The Servant Girl

by Maggie Hope

  Well, she would try the attic. There were no electric lights in this house, no electricity at all, just candles and paraffin lamps which she was unable to use because Matthew always forgot to bring the paraffin. But at the bottom of the steep attic stairs, there was a candlestick with a stub of a candle and an ancient box of matches.

  Hetty began to enjoy herself as she lit the candle and climbed the narrow flight to the attics. It reminded her of the times she and Ethel had giggled together in the attic bedroom at Fortune Hall, but most of all it reminded her of a haunted house film she had seen once at the King’s Hall in Bishop Auckland. By, it was funny.

  Disappointingly, the candle wasn’t necessary, there was plenty of light in the attics from windows let into the roof. Regretfully, she blew out the flame and left the candle by the door. There were lots of boxes in the attic, all dusty. She opened one and peeped inside. It was filled with books, old-fashioned books, leather bound with gold leaf on the edges of the pages. Some of them looked as though they had never been opened. She was just going to delve further into the box when she caught sight of a cradle, a lovely rocking cradle with a hood and frills and when she blew a little of the dust away she saw the material was satin. By, it would be grand if she could have it for the baby, aye, it would. She forgot about the books as she took the duster she had got into the habit of carrying around with her since she came to this house and carefully wiped away the dust.

  Mind, she told herself, they won’t let you have it. The cradle was a family one, handed down no doubt; she bet Jeremy and his father had slept in this cradle. Her hands caressed the polished rosewood of the frame regretfully. Her baby would have a dresser drawer for a cradle, just as she had had herself. Matthew wouldn’t provide for the bairn, she was fairly sure of that, everything it had she would have to get. But what was wrong with a pillow in a drawer? Babbies didn’t know the difference.

  There was a sound downstairs, what was it? For a minute her heart thudded; they were such miles from anywhere and Matthew wouldn’t be home for hours yet. The wind it would be, she told herself, aye. The wind was something shocking up here on the top of the cliff, it fair whistled through the house. And when it rained, the wind slashed across the windows so that it sounded like needles hitting the glass.

  Nevertheless, Hetty went down the stairs to investigate, just in case anyone was there. Pausing at the mirror which stood on the first-floor landing, she rubbed a smudge of dust from her cheek and took off her apron, rolling it into a ball and leaving it there.

  The main door was open, that was what it was, she must not have closed it properly. She ran across the hall and was about to close it when she heard a man’s cough. Flinging the door wide, she stepped forward to confront whoever it was and found herself face to face with her father.

  ‘Aye, we have the right house, Frank,’ he called over his shoulder and there was her brother. ‘Now then, Hetty,’ he said and she flung herself on to her father, laughing and crying together.

  ‘Oh, Da! Oh, Da!’

  He hugged her awkwardly and then Frank stepped forward and kissed her cheek and swung her round off her feet. The sun shone and happiness bubbled up inside her and Da took off his cap and beamed at both of them.

  ‘Aren’t you asking us in, lass?’ he said at last. ‘By, we’ve been walking all afternoon, I’m ready for a sit down and a sup of tea.’

  They sat in the kitchen around the table and Hetty made tea and took out a packet of shop-bought biscuits Matthew had brought with the groceries. Da looked dubiously at them and declined. They talked about how the pit had gone back on to three-day working and how Mam had had a bad cold but was getting better now and how Gran was failing and didn’t get over to Morton Main as much as she used to do.

  ‘We had some bother finding the place,’ said Frank. ‘It was Mr Painter who told us where you were. Why didn’t you write sooner, Hetty?’

  She looked at him. How could she say she had but that Matthew had kept her letters? So far they hadn’t mentioned Matthew but he was in all of their minds, she could feel his presence like a physical thing. Da leaned back in his chair and planted both booted feet squarely on the red tiles of the floor.

  ‘You fair broke your mother’s heart when you went off like that without a word,’ he said. ‘Why did you do it, Hetty?’

  ‘Matthew … Matthew wanted …’ she began but her voice trailed off. She wasn’t at all sure why she did it nor even what had happened that day.

