Half the World in Winter

by Maggie Joel

  She paused again but a sound from upstairs set her heart racing and she reached quickly for the front door and slipped out, closing it behind her. Once outside she made her way rapidly down the front steps and set off the short distance along Cadogan Mews half expecting to hear the front door open, an upstairs window slide up, and a voice calling to her. But no door opened and no window slid up and soon she had turned into the square.

  Mrs Logan had left Cadogan Mews.

  Dawn broke over number 19 and, aside from Mr Gladstone, who had been out all night and was looking very pleased with himself having stalked and consumed a whole Prussian fowl, it was Cook who was first to stir.

  She swung her legs over the side of her truckle bed and reached for her pipe. Once she had got it lit she shuffled off the bed and made her way from the antechamber off the scullery that served as her bedroom over to the boiler. Bending a stiff back, she poked about inside until she had got the coke alight and, filling the kettle, she placed it on the hob and heaved herself down into her rocking chair to recover from the effort.

  The cat was yowling to be let in. Let it yowl, mangy fleabag, thought Cook, puffing on her pipe.

  It was a Saturday, which was the day for scrubbing the front steps and the kitchen and passage floors, but traditionally the family had breakfast a little later on Saturdays so there was time for a cup of tea and a bit of something to eat first. She was feeling in a buoyant mood this morning. No guests were expected for dinner this evening, it would just be the family, and she had already plucked the duck she was intending to roast. The carcass of the chicken she had prepared for last night’s dinner was on a shelf in the scullery and there was so much left she could make a pie out of it for lunch and a soup for tonight’s dinner and there would still be a fair bit of waste left to go in the wash bucket. Being Saturday, the washman would be coming soon to buy whatever waste she had salvaged during the week. With all the food the family had not eaten these last few days, she had been able to fill two buckets, which would bring a pretty penny. They had begun to smell a bit, now, and Hermione had complained and said it made her feel sick so she had covered the buckets with a muslin cloth and moved them into the scullery last night. But it was no use being squeamish about smells and waste if you were in service, she muttered to herself. The sooner the girl got over that, the better it would be for her. Plenty more like her in the workhouse.

  Cook shifted and stretched out her legs. She had an idea her knees were bad again today, which was a pity, it being floor-scrubbing day, as it meant she would need Hermione to assist. Nothing to be done about it, if your knees were bad, they were bad. You couldn’t be on them scrubbing.

  The water was boiling and she heaved herself to her feet and poured it into the teapot, swirling the hot water around to catch the tea leaves. As she waited for the tea to brew she shuffled over to the scullery and retrieved yesterday’s roast chicken, bringing it into the kitchen and placing it on the table where it would be within arm’s reach when she resumed her seat in the big rocking chair. Her pipe had gone out and she took a moment to relight it, then she poured the tea and settled back with a contented sigh. She reached out and pulled the wishbone off the carcass and stuck it in her mouth, tearing off the flesh then chewing the piece of bone.

  She paused mid-suck and began to chuckle to herself as she remembered the big to-do yesterday. The mistress and Mrs Logan had been up to Lord knew what fun and games in the cellar—an inventory, according to Mrs L—when all of a sudden there had been the most almighty crash as though the Heavens themselves had fallen in, then a scream and the master had appeared from nowhere, shouting and carrying on, and Hermione right on his heels just as though the two of them had arrived together. She herself had made her way at a pace more befitting an elderly woman and there was Mrs Logan sitting in a pool of wine and broken glass, a crate and a dozen bottles shattered across the floor! Oh, what a lark it had been! And they had still been at sixes and sevens when Miss Jarmyn had arrived home, wet through from the downpour and in need of dry clothes, whereupon the master had set about kissing and hugging her as though she had escaped some mortal danger instead of just returning from some jaunt or other. What a lark!

