National Trust

by Philip Ardagh

  59 This may sound harsh, but many people treated their servants very badly indeed. With such a large workforce and people desperate for work, it was easy to fire and hire them. Health and safety wasn’t an issue, and they were often barely seen as people, just a workforce there for the comfort of the rich family.

  60 A guttersnipe was a street urchin who’d do odd jobs for anyone who paid him a penny. It might be to deliver a message, collect a parcel or even hold onto a horse.

  61 Sherlock Holmes was a detective created by the author Arthur Conan Doyle. He first appeared in Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1888 and, thereafter, in stories in The Strand Magazine. He was wildly popular and many people thought he was a real person, even writing him letters. Even people who couldn’t read knew about him because he was such a talked about character.

  62 The gardeners in a large Victorian estate would have had an incredible number of duties. As well as providing flowers for an impressive display in the garden themselves, they’d have to grow plenty for indoor displays in vases, table centrepieces, and more. There would also be the vegetable garden providing much, if not all, of the vegetables for the house. On top of this, there might well be fruit orchards, and formal gardens with endless hedges to be clipped, and vast lawns requiring tending and mowing. A head gardener would have a whole army of gardeners, assistant gardeners, and under-gardeners working for him.

  63 Scotland Yard was the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police in London until 1890, when it moved to New Scotland Yard.

  64 The poem was The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1834). In it, a sailor kills an albatross which brings him bad luck.

  65 Written in 1854 by Alfred, Lord Tennyson who was Poet Laureate – official poet to the Queen – it commemorated the charge of British Light Cavalry against Russian forces at the Battle of Balaclava in the same year. Many assume most, if not all, of ‘the six hundred’ died. In fact, only 118 were killed.

  One good piece of news today. It seems that Mrs Kirby-Trott has a soft spot for Jack. He’s been allowed three days’ rest and now put on below-stairs duties, like polishing the cutlery, sharpening knives, and stuff which he can do mostly sitting down while his leg mends. We all tease him about him ‘having it easy’ and ‘putting his feet up’ but I know we’re all thinking, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I’. He’s not being paid – they’ve had to get in a temporary footman to replace him – but he does have a roof over his head and food in his belly and, if all goes well, a job to go back to at the end of it. Mr Pritchard has said that the master is being more than generous and who am I to disagree? I remember when my neighbour Ethel Jones got a job as a scullery maid, but lost it when she got the flu. She couldn’t work, was replaced the same day and that was it.

  Although the talk is still about the missing necklace, and poor Nelly can’t go anywhere without the other servants giving her that look and whispering behind her back, life goes on.

  Lytton House don’t run itself and we still have our duties to perform. I reckon rich people must think a fire lights and cleans itself. Who do you think cleans out all the soot and ash without getting it on the carpet? Who do you think blackens the surround and polishes the brass? Who do you think lugs the coal up from the cellar in a coal scuttle? And who do you think lights it aflame? The same person what has to clean out the massive drawing room fire, and fill it with kindling and logs and control the dampers to get just the right amount of flame to get it burning and keep it burning not too fast and not too slow. House elves? Little people? No. Me and the likes of me, that’s who. And that’s just one of my duties. There’s all the dusting, sweeping, carpet beating… and when I were emptying a vase the other day, I found three china doggies inside it, and had to find their rightful places to return them to! I’m up at five in the morning and in bed at ten at night. And most of that time the master and mistress never even see us. We’re invisible. But not this morning.

  “Girl!” says a voice, just as I’ve finished making up the fire. It’s a voice I’ve heard in the distance, muffled through walls, on many an occasion. But never this close, and now it’s summoning me.

  “Yes, sir?” I says, doing a curtsey to Mr Kirby-Trott.

  Am I supposed to look him directly in the eye or down at the ground?

  Why can’t I remember?

  Why?

  My head’s in all of a spin.