  ‘Aye, Matthew,’ said Frank. ‘Does he treat you right, Hetty?’

  ‘Aye, he does,’ she said, but there must have been something in her voice, some hesitation.

  ‘You’ll come home with us,’ Da declared. ‘Bairn or no bairn. You didn’t think we’d just abandon you, did you?’

  Hetty looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. What about Mam? she wanted to ask. What about the shame, the gossip in the rows, what about my baby brought up without a father? But she just couldn’t manage to bring out the words.

  ‘Where’s the lad now, then?’

  ‘He’s at work. He works for Mr Painter. At the iron works. The office.’

  Thomas thought about it. He didn’t know much about the gentry but he was sure working in an office must be a comedown for one of them. He shrugged. ‘Well, you can come with us now, leave him a note. If we go now we’ll be back in time for first shift at the pit. Go on, Hetty, get your things together.’

  ‘I can’t, Da.’

  Thomas exploded. He jumped to his feet, the studs in his pit boots ringing on the tiles. ‘Damn it all, lass, what’s the matter with you, have you got no backbone at all? Where’s your pride? He’s not going to marry you, can you not see that? Not when he can get all he wants without. An’ what about your babby then, eh?’

  ‘He’s right, Hetty.’ She looked over at Frank as he agreed with his father. His face was red, embarrassed but earnest. What was she doing to them?

  ‘Matthew says we will be wed, Da,’ she said. ‘An’ I want my bairn to have a name.’

  ‘Aye, well, I understand that but—’

  The sound of a car’s engine cut across his words. All three of them looked towards the door. The front door banged and they heard footsteps as the new arrival marched through to the back of the house. Seconds later the door opened and Matthew stood there smiling grimly.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I thought I would find you all in the kitchen, it being your natural habitat, and I was right, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Matthew, this is my father and—’

  ‘I know who they are, Hetty. Jeremy bloody Painter came back into the office especially to tell me about our visitors.’

  Thomas and his son looked at each other and Thomas got to his feet. ‘Hetty, Frank and me’d like a word with your man private like,’ he said.

  Hetty knew that tone from the few times in the past she had heard her father use it and she turned to leave the kitchen.

  ‘Stay where you are, Hetty, I’m sure your father has nothing to say you can’t hear,’ said Matthew.

  She looked from him to her da. Matthew was still smiling, a cruel, contemptuous smile. Oh, she was used to that smile but she couldn’t bear to see it used on her da. ‘I’ll just be upstairs,’ she said and went out, not looking again at Matthew.

  Thomas began straight away. ‘I want Hetty to come home with us, we’ll look after her,’ he said.

  Matthew felt a surge of rage so intense it burned. ‘She is staying with me!’ he snapped.

  ‘Will you marry her?’

  Matthew hesitated for only a second but it was enough. Frank stepped forward. ‘You’ll not, will you? No, you’ll lead the lass on wi’ promises an’ such like and when you’ve finished wi’ her you’ll hoy her out.’

  Matthew raised his eyes to the ceiling. With a great effort he managed to keep his rage in bounds as he said, with all the contempt he had for the lower classes, ‘What the hell am I doing, standing here in a kitchen arguing with a pair of pitmen?’
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br />   ‘Why, man, lad,’ said Thomas, his voice flat and even, ‘why, man, we don’t have to stay in the kitchen, do we?’ He nodded to Frank and they moved in unison, Frank clasping his arms round Matthew’s upper body and Thomas opening the door which led to a cobbled courtyard with stables opposite.

  ‘Let me go, you oaf!’ Matthew said through clenched teeth. He strove to free himself. He was a head taller than Frank and broad-shouldered from the rugby he had played at school and university but Frank was a coal hewer, with massive shoulders and forearms from wielding the pick in confined spaces.

  ‘I’ll let you go,’ Frank said pleasantly once they were in the middle of the courtyard. ‘Now, Da asked you a civil question and he wants a civil answer.’ He moved back a pace so that the three of them were standing in a line, with Matthew in the middle.

  He couldn’t believe this was happening. After the rotten day he had had, to have such peasants lay their hands on him!