  Cook shook with laughter. She didn’t remember laughing so much since that maid in her previous house had fallen headfirst down the main staircase and landed on the family dog. Killed it outright, the girl had. And suffered a concussion too, it came out later, though at the time the family were more concerned about the dog. Lord, how she had laughed!

  The piece of wishbone splintered into two and one piece slipped down her throat.

  Cook reached up to her neck and coughed, attempting to dislodge the piece of bone, but it had stuck fast. She coughed again, harder, and sat up in her chair. It would not be dislodged! She coughed some more and her face turned red. She coughed even harder, getting up out of the rocking chair. Her fingers clutched at her throat and her face began to turn purple. It would not come out, it would not budge! She coughed some more, causing tears to spring to her eyes, blurring her vision. She could not get her breath! The bone could not be moved, and panic seized her as she realised there was no one to come to her assistance, that she was choking, that she might, in fact, die. Tears streamed down her face and she let out a choking gasp, clutching at her throat, and into her mind, unbidden, came the faces of the four children whom she had lost all those years before, and had made no mention of to anyone: two dead in their cradles, buried before their first birthdays; one drowned in the river on New Year’s Eve; the last dashed beneath the hooves of a horse crossing Whitehall. All dead. All so many years ago but she could see each of their faces clearly, could recall each of their names, and with one final gasp, she realised what she had lost and that she did not wish to die.

  Hermione would, in fact, have arrived in time to come to Cook’s aid had she not heard Mr Gladstone yowling piteously outside the front door and paused to let him in. The cat slid inside, instantly purring and rubbing himself ingratiatingly against Hermione’s legs. Hermione, who had been born in a workhouse and did not remember her mother or her father and who had no siblings so far as she was aware, often felt lonely and was vaguely aware that there was some great lack in her life, so she reached down and tickled the cat beneath his chin, which only made him purr more and rub himself even more frantically against her legs.

  ‘Stupid, daft cat,’ she observed, because it is often easier to insult the things we treasure than to acknowledge how much we need them. ‘You stink!’ she added, which was perfectly true—Mr Gladstone did indeed stink, his nocturnal activities being mainly to blame, a general deficiency in the area of basic hygiene also contributing. He had dried blood down his front and a feather stuck to his ear. ‘Ugh!’ said Hermione, noticing this, and she pushed him away.

  Consequently, by the time she made her way down the back stairs to the kitchen, tying her apron and taking the steps two at a time because she had delayed too long, Cook was slumped face-first on the kitchen table, stone dead.

  And to be fair, even had she arrived in time to come to Cook’s aid, it is doubtful Hermione would have known what to do. She may very well have done exactly what she now did, which was to scream, loudly and terrifyingly, and in a voice that raised the household and immediately threw it into chaos.

  The master responded first, coming crashing down the stairs, a poker in his hand ready to repel any invaders. The boys were close behind, tumbling out of bed and clattering down four flights of stairs in a mixture of excitement and terror. Uncle Austin, in his room at the front of the house, awoke and was instantly alert, reaching for his sabre and being slightly confused when he couldn’t find it. Dinah and her mother emerged from their rooms at a more sedate pace, glancing apprehensively at one another and, coming instinctively together, they waited at the top of the stairs, exactly as an etiquette manual on how to prepare for a home invasion—had such a manual existed—might have prescribed.

  (Indeed the only member of the househol
d who was not thrown into chaos was Mrs Logan who, at that moment, was disembarking from a cab before the great entranceway to Euston Station terminus and who no longer considered herself a member of the household anyway.)

  Hermione’s screams continued and, using them as his guide, Mr Jarmyn made his way down to the kitchen and discovered the cause of them.

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, pushing the screaming housemaid aside and grabbing Cook by the shoulders. Her face was purple, her hands still clasped to her throat, her mouth was open, her eyes glassy and staring wide and unseeing. She was dead.

