The Housemaid's Daughter

by Barbara Mutch

  ‘It’s a good day, sir,’ I said, drawing the curtains back slightly, ‘not too sunny for your eyes.’

  And he dressed himself and felt his way downstairs – holding on to the banister, so uncertain compared to the headlong rush of boyhood – and stood swaying in the kitchen as Mama clapped her hands and Madam smiled with tears in her eyes to see him up and about.

  At first he walked around the garden, hesitant, as if he’d never seen such a place before. He seemed surprised at the beetles rasping in the hedge and the bokmakieries calling to each other from one end to the other. It was as if the desert had swept away all memory of plants in bloom and grass underfoot, and all memory of sound save for the whine of bullets.

  ‘Was it always like this, Ada?’ he asked, his hand sometimes touching my arm for balance, his tall frame stooped as if to protect the inside wound. ‘This beautiful?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Even in the drought.’

  He smiled then, and reached out to pick a leaf and stroke its velvet underside.

  ‘We could walk into town, sir,’ I said, keen to cement his progress. ‘There’s no dust now the roads are tarred.’

  Adderley Street was crowded on the day Master Phil went on his first outing. If the garden had been a surprise for him, then the town was surely even more so. Much had changed since he left for the war. Motor cars now outnumbered horse carts and, as they edged along, they blared their horns and revved their engines and made exploding sounds that startled passers-by.

  ‘Ada!’ Master Phil gasped, clutching at his ears, ‘No, no—’

  ‘Come, sir, we’ll go somewhere quiet,’ I said hurriedly, taking his arm because his legs did not seem to work that well any more. ‘We can look at the bridge – at the Groot Vis.’

  We took a back road towards the iron bridge and I didn’t talk in order to give his ears a rest. It was the exploding cars, I realised; the sound of war. But if he couldn’t face the world and its noise again, how would he ever find its beauty? If he kept his curtains closed, how could he see the Karoo shimmer in the midday heat? Or spot the orange aloes glowing like candles against the scrub?

  He kept his arm in mine as we walked further, our footsteps matching. From a hidden back garden came the shouts of children playing. Purple bougainvillea tumbled over a fence by the garden gate. I picked a flower and gave it to him. He examined its papery petals as if it was a rare jewel and smiled at me. I remembered the first time I had met Master Phil in town, when he was in his uniform, and how uncertain I’d felt about being a black girl walking beside a white boy. Then, I had held back and followed behind him, and felt in turn behind me the disapproval of the white lady he had been talking to.

  Now, I walked at his side, his arm through mine.

  Maybe I was foolish to believe I could do so, for no one else walked like this, so openly, with such boldness. The white people we passed murmured to each other but I didn’t care. Master Phil getting well was more important than anything else. Madam would understand this. Some of the passers-by were people I knew should recognise him, should value the miracle of his recovery, but even so they never said a word on account of me, and walked past with their faces pointing away from us, like Master turned away in the night when he saw me comfort his son.

  But I felt only joy. Joy that Master Phil had come this far, joy that he had found a way past the wounds that did not bleed, joy that I might have helped him in some small way. Up ahead, the bank sloped down to the river where mimosas dug for water and women like Auntie washed clothes on the far rocks. Swallows dived down to the shallows and wove upstream, navy streaks against the brown water.

  ‘I love you, Ada,’ murmured young Master Phil, leaning against the trunk of a tree, his pale eyes finding mine, his thin hands clasped together like Madam’s hands had clasped that day when the doctor came and told us he was cured. ‘I’ve always loved you—’

  ‘I know, sir,’ I broke in, gratitude almost choking my voice. ‘You’re my family.’

  But I didn’t know. And when I later realised what he meant, it was already too late.

  Can I ever repay Ada for all she has done?

  It was Edward who said – with rare candour – that Ada was keeping Phil alive, and he is right. Ada has poured devotion, patience, and warmth into our Phil to the point where he has begun to believe he can be well again.

  Families, I have learned, are not static but fluid things. They evolve, and so they should. Members circle, or take centre stage, or leave altogether. Ada has found her place, and we are all the better for it. But what has evolved within our four walls is not normal outside.

