The Servant Girl

by Maggie Hope

  Matthew had the key for a beach hut when he came back. He shivered theatrically.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get out of the wind,’ he said, smiling at her. She went with him to the lines of bathing huts and people watched them curiously from those which were already occupied. Hetty didn’t look at them, she felt too uncomfortable. Matthew opened the door of one which was in the middle of an unoccupied group and she was glad of that. Inside there was a tiny paraffin cooker and a tin kettle and teapot with thick white cups and saucers. And deckchairs and a couch against one wall. Not much of a couch but still …

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ asked Matthew. He stood watching her, a curious expression on his face.

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ she answered. The walls were distempered white and there was a framed beach scene on the wall: a woman in a bathing suit with a huge striped ball.

  Matthew propped back the door and put up two of the deckchairs, close together. But they sat for only a short while before he got to his feet again and held out his hand to her. ‘It’s too cold, isn’t it? I’ll close the door, shall I, and light the stove? It will be all cosy in here then.’ He helped her to her feet and they stood close together. She could feel the heat from his body and smell the maleness of him. She moved away and sat on the couch while he pulled the door to.

  ‘Leave it open a little,’ she said. ‘We have to have some light.’ So he left a narrow gap through which the sunlight sent a beam across the stone floor with its tiny rag mat.

  Hetty didn’t know how she felt. She told herself she was in control of the situation, she could leave at any time, there was nothing to worry about. When he sat down beside her and put his arm around her she felt perhaps she would let him kiss her and then she would make an excuse and go. But when he kissed her his lips were hard and demanding and in spite of herself she felt a response rising in her.

  She had been so alone, she told herself afterwards, no one had shown her any affection for so long. So when Matthew murmured in her ear how pretty she was, how he loved her, how it was all right, nothing bad was going to happen to her, he would look after her, she knew she shouldn’t believe him but she did. He covered her breast with his hand and she pushed it away, but he was firm, insistent.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about anything. I know you want me as much as I want you. Just relax now, enjoy yourself.’

  The strange thing was that she did. All the pent-up emotion in her was being released. He pulled her blouse free from her skirt and slid his hand beneath, and what he did then was sending such sensations through her whole body she could hardly breathe.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said once as he pushed her down on the damp-smelling couch.

  ‘Have you?’

  Matthew lifted his face from hers and gazed at her intently but not really seeing her; there was a faraway look in his eyes and he bent his head again, this time to her breast, touching his tongue to the nipple. His hands were busy where her skirt had ridden up.

  ‘Please, Matthew,’ she said weakly and it was hard to tell what she was asking him, but it didn’t matter, he was beyond listening.

  Afterwards, she tried to think of the point where she had been no longer in control or even believed herself in control. As she lay in her narrow bed in the attic room in Diamond Street, muscles she hadn’t known she possessed aching, she went over it. How they had lain, uncomfortable on the couch, listening to the murmurs of the people in the other huts, the children shouting to each other on the beach, the seabirds crying.

  Matthew had lain on her arm, breathing heavily, not quite asleep, and the arm became numb and then painful and she had had to move and disturb him. He had grunted and run his hand down her body, and she had stiffened. He didn’t want to do it again, did he?

  ‘Fetch me a drink of water, will you, love?’ he said, and she thankfully eased herself off the couch and brought him a glass of water from the container by the stove. He sipped and grimaced and turned over on his back and watched as she pulled her clothes together hurriedly. Neither of them had actually undressed.

  He reached to the floor for his jacket and took out his silver cigarette case with the lighter on the end and lit a cigarette, still watching her. Hetty was red-faced and fumbling.

  ‘Oh, go on, take ’em off, let me see you,’ he drawled. ‘Go on, there’s no one else to see here.’

  She looked up at him quickly; even now she couldn’t imagine taking her clothes off for him to see her. Seeing the lurking amusement in his eyes, her blushes deepened. She moved towards the door.

