Maud had already put on her clean party apron, as it was now nearly half past seven, and the guests were due at a quarter to eight. I was going to change in the last minute, so as to be sure of not dirtying mine, and I was justified in this precaution, when a piercing howl from her, as she opened a tin of cherries to decorate the pudding, brought Clare out into the hall in a pair of cami-knickers.
‘Fruit juice!’ wailed Maud. ‘All over my apron, and I haven’t got another!’
‘Soak it in salt water, quick!’ cried Clare, running about looking like a picture on a magazine cover. ‘Gosh, the bell! Let me get back to my room before you open the door.’ She fled. I couldn’t answer the bell, shiny mess as I was from cooking and turmoil, and it had rung again, before I had found Maud an old, but fairly clean apron of mine in the dresser drawer.
‘You’re too early,’ said Clare, coming out into the hall again, as a loud guffaw announced that it was only Frances and husband. She took them into the drawing-room, doing up her dress as she went.
The other guests were not so punctual. This, I believe, is a source of annoyance to the good cook, who has everything ready on time, but it is always a blessing to such as me.
I cleaned myself up a bit while they were having cocktails, and carried in the soup, while Maud announced dinner. We had arranged that we would each do one side of the table, and this worked quite well, except that there was one rather pathetic man at the end who didn’t seem to belong to either of us, and was constantly being forgotten. I don’t believe he got half the things handed to him, but perhaps it was as well, for he looked the dyspeptic sort.
Clare made Maud’s face shine red with embarrassment through the thick white coat of powder that she had applied for the occasion by saying loudly, as she handed the soup: ‘Oh, you got a clean apron, Maudie, dear, you do look smart!’
The hare had a success worthy of the extravagance of its ingredients. ‘What a delicious dish!’ said a large purple velvet woman on Mr Vaughan’s right, ‘I really must be greedy and have another helping.’
‘I hope it doesn’t put you under the table, that’s all,’ I thought, holding the dish while she spooned out a lot of the Fine Old Fruity gravy.
Serving the dinner between the two of us was quite a hectic business and we should have been even more flustered if it had not been such an informal affair. Mr Vaughan helped by stumbling about with the drinks, and his wife popped up and down in her usual style, getting bread, and thinking she heard the telephone ring. A brief lull in the babel of conversation was filled by a penetrating whisper from Maud, as she handed Frances the sweet course: ‘Come on, Miss, tickle out the cherries! We haven’t got all night.’
In spite of the many set-backs that had occurred during its preparation, the dinner seemed to go down all right, helped along by the lavishness of the host in the matter of alcohol. The men were so obviously dug in for a long session with the port and brandy, that Maud and I abandoned all hope of clearing the table for some time, and sat down to stuff ourselves with leavings among the piles of dirty crockery that littered the kitchen. The best part of any party is always the discussion and criticism of the guests that one indulges in afterwards, whether one has participated in a below- or an above-stairs capacity. Maud was quite vindictive for her. She had taken exception to a nut-crackery woman in a violent shade of cyclamen.
‘I never did like that Mrs Holden, and I never shall,’ she declared. ‘I take people as they come and she comes very unpleasant. Messing about with the sweet, she was, as if it was mud pies, and then didn’t take but only a spoonful. “Well!” I felt like saying: “If you don’t want to buy the watch, don’t breathe on the works.”’
‘She drank enough, anyway. I saw her fairly lapping it up.’
‘That’s right. Would you believe it, she had some of that cream stuff – demented cream, or whatever they call it, and then didn’t say no to a glass of brandy.’
An uproar of male voices indicated that the gents were joining the ladies, and a higher, more piercing wail indicated that the noise had woken Peter.
Maud and I cleared away the rest of the things in the dining-room, and were continuing our gossip over the washing up, when Nurse came padding into the kitchen – a most unappetizing figure in black carpet slippers and a green flannel dressing-gown. Her streaky hair, smelling more strongly of moth-balls than ever, hung down her back like so much seaweed.
‘They’ve woken my little boy,’ she said, ‘I never heard of such a thing.’ She turned her schoolmistress eye on us as if we were to blame. ‘I’m going to see if a little warm milk won’t send him off.’
