‘There,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘I got my skimmer all ready, see? I read about that in the book ’n’ all.’ She nodded at the magazine which was spread open on the dresser. ‘It says as how you got to stand a bit to the side or you get your face burned, and have a nice cloth ready to hold over your hand in case it sort of splashes –’
Tilly felt far from useful as she watched the small solid figure bustle about, still chattering. Then, as the pot on the fire began to bubble and splash, she stood well back, alarmed by the spitting of the coals, as Eliza skimmed off the greasy unpleasant scum which had risen to the surface.
It was a dreadful job, Tilly decided, after she had insisted, albeit nervously, on taking a turn at it. No sooner did she remove a large skimmer full of the thick scum, plunging it into the jug of warm water Eliza had set ready at the side to receive it all, than another layer of the fat oily bubbles formed. It didn’t just look disgusting either; it smelled revolting, and Tilly had to concentrate hard to stop her gorge rising. She skimmed and dipped and skimmed again, feeling her face get redder and the sweat trickling its way down inside her gown, and grew even more wretched.
Eliza seemed to have an awareness of just the right time to take over so that Tilly was saved from a nasty job but not made to feel useless and helpless. Coming to slip her freckled bare arm over Tilly’s shoulder, she took the skimmer from her and Tilly, too hot to argue and grateful for her escape, released the spoon and went to the table.
The next part of their task, she found with relief, was less disagreeable. She peeled potatoes, rather clumsily at first but then finding a way to do it so that less potato remained attached to the peel she removed, and then turned her attention to carrots. By this time the pot of beef was boiling happily and the scum had virtually vanished. ‘What’s left won’t do no one no harm when it gets all mixed up with the gravy,’ Eliza said cheerfully. She was clearly enjoying herself hugely, and her delight was infectious.
‘Now it’s the celery head to go in and the faggot of herbs – oh, and the onion, and the allspice and the peppercoms,’ Eliza read carefully from her magazine, counted out the allspice, and then tipped it all into the big pot and set the lid on it, at which it immediately hissed and overboiled and made her jump back like a scalded cat.
‘I think I should set it to one side,’ Tilly ventured. ‘So that it does not boil so fast perhaps? And set the lid so that it can bounce a little. Then there will be less danger, I think. I have seen Mrs Cashman set it so.’
‘Much she knew,’ snorted Eliza, but she did as she was bid and it worked; and the pan settled to a steady bubbling as the two of them sat at the table and devoted themselves to the rest of the vegetables.
‘You got to put them in a bowl under water with salt and a bit of lemon juice,’ reported Eliza after another session with her Gentlewoman’s Magazine. ‘Otherwise, they goes all black like. It smells good, don’t it?’
It did. The evil smell of the skimming stage gave way to the faint scent of the allspice which began to drift through the kitchen, and Tilly sighed deeply and actually enjoyed it.
‘It’s a very comforting smell,’ she murmured and Eliza looked at her sharply and nodded with a knowing, ‘Yes, Mum. And I shall make you some tea now, for there’s little else we can do to this dinner till the meat be cooked and that’ll be a good three hours yet, it says here. But we’ll be ready for six o’clock when the Master’s home, and won’t he be delighted to have a proper dinner what’s not burned to nothing?’
‘Don’t count chickens,’ Tilly said and went to sit in the hearthside chair as Eliza packed the carefully cut vegetables into saucepans ready to be boiled nearer dinner time. ‘Many a slip and so forth.’
Eliza was humming a soft melodic sound in the scullery and Tilly sat with her head back against the chair, felt the warmth of the fire come through her skirts and let the scent of the spiced beef fill her nostrils. There was much to be said for kitchen life, she told herself a little drowsily. It might not be elegant or precisely what well-brought-up ladies should be doing, but she could see the charm of it. Perhaps being born into that station of life that would have allowed her to be a housewife would have suited her better, she thought, instead of being a lady and having so many other things to worry about. Like morning calls from chatterboxes, and angry husbands, and jumped up housekeepers, and lost spoons …
She woke with a start as Eliza touched her shoulder. ‘You’d be better off sleepin’ on your bed, Mum,’ she said kindly. ‘Really you would. I’ll make you some fresh tea, seeing as you let this one go cold, and I’ll fetch it up to you in your room, shall I? Then you’ll feel better by this evening and fit to come down and see to the Master’s dinner proper. I’ll be all right here for a bit. I got the magazine to tell me what to do, and you needs your rest in your condition.’
