He drew out his cigarette case, took one. Lit it and stared at her through the smoke. ‘Forbes laughed at me in Froggett’s yard, he called me a daft beggar, so let’s not talk about it any more. Come and sit down.’
She joined him, looking tired. ‘You can’t let that make you behave badly. I expect he regrets it if he even remembers.’
Auberon drew on his cigarette again and said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘How are your women getting on?’
Veronica sighed, her lips pursed as they were when she was angry, but her feelings weren’t his problem. She said, ‘The Pankhursts are supporting Asquith’s proposed Conciliation Bill which offers votes to married women of property and wealth only. They call it a foot in the door, I call it wrong, really wrong. We need all ranks to have the vote. Meanwhile I have the damnable “coming out” conversation morning, noon and night while our stepmother is here.’
She leaned forward, staring at the Indian rug. ‘Nothing stays still, does it? There’s so much division, so much wealth, so much poverty. Sometimes I wonder if there’s going to be a revolution. I’d revolt, wouldn’t you, if I was them?’ She pointed in the direction of Auld Maud.
‘But we’re not.’ What more could he say?
Chapter Thirteen
TWO YEARS HAD passed and still Evie’s menfolk were in their abnormal placements, still the cavil was suspended and still she was here, serving tea to the nobs in the kitchen. It was March 1912 and the strikes which seemed to hit every area of the British workforce during 1911 had spread to the mines. A national strike had been called to force owners and government to agree on a sensible minimum wage within the Coal Miners Bill.
Evie eased her back and wished Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica would hurry with their tea and go.
They’d avoided the kitchen like the plague during the extraordinary heat of the long summer last year. Mr Harvey said that according to the Daily Sketch it was going to go down in the record books as the hottest summer ever. Well, they should have brought those record books into the kitchen and she would have shown them what heat really was.
She sat at the far end of the kitchen table cutting up vegetables for the upstairs dinner, double-checking the menu while the Bramptons chatted away in French. Mr Auberon said to Lady Veronica, ‘We’ll win this strike if our stocks last, but it’s a big if. A national strike’s such a different kettle of fish. I’m scared, Father is, all the owners are. Ships are stranded in port for lack of fuel, even the Titanic is going to have to go slow on its maiden voyage or not at all, if it’s not over soon.’
‘I know all about this, Aub,’ Lady Veronica sighed, but he clearly wasn’t listening, just tapping the table and then dragging his hand through his hair. Lady Veronica was pushing her pink iced fancy around her plate.
Mr Auberon shook his head. ‘I’m going to have a hell of a job when this one’s over, trying to keep the committee in work. I should have returned the cavil a year ago but there was so much else to think of. At least then I could just take it away again. What the hell do the miners want, blood?’
Evie had to bite hard on her lip not to shout that what they wanted was a minimum wage of 5s a day for men and 2s a day for boys, but Lady Veronica pushed her plate away, saying in a harsh whisper exactly Evie’s words.
Mr Auberon replied, ‘Of course I know that, I wasn’t asking for facts. They won’t get those rates, Asquith’s told them, but they will get something and they will have shown us their combined muscle. I think what they want is for the government to decide the guaranteed wage, but they’ll have to accept that the actual amount is to be decided by arbitration between the owners and the union executive, district by district. I damn well wish it could be a government decision, because can you imagine the rows when it comes to arbitration here?’ He dragged his hand through his hair again.
The furnace needed replenishing, but how could Evie do that with them still blathering?
‘Ver, now that the Germans and French are interfering in Agadir the country’ll need even more ships to cope with the naval race, so let’s hope Father gets busy with that and stays out of my hair, then there’ll be some hope for the men.’ His laugh was high-pitched. ‘At the moment all he can think of is that we’re feeding the Galloways, who’ve been taken out of the pit for the second time in two years to gallop in the fields. The pumps are running but we’re not producing coal. It’s money that can’t be recovered.’
Lady Veronica held up her hand. ‘For goodness sake, Aub, his steelworks is thriving, the price of coal is high and he’s selling off the stocks, bricks are piling out of the Brampton brickworks. It’s a nonsense. He can pay a decent rate. He should.’