‘Oh, Nurse, I’m ever so sorry,’ I said, ‘there isn’t a drop in the place till the milkman comes tomorrow.’
She had never heard of such a thing as this either. She took it as a sign of personal spite. ‘I shall have to speak to Mrs Vaughan in the morning,’ she said. ‘I shall have to make it clear to her that I’m not at all accustomed to this sort of thing. I’ve never had to do with it before, and I don’t wish to start now.’ She was gone, with an indignant whisk of the seaweed. I was too tired to do more than giggle feebly, and Maud was seriously shocked at such an exhibition of superiority from one whom she didn’t consider Real Class. Peter evidently soon decided that it was better to be asleep than to have to contemplate his nurse, for the wails ceased before long.
Mrs Vaughan came into the kitchen to say how well it had all gone off. I thought for the thousandth time what a mercy it is that mistresses don’t see the back-stage details of a dinner-party, they probably wouldn’t eat a thing if they did.
We didn’t finish till well after eleven o’clock, but the next day was a Sunday, which meant that I didn’t have to arrive quite so early in the morning.
I saw Nurse buttonhole Mrs Vaughan after breakfast, and tell her some long story, with much nodding of the head and raising of the eyebrows. I thought it was probably about me, so I was not surprised when I was summoned after Nurse had gone.
‘I don’t quite know what it’s all about,’ said my mistress, smiling, ‘but Nurse seems annoyed about something. You must be careful not to upset her. It may be only a little misunderstanding, but I do like harmony in my household.’ I was going to stick up for myself, but she, who hated having to ‘speak to’ anyone, hastily picked up the telephone and dialled a number, to prevent any further discussion of the subject.
I slouched out of the room, muttering gloomily, and met Peter in the hall, dressed to go out. He was amusing himself while he waited for his nurse, by methodically straightening out each separate fringe of a Persian rug. I stopped to have a word with him – here was someone, at least, who didn’t annoy me. As far as he was concerned, my sole use in the world was to provide food, so he promptly seized me by the hand, and led me to his favourite biscuit tin in the kitchen. The child was ambidextrous, so it always had to be two of everything, so that he could have one in each hand. He was sitting on the table, taking bites out of each biscuit in turn, when a camphorated tornado blew in through the door, swooped down on him, and bore him off, screaming, and dribbling tears and biscuit crumbs all the way to the front door.
‘Now I’ve told you time again, you’re not to keep running into the kitchen. If you want a biscuit, you can ask Nanny for it, the kitchen is not the place for little boys.’
The door slammed on this remark, and I was left seething. I suppose she thought the child would pick up vices or something if he spent too long in my company. I was longing for Maud to arrive, so that I could unload my grievances on to her good-natured ear. Surely she was very late? I looked at the clock and saw that she was nearly an hour after her time. I was thinking that pretty soon I would be able to put off no longer the various unpleasant jobs that I had been leaving for her to do, when the back bell rang, and I opened the door to an extremely dirty small boy in trousers cut down from a full-grown man’s, bunched round his waist with a bit of string. He handed me an envelope which said, ‘Mrs Vaughan, by hand,’ so,
telling him to wait, I took it along to the drawing-room. Mrs Vaughan read it, tut-tutted in a distressed way, and handed it to me.
Dear Madam (I read),
I am sorry to say that Mum has taken a Coma. She lays still as she has done since 5 this morning and Dr Bright says not to leave her. Hope you can spare me Madam. Will let you know when I can come back. Please tell Monica Mr V. must have clean towels today.
With apologies, Madam, yours truly,
M. BUXTON (Maud)
This was most upsetting, especially the touching evidence of Maud’s devotion to duty. Mrs Vaughan asked me to get her the medical dictionary, while she scribbled a note in reply, so that she could look up all about Diabetic comas.
The small boy was still standing where I had left him, but on one leg now, with the other twisted round it in an uncomfortable-looking way. I gave him the note, and sixpence from Mrs Vaughan, and impressed on him that he was to go straight back to Maud.
