by Anne Groß
Mrs. Postlethwaite picked up a potato. “Why don’t you take Elise and go down to have a look?”
Elise glanced quickly at the larder door and shuddered. The idea of visiting the cesspit one more time than was necessary was unthinkable. The smell had nearly knocked her over the day before and she’d refused to move any closer than four steps down into the cellar so that Mary had to dump the bucket by herself. “I already looked,” she said quickly. “The cat wasn’t there.”
“It seems to me that you just got here through that door,” Thomas pointed with the stem of his pipe to the dining hall. “And the door down to the cellar is right over there,” Thomas swung the pipe towards the larder. “So how did you pass me by without my noticing?”
Mrs. Postlethwaite clucked her tongue. “The only thing worse than a bad liar is a good one.”
“You’re always seeing the sunny side of things, Mrs. Postlethwaite,” Thomas said smiling. “It’s good to know our little Queen could be worse.”
“Come on then.” Mary grabbed Elise’s arm and pulled her along. “You can hold the lamp and I’ll do the looking.” Coming from Mary, the offer was fairly generous. Reluctantly, Elise followed the young woman through the larder door.
The stairway down to the cellar seemed to be cut out of the earth and part of an even older London history. Elise’s fleeting feeling that the 19th Century was somewhat modern by comparison was oddly comforting. Each step she took was slick, and her toes reflexively gripped the edges of the cold stone. The dampness of the descent added to the unpleasantness of the air, making it seem as though it was the foul odor that curled the hair around her face and filmed her skin, not the humidity.
At the bottom of the stairs, Elise lifted the lamp and peered into the gloom. The walls of the cave-like room glistened wet and dripped over patches of green mold. Stacked against the walls were empty wooden crates, a few ceramic basins waiting to be repaired, and other kitchen tools too old or broken to be useful. The cellar stretched back under the dining hall, and Elise saw two casks, one tapped. “Shouldn’t those be upstairs?” Elise asked.
“The porter finishes its fermentation down here, so we only take up a couple casks at a time, depending on how much we think we can sell. Whatever doesn’t sell fast enough, the brewery takes back. We’re low now. Mr. MacEwan’s boxing match brought in a right crowd.” Mary walked directly to the center of the room and flipped open the hatch to the cesspit while Elise set the lamp on the bottom step and lifted her apron to cover her face and nose. The apron didn’t help. “Come closer,” Mary complained. “I can’t see inside.”
Picking the lamp back up, Elise approached while loudly sucking air into her mouth through the muslin of her apron. She stood behind Mary, balanced awkwardly as she lowered the lamp into the hole in the floor while at the same time leaning as far backwards as she could away from the smell. The lamp suddenly flared hot with an odd swooshing sound and both women jumped away with surprised shrieks.
“There’s no way a cat got in there,” Elise stated with certitude. “Why the hell would a cat be suicidal? There’s no such thing as a suicidal cat.” Elise backed quickly towards the stairs. “That hatch is always closed isn’t it? Do you really think a cat would lift the hatch and jump down in? That’s just stupid. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You never know with cats,” Mary insisted. “The night men always find cats in cesspits.”
“Because that’s where people throw their dead cats, Stupid.”
“Just bring that lamp closer.”
“No way.”
“For God’s sakes, don’t be such a ninny.” Mary came and snatched the lamp out of Elise’s hand and returned to the side of the pit. As she leaned forward over the hole with the lamp, the methane gas again reacted dangerously with the flame, causing Mary to do a quick shuffle backwards with the lamp swinging from her extended arm. “No cats,” she sung out with a falsely casual voice.
“Are you absolutely sure? Maybe you should climb down in and take a good long look.”
Mary left the lamp on the dirt floor to dart forward and flip the hatch shut. “Definitely no cats down there,” she said decisively.
Elise picked up her skirts and started running up the stairs. While nursing had prepared her for human mud in general, nothing had prepared her for the nastiness of the cesspit. Mary, equally as eager to exit the basement, squawked in protest when Elise nearly slammed the larder door shut on her nose in her haste to lock out the fumes. The smell of boiling turnips was a relief.
