One Pair of Hands

by Monica Dickens

  ‘Pas devant la bonne, chérie.’

  I didn’t always slide tactfully out of the room when they said that. I wasn’t going to let on that I knew French, because they sometimes said entertaining things which they thought I didn’t understand.

  The party date was fixed and I was given piles of halfpenny stamped envelopes to post on my way home. It was going to be rather a crush, if everyone accepted, even with most of the furniture turned out of the double room.

  Looking through the names, I discovered to my horror that she had invited a couple I knew. Even if I warned them beforehand, they were a most indiscreet pair and would be sure to embarrass me horribly.

  I had to search through the letters on her desk every day when she wasn’t looking to see if they had accepted. I was greatly relieved when I discovered a letter saying that they were away and would be unable to come. I just got the letter back in time to be dusting busily as she came into the room. Pool discussions were postponed while I ordered a large supply of drink and various cocktail accessories from the ‘grosher’.

  I spent nearly all the day of the party making cheese straws, sausage rolls, sandwiches, and other oddments, and thought it a good excuse not to do any more housework than the bare essentials. Moustaches arrived at tea-time, and the pair of them came into the kitchen to make the cocktails. We were all very merry, and they had their tea sitting on the kitchen table, feeling as if they were doing a bit of slumming. I regaled them with imaginary anecdotes of other employers, and they did a lot of tasting the cocktails; by the time they had finished they were so mellow that they gave me one.

  They went off, giggling like a couple of schoolchildren. I think they thought I would get drunk on it.

  She went to get dressed, and I spread out the food and drink in tasteful array, while Major Nixon was out getting cigarettes. I didn’t much care for the idea of being alone in a room with him. I had a new apron for the occasion and a coy ribbon in the hair. The guests would probably be too taken up with the impression they were going to create to notice me when I opened the door, but still, one has one’s pride.

  The hostess, suitably enough, wore what is known as a ‘Hostess Gown’. A lovely clinging dress of cherry red which made her look almost frighteningly sophisticated. The host wore a red carnation and his most debonair manner. The porter of the flats was ‘obliging’ in a smart white coat. He was to hand the drinks, and I had to open the door, take coats and hats, offer the ladies the bedroom, and announce the names. This was quite a business as, after the first trickle of people, everybody seemed to arrive at once, and I went back and forth like a shuttle between the front door and the drawing-room. Some of the guests had the most extraordinary sounding names, or else I didn’t hear properly – people do mumble so, and you can’t very well ask them to repeat themselves more than once. I had a shot at them all, but some of them sounded even more extraordinary when announced by me in loud but refined accents.

  The party seemed to be going very well. Major Nixon helped the porter with handing the drinks and I must say the pair of them were very efficient. Everyone got all they wanted and more, and the noise rose to great height. Miss Faulkener did her stuff well, too, willowing from one person to another, introducing people, and having a word here and there with everyone. ‘My dear, how lovely to see you again. How are you? And John too?

  ‘I adore your hat, Alice – Paris? It looks like it – Basil, you simply must meet a most attractive girl I’ve asked specially for you.’ And so on, after the same manner of all cocktail parties. Once I looked in from the hall, and she was talking to someone rather abstractedly, and shooting irritable glances to where the moustache was being at its most fascinating in conversation with a glamorous redhead. When people started to go I got a bit muddled up with the coats and tried to palm off hats on them that were much too small, but they didn’t seem to mind, so it didn’t really matter. One woman was a bit annoyed because I had put her gloves in the wrong coat pocket, and someone else had gone off with them, but luckily her husband got tired of waiting while she made a fuss and hustled her off.

  At last even the hangers-on had been almost pushed out by the hostess, who was looking forward to the tête-à-tête celebration at a restaurant that she and Major Nixon had planned. He was rather loath to let the redhead go, but Miss Faulkener manoeuvred her safely away. When everybody had gone she vented a slight irritation on him by cursing him for keeping her waiting when she was ready to go, thanked the porter and me, and swept out with the moustache escorting her sulkily, several yards in the rear.