When she was worried about anything, Mrs Vaughan always had to vent her anxiety in a flow of words, so I had to go along to the drawing-room and lend an ear. She didn’t really want answers, as she was quite happy to conduct a conversation with herself; but she liked to have someone in the room, for company’s sake.
I got on with polishing the fire-dogs while she talked.
‘Very worrying,’ she was saying. ‘Poor Maud, I do feel so sorry for her. Of course, her mother’s been ill for a long time, but this does seem to be a turn for the worse. A coma – rather serious, I’m afraid, but on the other hand it may be nothing much – perhaps the doctor’s a scaremonger. I hope they’ll take her to hospital … Oh, of course, they will, they always do if it’s serious. Unless, of course, she can’t be moved. She’d be better in hospital, though. I wonder if I could do any good by going round there? I think I will, if she isn’t better tomorrow. One might be a nuisance, though, I wouldn’t want Maud to think I was interfering. I wonder when she’ll come back – she won’t stay away long unless her mother’s really bad, then we should have to get someone in to help you. I think I’ll leave it for the moment, until we hear from Maud. You must just skimp the work, we shan’t mind. I’ll help you where I can. D’you think you can manage? I don’t want to ask too much of you.’
‘Yes, madam,’ I said, making my first and last contribution to the conversation. I had finished my polishing, and Mrs Vaughan seemed to have temporarily dried up, so I left her, as I had a thousand things to do.
I didn’t know where to start. There were so many things that Maud usually did, such as beds, baths, and boots, as well as my own share of the housework, and all the cooking. We had drifted into a sort of slap-dash routine, and, between us, had got through the work fairly easily, but my brain reeled at the thought of doing it all by myself. However, Mrs Vaughan had said ‘skimp the work’, so I took her at her word, and it was an understatement for the shirking I indulged in that morning.
I made beds by the simple, if unhygienic, method of pulling up the clothes without untucking them, and barely stayed long enough in the bathroom to put the tooth-brushes in the mugs and fold up the bath-mat. I closed my eyes to the three layers of dirt round the bath, indicating where Nurse, Peter, and Clare had rid themselves of some of the grime of London. The next person in would be Mr Vaughan, who was short-sighted, and would only add a fresh level anyway. Nevertheless, there was still enough that had to be done to keep me panting about the place, trying to dust, sweep, and cook lunch for four people and a baby all at the same time.
I wished it had not been the day for Peter to have brains; I always had to nerve myself for the ordeal of handling them, and this morning my resistance was weak. I thought of Maud’s mother in her coma and wished it was me. There is no doubt that drudgery is embittering to the soul, and the sympathy that I should have been feeling for the Buxton family was replaced by a rather sour resentment.
‘Poor Maud and all that,’ I thought, starting to wash up the breakfast things, when I could stand the sight of the egg- and marmalade-encrusted plates no longer, ‘but if ever there was a case of “One pair of hands”, it’s now.’
It was a horrible lunch I gave them. Stringy, sodden cabbage, overdone beef, and lumpy custard were among the things that made it memorable. Laying the table in a hurry, I had forgotten various things, and I had to keep running to the kitchen for them, in between handing round. I had also forgotten to make any coffee, and as they were going to a concert they had no time to wait while I made some.
Almost the worst part of the whole thing was the confounded tolerance of the Vaughan family. They didn’t mind a bit, and kept making allowances for me, which was more annoying than if they had reviled me, as it put me in the wrong for feeling ill-used. However, there was always Nurse to pin a bit of spare rage on to; she was quite willing to add to the gaiety of life by demanding extras, such as a Swiss roll for Peter’s tea. I made no objection as I was beginning to feel resigned, in a sort of stark Russian way, and one thing more to do couldn’t possibly make me feel any worse. Today was Sunday anyway, and I was supposed to go off at six o’clock, which I determined to do, whether I had finished my work or not. It amused me to think that there had been a time, far back at the start of my kitchen career, when I should have had no peace of mind or sleep if I had gone home leaving any jobs undone. Domestic service had had a most demoralizing effect on me. It was a very different person from that conscientious enthusiast of over a year ago who now banged the door behind her on empty coal-scuttles, a supper laid with only the bare necessities, tea-things in the sink, and three pieces of a broken plate lying in the middle of the dirty kitchen floor.