‘In my condition?’ Tilly said a little stupidly, staring up at the concerned face. ‘What are you talking about, Eliza? I’m perfectly well –’
‘Of course you are, Mum,’ Eliza said comfortably. ‘Couldn’t be better, I’ve no doubt. But it’s hard in the early days. I seen my Ma often enough to know that. She gets took this way too – don’t eat, and goes all sickly like and sleeps – well, you’d never credit it! Takes naps just like a lady, she does, and says she got to in the first weeks.’
Tilly stood up. ‘I’m sorry I dozed off. It was the heat of the fire, Eliza. I’m sorry to have ignored your tea. Don’t bother to make more – it will do later.’
‘It’s no trouble, Missus, really it ain’t. And like I said, you really oughtn’t to push yourself so hard. You got to get used to the way you are, and the baby, you see, it –’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Her lips felt stiff as they formed the words, because somewhere deep inside herself she was quite certain she did understand. Her knees began to tremble and she sat down again abruptly.
‘I’m not wrong, Mum am I?’ Eliza said. ‘I mean, it’s not my place to pry, I know that, but I seen my Ma often enough and she’s just like you, sickly and that, and her hands all sort of knotty –’
‘What?’ Tilly said and spread her hands and looked at them. They were a little reddened from the time they had spent in the water peeling vegetables. The veins on the backs were thick and blue and tortuous and she looked at them and frowned. Had she always had such big ones?
‘It happens to us, Mum,’ Eliza was saying. ‘My Ma always told me you could tell if a woman was increasin’ by the state of her hands. And by the way she walks, o’ course.’
‘Walks?’ Tilly said, a little bemused.
‘Oh yes, Mum!’ Eliza laughed, happily raucous. ‘Just like a cow! All sort of slipping sideways, d’you know what I mean?’
‘No –’ Tilly said. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’
‘My Ma says that it’s ’cause your joints go all soggy like, so as to make room for the baby to grow and then to get out. So your hips sort of wobble. I saw you walking down the ’all in your wrapper the other day, and what with you bein’ sickly and off your food, and your hands – well, I thought that’s it, we’re goin to ’ave a baby in the ’ouse and very nice too. That’s something I really knows about. I may ’ave to learn cookin’ only off a magazine but babies – ah, Mum, that’s another thing entirely.’
‘I think I will lie down, Eliza,’ Tilly said and made for the door. ‘And the tea might be rather nice at that,’ and she escaped. Eliza was turning out to be a dear girl, a tower of strength if not quite the perfect servant, for her earthy humour was sometimes rather more than Tilly could handle. She would not wish to reprimand her for it, when her intentions were so good, but she would have to be told to modify it at some point.
But not now. Now Tilly needed time to herself and she tried to think.
Could it be true? Was all this a nonsense dream from which she would soon wake? She had been aware that her usual courses had been delayed this month, but had not thought about it unduly. She was not a perso
n who suffered greatly at this time of the month, unlike some she knew who regularly took to their couches and lay there for a week at a time, looking wan. Most of the time she was unaffected, apart from the tiresomeness of having to deal with certain laundry for herself and of finding ways to dry her cloths discreetly. She did of course know why her courses had been delayed. How could she not, when Dorcas had told her so much and so coarsely all that time ago, when it happened for the first time and left her so terrified and ashamed?
And it was not, after all, surprising. She was a married woman now and having babies is what married women did. But it seemed wrong to Tilly for all that, for the women she knew who started increasing were attended by caring and concerned husbands. She had seen them all her life about the streets when she went shopping and to church on Sundays, wives who walked with their heads a little turned away from strangers, wearing large shawls and voluminous cloaks, even when the weather was quite sultry, and always accompanied by solicitous people, husbands or mothers or ladies’ maids.