Mr Auberon seemed to deflate suddenly. ‘Of course he should, but he won’t, none of the owners will. The only thing is to bring the mines under the ownership of the government and then the men might stand a chance. Sorry, heresy, I know, but I’m just letting off steam, I’m feeling bruised with Father on my back all the time.’
Lady Veronica looked anxious. ‘Has he . . .?’
Mr Auberon shook his head. ‘No, I just meant it as a figure of speech. Whatever happens, I need to keep the committee in work or the heart will go out of the men and we’ll never get it back.’ He put his hand up. ‘Yes, I know I’m repeating myself.’
He was speaking quickly and fiercely but Evie understood every word, and for that she was grateful to the Bramptons, but only for that.
Veronica started to speak again. ‘It’s a bad business, Aub. No matter how busy you’ve been, the cavil should have been remembered, it’s a poor excuse, and as for the Forbes family . . . Have you yet moved the youngest boy, at least?’
Auberon shook his head. ‘Not yet. I know, I’m a bloody fool. I just let personal . . . Oh well, never mind.’
Evie continued scraping the carrots that Simon had dug out from the barrel of sawdust in which they were stored. He had wanted a kiss for every one, and she had been happy to oblige. She hoped . . . Well, what did she hope? She hoped for marriage, but she hoped also for independence. She hoped the strike would end, she hoped the workers’ demands would be met. Most of all she hoped for safe placements for her family. She hoped she could hate Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica, but he didn’t want to dismiss the committee, and at the Suffragette meetings she spoke out for universal suffrage, which was now the internal bone of contention. Yes, she should loathe them, but somehow . . .
She slipped the carrot into the pan and picked up another, shaking herself free of the confusion. Part of her task here was to report on the Bramptons, so Evie had told Jack last Wednesday that Bastard Brampton had scorched off to London for an appointment with Asquith and tomorrow, Sunday, she would tell him that Auberon didn’t want to dismiss the committee. He’d say words were cheap. He’d say as usual that it was his fault that the family were still in the bad placements and question himself again about the ‘daft beggar’ business, which he still couldn’t understand. He’d end up cursing all Bramptons to the ends of the earth, as he had done last Wednesday when they’d been checking the rabbit snares on the Stunted Tree.
She placed the carrot in the pan – so many, for just Mr Auberon, Lady Veronica and the chaperone, Mrs Benson. Five courses had been ordered for lunch and dinner every day since the strike began. ‘What a waste,’ Mrs Moore had said, on the first day.
By the second they had looked at one another and nodded. ‘No, it’s not a waste at all,’ Mrs Moore had said.
The meals came down almost untouched, leaving a huge table of leftovers, far too much for the servants’ meals the next day, but more than enough to take to the bothy to be collected by one of the strike committee for distribution. ‘Lady Veronica has been taught well by Miss Wainton after all,’ Mrs Moore had said. Evie felt that Mr Auberon must have known, too.
Yes, she wanted to hate them, but . . .
Behind her the range was rumbling, reminding her again that it needed feeding. The clock on the wall was ticking, time was getting on. Mr Auberon had r
everted to English and was discussing the continuing naval race between England and Germany and the problem of Home Rule in Ireland. His hands had become a man’s and were tanned and hard against his white cuffs. As she glanced towards him he dragged at his hair again. He’d not have any locks left at this rate. He caught her glance and smiled. She nodded as a good servant should, with eyes lowered. His were as blue as the sky had been this morning. He spoke. ‘Perhaps we are holding you up, Evie?’
She shook her head. ‘No, we have time.’
He no longer looked through her any more. He would ask after her well-being, he would talk of the lateness of the spring, or the harshness of the winter. He would discuss her love of cooking, but only when Lady Veronica was absent. When she had been recovering from a recent chill he had brought her local honey. ‘It has healing properties,’ he had said. ‘It’s something to do with the pollen.’ He had placed it in her hand. Their fingers had touched, and he hadn’t flinched from contact with a servant.