  And I must confess I love Ada like the daughter I wish Rosemary was.

  Chapter 11

  Young Master Phil died on a Monday. I wasn’t with him. I was down in the garden, hanging out the clothes on the line, feeling the slap of wet sleeves against my arms and sniffing the white jasmine as it drifted over from the pergola. From the other side of the hedge came Mrs Pumile’s voice, talking loudly to a friend in the kaia, while her Madam was out.

  Upstairs, Master Phil slept in darkness filled with the smell of medicines and floor polish. But there was hope, now. We had had several outings. Master Phil was starting to eat downstairs more often, too. Madam and Master were talking about taking him on holiday, perhaps to visit Miss Rose.

  I bent down to pick up the next shirt and pegs. There was a thud and a scream and, as I turned, I saw Madam rush out of the kitchen and fling herself down over a bundle on the ground that was Master Phil. My mother Miriam ran out and took my hand and pulled me into our bedroom and stroked my face before she rushed out again. Mrs Pumile shrieked through the hedge. I heard the sound of motor-car tyres on the gravel, the urgent voices of the doctor and my Master, and the endless, quiet sobbing of my Madam as I stood waiting behind the curtains that Mama had pulled shut before she left our room.

  It was some time before Mama came back into the room where I waited. It was hot with the curtains closed and I felt the sweat gather on my neck and a pain build behind my eyes.

  Cars came and went and people’s voices rose and fell and the bokmakieries called from the end of the garden, just like they did every day. I wanted to peep, like I used to do from the door when Madam and Master were in the lounge, or when Madam was playing the piano. But this was somehow different. I did not want to disobey Mama at a time like this, so I stayed sitting on the bed as my heart cried out, wondering why Master Phil had been at the window, why he had leant out so far, why he had not called to me in the garden below, how I could have been so wrong about him getting better …

  ‘Ada,’ Madam said the next day, her green eyes more sore than on the day Miss Rose had left, ‘Ada, you will sit with us in church.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ I tried to keep my voice steady but it was hard. My mother hadn’t been well lately and I didn’t want to leave her but Master Phil was going to God the Father, and I must support Madam and Master. Especially as Miss Rose couldn’t come.

  The funeral was at St Peter’s, the cream stone church on Bree Street, with the bell that rang across Cradock every Sunday morning. I had been to St Peter’s before, of course, but never to the front of the church. I used to sit at the back when the children were at Sunday School, listening to the sound of the organ, which was the best part of going to church.

  Madam gave me a skirt and a blouse and proper shoes to wear instead of my uniform for the service. It must be because I will sit with the family, I thought to myself, rubbing the good-quality cloth between my fingers and slipping on the new shoes that I had never had before. That is why Madam is giving me special clothes. Like Master Phil, Madam believes I am part of Cradock House and so I must look respectable when the Lord takes my young Master. When I said this to Mama, she replied that I should remember that the shell chairs on the stoep had only ever been for Madam and Master and their children and that nothing – not even the death of our beloved young Master – would change that.

  It was a cold but
clear day for Master Phil’s funeral. The sky was of a blue that was darker even than the eyes of Miss Rose who wasn’t there. The koppies drew close, like guards over the church, their ironstone tops caught by the early sun. I walked to the front behind Madam and Master in my new clothes. People murmured. The organ played gentle Brahms that Madam and I had chosen. I was pleased to be able sit down so I could no longer be easily seen. Madam and Master sat very still, I don’t know how they managed it. My heart was so sore I wanted to run away but I must stay to show respect.

  ‘Let us pray for your servant Philip,’ the minister said, folding his hands against his smooth white robe and bending his head.

  I tried to think of other things, like Mrs Pumile’s niece who worked for the minister and his family. She would have ironed the robe. Mrs Pumile herself was standing at the back of the church in her Sunday hat and carrying a large shiny handbag. Mrs Pumile had liked young Master Phil because he had better manners than Miss Rose. Mrs Pumile said she was sorry for my Madam and Master and that they hadn’t deserved for Master Phil to die the way he had. I wasn’t sure what she meant and I asked my mother but she said we should not speak ill of the dead and that God had taken young Master Phil in the way He saw fit.

