by Jane Harris
‘Oh!’ she goes, startled when she seen me. The bowl near dropped out her hand but she caught it. Which at the time I thought a powerful shame.
‘Bessy!’ she goes. ‘You gave me a fright!’
‘Crumbs and Christopher!’ says I. ‘Did you think I was somebody else?’
‘Hmm?’ she says and then she frowned. ‘No, I just didn’t hear you come in. You look much better. Are you feeling better?’
‘Indeed so,’ says I.
‘Oh well, that is good news,’ says she and set down the bowl of eggs. ‘In that case I shall let you get on with it. When Hector appears be so good as to tell him to tell Jessie I won’t be needing her today.’
And with those words she left the kitchen. I stood there a moment, blinking, and then followed her. She was heading upstairs no doubt to write something in her flipping book. The back of her skirts were clean, no hint of jelly there.
‘D’you not want a breakfast, missus?’ I calls up after her. ‘What about the master? Will he be wanting some?’
She turned, ½ way up the stairs. ‘Now think, Bessy dear,’ she says. ‘Do you want a breakfast . . .?’ And here, she paused and looked at me with her eyebrows raised.
‘I’ll have some in a minute,’ I says, deliberately misunderstanding her.
She sighed. ‘Ma’am,’ she says. ‘Do you want a breakfast, ma’am? Now are you sure you’re well enough to work, Bessy? I don’t want you exhausting yourself.’
‘Yes, marm,’ I says.
What a fake! Her I’m talking about, not me.
And yet when she turned again and made her way up the stairs I stood rooted to the spot, watching her as she retreated, the lovely sway of her back.
The master was up and away already, looking over his policies with his foreman. He was absent all morning and the missus might as well have been for all I seen of her. For some reason the kitchen seemed a gloomier place than I remembered. I kept noticing dirt everywhere, in the cracks in the table and down the sides of things and in all the little corners it was hard to reach. Had it got so filthy in the space of just 3 days? Or had it always been like that? And if so why had nobody noticed?
Nothing seemed to go right that morning. I stood in the saucer and spilled the cats milk. The broom handle broke in two as soon as I looked at it and so I had to work bent over like a ½ shut knife. Then the crumbs and dirt just didn’t want to be swep up, they kept escaping from the bristles. And when I finally did manage to fill the dustpan, what did I do but step on it so that all the muck went skiting across the floor again. Making broth was no better. The carrots was wormy and the turnip was like an old sponge, slicing them up seemed to take forever. I used to like looking out the window whilst I prepared the food but on that day the view gave me no relief, so foul and foreboding was the weather. A rainstorm was brewing in the distance and the sky was that dark and menacing the gulls appeared bright white against it, soaring across the black clouds like slips of ghosts.
I had only been awake a few hours and already I was flipping banjaxed. Of course, the real problem was that there was too much work for one person. This had never really bothered me before. But now it struck me as a great injustice. And now I felt betrayed by the missus, everything was laid bare before me and I saw the place for what it really was, more like I’d thought of it when I first arrived—a crumbling, drafty old wreck in a dismal landscape scarred by pits and with the stink of cows trapped under a leaden sky.
Oh how I longed for Crown House! To be tucked up under a rug by the fire, eating hot buttered crumpets and playing Cassino with my Mr Levy!
Much as missus was not in my favour, I found myself longing for her to put in an appearance as the day went on. But she seemed inclined to avoid me, as stated in her book. I only caught a few glimpses of her, once as she hurried out to speak to Muriel and once as she swep past me on the stairs, on her way to sort through the linen chest. She greeted me both times with a smile, but I could tell she was really giving me the bony shoulder.
That afternoon the master returned to the house about 4 o’clock and ½ an hour later called me to his study with a ring of the bell. When I went in he was stood at the window, watching the rain drip down the glass.
‘Excellent,’ he says when he seen me, although in my current mood I did not feel that I excelled in any way shape or form whatsoever. I give him a curtsey and he indicated an old nursing chair upon which lay the folded newspaper.