Back in the kitchen, Thomas caught Mary by the arm and Elise by her skirt and pulled them near while glancing furtively over his shoulder at Mrs. Ferrington, who seemed to be having a heated discussion with Mrs. Postlethwaite over the cost of mutton. “Did you find it?” he asked. When Elise shook her head he warned in a hiss, “You two will not breathe a word to the Missus about her damn cat. You let me handle this.” He locked eyes fiercely with each of them in turn to ensure understanding, then left.
THE BEER ENGINE
There’s a meditative aspect to sweeping that Elise had never appreciated before. The repetitive motion of swinging the long broom handle forward, the scratching swish of the straw bristles over the wooden floorboards, the pile of dust that gathers, then scatters, then gathers again larger as it moves, inch by inch, further down the hallway—it all felt strangely satisfying in a way that vacuuming never had. Elise had left all the doors to the tenant’s rooms open so that she’d be able to see the dust motes dance in each square of light that fell onto the hallway floor. Five bedrooms, five windows, five squares of light mesmerized her as she waved her broom back and forth through the sunbeams. Sweeping was universal. Sweeping happened in all times. She could sweep forever.
Hours later, Elise trudged back downstairs with her reeking bucket filled with night soil sloshing at her side. Her ribcage ached slightly from the activity, but she hadn’t exactly exerted herself, and was healing quickly. The kitchen was empty when she ambled in. She was surprised to see the great wooden table had been pushed against the wall and the doors to the larder and the courtyard were standing wide open. There were voices coming in from the open door, and the sound of a short, rolling snort followed by jangling chains. Curious, Elise absently set the bucket on the kitchen table and went to poke her head outside.
Two sets of horses’ eyes flashed at her, wide and dilated, proof, to Elise, of their unpredictable nature. The matched beasts looked like two gleaming chestnut grand pianos turned on their sides. They were goliaths with sharp hooves and grinding teeth. The hot steam they blew from their nostrils did nothing to quell Elise’s fear. She wanted to call out a warning to Thomas and Richard who were standing dangerously close to the beasts while talking animatedly to a third man. Mrs. Postlethwaite, three paces behind the wagon, wisely stood behind an overturned crate with the kitchen broom clutched tight in her fist. The cook’s show of courage gave Elise the strength to step outside to see what was going on.
“You can’t say a thing is inconvenient without first having tried it, Tom,” Richard said. He held what looked like plumbing in his hand and was waving it towards his barman.
“I can, and I did. It’s worse than inconvenient. It means I’ll have to drill a hole in my bar,” Thomas said testily. “Besides, what do we need a beer engine for? We’ve got Johnny.” Elise was surprised to see that the little cut he had on his cheek that morning had become a green and yellow smear around his eye. He could have used an ice pack after all. Or a cold slab of meat, she thought, correcting herself.
“Potboys are a thing of the past, Mr. MacEwan” the stranger said. “There’s changes going to be happening, you watch. They’ll soon be sending all boys to school. Even them that’s got no head for it. It’s progress, and you can’t stop it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a potboy,” Thomas said. “You get your learning from the talk around the tables; learn respect for your community. Now, if you’re speaking about
making boys climb down chimneys to sweep, I’ll listen to your talk of progress, but Johnny’s got him a good job. He’s treated well at the Quiet Woman. We don’t need the pump machines.”
“Now don’t get agitated,” Richard slapped Thomas on the back. “We can find other work for Johnny. He won’t have to leave. There’ll always be plenty of pitchers to deliver to the neighbors. Besides, we don’t really have a choice in this, do we Mr. Kneeley?”
“The brewery is making all their licensed houses switch to the beer engines. You’ll not be the only ones. Look on it as an investment in better service. Your customers will flock to have their beer poured through these engines.”
“An investment? So I suppose you’ll be expecting Mr. Ferrington to buy these contraptions out right?” Thomas shook his head and spat onto the cobbles. “And what if we don’t?”
“We won’t sell our beer to them that don’t use the beer engines. It’s as simple as that. You’ll have to find another brewery.”
“Another brewery? There is no other that’ll deliver here. You’re putting us over a barrel,” Thomas shouted.