  ‘At rest now, after years of suffering.’

  The people behind us murmured.

  I wasn’t used to sitting in the front of the church like this, alongside Madam and Master. Some of Madam and Master’s friends were also not used to me sitting alongside Madam and Master. I could feel their eyes on my neck. They would not look at me when I had been with Master Phil in town, but now that he was gone, it seemed their eyes never left me. Or the skirt and blouse that I wore instead of my uniform.

  ‘Let us pray.’

  Madam shuddered beneath the black net that came down over her nose. Her dress was black, too, with a heaviness to it so different from the lovely, light day dresses that I washed and ironed each week. Her strong hands were hidden inside black gloves. Master sat without moving in his black suit and tie. I don’t know if he approved of me sitting alongside. I think he probably did not, but agreed out of love for Madam. I hoped he might touch her, like he had in the war, but he didn’t.

  ‘Let us pray for his family, united in grief: Cathleen, Edward and Rosemary.’

  ‘Amen,’ murmured the people behind us.

  What of me? I cried inside, pressing my fingers hard into Mama’s old black funeral coat folded on my lap. Please pray for me, too. I loved young Master Phil. He was my brother. I have lived in Cradock House all my life, I am not from the restless township at the end of this road. Am I not part of the family now? Madam felt for my arm with her gloved hand and squeezed it. She knew I was thinking of what the minister hadn’t said.

  We sang Abide with Me, and the organ wept over the tune and the stone walls trembled and crowded in upon me in the front row. Madam couldn’t sing, and Master couldn’t sing. I tried but my voice was empty and all I could do was listen to the tune and imagine young Master Phil’s soul floating up slowly but surely to God the Father in time with the music. And then the tears came and ran down my cheeks and there was no way to stop them. Madam and Master had been so brave, so dignified, and I was ashamed of my tears – but still they wouldn’t stop. I fought to make no sound, like my young Master had made no sound when he cried, like soldiers learn to cry quietly in war so as to make no sound to give away their position to the enemy.

  Madam put her arm about my shoulders. I could hear the whispers of the people behind as they guessed my silent weeping, and wondered among themselves how it could be that a maid such as me should cry so hard for her young Master.

  Afterwards, the congregation shook hands with Madam and Master. There were some of Master Phil’s friends from the war, with their wives and young families, and they gripped Master’s hand and kissed Madam on the cheek and brushed tears away from their faces. No one said anything to me. I wiped my face with a handkerchief and stood with Mrs Pumile among the gravestones and I saw how people looked at my new skirt and blouse and then looked at one another and I knew that however much I hoped to be part of the family, it might only ever be within the walls of Cradock House.

  Then I ran home, for there was work to be done. I had to get water boiled and fire up the stove because there must be tea and fresh scones with Madam’s homemade apricot jam for the people who’d been in church. My mother was not well enough to help so I’d rubbed the butter into the flour before church and just needed to add the egg to make the dough. The wind from the mountains was cold and made tears come again in my eyes as I ran across Church Street past the signs that I could read and some that I couldn’t. My new shoes were uncomfortable so I pulled them off and ran the rest of the way in bare feet.

  It took Madam and Master a while to get back, with all the handshaking. The scones were made and cooling on a rack, their peaks lightly crisped the way Madam liked. I laid out the best cups and saucers and linen napkins in the dining room and there were fresh lemons from the garden to be sliced for the visitors who didn’t want sugar. My hands knew what to do to make everything right, which was just as well as my eyes could not see for the tears.

  The long handshaking meant I could go up to Master Phil’s room while the tea was drawing and stand in the centre of the room where the sun used to reach through in a narrow beam on to the floor, and feel him close to me one more time.

  Chapter 12

  I have written nothing for days.

  The letters back to Ireland seemed to drain the last of my strength. The minister insists that we do not blame ourselves, but I do.