  ‘Oh, go to hell,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I like, and if I don’t like to marry her I bloody well won’t. There’s not a damn’ thing you can do about it.’

  ‘Is there not?’

  Frank stepped forward and Matthew put up his fists to defend himself but Frank was too quick for him. With one swing of his fist he caught Matthew on the jaw and he fell back, not on the cobbles but into Thomas’s arms. Thomas watched interestedly as blood began to well from Matthew’s mouth.

  ‘You broke my tooth, you—’

  ‘Aye, he did,’ commented Thomas. ‘Now then, can you stand up by yourself, man?’

  ‘By God, I swear I’ll have you for assault,’ he said savagely.

  ‘Eeh, I think not,’ said Frank. ‘Not when the circumstances come out. But thanks for the warning like. Now, what were you saying about our Hetty?’

  She had heard the commotion and was watching the confrontation from the back landing window. She couldn’t believe it when Frank hit Matthew – Frank who was such a quiet, inoffensive man, Frank, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. And what’s more, it looked like he would do it again. Hetty rushed down the stairs and through the kitchen to the back door.

  ‘Frank, Frank, don’t do it!’ she cried, just too late to stop the blow falling on Matthew’s face, the blow which cut straight across his eyebrow and closed his eye. Thomas deftly caught him again and lowered him to the ground gently for Matthew was knocked out.

  ‘Jack Dempsey couldn’t have done better,’ he observed, giving his son an admiring glance.

  ‘Frank! Eeh, Frank, what have you done?’ Her father and brother drew back as Hetty ran across the cobbles, sobbing, and flung herself down beside Matthew. Anxiously she was checking his pulse. Oh, thank God he was not dead. What would she do if they put her da and Frank in Durham Gaol? And it would be all her fault … what would Mam do without her menfolk? Dear God, please God, she prayed, let him be all right.

  To Thomas and Frank, as they watched her distraught state, it looked as though it was all due to her feeling for Matthew. She must love the bloke really, Frank thought, depression falling on him.

  ‘Come on, Da,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’re wanted here.’

  Chapter 25

  Hetty sat in the attic, listening anxiously for any noise which would show that Matthew was waking up.

  ‘Get away from me, woman!’ he had shouted at her when he had come round, lying on the cobbles with the stink of ancient horse manure in his nostrils. He had sat up, gagging, his head screaming in protest at the sudden movement.

  ‘I’ll help you up,’ Hetty said, holding out her hand.

  ‘I can get up myself,’ he roared, or thought he’d roared; it came out pathetically quiet. That was what it had been: pathetic, humiliating. Where were they? He’d kill them, he’d take a horse whip to them, he’d … The courtyard was empty but for Hetty, standing over him, her eyes large and anxious.

  ‘You won’t set the polis on them, will you?’ she asked.

  Matthew staggered to his feet and lurched for the doorway. ‘Set the police on them? I’ll have them for attempted murder, I will. I swear I will,’ he snarled.

  ‘No! No, don’t, please don’t,’ she begged. They were in the hall now, she following him as he stumbled inside, refusing to let her help him.

  ‘You’re not really hurt, Matthew, not really, are you?’

  Her anxious questions maddened him. He turned on her suddenly, his fist lifted, and she fled to the staircase. He started after her but stopped after only a few steps, his hands on his head. ‘Just you wait,’ he said thickly, ‘when I catch you, I’ll—’

  But Hetty didn’t wait to find out what he would do. She raced up the stairs, all the way to the top of the house, to the attics. She had sat there on a dusty trunk until everything below her was quiet then she crept downstairs. Matthew was asleep in an armchair in the drawing room, a whisky glass in his hand. She stared at him searchingly, wanting to make sure he was just asleep, not ill, not injured. Matthew awakened abruptly and saw her and a deep rumbling started in his throat. Hetty fled back to the attic, fastening the door at the head of the narrow stairs behind her with the hook and eye latch she found on the inside.