  The porter had a quick swig of some cocktail that was left and descended to his True Story Magazine on the chair by the main door. I rushed to the telephone as I had arranged with a friend of mine that I would ring her up as soon as everyone had gone and she would come and help me clear up the mess. She was waiting at a house quite near by, and didn’t take long to come round. Our hearts quailed before the amount of debris, so we decided to fortify ourselves first. Isobel went round the room collecting all the drink left in shakers and glasses while I made a choice selection of food, and we had a very good party all to ourselves in the kitchen. After a bit we felt in much too good form to apply ourselves to washing up, but it had to be done, so we turned on the wireless and accompanied our labours with song. We didn’t break much, but it’s a curious fact that good glass cracks at a touch, while cheap stuff can be hurled about with perfect safety. We were only about half finished, and luckily were singing a pianissimo phrase when I heard a key in the lock. There was no time to turn off the wireless, but I was just able to push Isobel out on to the back staircase before Miss Faulkener walked in with a face like thunder. ‘Not done yet?’ she said as I appeared from the kitchen wearing an expression of innocent inquiry.

  ‘I’m getting on, thank you, madam.’

  ‘Well, be as quick as you can, and turn off the wireless – I’ve got a splitting head.’ She banged into her bedroom before I could apologize about the wireless, so I switched it off and quietly let Isobel in again. She appeared still clutching a dishcloth and a plate, and we finished the work sketchily and could only speculate in whispers as to what they had quarrelled about.

  Moustaches would get hell for it tomorrow anyway, for she was a woman who could be quite charming when she chose, but perfectly intolerable when roused.

  Luckily for him, he did the right thing by sending a huge box of roses in the morning and arriving at half past six in a white tie with orchids and theatre tickets and a table booked at the Savoy.

  She had been to bed early the night before, so her liver was in good order, and she evidently forgave him, for she went and dressed, and they went off together most amicably.

  After this the days rolled on uneventfully for some time, marked only by such high spots as pay-day, and discovering how to make Welsh Rarebit. There were a few contretemps, of course, such as the day when I decided to clean the stove and took it all to bits and couldn’t put it together again. We had to have the gas man in before Miss Faulkener could have so much as a cup of tea. He also solved the mystery for me of why the ice in the refrigerator was always melting. He roared with uncouth laughter when he realized that I didn’t know that one had to keep the door shut.

  Apart from such slight matters as these kitchen life went smoothly, and so did life ‘above stairs’, but it was not to last.

  One evening Major Nixon arrived to fetch Miss Faulkener, distinctly the worse for alcohol. She was in her bedroom so she didn’t hear him greet me with ‘Hullo, Sweetheart!’ when I let him in. I ignored it and stalked away to go on with what I was doing. He came into the kitchen while I was mixing some dough at the table with my back to the door. A beery breath whistled over my shoulder as he implanted the merest suspicion of a kiss on the back of my neck. I thought it would be more dignified to pretend I hadn’t noticed, so I went on mixing.

  ‘Have we got any gin?’ he asked, going over to the cupboard. I indicated the bottle, and when he turned round w
ith it in his hand I saw that he was wearing the repulsive leer that some men keep for women of a lower order.

  ‘I didn’t really come here for gin, my dear,’ he said, advancing on me, and before I had time to take my hands out of the dough he clutched me to him in a very unrefined embrace.

  A voice of icy calm spoke from the doorway: ‘I am ready to go, John, whenever you are.’

  It was true to the best novelette standards. He released me hurriedly and trailed out after Miss Faulkener. Not a word was spoken, and I heard the front door bang as I went on with my mixing.

  I was scared stiff of meeting my mistress the next morning. She was awake and sitting up in bed when I took in her breakfast.

  She was courtesy itself as she explained to me that she was suddenly obliged to go away and would therefore no longer require my services.

  ‘I shall be going at once, so I will give you a week’s wages in lieu of notice and you can go today.’