  Rosemary’s absence has been inexplicable.

  Now I am son and daughter. Not to Master, who once more doesn’t notice me very much, but to Madam, who walks through her empty house with her head on one side as if listening for Miss Rose’s radio with its dance music, or Master Phil’s noisy clatter down the stairs. I play the piano for her every day – cheerful pieces only, no Chopin’s Raindrop with its single notes that can undo my heart. For, like Madam, my heart is undone. Master Phil has emptied it by dying when I thought he would live.

  Where I was once sad that I no longer went out, and that other young women like me were settling down and having babies, now I had no wish for such things. No calling, no activity seemed worthy of attention now that Master Phil was gone. Even Mama lost the will to scrub and iron as fiercely as before, and jam sponge puddings disappeared from our meals.

  ‘I can’t, child,’ she would say to me, her head bowed beneath its doek, her thin arms set on the kitchen table. ‘God rest his soul, I can’t.’

  It was the piano that saved Madam, and saved me.

  Madam carried on teaching at Rocklands School, even though I overheard Master say that she didn’t need to do so.

  ‘But I must, Edward,’ she whispered with quiet intensity, as they sat opposite each other in the evening, her hands restless in her lap like Master Phil’s had been, Master’s busy with his newspaper. Madam wore grey in the evenings now, rather than green. And at her throat she pinned a brooch that Master Phil had worn on his uniform collar. ‘Teaching keeps me going.’ She would press one hand to her forehead, get up and go over to the piano and touch the keys, but then return to her chair and pick up the library book that she never seemed to finish.

  For Madam, playing the piano at school was a kind of medicine but playing at home – into the passages and rooms that had once echoed with Miss Rose and Master Phil – proved to be far harder. So she mostly left it to me to make the music that rushed out of Cradock House every day and into Mrs Pumile’s kaia next door.

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ Mrs Pumile said to me when we met on the street, for I was soon pressed into my old duties of posting letters and collecting parcels downtown, to save Madam the trouble. ‘And so smart, too.’ She nodded approvingly at the skirt and blouse that I now wore outside of Cradock House. ‘Your Madam is lucky to have you, after that Miss Rose.’ Mrs Pumile sniffed and drew her brown
paper bag bulging with sugar from the bank beneath her chin. ‘That Miss Rose should be ashamed of herself!’

  ‘Because she doesn’t come home?’

  ‘Of course because she doesn’t come home,’ hissed Mrs Pumile, looking round to make sure no one could overhear. ‘Playing up in Jo’burg while your Madam and Master mourn – it’s a skande!’ She spat out the word, the Afrikaans for scandal, a word that I knew meant something too bad to be ignored by the world.

  ‘So you must play piano, Ada,’ she commanded. ‘Play for your Madam and Master and for your mama. Then there will be life in that place!’

  And so I did. Every morning it was my scales rather than Madam’s that rushed through the house and down the garden. Every evening it was my lively scherzos that broke the silence while Master read and Madam pretended to do so, and Mama crocheted in her chair by the window. Just as I had learnt that musical notes could say different things to the heart depending on their sequence and their length, I now learnt that musical notes could speak to the body in ways I had never understood before. My tunes, echoing through the quiet, finally stilled Madam’s hands in her lap.

  Once, the doctor who had promised that Master Phil was cured, came to see Madam and Master and stared in surprise when he saw it was I, and not Madam, who was playing.

  ‘Ada is wonderfully talented,’ said Madam with a kind touch on my arm as I made to slip away. ‘More talented than any of my students at school.’ She cast a quick glance at Master as she spoke, and I remembered Master not being keen on me going to school because of trouble later on.

  ‘How are you both managing?’ I heard the doctor say as I left. I didn’t wait to hear their replies. I knew that whatever Madam said, it would not be the truth. Even though she now wore again the cream day dresses that spoke of a normal life, the real truth lay inside her and was not for showing, or speaking about, or writing in her book, or in the letters that I posted once more. The truth lay in what she could never say, in the sentences of love and loss she would carry forever inside her.