‘Sit yourself down,’ he says, ‘and please read me the notices in the left hand column on the first page.’
‘Just the left hand column, sir?’ I says and he replied that the left hand column would suffice for the present.
I sat down, unfolded the newspaper and began to read aloud. Normally, I might have been soiling myself about this whole procedure, but I was so sunk in my gloom that nothing seemed to matter. It was a Glasgow newspaper, I don’t remember the exact wordings but the gist of the first notice was as follows. ‘The Gentleman who took the Wrong HAT from the U.P. Church, North Portland Street, last Sabbath afternoon, will greatly oblige the Owner by returning the same to him at Mrs Grahams, 57 South Portland Street.’
Master James appeared to find this very amusing. ‘Heh-heh-heh!’ he goes with great glee. ‘Fellow lost his hat! But before we go on, I suspect there is something the matter with you, girl. Your face is that long you may trip on your chin. I fear you are still unwell.’
‘No sir. I am quite recovered thank you.’
‘I see,’ he says. ‘Well—try to sound less like a funeral orator. Next one. Speak out.’
It was a great effort but I raised my voice. ‘STOLEN or STRAYED, on Wednesday or Thursday, an English TUP belonging to Robert Kerr, Milngavie. A Suitable Reward will be given to any person giving such information as will lead to recovery.’
Master James chuckled. ‘Wonderful,’ he says. ‘Imagine what kind of mentality could lose a tup. No doubt the animal was sharper than its master. It did not care for Milngavie or Robert Kerr. Aye, it has moved to Dumbarton and become a procurator fiscal. But you do not seem to find it amusing, girl.’
‘Oh I do sir,’ I says, very mournful.
‘Well then,’ he says. ‘Continue please, with greater levity.’
I did try to render the next notice more cheerful but the content of it was so sad that I grew increasingly depressed as I read and by the end of it I was near enough in tears. ‘LEFT HER HOME on last Saturday and has not been seen or heard of since, MRS AGNES FAULDS or CRAWFORD. She is about the ordinary height, thin, pale complexion, brown hair. Had on grey shawl, wincey polka, dark petticoat. She is about 27 years of age and is a little wrong in the mind. Any information will be thankfully received by her Husband, T. Crawford, 42 King Street, Calton.’
‘Och dearie me!’ says master James, pacing up and down. ‘This time at least you are right to look sad. Aye, a real tragedy. But mark you,’ he raised a finger and addressed me like as if I were a member of a jury, ‘no compensation is offered. You see that one man will give a reward for the recovery of his tup, while another will give only thanks for the rescue of his wife. I suggest to you that one need not read the articles in the newspaper at all, for here—in the humble notices—all humanity is laid bare. Aye indeed. Next one.’
And so it went. I read the notices, he commented on them. All the while, I strained to hear every sound from the rest of the house, worrying that missus might, in my absence, go into the kitchen. The longer I stayed in the study, the more likely I was to miss her. So it was with great relief, as I turned the page of the newspaper, that I heard master James clear his throat and begin to shuffle papers. He had picked up a catalogue from his desk. There was a drawing on the front of an ornate metal structure.
‘No, that will do, Bessy,’ he says. ‘You may get on with your own work. Well done.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
He narrowed his eyes and gave me a canny look.
‘I suspect that there is a young man behind all these melan
choly sighs and faces,’ he says. ‘But remember, Bessy, these things are never as bad as they seem. I guarantee you that you will wake up one morning and think to yourself—how foolish I have been.’
‘Indeed sir,’ I says. ‘You seem to know me better than I know myself.’
And I left the room quickly, biting my tongue in case I said anything worse.
Earlier, I had closed the kitchen door behind me but now it lay open and despite myself I felt my heart soar. I slowed my pace and sauntered into the room, glancing from side to side in a relaxed and natural fashion, ready to sham surprise at seeing missus there. Perhaps I might persuade her into conversation. She might even sit with me while I made the dinner. I could write something quick in my little book to show her. But the kitchen was empty. Instead, awaiting me on the table was a note. Although it bore no signature, the handwriting was unmistakable.