She hadn’t realized that she had slipped off the bed and left her room until she was standing with her hand on the knob of her mother’s door, gently easing it open. Her mother always slept in the afternoon, indeed, for most of the day now, and there was no need for discretion. But Tilly used it just the same, opening the door silently and slipping into the room as softly as she could.
Her mother lay on her bed, for nowadays she didn’t even let anyone dress her and take her to her chaise-longue and it was easier to let her stay there anyway. Her head was lolling sideways on her pillow and her mouth hung open. She was flushed and there was a line of spittle marking her chin, and her breathing was thick and noisy.
Tilly sank to her knees beside the bed to bring her face close to Henrietta’s and reached forward and with her forefinger gently raised the sagging chin. The breathing quietened for a moment and then Henrietta turned her head on the pillow fretfully and snorted and again her mouth opened and the snoring recommenced.
‘Oh, Mamma,’ Tilly whispered, ‘come back and talk to me! I do need to talk to you, truly I do.’
There was no response, and she looked at the blotchy face with the tangled network of red veins across the cheeks and at the lax mouth and tried to remember the mother of her infancy. Had she ever been young and pretty? Tilly couldn’t precisely recall. She had been active, of course. Tilly had memories of her mother sitting in the morning room and even walking down Brompton Grove with her hand holding firmly on to Tilly’s small gloved fist, but they did not seem real. It was as though it was some other person she was seeing in her mind’s eye, not this wreck of balding, smelly and ugly humanity sprawled on the bed in front of her.
She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the bedclothes, not allowing herself to think or feel or do anything. Just resting there and making her mind a blank.
The sound of a door creaking made her realize that she had yet again dozed off. She remained unmoving, still lying against the side of the bed, listening, and then slowly raised her head and looked about her.
Mrs Leander was standing at the open doors of the double wardrobe. She was riffling through the gowns which hung in rows, quite oblivious to the fact that she was being watched.
Tilly took a deep breath, trying to clear her head and then moved, turning her body round so that she was sitting on the rug with her back to her mother and her skirts spread about her. She should have got to her feet to give herself authority; she knew that, but she still felt dreamy and not quite all together, as though part of her mind was away somewhere quite other.
Mrs Leander heard her slight movement and whirled round. There was a long silence and then Mrs Leander said in a high tight voice, ‘I see. Spying on me, are we?’
‘Spying? I think not,’ Tilly said with a calmness she did not feel. ‘I was sitting here with my mother. I have a right to do so, I believe. You do not, however, have a right to be looking in my mother’s wardrobe.’
Mrs Leander had collected her wits by now. She turned back to the wardrobe to run her hand along the garments there in a dismissively insulting gesture. ‘There is nothing here that is worth even considering,’ she said. ‘And so I shall tell your father.’ And she pushed the wardrobe closed and went across the room to the dressing-table to seat herself at it.
Now Tilly did get to her feet in a flurry of skirts and stood furiously staring at the older woman.
‘Leave this room at once! You have no –’
‘Don’t tell me again I have no right to be here.’ Mrs Leander sounded bored. ‘Your father told me to help myself to anything I fancied, seeing that she –’ and she jerked her head dismissively at the figure in the bed ‘– is clearly never going to have any use for it.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Tilly said flatly. ‘He said nothing to me.’
‘Does he ever?’ Mrs Leander said sweetly.
Tilly stood silently, and then took a deep breath. ‘I will speak to him of this tonight. Now, if you please, I wish you to leave this room.’
Mrs Leander sat and stared at her and Tilly stared back, holding the gaze as bravely as she could, and at last Mrs Leander gave in. Her direct stare faltered and she looked away.
‘Well, as I said, there’s nothing here anyone with any taste would want. It’s all absurdly out of mode, and shows no judgement of style at all.’
