paved terrace, bounded by a low wall of ornately carved stone. The ground sloped steeply away from the house, and a fascinating arrangement of flights of shallow stone steps led down to a lower terrace, and then down again to the garden. Leaning over the top wall I spotted a creeper-covered summer house nestling between two of the terrace buttresses, all ready to catch the morning sun. Ahead, green parkland, dotted with handsome trees, sloped gently down into a wooded valley; I caught the glint of water there – a river? A lake? I would go exploring later, and find out.

  Turning my back on the view I swung round to inspect the house behind me: it was three storeys high – and the top one was crenellated! Great battlements, with phoney arrow slits almost hid the roof, and below were bay windows, oriel windows, mullioned windows – and every single one decorated with prominent stone carvings. The whole place was a kind of English Maharajah’s palace! I admired the ledges which ran round the house at regular intervals, and those beautiful solidly-attached lead downpipes, set in convenient sized gullies – handholds, footholds – what more could anybody ask for? As I stood there in the sunlight I was overtaken by a great, bubbling upsurge of joy. Life was fun again.

  I ran back across the terrace, in under the stone arch, and dropped down on to my kneeler. Brush in hand I began to scrub the bottom step to the tune of, ‘On the day when I was wedded’ (The Gondoliers, Act II – Duchess of Plaza-Toro). It’s just the right rhythm for scrubbing steps. I sang the words, but quietly – according to the McNiven rule. She never tried to stop her trainees singing, only it must be softly, and preferably hymns. But I’d sung enough Gaelic hymns on the herring gutting; today, Gilbert and Sullivan.

  ‘I was always very wary,

  For his fury was estatic –

  His refined vocabulary

  Most unpleasantly emphatic…’

  At the top of the short flight of steps stone gave way to a tiled floor: diamonds of red and white with regular rows of red lozenges, most satisfying to scrub. I breasted the massive mahogany double doors with a final triumphant, ‘I tamed your insignificant progenitor – at last!’ And moved on to, ‘Were I thy bride,’ another good scrubbing song.

  Halfway across the floor I swapped to my Scots accent – in case Doris came back too soon – so as I rinsed my cloth for the last time it was a west coast Phoebe who belted out,

  ‘But then, of course, you see,

  I’m not thy bride!’

  Rising to my feet I bowed to the invisible audience before stacking kneeler, brush and pails next to the wall in the approved McNiven—Butterfield fashion – they left nothing to chance, those two. Then I stepped out into the great hall.

  It was just like a stage set. The furniture was all pushed to one side, under dust sheets. I could see the shape of a grand piano, and two carpets were rolled up beside it, leaving the polished parquet floor bare – perfect for dancing.

  I danced a fandango to the centre then stopped to survey my stage.

  Very impressive. Round three sides, hu
ge ornately carved wooden pillars held up a gallery, edged by an even more ornately carved parapet. Rising at intervals from this gallery were yet more highly decorated columns. I bolero’d over to inspect the wood of the massive pillars – oak, as I’d thought from the golden glow of it. A quick cachucha took me back to the centre. Facing the great sweep of the staircase I could see on its left the entrance to a corridor, which ran straight ahead. To the right was the door I’d come through, which led to the main entrance, and also to the door of the servant’s wing.

  I did a fandango spin and counted six more high doors in the shadows under the gallery, as well as the open archway to the garden entrance door. My eyes then lifted to the gallery itself, the floor of which was a good twenty feet above the hall – and the gallery was pretty lofty, too. It was obviously used as a bedroom corridor, since there were yet more doors at intervals, but where did the light come from? I tipped my head back – a dome! A huge blue glass dome – and scattered over the blue, like stars, were stained glass roundels, every one containing the same heraldic design – presumably the Stokesley family arms. Gosh, it was wonderful – all so unbelievably, outrageously, ridiculous!

