‘You light it,’ I said decisively, and remembering the heavyweight boxer, he did. It was too late though, and I was treated to the same vision of Mr Randall in his dressing-gown, saying that the water was an improvement on yesterday, but how the hell was he to have a bath and shave in tepid water? I quailed; he was really angry, probably still the aftermath of the evening before, and he sat down to breakfast, ready to fly off the handle at a moment’s notice. His poor tactless little wife remarked brightly from behind the coffee-pot:
‘Mother says your brown suit ought to go to the cleaners, darling –’
‘Does she, indeed?’ He lowered The Times and glared at her. ‘And what the hell business is it of hers, anyway? If that old witch puts her nose into our affairs any more – I’ll kick her out of the front door.’
‘Peter!’ Mrs Randall clutched the arms of her chair, aghast. ‘Darling, how can you talk like that about mother? I thought you liked her – you were all over her before we were married.’
‘She was all over me before she found out I hadn’t any money.’
‘What a beastly thing to say – after all the trouble she takes, the things she’s done for us.’ She was on the verge of tears.
‘Well, it’s her or me. I warn you, Ba, if she comes messing around here much more – I shall walk out, and you can go back and live with her – you’re always telling me how marvellous it was!’
‘You beast! I shall, I shall,’ she sobbed as he strode out of the room, nearly knocking me down, clapped on his hat, and banged out of the door. I had, of course, been listening in the hall. I wasn’t going to miss a good row for anything, though it did distress me to hear two people who really loved each other saying things they didn’t mean in the heat of the moment.
I thought I’d better look in and see if she was all right, and she looked so pathetic, weeping brokenly, that I forgot I was only the cook and took her in my arms to try and comfort her; she was much younger than me, anyway. It seemed to be my fate to have people crying all over me. I wondered who it would be next, probably the Walrus. I felt it wasn’t exactly what I had been engaged for. ‘It’s not my work,’ I said to myself, patting and making soothing noises automatically. Eventually she came to, and, hiccupping madly, told me All. ‘I haven’t told him yet, you see,’ she said, ‘and now I don’t see how I can.’
‘Well, you are a silly ass,’ I said, forgetting my place completely. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say anything before? You tell him the minute he comes home, whatever you do. You’ll be able to have your mother here every day, or anything else you like.’
She cheered up and became more normal, and I remembered that she was my mistress, and apologizing for my loss of respect, I withdrew.
She evidently took my advice for, after this, there were no more rows for a bit, and Mr Randall cherished his wife with an even greater affection than before. She, on her side, continued to only have her mother about the place during the daytime.
However, they were evidently both the sort of people to whom life without an occasional quarrel is a slightly dull and monotonous thing. After three or four evenings of amicable and often amorous conversation at the dinner table she started to goad him, over the steak-and-kidney pie, about one of his friends. They had been talking about giving a house-warming dinner party, and were discussing whom to ask. He said:
‘Well, we must have old Godfrey – he’s so amusing – make any party go.’
‘Oo, darling, you know I can’t bear him, he’s so common and – and uncouth.’
‘Since when have you been so particular? What about that shocking boy-friend you used to have? Ronald – Donald – Harold, whatever his ghastly name was.’
‘That was quite different. He was a gentleman, which is more than you can say for Godfrey. Anyway, I was very fond of Ronnie.’
‘My dear Ba, you know you couldn’t stand the sight of him. You only took me in order to get away from him.’ This was an effort to be conciliatory, but she wasn’t having any.
‘I wouldn’t have done that if I’d known what your friends were like. What you can see in that conceited great ape I simply can’t imagine.’
‘Shut up, Ba,’ said her husband, now beginning to lose his temper. ‘I put up with your mother, and you’re jolly well going to be agreeable to my friends.’ I should have left the room long ago, but, as usual, I was much too intrigued and remained, fiddling with things on the dresser as an excuse for staying, though they didn’t really notice I was there.
‘Well, I’m going to have mother to the dinner party, anyway.’