  ‘Yes, madam, thank you,’ I whispered. I felt terribly crushed and guilty. I hadn’t expected quite such drastic retribution for something that was really not my fault. She went out early (to look for another maid I suppose), and, though I could see she was livid inside, she was well bred to the last, and we parted with a chilly but civilized handshake.

  It took me the best part of the day to clear up the flat, and leave things tidy, which I felt was the least I could do. I arrived home in the middle of a dinner party and had a great success with the story of my disgrace, which I exaggerated a bit so as not to make it too ignominious.

  Expulsion of any sort always seems to tickle the sense of humour. It had been just the same when I was thrown out of the Dramatic School, and before that when my school authorities told me that I could not attend any more if I persisted in my refusal to wear the school hat. Staying in bed the next morning was lovely, but, much to my surprise, I began to feel restive about lunch-time and itching for a bit of work. I had not yet had my fill of manual labour, so I trailed off again to the agency in my special job-hunting hat.

  I gave the agency a fundamentally true but prejudiced story of my dismissal, vindicating my honour completely, and the woman took it well. She thought it a pity that I had not got a reference, but was sure that she could fix me up again at once. It seemed that one need never be unemployed, as the demand for cook-generals greatly exceeded the supply. She gave me three numbers to ring up, and I went out very excited at the thought of starting on a new and possibly exciting phase of my career. One of the numbers was that of the London editor of an American paper. I dialled that first as I thought it might be fun to see a bit of life among the journalists.

  ‘American Post speaking – Mr Feldbaum’s secretary,’ said a brisk voice, American in its efficiency but Tooting in its accent.

  ‘I wish to inquire about the post as cook-general in Mr Feldbaum’s flat.’

  ‘What experience and qualifications have you, please?’

  Drawing largely on my imagination, I gave her the works, and she told me that I could go round to the office and see Mr Feldbaum at once.

  I had got myself a shillingsworth of pennies, so I thought I might as well ring up the other numbers while I was in the box. The next shot was a Miss Jones-Haweson of West Kensington.

  I said: ‘With reference to the post of cook-general –’ She said: ‘Thank you, I am already suited.’

  I said, ‘Oh,’ and we rang off.

  Short and to the point, but a waste of twopence. The third name that the agency had given me was Martin Parrish, Esq., of a Campden Hill address. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think in what connexion. A petulant voice answered the telephone, but he sounded quite hopeful, so I arranged to go and see him after I had been up to the city to see Mr Feldbaum.

  The London headquarters of the American Post seethed with activity, but they were not imposing. One enormous room, with as many desks as possible crammed in jigsaw fashion, comprised the whole outfit.

  The editor’s office was a minute square in one corner, divided from the commotion by two thin pieces of match-boarding which didn’t even reach to the ceiling. It was possibly due to the fact that one had to shout to be heard above the rattling typewriters that Mr Feldbaum’s conversation was monosyllabic. He was completely bald. He looked very surprised when I was shown in, and raised the place where his eyebrows should have been. I sat down on the edge of a hard, narrow chair, and we gazed at one another in silence for a bit.

  ‘Mm,’ he said at last, ‘very young.’

  ‘Oh, but this isn’t my first place, sir. Were you wanting someone a little older?’

  ‘Mm – much older woman – I’m a bachelor. People will talk.’

  It was my turn to look surprised. I thought I looked drab enough ‘in me Blacks’ to stop any gossip. I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat while he pondered over me, and the typewriters filled the silence between us with their clicking. Eventually he said:

  ‘What can you do?’ So I embarked on my usual recital of self-praise, but it didn’t seem to make much impression. He had already made up his mind. ‘So sorry,’ he said. ‘Pity.’ Though not eloquent, he was very polite and I was sorry too. However, I had another string to my bow, so took myself off quite jauntily. I had a little difficulty in finding Martin Parrish’s house. It was in one of those ex-slum streets that have been converted into dear little bijou residences with window-boxes and red front doors. I roamed round the neighbourhood of Notting Hill Gate for quite a time, and when at last I found it, I was quite thankful to sit down on the chair that Martin Parrish offered me. Though I didn’t much care for the looks of him – he was short and pink-faced with soft yellow hair and a little snapdragon mouth – he seemed quite pleased to see me. In my innocence, I thought this was a good sign, so when he offered me thirty shillings a week I jumped at it. Heaving his plump body out of an armchair, he showed me over the house. I began to think I quite liked him. He was affably polite, and very anxious that I should like everything, and at first sight it seemed a pleasant enough job. The house was tiny, with the drawing-room and bathroom on the top floor, dining-room and bedroom below, and kitchen in the basement at the bottom of a steep narrow flight of stairs. I had no time for more than a cursory glance over things, as Mr Parrish suddenly caught sight of a clock and gave a yelp.