Chapter Fifteen
LOOKING BACK ON my last few weeks at the Vaughans’ I can never make out why I didn’t throw up the sponge sooner than I did. Maud’s mother continued to ‘lay like a log, madam’, and this and other circumstances combined to result in my carrying on by myself. Mrs Vaughan and I had a heart-to-heart talk a few days after we heard that Maud was not yet coming back.
I was laying the fire in the drawing-room, a task that was supposed to be done before breakfast but never was. My mistress never said anything about it, and didn’t seem to mind my crashing about in the hearth while she was writing letters and telephoning to tradesmen.
‘Well, Monica,’ she said, raising her voice so as to be heard above the clatter of me raking out cinders, ‘I really don’t know what to say. I’ve made inquiries, but it seems impossible to find a char who’s half-way nice. I’d rather the flat went dirty than have to put up with some of the drunken old cripples they’ve offered me. – Yes, what is it, dear?’ as her husband poked his head round the door. He didn’t see me as the sofa was between him and my kneeling form, so he spoke without reticence.
‘Where the hell has that imbecile hidden my nail-scissors? I wish you’d speak to her, dearest. Of all the half-witted sluts we’ve ever had …’
‘Ruhig! Ist im Zimmer!’ hissed his wife, whose German education was better than her French.
‘Mein Gott, is she? Je n’ai pas vu,’ he mumbled, withdrawing his head hurriedly. Mrs Vaughan was so upset to think that I might have been offended that, to show I didn’t mind, I had to fall in with the suggestion she now put to me.
‘I was wondering,’ she said, ‘whether, if I gave you a bit extra, you could possibly carry on by yourself for the time being. You seem to be managing quite well – providing you’re not getting too tired? It seems hardly worth trying to find a non-existent char when we don’t know when Maud may come back. What d’you think? I don’t want to slave-drive you. You mustn’t mind Mr Vaughan,’ she added, laughing uncertainly, ‘you know what men are – always saying things they don’t mean. I do hope it didn’t upset you?’ She looked so concerned that I had to say: ‘I’m sure I can manage myself, madam,’ in order to show her there was no ill-feeling.
She said that she would give me thirty-five shillings a week, and added the extra bait that Clare would not be staying much longer as she was taki
ng her husband away to convalesce. Nurse was staying on, needless to say, but I was getting so used to loathing her that I should almost have missed her if she had gone.
I was in a rut altogether. Exhaustion gradually began to induce in my brain a coma quite worthy of Mrs Buxton, although my body was not recumbent like hers, but walked about in grim and automatic toil. I don’t blame my mistress, for I had brought it on myself, and she really had no idea how tired I was. She merely thought me rather more than abnormally stupid and spent her time making allowances for each fresh nonsense that I made, which encouraged me to make still more to see how much she would stand.
Sometimes, in order to cheer myself up, I tried dressing-up and going out in the evening, but it was not a success. I had lost the Party Spirit – it had gone down the plug-hole of the sink, or been thrown into the dustbin and buried under tin cans and cabbage stalks.
On days when my employers were going out to dinner they generally let me go home at about seven, which gave me the opportunity to attempt a little weary whoopee. I arrived home on one of these evenings to find an invitation to go to the theatre and dance afterwards. I decided to go, although I didn’t know the people very well, and I had never felt less like gaiety in my life.
I quite enjoyed the theatre because it gave me the chance of having a nice little nap. I woke up in the intervals and said: ‘Marvellous! I do think it’s good, don’t you?’ so nobody noticed that I had no idea whether the play was musical comedy or a Russian tragedy.
A good supper revived me: it was lovely to eat food that I hadn’t cooked myself, and I had quite a light-hearted dance or two, untroubled by housemaid’s knee.
‘Thank Heaven for alcohol!’ I kept thinking, amazed at the way in which those feet, which had been trailing around all day behind brooms and carpet-sweepers, were doing the rumba. My knell was sounded, however, by the voice that said, ‘There will be an interval for the glasses to be cleared from the tables!’
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