  ‘Dear God,’ he now said, though in a quieter voice. Hermione, her task fulfilled, had fallen silent and together they regarded Cook. ‘She’s dead,’ Mr Jarmyn said, perhaps a little unnecessarily. ‘What happened? Hermione, do you know what happened? Boys, stay out. Go upstairs, now! And call Mrs Logan, at once!’ he added, hearing footsteps approaching. ‘Hermione?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ the girl replied, shaking her head. ‘I just come down and found ’er like this.’

  They both observed the shredded chicken carcass on the table, two small bones, picked clean, lying beside it.

  ‘I think she choked,’ Mr Jarmyn concluded. ‘Or it may have been her heart. Better call Dr Frobisher. Hermione, go out and fetch the doctor. And get Mrs Logan!’

  And Hermione fled.

  ‘What is it? What’s going on?’ demanded Jack, waiting impatiently in the hallway, furious that his father had sent him and Gus away. If there was danger, they should be told! The ladies needed to be protected.

  Hermione now flew up the stairs and almost bowled him over and he started to exclaim ‘Hey!’ in an appropriately indignant voice but one look at her pale, horror-stricken face forestalled him. So instead he said, ‘Hermione, what is it?’ but the maid, having a moment earlier almost knocked him over, now completely ignored him and shot out of the front door and threw herself down the front steps and could be seen, a moment later, tearing off down the mews.

  Jack and Gus stared after her and Mr Gladstone, who had decided to conduct a rudimentary toilet, paused, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth, to regard the fleeing maid, before resuming his washing.

  In another moment Mr Jarmyn came slowly up the stairs, his head bowed, and Jack felt his stomach muscles tighten and his bowels loosen. The danger, whatever it had been, had evidently passed but something very dreadful had occurred.

  ‘What is it, Father?’ said Gus, getting in first.

  ‘Boys,’ said Mr Jarmyn, placing an arm around the shoulder of each child and drawing them away, then turning to face the female members of his family as they stood gravely at the top of the stairs. ‘Aurora. Dinah. I am afraid I have some sad news. Cook has passed away.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Gus, clearly not anticipating this.

  ‘Good Heavens!’ said Mrs Jarmyn from upstairs.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Dinah.

  ‘Yes. It is not immediately clear what the cause of her passing was, though we may rest assured that it appears to be natural causes. At a guess I would say she either choked or her heart gave way. I have sent Hermione for Dr Frobisher.’

  ‘But why, if she is already dead?’ said Jack, getting in before Gus could.

  ‘Because there will need to be a death certificate, of course,’ said Gus. ‘And only a doctor can sign one. And he needs to see the body to ascertain the cause of death. It is common sense.’

  Jack was furious.

  Mrs Logan was nowhere to be found. Hermione returned with Dr Frobisher half an hour later and the family waited solemnly in the drawing room whilst he conducted his examination.

  What did she look like? Jack wondered. Could he ask? It seemed tasteless to do so. Certainly one would not ask if someone in the family had died but when it was Cook, perhaps one could ask? He glanced at his father, who was sitting in an armchair, his hands motionless on his lap, and decided against it.

  With a discreet knock on the door, Hermione announced that Dr Frobisher had concluded his examination and was ready to see Mr Jarmyn. Once his father had left the room, Jack jumped up.

  ‘I don’t see why Dr Frobisher can’t give his report here, to us all,’ he said, and his mother gave him a disappointed look.

  ‘Don’t be tasteless, Jack,’ she said.

  Jack sat down. They had not had breakfast. Who was to get their breakfast? And lunch and dinner? He forced the questions back down, knowing how they would be received.

  After an intolerable delay they heard the front door open and footsteps in the street outside and a moment later Mr Jarmyn returned.

  ‘As we feared,’ he announced, resuming his seat. ‘It would appear she choked on a chicken bone.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Jarmyn. She glanced at the clock on the mantel.

  ‘How could he tell?’ asked Gus. ‘Did he find the bone?’

  ‘Really, Gus.’

  ‘I believe so, yes. Indeed he did offer to show it to me but I declined.’