She got to her feet and turned and went, leaving Tilly standing shaking beside the bed, and still Henrietta Kingsley lay and snored, totally unaware of what had gone on around her. Now as Tilly looked at her, the spark of need and pity and even affection that had brought her to the room in the first place spluttered and died. All she could feel was a deep boredom, a sort of uncaringness for the wreck that lay in the bed. Whatever or whoever her mother had been, she certainly wasn’t this creature here. There was no need to feel any regret or anything else for her. It would be wasted.
She went over to the wardrobe and looked in it, and as the skirts of the gowns stirred beneath her fingers the faintest hint of orange flower water rose from them. She tried to remember the first time she had smelled that, but even with so potent a prodder, there was no effect. There was no warming memory of her mother to be found, no tears to be shed for her, and she looked at the gowns and thought – that woman’s right. These are not at all worth wearing again. They were insipid and dull when they were new and they are still. And she shut the door and went to the dressing-table, just as Mrs Leander had done.
She set to work purposefully on the drawers, turning them out one by one. There was little enough there. Some chemises and handkerchiefs and one drawer of nightgowns, but Henrietta still needed those. When Eliza washed her, which she did every day, she put a clean one on her. So Tilly folded them neatly and set them back in their place.
The top drawer on the right she left to the last because it was a problem. It was locked, and she had no idea where the key might be. Not even Mrs Leander had dared to break it open, and that was one comfort, and now Tilly sat and tugged at the drawer ineffectually. Then, on an impulse, she reached for the tortoiseshell-handled manicure file which lay on the dressing-table, between the tortoiseshell-backed mirror and brush and the ivory glove stretchers with her mother’s entwined initials on them. Why should she not do it? Someone else would eventually if she didn’t, of that she was sure. Her father, probably, after Mrs Leander complained to him of Tilly’s interference, and Tilly was quite sure that was how she would be reporting the afternoon’s events. So Tilly herself might as well do it.
The lock which, though strong, was simply made, clicked under the probings of the fine tip of the file and the drawer slid open. Tilly sat and stared at its contents. Little enough, after all. A tangle of coloured glass beads and crystal drops, in greens and blues and translucent reds; a scatter of hatpins and dress pins stuck into a fat dusty cushion; old dance programmes which she set aside, not wanting to look at any evidence of Henrietta’s girlhood, for that would be too painful altogether;
letters and bits of ribbon and scraps of lace. And then at the very back a familiar blue velvet box, which Tilly pulled forwards and took out. She sat and looked at it, and then with careful fingers opened it.
The pearls lay in their opalescent heap, gleaming softly in the afternoon light and she caught her breath again at their beauty. She picked them up and shook them out and held them against her throat as she looked in the mirror. And almost as though the woman were there in the room with her, she heard Mrs Leander talking to Dorcas on her, Tilly’s, wedding day: I can’t see what the woman’s thinking of – seeing as pearls means tears, as anyone of any sense knows.
And holding the pearls to her throat, she let the tears run down her cheeks unhindered. So short a time ago, just seven months; yet now her mother lay in a sodden heap, and Frank treated her as though he hated her, and her father lived in open sinfulness with an insolent servant woman, and on what should have been a glorious day, the day she first realized she was to bear a child, she had to spend her time skimming greasy scum from a pot of boiling beef. It was all too horrible and she had every reason to weep. And she did, on and on and on.
Chapter Eleven
ELIZA FOUND HER there, and, clucking anxiously, herded her back to her room and made her take off her gown and go to bed. Tilly did not argue with her, but did not let go of the blue velvet box until Eliza took it from her hand when they reached her room and put it away in her own dressing-table.
‘Whatever it is it can wait till later, Mum,’ she said. ‘Now you lie down, do. The dinner’s comin’ on lovely, and after an hour or so, when you’ve ’ad some sleep, you can come down and see for yourself. But you drink this tea this time, and stop your fretting. You’ll be all right, Mum, just you wait and see.’
Her calm acceptance of Tilly’s behaviour as completely normal had the desired effect. Tilly obediently drank her tea and fell into a dreamless sleep from which she woke an hour and a half later, feeling much restored and not a little ashamed of herself.
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