The Servant Girl

by Maggie Hope

  ‘Now then, Hetty,’ he had said. ‘You know Ethel is leaving us. I wondered if you could recommend anyone from your home town to replace her?’

  Hetty thought immediately of Dorothy. Oh, wouldn’t it have been grand to have Dorothy working in the same house? But Dorothy was gone … A shaft of pain shot through her so that she couldn’t answer for a moment. She stared at the carpet on the floor, seeing a piece of fluff by the leg of the desk; Ethel must have missed it this morning when she cleaned the study. Hetty dropped the hanky she had been holding tightly in her hand and bent down to pick it up, surreptitiously picking up the fluff with it before Mr Fortune saw it.

  ‘Well, girl?’

  He was impatient, the irritation there in his voice. Hetty swallowed. ‘I haven’t been home this year, sir, I don’t know who is free. But I can write to my family and see if they know anybody.’

  Mr Fortune sighed. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, surely there’s a lass there who would jump at the chance of a job?’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I’ve left it a bit late,’ he said almost to himself. ‘Look, Hetty, you can have the day off tomorrow, I’ll give you your fare and you can go home and find someone. It will save me the bother of advertising.’

  She gasped. ‘In a day?’

  Havelock Fortune snorted. ‘Good God, girl, this is the twentieth century. How long does it take to go into the next county?’

  ‘I haven’t had my holiday yet, sir.’ Hetty had put it off all through summer, home wasn’t the same without Cissy. Mam wasn’t the same either. The last time Hetty had gone home Mam was very quiet and when Hetty had tried to kiss her she had turned her face away. And Mrs James, she looked straight through Hetty when they met in the street though at least she had stopped accusing her of being to blame for the accident.

  ‘Well, we can’t spare you for a week, not now. Go tomorrow and be back on Thursday. Two days will be enough, surely?’ Havelock was saying.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hetty. Though how was she going to let the family know she was coming? In the end she telephoned the post office in Morton Main and Mrs Atkinson, the postmistress, had grumbled about it but finally promised to send the boy up to Maggie Pearson’s with a message.

  Hetty didn’t stay in Morton Main for the whole two days, she couldn’t bear to, she felt like an unwelcome guest in the house where she had been born and brought up. Usually she sent her mother what she had managed to save out of her pay but this time, when Hetty offered her the two pounds ten shillings saved during the year, her mother just stared blankly.

  ‘Best keep it,’ said Maggie, and turned to open the oven door, checking the bread which she had checked only five minutes before.

  ‘But why?’ asked Hetty, startled. ‘You could do with it, couldn’t you? I know Dad’s working, but …’

  Maggie straightened up. ‘I don’t need your money,’ she said. There was something in her voice which seared Hetty. She felt that she had done something offensive in offering her savings.

  ‘Do you mean you don’t want me to send any more either?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Hetty put the money in her pocket and walked to the door; she said no more. All she wanted to do was go. She had quickly found a girl, Havelock Fortune had been right about that, there were plenty available. She had asked Sally Dunn who lived only a few doors away. Sally had just left school and jumped at the chance of a job, especially when Hetty would be there, someone she knew. So Sally Dunn was to arrive at Fortune Hall on the Monday after Ethel’s wedding.

  Hetty made an excuse and travelled back to Yorkshire that same evening, stopping off in Saltburn-by-the-Sea. With the money her mother had rejected, she took a room in a small guesthouse in Ruby Street, on the top of the cliff where she could hear the roar of the waves as they gathered strength for the autumn storms. Next morning she walked along Marine Parade, deserted now the season was over, and sat down on a bench overlooking Huntcliff with Old Saltburn tucked in beneath it, sheltering from the vast expanse of the sea. And there she allowed herself to cry: for Cissy and for herself and the childhood she had lost that winter’s day.

  ‘You’re back, then?’ said Havelock Fortune as he walked into the dining room that evening, and noticed Hetty making up the fire beneath the ornate marble mantelshelf. ‘Come on then, girl, did you have any success?’ He had been away in Whitby all day and driven back over the moors in his new Lagonda car. His cheeks were ruddy and bright against the silver of his hair.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hetty. ‘Her name is Sally Dunn and she will come a week on Monday.’

