‘Even so—’ Kitty began, stubbornly.
A long finger poked beneath an improbably boned bodice and scratched unselfconsciously. ‘Tell you what—’
‘Yes?’
‘The Cups – the big place up the road – they’re lookin’ fer someone. Leastways they were last I ’eard. They bin short ’anded ever since Betty Green an’ ’er sister were took with the fever a coupla weeks ago. Bin downright terrible this year, it ’as,’ she added, chattily, ‘smallpox – scarlet fever – measles – people bin dyin’ like flies this summer. Like – flies—’ she added, relishing the words. ‘Can’t ever remember such a year! Why just last week—’
‘Please’ – in desperation Kitty stemmed the flow of words – ‘this – “Cups” – where did you say it was?’
‘Oh, just a way up the ’Igh Street. On the right. It’s the biggest place in town, you can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
‘Don’t mention it, love.’ A good-natured wink and the girl was gone.
The Cups was a large, prosperous-looking hotel standing towards the top of the High Street. By the time Kitty had reached it and plucked up the courage to push open the door the driving rain that had been threatening all day had at last begun. The place was clean, and comfortable-looking, with some small pretensions to grandeur. Brass fittings gleamed, wood shone with polish, and there was an air of much activity as maids dressed neatly in black and white scurried back and forth across the entrance hall. One glanced at her, eyebrows raised in supercilious question. Kitty stepped forward. ‘Er – excuse me—?’ The girl did not pause, but disappeared with a swish of her long black skirt into a room from which came the sound of a raised, impatient voice. Uncertainly, but determined, Kitty lifted her chin and followed.
She found herself in a large room in which chairs were being ranged in ranked rows before a low stage onto which a group of green-aproned men were trying to manoeuvre an enormous grand piano, supervised by a woman whose voice in her anxiety much resembled the squawking of an exasperated chicken.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake be careful! – It’s a musical instrument, not a sack of potatoes! And – Tom – I told you – the chairs in a semi-circle, so – not in straight lines. This isn’t the parade ground and we aren’t entertaining the Brigade of Guards. Yes?’
The abrupt, irritable word took Kitty by surprise. ‘I – was looking for the landlord.’
The woman – small, plump, with an ill-tempered mouth – barely looked at her. ‘My husband’s away. As I know to my cost. He’ll be back in—’ She stopped, turned with a quick, nervously bird-like movement, eyeing Kitty suspiciously. ‘What might you want with him?’
‘I – I heard that there might be – that I might find employment here?’
The woman looked at her with a little more interest, brow furrowed. ‘Well – we’re looking for staff, yes. And it happens that we’re hard-pressed at the moment. But I don’t know—’
‘Please. I’m new to the town, and I’ve no money—’
‘References?’
Kitty stared at her, heart sinking. ‘N-no.’
The men moving the piano were waiting, leaning on the instrument, watching her, openly listening. She flushed. ‘Please,’ she said again, softly, ‘I’m a good worker, I promise you.’
‘Well you talk pretty enough, that’s for sure. Where you from?’
‘A village – near Lowestoft. I was – a lady’s maid. But – her father died and – she was left penniless – there wasn’t enough money to keep the staff. We had to leave—’ She cursed herself for not having thought of this, for not having a story ready. But the exigency of the moment oiled her tongue. ‘My references – I lost them. On the journey. My bag was stolen.’ She stood, lips trembling, unfeigned tears welling in her eyes. She could not – would not! – allow herself to be turned out into the strange streets and bitter weather that waited beyond the door of The Cups. She heard a small murmur of sympathy from one of the men.
‘We-ell.’ The woman pursed her lips. ‘You look strong, I’ll say that for you. Lady’s maid, you say? We’ve nothing of that kind on offer—’
‘I don’t mind. I don’t care what I do—’
‘Kitchen maid’s what we need—’
Kitty waited with bated breath, not daring to speak.
‘All right then. I’ll give you a try. Go and wait in the kitchen. I’ll be along in a minute. But remember, mind—’
Kitty, turning to leave, stopped.
‘—one step wrong, my girl, and you’re out. Understood?’
‘Of course.’