‘My God, you’re not! No, darling, it’s no good your throwing your “condition” in my face, because this time it makes no difference. That woman’ll bitch up the whole show.’
‘Don’t call me “Darling”, it doesn’t ring true. You’re the most selfish, inconsiderate, ungrateful beast of a husband I’ve ever met. I wish you – I wish I never –’ Unable to control her tears any longer, she pushed back her chair and rushed into the bedroom with her napkin to her eyes.
‘Oh, Lord, these hysterical women,’ said her husband, half to himself and half to my back view as I withdrew disapprovingly. We females must stick together, and whether I thought so or not I wanted to convey that he was in the wrong, not that they either of them noticed me when they were heated up about something. It was a curious casual attitude they had towards me, and the world in general for that matter. They were perfectly friendly, so friendly in fact that they behaved with an almost detached lack of reticence, and certainly no feeling of self-consciousness. I suppose it’s a sign of these modern times, this breaking of every rule and pretence observed by our grandparents and their forebears in order to keep servants ‘in their place’.
This quarrel, of course, was made up as rapidly as it had started, and there were one or two others of the same calibre before there dawned the day of the First Dinner Party. I was amused to hear that both Godfrey and Mrs Greene were to be among those present, so neither side had achieved anything by the arguments, except a waste of time which they might have spent being happy together.
One other married couple made up the rest of the party, which I did want to be a success for my mistress’s sake, and also to show the Greene monstrosity that other people in the world besides her could arrange and cook a dinner.
I took a lot of trouble over it, and spent a very busy day. Fred was even more annoying than usual and did his best to put me off by popping into the kitchen with such questions as, ‘Do you know Monica? Monica who?’ and rolling round the room convulsed with laughter at the rather rude answer.
I was going to give them a soufflé to start with, hoping to time it right, as I had done with my first one at Miss Faulkener’s. Mrs Greene arrived first, needless to say, and noticed that the umbrella stand had been moved from one side of the hall to the other. The other couple, a very pretty dark girl with a nondescript husband, arrived soon after, and, when I announced them, I saw her watching them and taking in every detail. I hoped, for their sakes, that their clothes were new or fresh from the cleaners.
I had put the soufflé into the oven when Mrs Greene arrived, and I was beginning to get more and more nervous as the minutes passed and Godfrey had not come. It was nearly cooked and, if he didn’t come soon, would be completely spoiled. There came the moment when it had just risen to its full height with a billowing brown top and should have been served at once. I turned down the heat, but had to leave it there as there was still no sign of the wretched man, and I began to sympathize with Mrs Randall in her dislike, when a cascade of knocks thundered on the front door and I rushed upstairs. Godfrey was a large panting man with protuberant eyes and teeth, and a distinct tendency to pinch servants’ behinds. I whisked mine quickly out of the way, and announced him and dinner at the same time.
I opened the oven door with trepidation and saw that the soufflé was rather flat but still fairly presentable. By the time I had carried it upstairs, however, it was flatter than ever, and looked what it wa
s – a failure. I was very upset as I knew my mistress was very nervous and desperately wanted everything to go off well. She would not realize that the soufflé was spoiled through waiting and would think I had let her down. There was no hope of her mother not noticing its appearance, as I had to hand it to her first. It was one of the most ghastly moments of my life. Everyone was watching as I produced my poor wizened offering, and I would have given a fortune to have been able to turn it upside down on the closely marcelled head of Mrs Greene, whose gloating smile of superiority as she took the smallest possible helping was the last straw. Mrs Randall looked like a child who has been promised a treat and then disappointed; she opened her eyes very wide at me in mute inquiry. Only Godfrey seemed to take the affair in his stride; he took a large helping without looking at it and proceeded to tuck in, talking with his mouth full to the dark-haired beauty on his right. He was very taken with her, and from her expression of faint loathing and his of suggestive glee he seemed to be saying some pretty impossible things. Her husband was staring glumly across the table and paying hardly any attention to Mrs Greene, who was apparently telling him her life history. My brain took in all this automatically, it was so used to spying on other people’s affairs, but I was really too shaken by the catastrophe of the first course to pay much attention to the party. I just got a general impression of ghastliness from Godfrey, which grew as the dinner progressed, and he became more frightful than ever. The only good thing about him was that he prevented Mrs Greene from leading the general conversation. For some inexplicable reason the host found him extremely amusing and roared with laughter at his stories, encouraging him to still further futilities. It was not that his jokes were vulgar, perhaps there would have been more point to them if they had been, but it was a sort of tap-room humour, interlarded with cries of ‘Ha-ha-ha! What?’ from Godfrey as he invited everybody to join in the fun.