  Staircase next: I gavotted over to inspect it. The lovely sweep of the banisters was quite spoilt for sliding down by the presence of huge carved eagles at every turn – pity. But I was rather taken by the high stained glass window beyond the stairs. Bright blues, sharp greens, burning reds and silver white made up a tableau of a knight in shining armour in the process of rescuing a simpering maiden from a huge and handsome dragon. The knight looked extremely bad-tempered – personally I’d have chosen the dragon any day.

  ‘Finished already?’

  It was H.H., with a frown on her face. She marched suspiciously off to inspect my work. I waited, confidently, knowing the McNiven-Butterfield system would pass the test. It did. She returned frown-free. I said chattily, ‘Fine lot of oak ye’ve got here. Ma favourite wood, oak – but it’ll no take a shine like mahogany will. Now mahogany, ye can see yer face in that.’

  H.H. smiled. ‘What polish did you use on it, at your last place?’

  ‘Mistress McNiven always reckoned…’

  By the time we’d reached the housemaid’s closet I’d been through the Butterfield recipe for furniture cream: 1 oz. white wax; 1 oz. beeswax; 1 oz. Castile soap; pint turps; pint boiling water. H.H. favoured 1 oz. Castile soap herself, but this was not a matter of serious disagreement between us – rather the opportunity for the kind of little debate that true professionals always enjoy. Back in the closet I emptied my pails the Butterfield way, (page 11) – and by then H.H. was practically purring.

  It never crossed my mind that what I was doing would be perceived as sycophantic – I still hadn’t much of a clue where other girls were concerned. To me, Butterfield was a game, and I played it whenever I got the chance. As a consequence I became HH’s blue-eyed girl – but as far as my fellow housemaids were concerned…!

  But whatever its long-term disadvantages, playing the Butterfield game won me two valuable prizes that morning. The first was a conducted tour of the service wing, which in practice was virtually a square round the kitchen courtyard. We started at the green baize-backed door and went ahead past the backstairs on the left and the serving room on the right – which led directly into the large dining room. H.H. allowed me a peek at the mahogany dining table in there – which was huge – and became even huger when the extra leaves were added. At present these were stored in the high leaf cupboard, which was carefully positioned at the side of the deep window recess, so that at dinner it was hidden by the heavy velvet curtains. ‘But the spare leaves must be kept properly polished – even when they’re not being used.’ H.H. announced briskly. I nodded. (Butterfield, page 52).

  We left the serving room and turned sharp left at the butler’s pantry. On our right we passed the servants’ hall (site of midday dinner), and came to the still room – in which two maids worked full-time, producing jam, marmalade, candied fruit, cordials and the daily supplies of fresh bread and scones. The kitchen was next – no entry there, the cook ran her own department; scullery, ditto; larder – just a peep allowed; it was vast and cold and marble-shelved.

  Round the corner was the gunroom. This was part of H.H.’s empire – Fifth, Lil, was cleaning it now – so we went in. I stood gazing at the rifles and shotguns, locked in their glass cases, and comforting memories of Apa came flooding back – until H.H.’s pained voice recalled me to the present. She was drawing Lil’s attention to an undusted ledge on the cartridge cupboard. That little matter rectified, we set off again, past the the housemaid’s sitting room (breakfast, tea and supper partaken of here), a pair of maids’ W.C.s, the coal and wood stores, and, keeping cool at the end of the block, a large game larder, soon to be filled with pheasants.

  We moved briefly out into the open air, so H.H. could point out the outer service range, which included the laundry, and a new brick building at the end, which was the Powerhouse, and MUST NEVER BE ENTERED BY UNAUTHORISED PERSONS, especially not housemaids. H.H. harboured dire suspicions about the generation of electricity.

  Back past two visiting valets’ bedrooms, with a small attic for Billy the hall boy; Sixth was responsible for keeping them clean. In fact I now discovered that Fifth and Sixth did nothing but clean the servants’ quarters, while Billy and the third footman did nothing but wait on the upper servants and the nursery. Curious, I asked H.H., ‘Would there be many in the family, then?’