‘Off with you then. I’ll be there later.’
From that moment to the time she crawled thankfully into the narrow bed that had been set up for her in the cold attics beside those of the two other kitchen maids Kitty did not sit down once. Even her supper she ate on her feet, ordered hither and thither by first one and then the other, by Mrs Barlow, her employer, by Mrs Simkins the cook, by ex-Sergeant-Major Polliter who ran the dining room of The Cups as if it had been his Officers’ Mess. After the meal had been served a recital took place, Miss Clara Saint regaling her enthralled audiences with songs so insipidly sweet – and so indifferently sung – that, tired as she was, Kitty found the sound, even from a distance, wore her nerves and her patience almost beyond endurance. When at last she was released from her labours and crawled into bed in the draughty attic the thin, anaemic tones of Miss Saint still rang in her ears, infuriatingly keeping at bay the rest she so desperately needed. Wind battered the ancient roof, sang in the chimneys, fluttered the curtains. Rain hurled itself in waves against the windows.
Where was Matt? Where was the brother she loved so dearly and had sworn so often to protect? In London by now, presumably, alone and vulnerable to God only knew what temptations; all too ready to learn the lessons that a city old in vice could teach.
Before the tears that gathered beneath her eyelids could fall, she slept at last, the sleep of the exhausted.
(ii)
She saw him – the brother she had given up all hopes of seeing again as surely as if he had been dead – just three days later. She could not, for a moment, believe her eyes. Sent on an errand by Mrs Simkins, she was standing at the counter of a butcher’s shop in the High Street waiting her turn when through the multi-paned glass of the window she saw a group of flashily dressed and noisily laughing young men~;~ and in the middle of them, laughing as loudly as any and dressed in as expensively bad taste, young Matt. It was a long moment before the paralysis of astonishment wore off – by the time she had fought her way to the shop doorway they were gone. But it had been Matt, of that there was absolutely no doubt. He had not, after all, gone to London. And if she had seen him once about the town she would surely see him again. She returned to The Cups more cheerful than she had been in days.
She could not for a moment pretend she was happy there. Her position was menial in the extreme – she scrubbed floors and cooking pans, peeled vegetables, washed up mountains of dirty dishes. She had no friend. She did not care. For the moment, she needed simply the security of a roof over her head and food in her belly. She laboured for the most part mindlessly, allowing the monotonous tasks to deaden thought, to exhaust her strong body until it wanted nothing but to eat and sleep and, above all, to obliterate any thought of the uncertain future. For the time being she lived from day to day, hardly thinking, hardly caring, and watching for Matt.
She saw him again one day in the market. He was with a lad a little older than himself, a boy with black hair, full red lips and eyes that never rested for a moment, flickering disturbingly from one object to another, from one face to another, never still. Kitty disliked him on sight. She and Matt stood awkwardly after the first stilted greetings.
‘You – decided against London, then?’ she asked at last.
He shrugged. ‘Colchester’s not so bad. There’s a fair bit going on.’
His companion snickered. Kitty ig
nored him. ‘I really thought you’d gone,’ she said, quietly.
He had the grace to flush, then laughed uncomfortably, lifting a shoulder. ‘Changed me mind.’ She noticed that her brother, chameleon that he was, was already taking on the flatter accents of Essex, though in his tone he still retained the sing-song of Suffolk.
‘I’m working at The Cups,’ she said.
‘Do you like it?’
‘No.’ Her voice was entirely devoid of expression.
‘Then – why not come and join us?’ Matt took her hand, suddenly eager. ‘We’re living out by the garrison—’
‘We?’
He hesitated, glanced at his companion. ‘Just – some mates I’ve met—’ he said guardedly. ‘It’s good fun, Kitty – we have some high old times, I can tell you—’
‘Oh?’
Her tone stopped him. He flushed again.
‘And how do you finance your – high old times?’ Her voice was low. ‘Your precious new mates wouldn’t be living on the money you – acquired – from Sir Percy, would they?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Kitty—!’
She shook her head.
‘Well then,’ he said, awkward again, but obviously intent against quarrelling, ‘I expect we’ll – see each other again?’
‘I expect so.’