  It was beginning to grow dark but she stayed where she was. Best wait until tomorrow, she thought, Matthew would have to go to work tomorrow. It wasn’t that she was frightened for herself but if he got hold of her while he was in a rage he might hurt the baby. The shadows stretched across the boarded floor; the sun must be almost down now, the air was cooler. She began to look around for something to wrap herself in. There were shawls in one of the trunks, not warm woollen shawls but silky embroidered shawls, no good at all for her purpose. But in one old press there were blankets, moth-eaten but woollen, and she pulled them out gratefully.

  She made herself a sort of bed with them, using one rolled up as a pillow. Then she lit the candle and delved in the box of books. If she had something to read it would pass the time for she didn’t want to think about Da just now, or Frank, it hurt too much. They were old books, perhaps a hundred years old, some of them more. She turned the pages curiously. There was a set of books on Household Management for the New Bride. She fell asleep reading the section on ‘How to Manage Servants’.

  The telephone woke her, the one which Mr Painter had insisted on having installed only a week ago. The poles holding the wire marched across the fields, looking alien, out of place. For a minute she didn’t know what it was and jumped up in alarm, hardly knowing where she was. She went to the door and opened it a little, anxiously wondering if Matthew had heard it. He had. There was his voice answering it though she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Then he was shouting through the house for her, calling up the stairs and out by the kitchen. ‘Hetty? Hetty, where the hell are you?’ She waited, holding her breath, though there was no possible way he could have heard it down three flights of stairs.

  ‘I know you’re there, Hetty. When I come back I’ll find you,’ he threatened. Then she heard the front door bang and the engine of his car start up. He was gone. Thankfully she descended to the kitchen and cut herself a slice from the loaf and took a lump of cheese from the pantry. She sat at the table and forced herself to eat, washing it down with cold water from the tap and listening all the time for the return of the engine.

  At last she could allow herself to think of the ache inside her, it was almost a physical sensation. Why had Da and Frank gone away so quickly? She couldn’t understand it. One minute she had been looking and feeling to see if Matthew was dead, terrified that if he were, her father and brother would be taken by the police, and then when she’d looked up they had gone. She felt utterly deserted. What if Matthew had been dead and she had been left alone to face the consequences? If they were so afraid of going to gaol, why did they do it in the first place?

  She remembered the fight that had broken out one night outside The Black Boy in Morton. A man had died then and two miners had disappeared and were never seen again. Da and Frank wouldn’t just
disappear, would they? No, no, her imagination was running riot again, what a fool she was.

  Suddenly she felt so tired, so bone weary, that she had to go to bed. A proper bed, not the shake down she had made up in the attic. She would wake when Matthew came in, she told herself, she always did when she heard the car. She went upstairs and washed in the ornately old-fashioned bathroom which had garlands of painted roses on the handbasin and around the bowl of the water closet. Then she took off her dress and got into bed, too tired even to remove her petticoat. Yet she tossed and turned for a while before she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Matthew rang the bell on the door of Ridgeways, Jeremy Painter’s house. He scowled, waiting on the step like some damned tradesman, he thought savagely. In fact, Jeremy Painter was beginning seriously to annoy him. Matthew grinned mirthlessly – an understatement if ever there was one. Just you wait, Jeremy bloody Painter, don’t think you can get away with this! Wait until my father comes to his senses, I am his heir after all. Then you may look out, I don’t forget insults. And the way he’d been treated since he came to work for Painter had been more than an insult, it had been a flaming outrage. Like a messenger boy, in fact, the merest factotum. Once, he’d even been asked to make the tea.

  ‘My secretary is busy, old chap,’ Painter had said. Old chap! Smarmy sod. Matthew put out a hand to ring the bell again. Why didn’t he just walk in? It was open. Because Painter had made it plain the one time he did that that it wasn’t the behaviour of an employee.

  ‘Yes?’

  The door had opened and Painter’s manservant stood there, looking down his nose. Matthew’s patience was at an end. He pushed past the man into the hall.

  ‘Where’s your master?’ he demanded. It was ten o’clock in the evening and Matthew’s head ached. He put up a hand and felt the bruise over his eye; his tongue gingerly probed his broken tooth. He needed a drink.