Dear Bessy, Dinner for two to be served in dining room at six o’clock please. Soup, then mutton (follow Actons recipe—DO NOT make it up). Serve with potatoes. No dessert. Please lay up plates in kitchen and bring them upstairs. Once plates are on table, leave room and do not return until rung for. Thank you. Please excuse note but I have headache and must lie down.
So this was what we were reduced to, communicating in writing (I did not believe her about the flipping headache). I crumpled up the note and threw it into the swill bucket in a temper and must add that my mood was not improved by later having to fish it out because I had forgot at what o’clock she wanted the dinner to be served.
That evening, as requested, I took them their meal in the dining room. This was to be the first time I had ever waited on missus and her husband together and it should at least have been an occasion for curiosity. But the novelty of the arrangement was lost on me, as throughout proceedings I felt as drear and brown and lumpish as the gravy on their meat (I had followed the recipe but unfortunately it had not turned out quite as expected). Master James nodded at me as I set down his plates but for her part the missus did not look at me once, indeed she seemed at pains to avoid my eye. Any time I was in the room she strained to keep the conversation going with her husband, firing questions at him one after the other as you might bat at a ball to keep it in the air and it seemed to me that this was mainly in order to prevent me from making any remarks of my own (as if I would!).
Nobody rang for me again that night and I went to bed at 10 o’clock, weary and dispirited. The following day I awoke better rested and with a sliver of hope in my breast but this was dashed when missus told me that she and her husband were going out for the day and when later, upon their return, she claimed to be too tired for a punctuation lesson. She was all smiles and politeness and calling you ‘dear’ but I knew fine well she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
All that week it felt to me like the two of us sashayed around each other, the rules of the dance was never to be in the same place at the same time, for if ever I waltzed into a room it would only be a matter of moments before missus went reeling out of it.
The masters presence in our midst also gave life at Castle Haivers a new character. His routine did not vary much. Off he’d go to meet his foreman in the morning and that would be the last you seen of him and his louse ladders until late afternoon. About 4 o’clock, if he’d got hold of a newspaper from Glasgow or Edinburgh I had to read him the notices, after which he would attend to his paperwork.
He was a busy man right enough for as well as the estate to run and his business interests in Glasgow, it seemed that master James had political ambitions which is one reason why he had been in London. Mr Weir-Paterson, the local Member of Parliament, was known to be not only of advanced age but in poor health and fond of a glass of port to boot. And although it was never spoke aloud, it was commonly thought that his constituency might become available at any time. James Reid had his eye on that seat, his step was quick, his buttocks limber, given ½ a chance and the indulgence of the public his arse would be in it before you could say ‘Gout’. Even though Weir-Paterson was not yet dead, master James electioneering had already begun in earnest, with good works and society. His good work was a plan to install a public fountain in Snatter, fed from a new source (since the water supply thereabouts was of notorious poor quality). As for society he was always out to dine with this one and that one in the neighbourhood, only them that had the vote, of course. Sometimes missus went with him on these visits and sometimes he took his friend McGregor-Robertson. If the master dined at home, missus ate with him but if he went out and left her behind she avoided me by keeping to her room.
I don’t know much about politics. But I do know one thing.
No I don’t. I knew one thing a minute ago but now I forget what it was. I’ll tell you this instead. I watched them. When the two of them were together and when it were possible I watched them close as a dipper studies his mark. The ways of married ladies and gentlemen were not familiar to me. I watched them, and it seemed to me that there was something amiss between this pair, the missus and her husband, and not just the fact that they did not share a bed. For one thing, his treatment of her was puzzling. Mostly, he was gracious to a fault with her but in a manner that was over-polite and assiduous (now there’s a word for you!), as you might be with a person you just met or an invalid rather than with your young wife. At other times, however, his patience seemed to snap for no good reason. He became brusque with her, interrupting or ignoring her, or contradicting what she said. As for missus, no matter how he acted, she was pleasant to him and dutiful and all the things a wife is meant to be. Except, of course, for one minor detail.