Richard clapped a steadying hand onto Thomas’s shoulder. “Come, Tom. The Brewery is only looking out for our best interest. They need us as much as we need them. I think the beer engine is a grand change for modernity.”
“It’s true,” Mr. Kneeley said. “The brewery values the partnership so much that it is willing to offer a loan which many other public houses have chosen to take. There’s no shame in it.”
Thomas was quick to shrug off Richard’s hand. “Can’t you see? The brewery will only trouble itself on our behalf when it’s finding more ways for us to fall deeper into their service. The more public houses the brewery can tie to itself through debt, the more the brewery guarantees its own success. They don’t care two farts about any of us. They’re merely looking to secure sales.” Thomas grabbed and tugged his forelock in frustration. “Don’t you see what’s happening here, Richard?” His arms flew out in exasperation. Elise caught her breath as the closest horse shook its mane and took two nervous steps sideways.
Mr. Kneeley drew himself up defensively and cut off any reply from Richard. “I beg your pardon. Our porter is the most popular in London. The Quiet Woman would be at great disadvantage without the opportunity to work with us.”
“Your beer sells the most because most of London’s public houses are mortgaged to your brewery. I wasn’t born yesterday. The lads aren’t buying it because it tastes good. They’re buying it because it’s the only one offered. Tell me: what are your men cutting the porter with this time?”
Richard slapped his hand against Thomas’s chest and slipped between the two men just as Mr. Kneeley started rolling his sleeves. “Mrs. P. is watching,” Richard hissed.
Next to Elise, Mrs. Postlethwaite turned red at having been caught eavesdropping. She stepped out from behind the crate where she’d been hiding and quickly shoved the broom into Elise’s hands. “There you are,” she said to Elise, fooling no one. “What are you standing around gawking for, Queen? Don’t you have work to do?” The obvious embarrassment of the cook dispelled the tension between the men, and they turned to silently watch as Mrs. Postlethwaite stepped briskly across the yard, shooing Elise in front of her.
“What’s going on out there?” Elise turned to ask as she stepped back into the kitchen.
“What’s it to you?” came the sharp, knee-jerk response.
“It’s payday,” Mary trilled happily as she entered from the dining hall door, unaware of the argument that had nearly come to blows. “Every payday is always the same, it’s always a scramble to get everything ready for all the lads as just got their wages.” She could barely hide her excitement. “Everyone is in high spirits on payday.”
“I can’t believe that drayman picked today of all days to come with his delivery.” grumbled Mrs. Postlethwaite. She suddenly straightened up in shock. “Which one of you left the night soil bucket on my kitchen table?” she bellowed.
Just then, Richard came through rolling a cask into the kitchen and Elise realized why the table had been pushed aside. Mr. Kneeley followed close behind. “How far south does your cellar go? Maybe it would be easier to drill up through that shelving in the back there,” he pointed to the back of the bar as they walked through the kitchen. Thomas’s glower, as he came through with a barrel hoisted onto his shoulder, silenced any further discussion on the matter.
Elise grabbed the bucket from off the table and followed the men down into the cellar where they stacked the casks. On her way back upstairs, Richard ascended behind her and took her elbow to help her up the slippery steps while Thomas growled that she was too slow. In the kitchen, she pretended to be hard at work sweeping the hearth and moving coals around the open range in order to stay and watch the men continue to store the beer. The way they moved in tandem was so routine that it made any words between them unnecessary. Up until that moment, Elise couldn’t think of two men less alike - sunshine and shadow – but with both of them side by side with their shirt collars unbuttoned, it became easier to see how they reflected each other with similar gestures of face and body, forged from similar work. Thomas was shorter than Richard, and broader across the chest, but he carried his mass without the tightness of movement that usually accompanies great strength. Richard was smoother in his actions with a seemingly practiced grace. Between the two of them, it didn’t take long for eight casks to be stacked in the cellar and four stacked behind the bar to be tapped for the evening’s crowd.
After the kitchen table had been moved back to its place in the center of the floor, Thomas stormed out through the front door, avoiding the drayman. He left the component parts of two beer engines on top of the bar, waiting to be assembled.
