Mrs Funnell had got used to this form of greeting, but it wasn’t known whether she appreciated it or not. As for the master of the house, she chipped him, too. ‘Make way for the Lord Mayor,’ she said one day on the front steps, as she moved her bucket aside, and he, bending over her, said, ‘Many a true word spoken in jest, Rosie,’ to which she had reacted quickly, saying, ‘Yes, Mr Jones; but those who sit on horsehair chairs generally get their bums scratched,’ bringing from him the reaction of a push on the side of her head and their laughing together.
Yes, Rosie had brought lightness into the house. Peggy was aware that many of her sayings were threadbare, she had heard them many times before, but as the comedian said, it wasn’t what was said, it was the way it was told. And it certainly was the way Rosie said it. Apparently, too, Rosie enjoyed herself after working hours. Her widowhood sat lightly on her shoulders, and from what Peggy gathered from her she had a favourite pub.
As for Emma, Emma loved Rosie. ‘Rosie’s being funny again, Mammy,’ she would say. ‘She said a funny poem to me about an angel spitting.’
‘Angels don’t spit.’
‘Oh, Rosie’s angels do.’
Yes, indeed, Rosie’s angels spat. She was a dab hand at couplets, was Rosie.
So all went well, at least in the working part of the house, for more than two years. Then it seemed that all of a sudden Rosie wasn’t so merry: her laughter was forced, and she didn’t wisecrack as you were passing her, until Peggy felt she must seek the reason. ‘Is anything the matter, Rosie? Aren’t you well?’ she asked her. And Rosie had replied in a sort of mumble, ‘I’m all right, Mrs Jones; just a bit worried about my brother. He’s not too good lately.’
So that was it; she was worried about her brother.
Then came Monday morning. Her grandmother, as usual, was sorting the washing in the scullery. She herself had just returned from taking Emma to school. That was one thing Andrew couldn’t do, because he had to be at the works by eight o’clock and Emma didn’t start school until nine. She had picked up the letters from the wire box behind the front door, dropped off her coat on her way across the hall and gone into the kitchen. And her grandmother called from the scullery, ‘Is that you, dear?’ And when she answered, ‘Yes, it’s me,’ then added, ‘Has Rosie arrived yet?’ Victoria came to the kitchen door, saying, ‘No, she hasn’t. Strange, isn’t it? You would think that when she wasn’t coming she would have got some word round.’
Peggy sat down at the kitchen table and looked at the mail.
There were three letters and an electricity bill addressed to Mrs Emma Funnell, three circulars and—she picked up the last envelope—a cheap blue paper one and addressed to herself, not as Mrs Margaret Jones, but Mrs Peggy Jones. Who called her Peggy besides those in the household? Charlie. But Charlie was away and this certainly wasn’t his writing: last year she had received postcards sent by him while travelling abroad with the quartet, and they were naturally never personal, just stating how the concerts were going.
She slit open the envelope, took out a single sheet of paper, and read,
‘Dear Mrs Jones,
I am sorry but I won’t be in any more. My brother is not well and I feel I must stay at home. I am very sorry. Believe me, I am very, very sorry, because I liked working for you.
I am very sorry.
Yours,
Rosie.’
She handed the letter to her grandmother, saying, ‘It’s her brother. He must be pretty bad if she’s got to stay at home.’
‘She should have told you. It seems so sudden. Oh my! We’re going to miss her, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, we are, in all ways. Back to square one.’ She gave a small, tight smile and her grandmother answered it with, ‘Yes, in more ways than one, we’ll definitely be back to square one. Still, you can try for someone else, although I doubt if you’ll get another Rosie.’
‘No, you’re right there, Gran. Look, I haven’t put the car away, I’ll slip round and see what I can do. Perhaps I could suggest her getting someone in to look after him and she could come for half time. I really do feel she liked working here as much as we liked having her, and not only for her work; she was such a nice person, so warm and lively.’