The rest of the food held its own fairly well, though it was not impressive enough to make up for the soufflé. The fried potatoes had gone flabby, and I had forgotten to put any jam in the trifle, and little things like that, and I saw Mrs Greene noting every slip. I felt embittered, and thought sourly that they wouldn’t have me long, anyway, but Mrs Randall completely disarmed me by running down to the kitchen after the ladies withdrew and saying:
‘It was a lovely dinner, Monica! Thank you so much for doing it so nicely. I’m sure everyone thought it was marvellous.’
‘I’m afraid the soufflé, madam –’
‘Oh, that didn’t matter, it was perfectly all right, really. Mother said you’d timed it wrong, but I suppose it was the fault of that ghastly Godfrey creature. Oh dear, I shouldn’t say that, I suppose. Well, good night! Go home as early as you can, you must be tired.’ Bless her heart. I really got quite fond of her before my month was up and, in spite of the quarrels, was quite sorry to leave them.
The workmen finished at last, a few days before the new maid was due to come and occupy the bedroom they had constructed for her. I had got so used to being baited that I was even quite sorry to see them go. There was a touching scene when they all filed into the kitchen, outwardly solemn but inwardly giggling at their own drollery, and I said goodbye to each. It was rather like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Like Dopey, Fred came back for more after they had gone and lingered for a few words.
‘Y’know, Chloë,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘you bin a great disappointment to me. Maids is my speciality – when the wife’s not around.’ I was surprised; I had somehow not imagined him as a married man. I apologized for my lack of response to his charms, and he patted me on the shoulder and went out, saying patronizingly:
‘Ah, well, we can’t all be hot stuff. I expect you’re not ripe for romance, dear, that’s what it is.’ He gave me another of his winks, well satisfied with his parting shot.
‘Why, you –’ I cried, picking up the rolling-pin, but he was gone, whistling away down the passage and out of my life. The Randalls and I parted affectionately. He came down to the kitchen before going off to work and, fearfully embarrassed, pressed a pound note into my hand. ‘No, really –’ I said, deeply touched, but pocketing it before he could take it back. ‘I’ve so enjoyed working for you, sir, you’ve been ever so good to me.’
More embarrassed than ever, he mumbled his way out of the kitchen door and ran up the stairs, vastly relieved to have got it over. I was more than ever convinced by this time that there are only two types of men in the world – those who are shy of maids and those who are not shy enough. Before we parted I asked Mrs Randall to give me a reference, and she didn’t know what to put, so I offered to help her, and between us we concocted the following flight of fancy:
‘This is to say that M. Dickens has worked for me for several weeks in the capacity of working cook-housekeeper. I found her sober, honest, and most refined, a very well-spoken girl. Her cooking, both plain and fancy, is excellent; she is scrupulously clean in her methods and her person, and has no eccentricities of religion.’
I had really enjoyed being at the Randalls and thought it would probably be difficult to get anywhere else as pleasant. Not wanting to risk a repetition of the Parrish episode, I turned over in my mind the idea of taking something quite different – perhaps going to the country as a living-in cook and seeing a bit of Servant’s Hall life. Though up till now I had thought it preferable to be on my own in the kitchen, it always meant doing housework, and the idea of escaping that particular form of drudgery appealed to me enormously.