  ‘I hope she’s all right or I’ll want to know the reason why,’ warned Havelock, and sat down in a dining chair, spreading the evening paper over the table which was already set for the meal. He knocked over a wine glass so that it rocked and would have fallen if Hetty hadn’t made a deft save. Havelock didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Thank you, Hetty, for saving me the bother of finding another girl,’ she said under her breath as she went back to the kitchen to help Mrs Peel serve the meal. ‘Thanks I don’t think!’ But she was used to the master now. He was so uncouth in some ways and yet so sure of himself in others.

  Hetty followed Ethel down the aisle in the little church, in an artificial silk dress she had made herself, using Mrs Oliver’s sewing machine. ‘Use it any time you like, Hetty,’ Mrs Oliver had said, ‘I don’t have much use for it now. I’m too old, I can’t be bothered.’

  So Hetty had spent her free time in the little cottage, treadling away on the machine. Mrs Oliver had helped her with the cutting out and the fitting. The dress was rose pink and there was a lighter pink sash and round her neck she wore the small rope of artificial pearls which Bert had given her for a bridesmaid’s gift.

  Ethel looked lovely, she thought, pleased that she had gone into Whitby with her friend to choose the wedding gown. It was a creamy satin, full-length, and with a tiny train and a drape over one shoulder – very much in the mode, the salesgirl had assured them. A coronet of lilies of the valley held the bridal veil on Ethel’s head. She had had a Marcel wave only the day before and Hetty had combed it into place for her and fastened on the veil.

  The organ rang out, played rather surprisingly well by Mr Jones, and as Bert stepped forward with Sam, his best man, Hetty took Ethel’s bouquet of late roses. She noticed that the Fortune family were there, even Matthew, though not Mrs Fortune, Hetty thought sadly. She was bedridden once again and the bottle had reappeared on her bedside table.

  The reception was in the back room of the Moorcock Inn. Bert still hoped to take over a tenancy himself but for now he worked as a barman there. They ate ham and salad and the men drank ale with the meal and the women had a choice of lemonade or port wine. After a while Sam began to make eyes at Hetty and put his hand on her knee and let his gaze linger on the swell of her breast under the shiny material of her dress. She removed his hand and made an excuse to leave the room for a while, hoping he would cool down and get the message that she wasn’t interested. But she had to come back when the speeches began and Ethel’s father ‘hoped all their troubles would be little ones’, and Ethel blushed and the men roared with laughter. After that the remarks got wilder and the sexual references more pointed and at last Hetty managed to escape and go out into the autumn sunshine in the pub courtyard.

  She walked over to the stone wall at the end and gazed out over the moors, enjoying the cool air for she felt a little light-headed after the glass of port wine she had been obliged to drink for the toasts. She moved into the lee of an outbuilding and leaned against the wall, feeling the roughness of the stone through her flimsy dress.

  ‘Here you are, then.’

  Hetty jumped as Sam’s voice cut into the quiet afternoon. He was standing by the corner of the building, swaying slightly, a glass of ale in his hand. His eyes were glassy and he nodded his head, grinning foolishly.

  ‘Oh, Sam, go back inside and sit down before you fall down,’ she said.

>   ‘Now you don’t want me to go, not really,’ he said, and lifted the glass and took a swig of beer, dribbling a little on his chin so that it splashed down on to his white shirt. ‘Oops!’ he said, and rubbed at it with the back of his hand.

  ‘I do want you to go,’ asserted Hetty. ‘I think you’ve had enough to drink an’ all.’ She turned her back on him and gazed out over the moor. But Sam was not to be dismissed so easily. After a moment he put his hand on her shoulder and spun her round.

  ‘I’ll soon change your mind for you,’ he said, slavering a little, his arms, strengthened by hard labour on the farm, slipping round her and holding her in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Sam, let me go,’ she said, not raising her voice, still sure she could keep control of the situation. Over his shoulder she could see where he had put down his glass of beer on the uneven top of the wall, balancing it precariously.