‘Well, I’d better get that washing on and think about a dinner,’ Victoria said; ‘but you go along and see what’s happening and we’ll talk about that when you come back…’
Peggy was a little surprised to find that 48 Beaconsfield Avenue was not on the council estate but was one of a terrace of small houses, with front iron-railed, enclosed gardens and all neatly kept. After getting out of the car she bent over and pushed open the gate, then closed it behind her, walked up the short path and rang the doorbell. Within seconds she was confronted by a tall man whom she took to be in his late forties, but who, she guessed, couldn’t be quite that if he was Rosie’s brother. He coughed twice before saying, ‘Yes?’ then leaned forward and peered at her as if his sight were bad, then coughed a harsh, chest-tearing cough before asking further, ‘Yes, what d’you want?’
‘I’m Mrs Jones. I…I have come to see Rosie.’
‘Oh, you have, have you? You’ve come to see Rosie, have you? Well, Rosie’s not here.’
‘I…I understood that she was, well er…’
‘Come in. Come in.’ He pulled the door wide; then before she had hardly got over the step he slammed it closed. Preceding her now, he went across a small hall and into a sitting room. This, too, was small but nicely furnished and comfortable-looking.
He did not ask her to sit down but said to her straight away, ‘What has she told you?’
‘Well, she…she told me that you weren’t well and she had to stay at home.’
‘Bloody liar! She’s gone off.’
‘Gone off?’
‘That’s what I said, missis, gone off with a bloke. I knew there was something in the wind, has been for weeks. Off she’s been at nights; couldn’t get in quick enough and couldn’t get out quick enough. When her man died I took her in and gave her a home. He never did. Come easy, go easy, God send Sunday, that was him. I wasn’t like an elder brother to her, I was more like a father. She had a duty to me to stay by me ’cos I stuck by her. Me with me chest like this.’ He thumped his chest with his fist now. ‘It’s me lungs; coal dust on top of bronchial trouble. And me back’s gone an’ all, a roof fall in the pit. I deserved better treatment than that. What d’you think, missis?’
‘I’m very surprised at Rosie. She…she always appeared so caring, I mean.’ What she meant was she had always appeared so caring to all of them in the house. She could, in a way, imagine what it was like caring for the man before her. She asked tentatively now, ‘Has she gone very far?’
‘Don’t ask me, missis; all I know, wherever she went on those nights, she’d leave here at half-past six and it was lucky if the clock saw her coming in that door at half-past eleven at night.’
‘Perhaps she was at the pub. Apparently, she went to a particular pub.’
‘Pub? The Boar’s Head’s never seen her for weeks. By! When I think of it, the sly, sneaking bitch that she is. Left me a note’—he pointed to the table—‘saying it was her life and she was entitled to a little happiness. Well! Happiness. You know what I wish her? I hope he’s one of those blokes that’ll kick her from dog to devil.’
‘Don’t say that. She…she was a nice person.’
‘Huh! Well, I’m glad you found her so, missis.’
‘Well, I’m sure you did until recently.’
‘She was only paying me back for what I did for her, and she should have gone on paying me back.’
‘Some people expect too much.’
‘Huh! It’s well seen whose side you’re on. I bid you good day, missis.’
‘And I bid you good day, too.’
She turned from him and went out of the room, across the hall and pulled open the front door, which she didn’t bother to close behind her, so angry did she feel.
The car di
dn’t glide forward, it jumped. No wonder Rosie had left. That man! But why hadn’t she told her? Why hadn’t she confided in her? She would have understood.
When she entered the house Mrs Funnell was coming down the stairs. ‘What’s this I hear?’ she said. ‘Rosie’s left?’
‘Yes, she’s left, Great-Gran.’
‘And without giving notice?’
‘She was paid weekly; she owed me nothing.’
‘That’s what you think. She owed us courtesy: she was a servant, she should have given in her notice.’
Mrs Funnell followed Peggy into the kitchen, talking all the way. ‘Things are getting worse. People don’t know their place. What was her brother like?’