She turned and left them with no farewell, blinking against the sting of the winter wind that burned her eyes.
The next time she saw him was the week before Christmas. She was in the market, buying vegetables.
Matt was in the market picking pockets.
She knew the moment she saw him. He and the boy she had seen him with before were working together – the boy bumping into people, apparently clumsily, Matt with his charming, boyish smile admonishing, apologizing, brushing his victim down – Kitty flinched, turned to flee, and almost fell over a small child who was wandering behind her, dirty thumb in mouth, too-long skirts trailing on the littered floor. The child, falling, set up a howl like a banshee.
‘Oh – I’m sorry! Poor little thing! I’m sorry—’ Kitty dropped to her knees, set the child, scarcely more than a toddling baby, upon her small, uncertain feet, brushing the dirt and sawdust from her skirt. ‘There, my poppet. Don’t cry.’
The wails redoubled. The child, none too clean despite the obvious quality of her clothes, looked to be about two years old. Kitty glanced about her. No adult nor any older child appeared to claim the howling waif.
‘Oh, come now!’ On impulse Kitty bent and swung the child into her arms. ‘It wasn’t that bad—’
As suddenly as if a tap had been turned the tears stopped. The child looked at her solemnly for a moment before a smile like sunshine after rain lit the small face.
Kitty bounced her in her arms. ‘There. That’s better. Now’ – she looked around again – ’whose little girl are you! There must be someone—’ She stopped.
By the entrance to the market building a disturbance had broken out. A man shouted angrily. There was movement in the bustling crowds. The child in Kitty’s arms seemed perfectly happy now. With damp fingers she clutched a handful of her rescuer’s hair, making unintelligible but contented-sounding noises.
‘Thief!’
Kitty winced.
‘Thief! Stop him—’
She stood on tiptoe, looking for Matt. There was no sign of him or of his companion. The commotion by the doorway died. She let out a slow breath of relief. She stood for long moments waiting, listening for the shouts that would tell of her brother’s apprehension. Nothing happened. The child stirred in faint protest at the tight grip of the arms that held her. With an effort Kitty relaxed. Matt, apparently, was safe for another day. Her immediate task was to discover the family of the urchin she held – she could not, in conscience, put her down and abandon her to her fate. She pushed her way aimlessly through the crowds, looking for someone who might be searching for the child.
‘Mama,’ the child said then, and a small, dimpled finger pointed.
Kitty glanced around. A woman stood by a fruit stall, haggling half-heartedly with the vendor over a sad-looking cabbage. She appeared to be surrounded by children. Twins of about eight years old played ‘tag’ about her, dancing from side to side, shrieking with noisy laughter, pulling her this way and that in their game, uncaring of her protests. Two smaller children squabbled equally noisily over a battered rag doll. Another was helping himself to an apple from the fruit stall.
‘Hepzibar! Zacharius! Do stop! You’re making me dizzy! You know my poor head—’
The two over-excited children showed no sign whatsoever of having heard her. She put a hand to her head. She was very small and slight, herself childlike, and her complexion was pale as washed linen. Her light blue eyes were set in a face that looked pinched and bruised with tiredness. The child with the apple squatted unconcernedly on the filthy floor and took an enormous bite from the fruit.
That’ll be another ha’penny,’ the stallholder said, phlegmatically.
‘Jeremiah! Come back here—!’ One of the smaller children had grabbed the almost dismembered rag doll, dodged away from his mother and dived into the crowd. ‘Jeremiah—!’
Kitty put out a long arm. To his astonishment Jeremiah found himself collared. With a bellow he tried to shake free. Kitty held on. Looking up he stopped struggling suddenly, regarding her with interest. ‘That’s our Becca.’
‘Is it indeed?’ The imp had a grin on him that the hardest heart could not have resisted. Kitty smiled back. ‘Well, we’d best take her back where she belongs, hadn’t we?’ She shifted her grip from his collar to his hand, pushed her way through the crowd to the distracted mother.
‘Rebecca!’ At the sight of the child that Kitty carried the woman looked aghast and then glanced round, almost as if expecting to see the double of the child still clinging to her skirts. ‘Rebecca,’ she said again, faintly.