  ‘I have to go,’ she muttered. Her voice came out strangely; she felt outside herself, this couldn’t really be happening.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’

  Matthew jumped to his feet and grabbed her arm. ‘Come on now, don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘It’s too late for that anyway. Come on, sit down and wait for me.’ He sat her down on the couch and put his arm around her, kissing her softly. ‘You’re not bad, do you know that?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Definitely worth waiting for.’ His hands were straying again and Hetty pulled herself away.

  ‘I have to go, Matthew,’ she said stubbornly, and he sighed.

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ he snapped. ‘But don’t come the prim little brat with me, not now.’ It was a glimpse of the old Matthew and it broke the spell for her.

  She rushed outside, past the people at the doors of their beach huts, most of whom were looking at her knowingly. Her face felt as though it were on fire, her sight was blurred. Up the cliff path she went, slowing down to a walk, beginning to pant as she reached the top. She looked behind then, but Matthew was not following her as far as she could see.

  He hadn’t even bothered to follow her, she thought, illogically, for only the minute before she had been praying he would not. The sun had gone behind a cloud and the wind strengthened, veering and blowing off the moors. She shivered. Catching sight of the cliff lift, she feared Matthew might be on it and began to run.

  Reaching home, she crept upstairs to her room and lay on the bed with the coverlet over her, so tired her mind was blank. After a while she got up and brought a jug of hot water from the bathroom and washed herself all over. She thought longingly of the bath, how heavenly it would be simply to soak in hot soapy water, but a bath cost threepence extra and she couldn’t afford it.

  She had sold herself for a meal, she thought, a meal and a little show of affection. How could she have done it, especially with Matthew of all people? And now she couldn’t go home. Always in the back of her mind she had thought she could go home even during the first years after Cissy died, for surely Mam would take her in? Her father would at least. Or she could go to Gran’s. They would not want her to starve. But now she couldn’t. Suppose she went home and they welcomed her back and then she found she had fallen wrong?

  Fallen wrong! Was it possible, after only once? Could she be having a baby already? The thought was shocking, it had only just occurred to her, why hadn’t she thought of it at the time? Why hadn’t she thought of it before she went into the hut? a small voice asked sternly.

  Oh God, she was letting her imagination run away with her again. If she stayed in this room much longer she would go mad.

  ‘Anyroad,’ she said aloud as she pulled on her coat and a drab brown beret over her hair, ‘I’ll have to find some work if I want to eat this week. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”’ As the minister back in Morton Main would say. A walk would take her mind off things, loosen her up, she felt all stiff and strange.

  Locking her door, she went down the four flights of stairs to the main door and peeped out. The street was quiet, no sign of Matthew. She did her usual round of the hotels, asking for work, any sort of work, but there was none.

  ‘I might have a few nights next weekend, love,’ Mr Jordan said, and afterwards, when she turned away, he watched her go. The lass looked poor, pale and with shadows under her eyes, he thought. He shook his head, there was nothing h
e could do about it.

  Alice was in the fish shop and waved as Hetty went by. They had become friendly in the short time Hetty had been in Saltburn. She went past and had a last look in the newsagent’s window. Nothing. She walked back to see Alice.

  ‘Can you not find anything, love?’ Her friend was sympathetic. The shop was empty and she leaned over the counter, resting her arms comfortably on the pile of newspapers. She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Look, I know a place for you. You remember that Mr Hutchins? Go on, you do, he was in that first day you came here when you’d lost your job. Well, he’s been in here again, looking for a housekeeper – someone who will look after his children an’ all. I’ve been watching for you. I told him – “I know just the girl for you, a decent girl,” I said.’

  ‘Housekeeper?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a widower, three children. You could manage three children, couldn’t you? Mind, it’s not in Saltburn, it’s in Smuggler’s Cove. He’s a miner. A good chap, a chapel man. His last housekeeper has gone off. Here, I got the details. He said if you were interested to go there this afternoon, he’s on early shift.’