  ‘I will when I’m ready,’ he said, and bent his mouth to hers. She was overwhelmed with the stench of stale beer as he belched.

  ‘Sam, let me go! I’m telling you, you’ll be sorry …’ Hetty said, louder now. She twisted her head to escape his searching lips and rasped her face on his badly shaven cheek. She tried to look over to the pub but somehow he had pushed her further behind the building and only a narrow strip of courtyard was visible. Suddenly, shockingly, his hand was on her breast, squeezing, pressing. Faintly she could hear the clip-clop of a horse. Oh, please God, she prayed in a split second, let whoever that is turn into the yard. But the clip-clopping faded away into the distance.

  ‘Come on, Hetty, give us a bit of what you give Richard Fortune,’ Sam was saying, and she couldn’t think what he was talking about – but then she wasn’t thinking of anything except how to get away from the drunken beast who had hold of her. And still she didn’t scream, didn’t think of screaming. But she could get away, if only …

  She stopped struggling and lifted her head as though giving in. ‘All right, Sam,’ she said, and he chuckled, relaxing, lifting one arm to the back of her neck – and in that instant she flung him away from her and he fell against the wall, knocking the beer glass off so that it shattered on the ground and beer splashed all over him. But Hetty didn’t wait to see if he was all right. She ran out into the yard, pulling her dress together where his fingers had loosened the button at the neck.

  Richard and Matthew were there, over the other side, by the back entrance to the pub. Evidently they had just arrived because Matthew’s MG sports car was parked there. They looked at her, surprised, and Hetty stopped.

  ‘Hetty,’ said Richard. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course she is,’ said Matthew.

  Hetty felt dirty and dishevelled. She pulled her dress straight and ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead. She didn’t look at Richard, she couldn’t bear to. She wouldn’t look at Matthew at all.

  ‘Hetty?’ Richard repeated.

  She hesitated. If she said anything there was every likelihood that Sam would lose his job and where would he get another? Her childhood in Morton had shown her that for a man to lose his job was a terrible disaster. And after all, he hadn’t really hurt her, had he?

  ‘I’m all right,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Oh dear, Richard, we seem to have interrupted something,’ drawled Matthew, smiling sardonically. He was looking over her shoulder and as she turned she saw Sam stumbling across the yard, wisps of grass sticking to his brilliantined hair. There were beer stains all over his suit and shirt. He had grazed his cheek in his fall and blood had run down his jawline and dripped on to his collar.

  Hetty wanted only to get away, not only from the amusement in Matthew’s eyes but the unreadable look in Richard’s. She walked past them to a door with a paper notice pinned to it reading ‘Ladies’. It was a small outdoor lavatory with only a broken mirror on the whitewashed wall. She leaned against the door, trying to control her churned-up feelings. The smell of disinfectant was the final straw. She bent forward and was violently sick into the bowl.

  After a moment she wiped her mouth with a piece of hard scratchy toilet paper and pulled the chain. Peering at herself in the mirror, Hetty saw her face was pale but for one patch where it had rubbed against the stubble on Sam’s chin. There was nothing she could do about that, she thought. She smoothed her hair behind her ear and, taking a deep breath, went back into the pub.

  There was no sign of Sam, thank goodness. Richard and Matthew were standing by the bar, their backs to the room, and she prayed they wouldn’t turn round and see her. Luckily they looked to be deep in an animated discussion about something.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Ethel. ‘We’re ready to go now, we’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘I just went out for a breath of fresh air,’ Hetty replied.

  Hetty climbed into bed that night, weary to her very bones and aching inside for her own folk. She couldn’t sleep, the events of the day kept running through her mind … the expression on Richard’s face. Oh, she didn’t care about Matthew, he could think what he liked. But Richard was different. He had been her friend, and now he wouldn’t be. Ethel was gone, she had no one to confide in, not truly confide, tell all her thoughts. In the end she got out of bed and lit the candle and took paper and envelopes from the drawer. Pulling a blanket round her shoulders, she sat on the edge of the bed, feet dangling, and started to write, using a pencil for she couldn’t afford to get ink on the sheets.