The dachshunds were with them today, yelping in their sleep. They often came into the kitchen from the yard and Mrs Moore tutted, then fed them treats, after which they curled up on Evie’s mam’s proggy mat in front of the range. Things had changed over the last two years, but stayed the same as well. It was confusing. She looked at the carrots in the pan, remembering her family’s abnormal placements.
She pushed the pan away, along with the thoughts.
Perhaps the country was like this, not knowing how it felt. The workers had their own Labour Party now, and the Liberals were still in power in spite of another election. The People’s Budget had been passed through the Lords and legislation was in place to prevent them blocking a financial bill ever again. Women were rebelling. Revolution had been so close throughout last year’s long hot summer of strikes, and was it coming again with the miners’ strike? Jack spoke of it often. There was and had been so much violence. Roger in the garden store, the Lea End lot, the men who raged at the women’s meetings, the police and strikers in Wales . . .
She picked up the knife and the last carrot, scraped it, then lobbed it in the pan. She wiped her hands on the damp dishcloth and began on the potato chips, cutting them so fine as to be translucent, dropping them into a pan of slightly salted water. They’d go well with the guinea fowl. Cooking was grand, it was calm, it made her happy.
Lady Veronica’s voice cut through her concentration. ‘These cakes are quite delicious, Evie. Would you convey our thanks to Mrs Green? Every day she produces a miracle.’ Evie smiled. ‘Yes, of course, Your Ladyship.’
Mr Auberon asked, ‘And Mrs Moore, she is quite well? I miss her, please tell her that.’
Evie grew more alert. ‘Yes, I will, Mr Auberon, but she needs her rest period, just as Mrs Green and Mr Harvey do, not to mention the other servants.’
She watched them exchange an uncertain look. He flushed and said, ‘Yes, of course and I’m glad she is being sensible, but perhaps we’re being unduly inconvenient by joining you down here. I’m so sorry, it’s just that we enjoy it very much but then you don’t have your rest?’
In spite of herself Evie felt sorry that she had spoken the words she had longed to say for so long. She shook her head. ‘I don’t need a rest. This is your house, and everyone needs a place where they can feel comfortable.’
She had wanted to say, yes, I reckon I do need a rest, we all do, a proper rest, you silly beggars, but for some reason she wanted to see the uncertainty gone from their faces. She looked across at the servants’ hall, where the servants were sitting on benches around the table or a lucky few lounging on the old settee from which horsehair bulged. No one was looking into the kitchen, of course. ‘They never came, they never stayed, they were never here,’ Mr Harvey said at the start of every year.
What must it be like to be uncomfortable in your own home, to come down into the servants’ kitchen for privacy, ease and comfort? Privacy? Evie stirred with guilt. She continued to slice the potatoes. But then she looked once more at the servants’ hall, for there was someone missing, surely? She scanned the girls. Yes, Millie. Now she searched for Roger, who had been returned to Mr Auberon in January. She relaxed, he was there, reading the Sketch. Lil and Millie had become as thick as thieves over the last two years, but recently Lil had cast her friend aside after being elevated to Lady Veronica’s lady’s maid. Within two ticks there was Roger, comforting Millie, looking over her head at Evie, challenging her.
Now he was like a bad smell, lingering where the girl was, causing Mrs Moore to sit Silly Millie, as some called her, down yet again with Sarah and Annie to give them the same old malarky. They had all agreed that to be foolish was a bad mistake, but Evie wasn’t convinced that Millie meant what she said. The girl was becoming more lazy, cocky and resentful by the day. It would be good to dismiss her, but with a reasonable character so she could find something else away from Roger, but Mrs Moore didn’t like to give up on someone. ‘Besides, we’d drown in tears day after day until she went.’
Evie looked up at the scrape of a chair on the flagstones. Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica were preparing to leave. Evie stood, as any good servant should. Mr Auberon held the door for Lady Veronica, who paused, looking back as though to speak, but then she half shook her head. ‘Thank you, Evie.’
Mr Auberon waited a moment, then smiled and said quietly, ‘Yes, thank you. The cakes were exceptional again, Evie. You are an accomplished cook. We won’t be taking tea down here tomorrow, we have a visitor, so you will be relieved of our company.’