Not only was Mrs Funnell startled, but Victoria was too, and even Peggy herself as she rounded on the old woman, crying at the top of her voice now, ‘Like all men of his ilk, with a bloody big moaning mouth, yelling off, I, I, I, all the time, his wants. And he’s not the only one. No, he’s not the only one. And you know what I’d like to do? Kick their bloody backsides, then rub their noses against a mirror until they could see themselves as they really are. But let’s be fair. Oh yes, let’s be fair, because they haven’t got priority in selfishness, have they, Great-Gran? Have they?’
‘Peggy! Peggy!’ Victoria was holding her now. ‘Give over. Give over. Come on; come on out of this.’ And Victoria now pulled her granddaughter past the indignant old lady, whose face was expressing shock. And when they reached the drawing room, she said, ‘Sit down there, lass, and calm yourself.’
Peggy sat down. She was still shivering with indignation, but when she looked up at her grandmother, it was to see her shivering too, but with suppressed laughter. And when Victoria put her hand over her mouth and almost fell down onto the couch she said, and with some indignation, ‘You find it funny, Gran?’
Victoria gulped in her throat, drew in a long sniffing breath up her nose, then said, ‘My mother’s face; that was the greatest surprise of her life, I’m sure it was. And you swearing. I’ve never heard you swear in my life. You know what? You know what?’ She was leaning towards Peggy now and, a slow smile spreading over her face, Peggy said, ‘What, Gran?’
‘What do you bet she doesn’t come marching in here and suggest that you have a strong dose of syrup of figs?’
It was almost at this moment, too, that the door was thrust open and the indignant lady stood within it and in a loud voice proclaimed in her most officious manner: ‘When you have come to yourself enough to apologise, Peggy, I’ll see you upstairs in my room. In the meantime, I would suggest you clean your system and your tongue with a large dose of syrup of figs.’
As the door banged Peggy and her grandmother threw themselves into each other’s arms, one arm only around each other for they had to suppress the laughter that was bursting to escape in loud, hilarious guffaws…
Peggy did not go up to apologise to her great-grandmother; she was too busy doing the work that had been Rosie’s routine. She did, however, slip next door to May and gave her a rough sketch of what had happened, right up to the syrup of figs. And as she was about to hurry away again, she asked, ‘Have you heard from Charlie?’ May answered, ‘Yes; they should be in Milan now, but they’ll be there for only two days. They should be home towards the end of the week.’
Charlie would be home towards the end of the week. Charlie would be home towards the end of the week…
She had to fit her own routine into the day. She was to pick Emma up from school at half past three…
There were three or four cars lined up outside the junior-school gates. She knew all the mothers, and particularly had she come to know a Mrs White. She would not say they had become friends, just strong acquaintances. Emma went to Janice’s parties and Janice came to Emma’s parties. Only last Friday there had been great excitement over Janice’s eighth birthday party. And it was about that that Peggy now spoke to Mrs White, saying, ‘I bet you had some clearing up after the mob on Friday night.’
‘My! Yes.’ Mrs White was a woman in her early forties and Janice was the youngest of her four daughters, and she said again, ‘My! Yes. Especially as I found one of them had been sick in the spare room. And there were some tears, too, when they were all getting ready to go home: someone had got someone else’s paper hat; and that was somebody else’s whistle; even coats got mixed up between the Pratt twins. Oh, they are funny children, those two, aren’t they? That’s the last time they’ll get an invite, I can tell you.’ She was nodding at Peggy. Then more quietly, she said, ‘They’re all such little liars, the tales they spin about what they have in the house. And Eva, the smaller one, argued with Janice that they had two cars. They nearly came to scratching each other because Janice says they’ve only got an old banger. But there you are, children all lie. Look at little Emma. Telling them all that when she went swimming with her father she could do the crawl and so many other strokes. Well, perhaps one could believe that, but not—’ Her voice dropped further now and her head came towards Peggy, saying, ‘Not that you never bathed her, never had bathed her, and that she got in the bath with her father every night. My! My! the wrong impressions children give. They could get you into trouble, couldn’t they? She likely said that because she’s very fond of him, I suppose; and of course, her being the only one, she would want special attention. Children always want to show off and be different.’ She now poked her finger into Peggy’s arm, saying, ‘Well, there’s a cure for that, you know. Oh! Here they come like a swarm of ants.’ She turned away, leaving Peggy standing stiff and cold, although the sun was shining and it had been in the seventies all day.