  ‘Dear Gran,’ she began, and chewed the end of her pencil. It was a long time since she had seen her gran, with not getting home so much this last year or the year before. She remembered how she had used to pour out her troubles to her when she was little. But then, Gran had lived just up the street from them. When Granda died Gran had had to leave the colliery house and Morton Main and had moved five miles away to the other side of Auckland.

  Hetty’s brow creased as she tried to think what to say. Then she began to write, skirting round the subject of the family at home, concentrating on the wedding and how nice the church service had been though different from Chapel and describing her and Ethel’s dresses in detail. And then she wrote down all her troubles of the day and how maybe they could have been her fault but she didn’t think so, she hadn’t led Sam on at all.

  Hetty paused. She had heard something and it wasn’t the usual rustling or creaking of the roof timbers. No, there was a step on the stairs. Suddenly she was aware that she was alone in the room, alone at the top of the house, and she had never been alone at night before. At home she had shared a bedroom with Cissy and here at Fortune Hall there had always been Ethel.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she murmured to herself. It was probably the kitchen cat, prowling around looking for mice. Or if it was a person it wouldn’t be a burglar, not up here, there was nothing to steal up here in the attics. But she put down her pencil and paper and scrambled under the bedclothes, pulling them up under her chin and staring at the door as it started to open.

  ‘You’re awake then, Hetty? Waiting for me, were you? You little witch, how did you know I would be coming?’

  She heard the words but failed to take in their meaning. Surely this was a dream, a nightmare? She stared at Matthew Fortune in the flickering light of the candle and shrank down into the bed even further.

  ‘Go away!’ she said. ‘Go away. I’ll tell your father about this.’

  Matthew laughed softly. He sat down on the edge of the bed and cupped her chin with his hand. ‘No, you won’t, little witch. I know you. You’re aching for it, do you think I can’t tell? Now I’ll just show you the difference between a boy and a man. Or a man and that peasant you were with this afternoon.’ He pulled the bedclothes down to her waist and she jerked them back, holding them under her chin.

  ‘Now don’t be coy,’ he said, ‘I’m beginning to lose my patience. I’ve watched you flaunting yourself in front of Richard and me ever since I came home last month. Well, I don’t know about Richard but I’m ready to oblige.’ />
  ‘I didn’t …’ Hetty began, but Matthew had bent over her and put his mouth to hers, stopping her protest. His mouth was hard, pressing her lips bruisingly on to her teeth and she wriggled, trying to pull away from him.

  ‘Oh, stop acting the innocent,’ he snapped, lifting his head for a moment. ‘Come on, Hetty, this can be fun for both of us, I don’t like forcing a woman. Is it the light? I’ll blow out the candle, that’s it.’

  As he sat up and reached over for the candlestick she managed to scramble out of bed and run for the door. Flinging it open, she was out on the landing which was lit only by a small window. But Hetty knew this part of the house so well, she raced for the stairs. Not fast enough, though. Matthew was behind her and caught her up, lifting her off her feet, just as she reached the top of the main staircase.

  ‘Not quick enough, my little witch,’ he said, and buried his face in her neck. ‘But you wanted to be caught, didn’t you?’ She kicked out with her bare feet and raised her hands to grab at his hair and pull him off her.

  ‘Little bitch, not witch,’ he said, but there was a savage amusement in his voice. And then the light came on on the landing below. For a minute neither of them noticed, they were so engrossed in their struggle. To Richard and his father, standing by the staircase gazing up at Matthew and Hetty with their arms around each other, they looked like two lovers, clinging to one another.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Get your things together. I don’t want you in this house when I get back from Whitby,’ said Havelock Fortune. He held out a brown envelope to Hetty but she made no move to take it.

  ‘But why? I haven’t done anything,’ she protested hopelessly. It was a phrase she had repeated over and over and no one in the house would listen to her, not even Elizabeth Fortune. Hetty had tried to enter Elizabeth’s room at nine o’clock as she regularly did but had found Mrs Peel barring her way.

  ‘The mistress doesn’t want you in here,’ the housekeeper had said. She held on to the door with one hand and glanced behind into the darkened room before turning back to Hetty and hissing, ‘Dirty bitch!’