  ‘Own room, one afternoon free a week plus time off on Sundays,’ the piece of paper read. ‘Board and five shillings a week.’

  Smuggler’s Cove. Oh, it sounded lovely, a little village on the coast.

  ‘Thanks, Alice. Oh, thank you,’ cried Hetty, all her troubles forgotten for the minute. ‘It’ll be grand, won’t it, a little village by the sea?’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly – do you not know Smuggler’s Cove?’

  ‘No, but I know I can get a bus there from Station Square. I’ll go now.’

  Before Alice could say any more, Hetty was out of the shop and hurrying towards the bus stop.

  Chapter 11

  Richard drove through Darlington, stopping and starting and getting into jams for it was Monday, market day, and besides the market stalls were thronged with people. There were cattle trucks converging on the cattle mart and even a few farmers herding their own beasts. He’d made a mistake in trying to cut through the centre of the town, he thought wryly. But at last he reached Bondgate and found the road out to Bishop Auckland. It was a fine morning. At last there was a hint of warmth in the sun and buds on the trees were bursting green though the hedges still looked brown and barren. But underneath there were new shoots of grass and the occasional wildflower, a coltsfoot lifting its head to the sun, a few early daisies.

  He wasn’t sure where he was going, though he knew it was a village close to the little town, but he had the correct address from Sally, he would find it.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know where Hetty’s family live,’ she had said, and had looked curiously at him. By, she would have a tale to tell when she wrote home! she thought. Though she was a poor writer and so far hadn’t got around to writing even though there were such things to tell about Hetty Pearson, and her from a chapel family an’ all. But she would write.

  So Richard had the address in his top pocket, scribbled down on the back page of his appointments diary. He drove through Heighington and Shildon, where he had to wait by the Railway Waggon Works for the road was crossed by a railway line here and a waggon was being shunted up the line for a few yards and back again into the workshop. The smell from the engine got into the car, oily and sooty at the same time and reminiscent of stations, so that he closed the window.

  As he sat, he thought about what he was going to say to Hetty when he got to her parents’ house. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t support you,’ he could say, but what would that mean? Hadn’t he seen her with Matthew with his own eyes? Anyway, he couldn’t say she could have her job back, only his father could do that and he would not. Even though Elizabeth was sinking back into a drugged lethargy now that Hetty was no longer there.

  A car hooting behind him brought him back to the present. The gates were open. Richard put his own car into gear and went on to Bishop Auckland. Pulling into the kerb as he came out from South Church Road into Newgate Street, he took out the address Sally had given him and consulted his map. He’d come past the turn-off for Morton Main, he realised, and looked about him. The narrow street, so straight it must have been a Roman road originally, was very quiet in contrast with Darlington, though of course it had been market day there. The depression still held sway in this area, he thought. The few people there were poorly dressed housewives with shopping baskets looking into the windows of the Co-op.

  Richard leaned out of the window to ask directions of a man wandering aimlessly along the path, his collarless neck wound in a white scarf, grey hair clipped very short except for a fringe across his brow – the typical miner’s cut.

  ‘Morton Main? Oh, aye, I can tell you that. I live out that way anyroad. You’ll have to turn round and take the road out to South Church.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Richard, and hesitated a minute. ‘Would you like a lift home since I’m going that way?’

  The man shook his head regretfully. ‘No, I have to go to the Labour Exchange. It’s signing on day, like.’ Encouraged by Richard’s friendliness, he went on, ‘By, it’s a grand motor you’ve got there though. A Riley, eh?’

  ‘Yes. A Riley Monaco. Only a year old.’ He glanced at the gleaming walnut dashboard with pride. ‘Well, if you’re sure … Look, would you like a cigarette?’ He fished in the glove compartment and brought out a packet of Capstans.

  ‘No, no, there’s no need,’ the miner answered, thrusting his hands deep into his jacket pockets though Richard caught the gleam of regret in his eyes. ‘I have some tabs, thanks.’ There was a half stub of a Woodbine behind his ear, Richard noticed.