It was nearing evening when Thomas finally returned for dinner. Elise and Mary had already started in on their apple pudding and looked up in surprise when he entered the kitchen. Thomas’s left eye was now nearly swollen shut and fully bloomed in shades of purple and yellow, but his right eye was clear and twinkling with satisfaction. He was holding a purring, black furball cradled in one strong arm as he stood in the archway to the dining hall, waiting, it seemed, for the heralds to announce his return.
“A cat? Why on earth would you be bringing me another cat, Thomas?”
Thomas looked at Mrs. Postlethwaite with surprise. “It’s Magdalene, Mrs. P. I’ve found her.”
Walking over to examine the cat more closely, the cook lifted the tail out of Thomas’s elbow. “That’s a tomcat,” she said flatly.
“Aye, so it is, but the Missus never knows the difference.”
“Sure she does. Mrs. Ferrington would never go naming a tomcat Magdalene.”
Thomas pointed to another cat sitting on his stool near the fireplace. “That one there, I’ll be damned if the Missus don’t call it Jacob. And it being a bloody calico girl.” The black cat under Thomas’s arm had stopped purring. It too had noticed the other cats in the room and started hissing. When its wiggling didn’t loosen Thomas’ grip on him, it impaled him in the arm with both paws. Thomas howled and dropped the cat. It slid down the length of his arms with both paws still attached to his flesh.
“Best not be kicking the Missus’s cats, Mr. MacEwan,” called out Mary.
Gritting his teeth, Thomas replaced his boot back on the ground just shy of swinging his foot. The black cat started slinking around under the kitchen table, staying safely in the shadows. In response, Jacob stood up on the stool and arched her back, hissing. Another cat in the opposite corner of the kitchen gave a low warning growl from deep in its chest. “Damn these cats,” Thomas yelled. A second black cat jumped onto the table. “Where’d that one come from?” he demanded surprised.
“I found the poor wee thing stuck under an empty crate. It was yowling at the world when you was yowling at the drayman. It’s a girl.” Mrs. Postlethwaite looked at it coldly. “I’m sure it’s Magdalene. She just got a crate knocked on top of her somehow,�
� she said.
“There can’t bloody well be two black cats in London named Magdalene,” Thomas snarled, wiping blood from his arm and examining the long claw marks that ran from his elbow to his wrist.
“Mine’s a girl,” reiterated Mrs. Postlethwaite.
“So is Jacob,” Thomas retorted. “It makes no difference. The one I brought is Magdalene. The one you brought ain’t.”
“We should choose one and put the other out,” Mary suggested. “The Missus will never know the difference, you’ll see.”
Elise had moved to the corner of the table with her steaming bowl of pudding to better observe the scene without having to become a part of the action. She counted six cats in the kitchen, two on top of the shelves, the calico on Thomas’s stool, one feisty grey in the opposite corner that was crouched low with its ears flattened back. Then there was the hissing black cat on top of the kitchen table, and a second blackie underneath. She’d already learned all their names: Jacob, Jericho, Jonah, Sarah, and Magdalene. “She’ll know,” she said.
Thomas shook his head and cursed under his breath. “The Queen is right. We have to choose wisely.”
“The one under the table seems nice enough,” Mary said. “Lets keep that one. It’s not hissing and carrying on like the others. Look at the way it slinks around under there. Must be smarter than the rest.”
“That’s the one I brought.” Thomas’s smile returned with his small victory. He stepped forward to scoop up the cat Mrs. Postlethwaite had found to toss it out, but as he reached for it, it lunged onto the frightened blackie under the table. “Damn it!” roared Thomas.
“I’ve heard enough of your tongue,” Mrs. Postlethwaite snapped as she shuffled backwards to avoid the spitting ball of fur and claws that rolled under her feet. Picking up the broom she started swatting at the cats, trying to corral the violence. “Elise, she barked. Get the door.”
Elise jumped to obey and the bowl of pudding clattered dangerously on the table. She threw the courtyard door wide open just in time for Mrs. Postlethwaite to bustle past, her broom whirring and thwacking as black fur floated up in the air in great clumps. Thomas went behind as her rear guard, squatting low and waving both arms while shouting, “Shoo! Shoo, kitty.” Once both cats were safely outside, the door was slammed behind them.