I scanned the situations vacant columns to see if there was anything attractive before inserting an advertisement of my own. There seemed to be even more demand for living-in cooks than for ‘dailies’, and one notice in particular caught my eye. ‘First-class Cook wanted immediately for country. Staff 8. Kitchen-maid kept. Own bedroom. 3os. a week. Apply – Housekeeper, Chilford House, Birching, Devon.’ Thirty shillings sounded like big money, considering that I would have no opportunity of spending it, so I wrote to the address given and generously offered the housekeeper that paragon of skill and efficiency – myself.
She answered quite soon, telling me to call on a certain day at – (Here followed the address of a flat in a fashionable block.)
I tortured the black hat into an even more uncompromising no-nonsense shape, that added a great deal to my age but nothing to my charms, and set off in a coat that was too long for me and a pair of ‘sensible’ shoes.
Arriving at the luxurious entrance hall of the block of flats, I felt too humble and unprepossessing to use the lift, so trotted modestly up four flights of stairs and arrived panting at my destination. I was let in by a stout black body of about fifty who I guessed to be the housekeeper, and she led me to a sitting-room, half shrouded in dust-sheets. In spite of the vastness downstairs the flat was quite small, evidently a pied-à-terre for occasional visits to London.
We sat down on two of the unshrouded chairs and she began to ask me searching questions with a terrifying intensity of manner that made me more nervous than usual. She was all hung about with emblems of religious fervour; gold crosses on chains, and holy-looking brooches were scattered at random over her person. She jangled like an old monk and this put me off, making me unable to do myself justice, so that I was quite surprised when, after reading my references and even holding them to the light to detect any forgery, she said: ‘I’ll engage you. The first week shall be in the nature of a trial, you understand, giving me the opportunity to make a change if I’m not satisfied. You wish it to be a permanent job, of course?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, casting down my eyes so as not to have to lie to that penetrating stare. I knew I should not get the job unless I gave the impression that I was prepared to live and die if necessary in the service of Chilford House.
I couldn’t really understand why she had engaged me at all. She was the sort of woman you can’t fool, and must have sized me up at once for the incompetent and inexperienced messer that I was.
I realized afterwards th
at she didn’t want to have anyone in the kitchen of Chilfor House who might challenge her supremacy over its domestic affairs, which she guarded jealously. She didn’t even tell me the name of my future employers or how large a household it was. We arranged such details as half-days, and then she intimated that the interview was at an end, saying:
‘It would be convenient for you to arrive tomorrow as we are making do at the moment with a village woman, but it’s not satisfactory.’ Then she told me the time of the train, and I left her, feeling elated but rather in the dark about the immediate future.
To make myself look more like the country house cook of tradition I bought a whole lot of vast white aprons, which enveloped me starchily and gave me quite a look of ample cosiness. These I packed, with the rest of my things, into a battered suit-case and, dressed once more with a suitable but drab respectability, bade farewell to my family who were by now more than ever convinced that I was crazy.
‘You must live in your part, get yourself under the skin of it’ had been one of the frequent sayings of the old lady of my dramatic school, so I started in right away. At Paddington I settled myself diffidently into the corner of the carriage and read a twopenny Home Blitherings, my face, innocent of make-up, shining like a young moon and my unrouged lips moving with absorbed delight while I followed the lines with my finger.
At Exeter I had to change into a little local train which stopped at every station for the guard to have a gossip, before it eventually arrived at Birching. A porter directed me to a sort of lorry, which looked as if its usual function was to take pigs to market, so I threw my case into the pig part of it and climbed up beside the red-haired youth who lounged in the driver’s seat.
‘Good afternoon!’ I said brightly. ‘Turned out nice again!’
He seemed to feel that he was destined for higher things than fetching cooks from the station, for he vouchsafed no more than a mumbled ‘G’arternoon’ and a sniff. I was determined, however, that in this job I was going to get on with everybody and everything, so, thinking to draw him out by flattery, I asked, ‘You the shovver?’
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