  ‘I should like to see it!’ gasped Jack, thrilled.

  ‘Really, Jack!’

  ‘Too late, I am afraid. He took it away with him.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Someone will be coming to take her away soon so I suggest we remain here until that task is completed.’

  So they sat quietly in the drawing room, reflecting on the life and death of Cook, and Jack’s stomach rumbled loudly.

  It was an age before the men came for her and by then Jack was so famished he felt faint. Hermione had been commanded to produce toast and coffee, which she did, though her hands shook as she served it.

  Consequently, it was mid-morning before anyone began to wonder at Mrs Logan’s absence.

  It was Dinah who found the letter. It was lying, by itself, in the silver letter tray in the hallway and at first Dinah thought it had arrived in the first post but, when she picked it up, she saw it had no stamp. It was addressed simply: Mr Jarmyn.

  That was odd. It must have been hand-delivered. She had heard no one come to the door—though in all the chaos it was likely she would have missed it had someone come. And then a bizarre, a terrifying thought crossed her mind: the letter was from Cook and she had taken her own life! Or she had had a premonition of her coming death. Dinah stood very still, the letter clasped to her chest. A letter from a dead woman! Then she inspected the envelope again and decided that, on the whole, the handwriting could not possibly be Cook’s. Indeed it was debatable whether Cook could even write.

  She took the letter to her father.

  ‘It was in the silver letter tray in the hallway,’ she explained, and it was a measure of the topsy-turvy nature of the morning that her father took the letter and opened it at once without retiring to his study to do so.

  She watched his face as he pulled out a single sheet and unfolded it, reading what appeared to be a few lines at most, and as he did so his expression did not change. Then he slowly refolded the letter and met her inquiring gaze.

  ‘What is it, Father?’

  ‘Mrs Logan has decided to leave us,’ he said simply.

  Dinah’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh but—oh!’ she said.

  ‘Here, read it for yourself,’ and he handed the letter to her. It said simply:

  Dear Mr Jarmyn,

  I am hereby tendering my resignation from the position of housekeeper in your household. I very much regret the lack of notice and the upset my actions will inevitably cause. I am unable to provide you with a suitable reason for my sudden departure and understand that it will seem strange, however I beg that you respect that my reasons are both just and compelling. Please accept my warmest wishes for the future.

  Yours faithfully,

  Christabel Logan.

  Dinah turned away, holding out the letter to her father and walking quickly from the room. She recognised that a crisis had been reached but her own part in it—had she played a part?—was worryingly unclear to her.

  When Dinah had gone, Lucas closed the drawing r
oom door and sat down on the nearest chair. For a moment he could not conceive that she had gone. That she could pack her belongings, write a letter and leave and he not know. When had she gone? Sometime between them all retiring to bed last night and Hermione’s scream this morning. A long time, certainly time enough to get far away from Cadogan Mews. She could be on the other side of London by now. She could be on a train heading anywhere.

  Why would she leave? Her reasons were both just and compelling. What the Devil did that mean?

  He stood up, furious. It was an outrage that she just leave after all he had done in bringing her here, after all they had done to make a place for her here, in their house.

  He sat down. What had he done, really? Offer her a position out of pity, guilt? And what had the family done? Devolved the entire running of the house over to her so that the idea that the house could function, that the family could function, without her seemed … inconceivable.

  He unfolded the letter again and reviewed its contents. It will seem strange … ! Yes, it damn well did seem strange! What was the woman thinking of? What had happened? Something must have happened to precipitate this.

  He refolded the letter. He saw his hand covering hers and, later, the horrifying moment when the crate in the cellar had tipped over and he had thrown himself at her to save her. And afterwards, as he had knelt on the floor at her side and touched her cheek.

  He stood up. What should be done? What ought he to do? He would seek out the maid. He rang the bell urgently.

  ‘Hermione, Mrs Logan has resigned and departed. I wonder did she give any indication of where she might go?’