  ‘Well, take one anyway,’ he insisted, and after a moment the man did. He leaned forward as Richard held out his lighter and lit the cigarette then stood and inhaled slowly.

  ‘Are you looking for anybody in particular? If you’ll excuse me asking, like.’

  ‘That’s all right. Yes, I am, the Pearson family, but I have the address: nine Office Street.’

  ‘Well, go through the old village and Office Street’s right on the end of the rows, next to Chapel Row.’

  Richard thanked him and started the car. Driving down the street, he turned round in the market place, by the entrance to the bishop’s palace, catching a glimpse of the stone battlements of the old castle. Nothing shabby about that, he thought to himself.

  The miners’ rows, when he got there, were much like the ironstone miners’ cottages in the villages on the North Yorkshire coast. Each house had its tin bath hanging on the wall in the yard; every step was sandstoned clean, even the yard steps. He found number nine Office Street without difficulty, hesitating before going in the back way, but as far as he could see there was no road to the front. Being the end row there were gardens there. So he walked up the yard and knocked on the back door. The dolly-dyed net curtain hung at the window didn’t even twitch before the door was flung open.

  ‘Oh! I thought it was the doctor’s man. He’s the only one who knocks around here.’

  The woman who opened the door looked like an older version of Hetty; Richard would have realised who she was anywhere. She was drying her hands on her apron as she looked at him, her head held on one side enquiringly.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Who is it, Maggie?’

  She turned her head to answer another woman’s voice. ‘I’ll tell you when I know mesel’, Mother.’

  ‘Mrs Pearson? My name is Richard Fortune, may I come in?’

  ‘Oh, aye, of course. Come in, what am I thinking about?’ said Maggie, standing back to allow him to pass into the kitchen.

  Now he was here, Richard wasn’t sure what he was going to say. There was no sign of Hetty, no doubt she had found work elsewhere. He looked around the room, taking in the gleaming black-leaded range, the cheap oilcloth on the floor covered with clipped rag mats, the bare table scrubbed white and with piles of wet washing on it and a scrubbing brush. In one corner of the kitchen was a zinc dolly tub complete with
rubbing board. Of course, Monday, it was washing day.

  An older woman was standing by it; obviously Richard had interrupted her labours. She too dried her hands on her apron and came forward, ushering him to a chair by the fire.

  ‘Richard Fortune, did you say? You mean from Fortune Hall, where Hetty works? Has something happened to my granddaughter?’

  ‘No, not exactly.’ He hesitated, confused. He did not sit down for both the women were standing, looking anxious. Well, I mean, Hetty used to work for us … she left ten days ago. I thought she would be here.’

  ‘Here? No, I haven’t heard from her.’ Maggie looked at her mother, flushing at the accusatory expression on her face.

  ‘No, well, she wouldn’t come here, would she? Not after the way you treated her. But why didn’t she come to me?’ There was a hurt expression on her face as the older woman turned to Richard. ‘There wasn’t anything wrong, was there? I mean, the bairn was all right, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing wrong. I mean, she was quite well, Mrs …?’

  ‘My mother, Mrs Wearmouth,’ Maggie said belatedly. She sat down suddenly by the table, staring at nothing.

  ‘Well, we’d best all sit down. Howay, lad.’ She waited until Richard was settled before going on: ‘She mebbe had another place to go to?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I thought she might have found work here.’ She had no references, he realised now. How could she get another post?

  ‘She was turned off, wasn’t she?’ Mrs Pearson said, and it was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Well—’

  ‘So she’ll have no character.’

  Richard was inspired. He drew his pen from his inside. pocket. ‘Well, as it happens, we – my father and I, that is – we remembered that we had not given Hetty a reference. So I thought, as I was going to Durham today, I would call in and see if she needed one. I could write one out now, if you like? In case Hetty should come home.’