  ‘Good heavens – I’d no idea it was so late. I’m supposed to be miles away from here in ten minutes’ time. I must fly.’ He explained about his breakfast, and one or two minor whims, and the whole thing seemed fairly simple. I was glad that the misgivings of Mr Feldbaum didn’t seem to have crossed his mind. The only snag to an otherwise pleasant prospect was that although he didn’t want his breakfast early, he wanted me to get there at eight o’clock in the morning.

  ‘Mimi wakes at eight, and likes to be let out, poor darling. You haven’t met Mimi, have you? I do so hope you’re fond of Pekes.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I adore them,’ I said, crossing my thumbs to eradicate the lie.

  ‘Well, then, that’s settled. Now I must rush; and you’ll be sure to come in good time tomorrow – splendid.’ We parted, and I went home and early to bed, setting my alarm clock at an even more ungodly hour than before.

  I was dying to find out in what connexion I had heard the name of Martin Parrish, so the first thing I did when I arrived next morning was to rummage among the papers in the streamlined desk which stood in one corner of the drawing-room. It didn’t take long to discover that he was a dress designer and writer of fashion articles for various magazines. Of course! Now I recalled how I had heard of him: ‘Martin Parrish designs a glamorously Edwardian ball dress for our readers.’ ‘“Stripes and ultrasmart and entrancingly gay,” says Martin Parrish.’ ‘Martin Parrish shows you how to add sophistication to the “little black dress”.’ I was startled out of my investigations by a bell even shriller than the one at Miss Faulkener’s, and rushing to look at the indicator in the kitchen, found a little red arrow agitating madly in the space mar
ked ‘bedroom’.

  The first thing that struck me (literally) as I entered my master’s room was the atmosphere. It practically knocked me down, but I recovered, reeling, and saw that he had gone to sleep with the window shut and the electric fire on. He was sitting up in bed, unappetizingly tousled.

  ‘Mimi’s been asking to go out for hours – she woke me up,’ he grumbled. ‘You’re pretty late. Still – as it’s your first morning –’ There was a heaving under the bedclothes, and a dirty brown ball of fur scrambled up and took off from Martin’s chest to land on mine with yelps of joy or hatred.

  ‘There! She likes you, that’s splendid. Take the darling down and let her out.’ He thumped down under the bedclothes and pulled the sheets over his head, and I slung the darling into the street, praying that she might never return, and went back to the kitchen. Now that I had time for a proper inspection, I began to see that, although the rest of the house had been done up in a modern fashion, the kitchen had been rather skimped – the stove was evidently an old one from another house and was encrusted with the grease and spillings of years. The dresser was only half made; there were no doors to the cupboards underneath it; there was no plate-rack, and no grooves in the draining board.

  My eye observed these things with misgiving, for by such little details is kitchen life governed. I opened a few drawers and saw that there was also a distinct shortage of utensils. I wondered if my predecessor had cooked, like the Maltese, entirely with the aid of her hands. However, the walls and woodwork were freshly painted and the red tiled floor was nice. I decided that if the dress designer would let me have, perhaps, a bit of stuff left over from Lady Whatsit’s trousseau for curtains, this room, the hub and focus of my existence, might not be so bad. Better still, if I could get rid of the various broken jugs, vases, cardboard boxes, and other junk which were piled on the mantelpiece and the top of the cupboard and dresser. Mr Parrish had evidently mistaken the kitchen for a lumber room.