Emma came running towards her, saying, ‘Mammy, I got a prize for recitation, look!’ She held out a piece of black cardboard with a silver star stuck on it, and when her mother made no effort to take it from her or exclaim her delight and approbation, she stared up at her and then said, ‘Mammy?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, dear. Oh, that was clever of you. Get in.’ She opened the car door and when the child was seated she went round and took her place behind the wheel, then drove off.
‘What did you recite?’ she forced herself to ask.
‘The bit about Pooh Bear, and I made a sound like Eeyore and everybody laughed…Have you got a headache, Mammy?’
‘No. No, dear; no, I haven’t got a headache.’ She wasn’t going to lie to the child but she was going to talk to her.
Once inside the house the child made for the kitchen, but Peggy stopped her, saying, ‘You won’t find Rosie there. She’s gone; she won’t be coming back.’
‘Rosie’s gone? Why? Why, Mammy?’
‘She’s…she’s got another situation. Look; come upstairs with me, I want to talk to you.’
But once in the bedroom and sitting on the edge of the bed, her arm around her daughter, what could she say? Do you like being in the bath with your father? Do you like him bathing you? What she did say was, ‘In future there’s going to be a new rule: you’re going to have your bath before your daddy comes home.’
‘You’ll bath me, Mammy?’
The child’s face lit up and Peggy looked down at her, saying, ‘You’d like me to bath you?’
‘Oh yes, Mammy. Oh yes. You never bath me; but I’m big enough to bath myself now, aren’t I?’
‘Yes. Yes, you are, dear.’
‘I said that to Daddy yesterday.’
‘And what did Daddy say?’
‘He said I was still a baby. But I’m not, am I, Mammy? I’ll soon be eight…well, not till December and I know it’s only summer, but I’ll be eight in December, won’t I?’
‘Yes, of course you will, and…and being eight, you’ll be able to have the bathroom to yourself. But till then, I’ll bath you. And—’ She turned her daughter’s face fully to her and cupped her cheek as she said, ‘You must tell Daddy that you want me to bath you. You will, won’t you?’
‘Yes. Well, he…he might get angry.’
‘He won’t get angry with you.’
> ‘But…but he might get angry with you, Mammy. And I don’t want him to get angry with you.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Come along then, dear. Have your tea, then you can either go up to the nursery and play or come in the kitchen with me and help me make a pie, whichever you like.’
‘Oh, I’d like to help you make a pie, Mammy. Rosie let me make currant men. Why has she gone, Mammy? I liked Rosie.’
‘I liked her, too. But people are free to do what they like with their lives.’
What a silly thing to say: people are free to do what they like with their lives. As she watched her daughter run before her down the stairs, she thought, as long as he lives or until she escapes she’ll never be free to do what she likes.
‘You’ve put her up to this. Well, don’t think you’ve won, because she’ll have another bath. By God, she will! She’s my daughter and I’ll do what I like with her.’
‘By God, you won’t! If you want to expose yourself to someone, then do it to one of your fancy women; you’ll do it no longer to my daughter, my daughter. Do you hear?’
‘You’ve got a filthy mind, that’s what’s the matter with you. You’re frustrated. You’re so frustrated you’re using your imagination to satisfy yourself. You’re making something nasty out of an ordinary natural event.’
‘Natural event! How many men do you know who insist on their daughters being in the bath with them? When you’re next at your Table meeting, ask around: “Do you bath with your daughter, Tom, Dick, or Harry?”’
‘If they’re sensible they do and their daughters will know what it’s all about and won’t throw themselves at the first lad who looks at them. Yes, throw themselves, begging for it like you did. Now get out of my way! I’m going upstairs and I’m stripping her and taking her into the bath with me.’
‘Yes, you do that and I’ll go and get Great-Gran to come and witness her golden boy stark naked in the bath with his daughter sitting on his lap.’
The House of Women Page 16