‘I found her wandering over there—’ Kitty released Jeremiah’s hand and tried unsuccessfully to disengage the younger child’s arms from about her neck. Rebecca clung like a limpet, bottom lip mutinous. ‘Here’s Mama,’ Kitty said, gently. ‘Go to Mama, now.’
The small body burrowed fiercely into hers. Nonplussed, Kitty looked at the other woman, who held out her hand. ‘Come, Becca,’ she said, no great conviction in the tone.
‘No!’ Becca roared. ‘No-o!’
At that moment Zacharius, bored with the game he had been playing with his twin, gave her a fierce push that sent her sprawling on top of the child who had been contentedly munching his stolen apple. As if on cue pandemonium broke loose. The children screamed and fought. Their mother burst into helpless tears. Jeremiah made another bid for freedom. Becca, still in Kitty’s arms, clapped her hands and crowed with delight.
‘Enough!’ Kitty said.
She might have been talking to a bunch of brawling monkeys.
‘Enough!’ With Becca still clinging with both arms about her neck she waded into the fray, dragging the furious Hepzibar off her squealing brother, clipping Zacharius’ ear as she reached him and swinging Jeremiah off the ground as he dashed past her, depositing him in a safe corner where he was hemmed in by brothers, sisters and fruit boxes. ‘What a performance,’ she said, mildly.
The children stared at her. Their mother hiccoughed tearfully. Kitty turned to her, patting her shoulder a little awkwardly. ‘It’s all right. They’ve stopped.’
The woman let out a little, exhausted wail.
‘You won’t stop her now,’ Zacharius said; the voice of experience.
Kitty ignored him. The crown of the little woman’s head barely reached her chin. Sobbing, the woman leaned to the younger girl and Kitty found herself comforting her as she might a distressed child. ‘It’s all right – truly it is—’
The woman was crying tiredly, would not or could not lift her head. Curious eyes were turned their way. Kitty decided that enough was enough. ‘Do stop it,’ she said, her voice tart, ‘please. You really must.’<
br />
The sharpness of her tone worked where sympathy had not. The woman lifted her pinched, tear-streaked face. Kitty busied herself with the buttons of Becca’s coat, which were all buttoned to the wrong holes.
‘I can’t control them,’ the woman said, unhappily. ‘I can’t. They’ll be the death of me—’
‘Well, wife? And what’s this?’
The woman, small as she was, seemed to shrivel before Kitty’s eyes. The man who stood before them, big as a barn, dark as a raincloud, waited, unsmiling.
‘The children, Mr Isherwood—’ she whispered, her voice all but lost in the hubbub about them, ‘they misbehave – I cannot control them—’
The man frowned at the suddenly-sobered children. Becca buried her face in Kitty’s neck. Jeremiah too moved closer to her and surreptitiously slipped his small hand into hers. Piercing blue eyes in a florid, weather-beaten face surveyed Kitty sternly. ‘Have we met?’
His wife waved apologetic, ineffective hands.
‘No,’ Kitty said, unsmiling in the face of the man’s own severity. ‘My name is Kitty Daniels.’
‘She – found Becca wandering—’ the other woman stammered, ‘—and stopped Jeremiah—’ She trailed to silence.
‘Then I thank ye, Kitty Daniels,’ the man said, heavily. ‘The children are a handful sometimes. Mrs Isherwood finds it difficult. I thank you,’ he said again.
‘It’s no trouble.’ Kitty gently tucked Jeremiah’s hand into his mother’s, determinedly unclasped the baby’s arms from about her own neck.
‘Seems she’s taken to you,’ the man said.
Kitty smiled. ‘Yes.’ Gently she shook herself free of the child’s grasping fingers, handed her to her mother. Becca’s small arms reached and the wilful tears started again.
‘I must go,’ Kitty said, softly, to the mother, who looked herself as if she might cry at the abandonment. ‘I work at The Cups. Cook will be waiting.’
The woman nodded, smiled a weak, pathetic smile.
‘’Bye, Jeremiah.’ Kitty ruffled his hair, threw a swift smile at the other children and left.
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