She was lying through her teeth to him the whole time.
I had already guessed that her husband was unaware she was writing a book. It did not take long to work out that he didn’t know about what she got up to with the servants either. Proof of this was that—from the moment he arrived at the farm—the experiments ceased altogether. No more strange moods, no outlandish requests, no more sit, stand, sit. It was as though none of it had ever happened. I realised that when she had went on about me being discreet, there was one person in particular she wanted me to be discreet with—and that was her husband. Well I had a good mind to tell him all about what she got up to when he wasn’t there, so I did. Make her laugh on the other side of her mouth.
But it was not long before I was to discover another, more entertaining, way to take my revenge.
9
An Important Dinner
TWO THINGS HAPPENED at about this time. Master James decided to give an Important Dinner. And a little later, I thought of how I would get my own back on missus. Let’s have dinner first. On the day the invitations went out the master and missus were that excited Jesus Murphy it were a shame only a handful of guests was invited because with all their nervous agitation the pair of them was lit up like a couple of candelabras and could have illuminated a ballroom. In comparison, my own mood was shabby, my spirits low, my hostility for missus at a peak. The Reverend Pollock was to be among the guests (I need not tell you the jig of joy I danced at that news) as was McGregor-Robertson, the doctor. Mr Davy Flemyng was also invited. He was only a tenant of master James, but a cut above the rest by virtue of his growing repute as a poet. (It was with him that they’d dined on the night of the masters return.) The other guests were strangers to me, according to missus they were ‘people of influence’. There was Mr Mungo Rankin who owned adjacent farmland but was now turning his fields over to coal pits. He was to be accompanied by his lady wife. And most important of those invited was Mr Duncan Pollock, Member of Parliament, no less. This bucko was the Reverend Pollocks younger brother and apparently ‘a leading light of the Liberals’.
It was really for him that the dinner was being held, the rest of them could have drowned in the mulligatawny for all master James cared. It was only Duncan Pollock Member of Parliament that he wanted to impress since the fellow had much sway over the local party and would be able (if so inclined) to support master Jame
s when he went up for the elections. Not only that but every so often Duncan Pollock held a Soiree in Edinburgh, which old Lord Pummystone himself was said to have attended! Lord save us all!
Of course, these distinguished guests would have to be waited upon. My one previous attempt at silver service had not been a great success, I will not go into too much detail but gravy was involved as was the masters neck and despite my genuine best efforts the two became accidentally conjoined in a way that is not usually acceptable in polite society. Ever since then I had plated up the food in the kitchen. But now there was to be a dinner, missus put me in training with the silver and drilled me until I could have served a single pea off a platter to the Pope himself. It seemed that I was not to be alone in my endeavours on the great night, for Hector and one of the Curdle Twins were to be recruited to assist at table and behind the scenes. In the absence of a cook, missus took charge of the menu and supervised the preparations.
By the time that the day of the dinner arrived the lady of the house had reached a peak of luminescence. If beforehand she had been a candelabra she was now a blazing chandelier. From midday onwards, the kitchen was a Frenzy of activity lit up by her majesty presiding and me a mere wick smouldering low and resentful beside her. For once it seemed that no expense was spared. We made soup and pies, we roasted pheasants and a forequarter of lamb, we boiled beef and carrots.
At some point Hector arrived, with dead chickens he had to pluck, which he did in due course, having paused only to carry out a horrified examination of the birds private parts. Once the plucking was finished I believe he would have happily slipped away but missus gave him more work, he had to polish the silver and wash the potatoes, chore upon chore she gave him and in all the confusion it is a wonder that he didn’t end up washing the silver and polishing the potatoes. Normally I felt little kinship with Hector but that day I warmed to him somewhat for whenever the missus made some new pronouncement he would wait until her back was turned and then he’d stroke his chin like a wise man while puffing, straight-faced, on an imaginary pipe and this mockery did afford me some private amusement.