  ‘His lordship, and her ladyship – the Earl and Countess of Stokesley, and their son and daughter-in-law, Lord and Lady Lydham, they live at Wenlock Court when they’re in the country, then there’s Master Gerald, Miss Dorothy and Master Baby.’ She rattled them off like a census return; H.H. was only interested in rooms and furniture, not people – you couldn’t dust people. But even at her speed it took from knife and boot room, past two brushing rooms, the housekeeper’s room, and the store before she’d finished answering my next question, ‘What’s the number o’ servants, then?’

  The list was one housekeeper, two ladies’ maids, six housemaids, two still room maids, one sewing room maid, one cook, two kitchenmaids, one scullerymaid, four laundry maids, a butler, two valets, three footmen, one oddman, one hallboy – and in the nursery there was one nurse, one nursemaid, and a nurserymaid to wait on them. By now we were passing the butler’s bedroom – except that Mr Taylor, the butler, was married and lived in a cottage in the grounds, so William, the first footman, slept there to guard the strongroom which held the Stokesley silver, and opened out to the butler’s pantry next door – so we’d arrived back where we’d started.

  I was still gasping with the enormity of it: thirty-one people to look after four adults, two children and one small baby. (In those days I thought babies didn’t need much looking after!) And that was just indoors; outside a legion of grooms, gardeners and gamekeepers all toiled in the Stokesley service too.

  I suppose, having been brought up in India, I shouldn’t have been so surprised, but in India you have to have more servants than you really need because of the caste system – besides, not that many! Jumping Jehosaphat, it really was like a musical play: seven principals and a chorus of thirty-one.

  By now H.H. was leading me to my second prize, the responsibility for restoring an old oak map chest, recently brought in to the muniment room, and not yet in a satisfactory H.H. condition: ‘Dirty and greasy,’ she told me. I immediately snapped into Butterfield page 75, and she smiled approvingly – since she’d already set the still room to boiling up some shredded beeswax with beer and brown sugar. To me alone fell the honour of rubbing it in before the final polish.

  We walked across the front entrance vestibule and turned sharp right into the service passage, which was hidden under the first flight of the main staircase – whenever possible servants must be neither seen nor heard. We arrived at the corridor I’d noticed earlier; this was to be my special domain each morning between 6.20 and 8.00 a.m.
H.H. indicated the door of the muniment room, used for estate business and archives, then she took me on into the billiard room. There was a raised platform at one end, with a piano to one side of it. H.H. saw me looking towards the piano and said, ‘Rehearsals for the concert take place in here. It’s on the afternoon before the servants’ ball, so when Mr Parton comes,’ I broke in excitedly, ‘I ken Mr Parton!’ This time I was the recipient of the pained voice, ‘You can’t “know” Mr Parton – servants don’t “know” guests. Now, he likes to practice in here first thing, so you must make sure you don’t disturb him.’

  ‘When is it, this concert – and the ball?’

  ‘Next month – they’re part of the celebrations for Lady Lydham’s wedding anniversary. Now, your next morning task will be…’

  The cleaning of a lavatory and two W.C.s next to the side entrance – and there was yet another W.C. on the other side of that entrance, under the stairs which led directly up to the bachelors’ wing. My face fell – only to rise up again when H.H. informed me that the bedrooms in tha bachelors’ wing were my responsibility, too. As I was quite confident that Dr Travers was a bachelor this meant that I’d be cleaning his room – what bliss!

  My final morning task was cleaning Lord Lydham’s smoking room. This was furnished with comfortable armchairs, a desk – and on the wall above it a simply enormous picture of a woman stepping down into a large marble bathing pool. She was presumably an ancient Romaness, but you couldn’t really tell as she’d taken all her clothes off and tossed them in a heap behind her – just like I did, when I went swimming. I stepped forward to get a better look, ‘We don’t have anything to do with Pictures,’ H.H.’s voice behind me was very firm. ‘A special gentleman comes down from London each year. Now, the oak chest…’

  I won’t bore you with details of the restoration work on that chest – though H.H. certainly bored me, at length. No, the exciting thing about the chest was what hung on the wall above it – just where I could conveniently study it all the time I was applying that most vital ingredient of all polish: elbow grease. (Butterfield, page 1, paragraph 1.)