  He’s the master. I look at him. He is most handsomely dressed and his hair is all neat and he has a fine moustache. And he smells fresh and clean.

  “What’s your name?” he says.

  “Jane Pinny, sir,” I says.

  “Well, Jane Pinny,” he says. “Do you know Nelly Skittles, the chambermaid?”

  “Course I does –” I begins to say, then I quickly correct meself. “I mean, yes, sir.”

  “And is she an honest girl?” says the master. He’s really studying me as we talk. He’s looking me over and taking me all in. Like HE’S a detective too.

  “I’ve only been here a couple of months, sir,” I says, “and Nelly was one of the friendliest from the start. And a really hard worker too. She’d never –” I stops meself again.

  The words

  spring to mind.

  “Go on,” says Mr Kirby-Trott. “What were you going to say?”

  “I’m not sure it’s me place to say, sir,” I say, looking down at me feet.

  “It is not only your place but your duty, if I tell you to,” he says. His voice is sort of velvety. His words sound like they’re spoken like words are supposed to be spoke.

  “I was goin’ to say that Nelly would never steal nothing, let alone a valuable necklace, sir.”

  “Does she have family?” he asked.

  I weren’t sure how to answer that. If I said “yes”, would he think it all right to fire her ’cause she’d have a home to go to? But if I said “no” would he think it all right to fire her because there’d be no family to disgrace? And why did I get the feeling that he cared either way? Because of his questions, I suppose. Because he could simply fire the lot of us if he wanted.

  “She ’as a mother and one livin’ brother, sir,” I says. “The others died in the mills.66 She sends her mother her wages.”

  “Thank you, Jane Pinny,” said Mr Kirby-Trott. “Tell no one of this little conversation.”

  I curtseyed again. “No, sir,” I says. “I mean yes, sir.” I says.

  And I have told no one. Except you, Plump. And you, dear diary. And you’re both family.

  The only other break from a normal day was when Master William came chargin’ through the dining room when I were polishing the table. I heard a giggle first, then he came pounding through the room, dressed like a miniature version of a little gentleman with the happiest grin on his face and shiny black shoes on his feet. He stopped dead, he did, when he saw me, like he weren’t expecting to see no one. Then, with a real serious expression on his tiny face, he sucks his finger, points it at me and says, “Lady!”

  That were the only time in me life I’ve been called a lady! And it was by a little gentleman too! I found meself smiling. I was wondering whether to tell him that I ain’t no lady, when Nanny Brown comes running in, panting. Master William giggles again and is out of the room like shot from a cannon.

  It were most comical and I found me smile getting even bigger as I turned me attention back to buffing that table to a shine.

  66 Cotton mills were noisy, dangerous places with machine looms. Many children worked in them, because they were small enough to crawl under the looms to repair broken threads. In 1833, 1844 and 1847, Factory Acts were passed creating laws about the age at which children could be employed and how many hours they could work in a day. These were often ignored by the rich mill owners. Children cost less to pay than adults.

  The photograph arrived today. Mr Wimpole brought it into the servants’ hall for us all to see. It is behind glass in a fine frame. It is incredible. There we all are, captured as if by
magic, in brown and white. Because there’s plenty of us and the camera can only capture a moment, not each and every one of us has our eyes open or is making a proper face, even though none of us was playing the fool. I look different to me reflection in the glass ’cause I’m the right way round for once. But I could tell it were me and I’m pleased with how downright smart I looks in me uniform.

  Mary looks nice too, but she kept moaning something about her cap being askew. Long Johns kept telling her that she looked “most handsome” in the photograph and “true to life.” A lotta smiles passed between them.

  There was much wonderment and pointing and laughing as everyone crowded round. And we were all in agreement that Mr Pritchard looked most fine in his seat in the middle of the front row, one hand on his lapel, his eyebrows on their best behaviour.

  Mrs McNamara provided Mr Wimpole with a cloth to wipe the glass free of fingerprints before taking it up to the master. It was good of him to let us have a look-see.