They left and seemed to have taken the air with them. He knew about the cakes. What if Mrs Green heard? How did he know? The kitchen clock chimed, and it was time to prepare tea for the upper servants. She called for Millie; there was no answer. She went to the back stairs. ‘Millie, I need you to take tea trays to the upper servants.’ No answer. Where was the girl? She ran up the steps to the yard and there she was, smoking a Woodbine in the shelter of the garage. Evie beckoned to her. ‘Come along, time’s ticking away and you know Len won’t allow smoking near the cars.’
Millie drew long and hard; the cigarette glowed. She threw it to the ground and stubbed it out under her boot. She started to leave and Evie shouted, ‘Don’t leave the stubs. For goodness sake, how often must you be told?’
Millie shrugged and pulled her shawl tighter around her, and only then did she pick up the stub. ‘Wash your hands before you take their trays,’ Evie instructed. She scooted back down the stairs and took Mrs Moore’s tea to her rooms, knocking. ‘Come in, lass.’
Mrs Moore’s cheeks were flushed and there was a gin bottle stuck down the side of her armchair. Her feet, ankles and knees were now so swollen that on some days she could barely walk. The pain must have been intense. Evie placed her tea on the occasional table and Mrs Moore said, her eyes rheumy, ‘Sit down, Evie. We’ve a few moments before the chaos begins.’
Evie sat opposite her. There was a fire in the grate but why not, when the master was the owner of a couple of collieries? She stared at the fire. It was Easter soon. Would the miners return to work? She felt absolutely drained with it all.
Mrs Moore sipped her tea. ‘I can’t go on, young Evie. It’s my hands and my feet. What’s to become of me?’ She was rubbing one hand gently on the other, as though she was washing them.
Evie shook herself upright, reaching across and gently holding the cook’s hands. ‘You can go on. I’ve said again and again that I am happy to go on cooking, with you helping when you can. You simply cannot leave me alone with Millie.’
They both laughed. Evie continued, ‘It’s worked well and will continue doing so. You are my teacher, I need you, we all need you.’
Mrs Moore shook her head. ‘Mrs Green will notice one day, or Mr Harvey. They will be duty bound to report it to her Ladyship, who will be only too eager to replace me with you. It will be so much cheaper. What is to become of me when that happens?’ Her voice was breaking.
Evie was on her knees now, stroking Mrs Moore
’s hands. ‘No, they won’t notice, why should they? And you know your rheumatics come and go. Soon you will have improved again. Summer will be here before we know it.’
Mrs Moore interrupted. ‘It’s not fair. You are working while I’m getting the pay and you won’t let me share. I can’t return to Miss Grace, she has Sally now. It will be the workhouse.’ Her voice broke completely.
Evie stood up and went to her. Millie knocked. ‘Evie, time’s getting on.’
‘Start the soup, please, Millie. White soup, the recipe’s in my book.’
‘But I’m not sure I can do it.’
Evie whispered, ‘One day I will put her in the stockpot and be done with it.’ Mrs Moore’s laugh was tearful. Evie raised her voice. ‘We’re discussing the engagement party for Lady Veronica. Just read the recipe and we’ll be out shortly.’
To Mrs Moore she said, ‘You see, you can’t be so cruel as to leave me with her. You’re still training me, I need you so much. Soon we’ll have the hotel. We are all saving, my family and I, and though the strike will take some of the money we’ll get there soon. I said 1914, but if it’s 1915 it won’t be the end of the world, and then everything will calm down, it’s all become so tumultuous somehow. Either way, you’ll be with us, so no more nonsense, if you please.’ She shook her slightly. ‘Come on, we have work to do.’
Mrs Moore said, looking up at Evie, curiosity lightening her eyes, ‘Did Lady Veronica mention the Rt Hon. Captain Williams or the wedding at tea? Not quite the blushing bride, is she?’ She tried to ease herself up from the chair and Evie helped, shaking her head. ‘Nothing was said at all. I expect they’ll marry in London, but I wonder if we’ll be making the cake? We’ll have to put cold compresses on your hands if we do, because you’re the only one with the skill to decorate it. I’ll be watching carefully, mind. It’s something I need to learn.’
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