  There was a moment of what I heard Mrs McNamara call ‘high drama’ when Mr Wimpole nearly dropped the thing – glass, frame and all – as he carried it up the servants’ stairs to the main house. Luckily, he managed to catch it just in time. After poor Jack’s fall, I’m beginning to think them stairs is jinxed!

  Me. In a photograph forever. There for all the world to see.

  The only other bit of excitement is that tomorrow the chimney sweeps are coming. That’ll make a change from the ordinary.

  When I were working for Mrs Berry and running an errand, I often used to see our local chimney sweep with his rods and brushes on his shoulder, plying his trade with a cry of “Sweep!”, and anyone what wanted his services would come out of their houses and call him in.67 But, in a grand place like Lytton House, the sweep comes calling by appointment. And they’re the smartest sweeps I’ve ever laid eyes on. ’Course it weren’t that long ago that boys were sent up the bigger chimneys, but now most sweeps are men. They made a law against using boys, and quite right too. Grandpa used to tell us kids a gruesome tale of a boy getting wedged in a chimney and being roasted alive. They don’t let boys work down the mines now neither. It may mean fewer jobs, but them poor lads often worked in near darkness, heaving carts of coal a donkey would think twice about pushing or pulling.

  ’Course, many country folk and poorer folk don’t use sweeps. Me Auntie May pulls an old holly bush through the chimney to clear it herself. And her boy, me cousin Jon, once sent a chicken down the chimney, so its flapping wings would clear the soot as it fell. And, cruel as it sounds, that ain’t as uncommon as you might think.

  Mrs McNamara let me watch the sweeps at work in the drawing-room because it has the biggest, grandest fireplace with the biggest, grandest chimney in the whole house. And because it’s one of my responsibilities to prepare the fires and keep it clean. Mrs McNamara came too – what with that rule about us maids not fraternizing with the opposite sex – and we stayed way back AND I had to make up any lost time working later, but it was interesting to watch.

  Nanny Brown came through once, carrying a kicking and screaming Master William in her arms. Turns out that HE wanted to watch the chimney sweeps at work too, but Mrs Kirby-Trott had left strict instructions that he weren’t too, ’cause it’s dirty work. I felt sorry for him. Being rich ain’t everything, you know.

  Mrs McNamara says that not every fireplace has its own chimney. A lot of the fireplaces, on different floors, feed into the one chimney, their smoke going up ‘flues’ – sort of passageways – connected to it. But this is how they cleared MY one:

  My counting ain’t the best at the best of times, but I reckon even Mrs McNamara must ’ave lost count how many rods they added to get all the way up. It’s a tall, tall chimney. (And Plump tells me that it’s one of his favourite perching places too, where he can see for miles with his beady pigeon eyes.)

  When one of the sweeps saw me watching, he gave a broad grin and winked. With his face covered in soot, his teeth looked whiter than me freshly-washed pinny and his eyes looked kind of wild. But I took it to be good luck. Some people pays good money to have a sweep at the church when they wed for the luck he’ll bring them.

  67 Victorian streets were packed with vendors. Butchers’ boys would call for orders then come back with the meat on trays. Girls would sell fresh watercress in big baskets. Potmen sold beer and ale. There was the muffin man. The man selling chestnuts. Flower sellers and cherry sellers in the right season. The cat-meat man would sell horsemeat for pets. Even the horse dung from passing horses would be shovelled up and sold as manure. And that’s just for starters!

  I were sitting in the servants’ hall, when one of the sweeps comes hurrying down the backstairs.

  “Where might I find your Mr Pritchard, missy?” he says.

  “My name ain’t missy, it’s Jane,” I says with a grin.

  “This is no time for pleasantries,” says he, and he holds out a cloth in his great big grubby hand. “Look what I’ve found.”

  And there, in the folds of the cloth, sits Mrs Kirby-Trott’s jade necklace! I ain’t never seen it before but there’s no doubting what it must be. The stones are green and carved and beautiful and that.

  I nearly squeal out loud, “The missing necklace!” but I stops meself in time, because that’s Lytton House business and nobody else’s.

  “This way, mister,” I says, hurrying down the corridor to Mr Pritchard’s office.

  “It’s not mister, it’s Alf,” says the sweep, just a few steps behind me. I could hear the grin in his voice.

  So the necklace is found but the mystery remains.

  “Who’d steal a necklace only to stick it up the fireplace?” says Mary when we’re talking later. “Don’t make sense.”

  “Maybe the thief planned to come back and collect it later?” I says.

  “Well, they’ve had plenty long enough to do that by now,” Marys says.

  “Anyways,” I says, “at least poor Nelly is in the clear. If she took it, she could have pocketed it there and then. No need for her to stuff it up the chimney.”

  “Or even if she did, she could ’ave taken it from its hiding place days ago.” Mary says. “So who DID put it there, I wonder? And why?”

  Mr Pritchard didn’t call another one of his meetings but, in the servants’ hall at supper, before he said grace, he did speak.

  “As I am sure each and every one of you knows by now, what with gossip spreading like wildfire, the mistress’s necklace has been discovered and returned to her. Though this is most excellent news, this does not mean the matter is at an end. It does not mean that the wrong which has been done has been magically undone. The thief may not have managed to smuggle the necklace from the house, or they may even have had a change of heart, seeing the error of their ways… but the fact remains that the theft still took place,” he says. He then bows his head and says, “Great God, Thou Giver of all good, accept our praise and bless our food. Grace, health, and strength to us afford. Through Jesus Christ, our blessed Lord.”

  And we all says, “Amen.” Then ate.

  Mary once told me that in some of the very grandest houses in the land, the butler, housekeeper, gentleman’s gentleman, lady’s maid and the like eat their meals in a separate room all of their own, and while the likes of me in the servants’ hall eat boiled meat and beer, they have a fine roast and drink wine! Sounds most unfair to me but Mary reckons it’s a great way of making us servants work hard and aim for promotion! I must admit, I wouldn’t mind the job of housekeeper one day.

  That night, up in the attic, a whole group of us maids ended up sitting on the beds next to Nelly’s and there was more whispering than in that picture in Mrs McNamara’s office.68

  “So your name’s been cleared now,” says Minnie.

  “You heard what Mr Pritchard said,” says Nelly. “The whole thing still hangs over me like a black cloud.”

  “They got their necklace back, didn’t they?” says Liz. “That should be an end to i
t. It’s probably worth more than I’ll ever earn in a lifetime –”

  “And then some,” I says.

  “Which is why we must all marry rich men!” says Mary.

  “I’d settle for a sailor!” says Minnie. “Or a handsome soldier!”69

  “What soldier would have you?” says Liz. And then Minnie hit her over the head with a pillow and there was much giggling.

  “Shhhhhh!” says Nelly.

  Soon all talk of the necklace was forgot, and we talked about menfolk!70

  It seems a lot of the girls have taken a fancy to first footman Long Johns – Mary in particular – but, between you and me, dear diary, I like the other footman, Jack.

  68 The Victorians were very fond of paintings and prints of idealised pictures of children and animals – often cute kittens or puppies. These would, for example, include girls whispering secrets to each other or to the pets. Nowadays, these are more commonly what we’d see as images on greetings cards than hung on our walls. They are seen by many as overly sentimental.

  69 There were strict rules about soldiers getting married. Many in the lower ranks had to have served for seven years with good conduct and £5 – a good sum of money – saved. He got extra rations for his family or, if he was away on duty, he was paid 4d a day for his wife and a penny for each child. His family would live in the barracks. If a soldier married without permission, his wife got nothing and could not live with him. She could suffer real hardship.