The Servant

by Maggie Richell-Davies

  She scratches absently at her back with her free hand. She looks none too clean.

  ‘And this is true? About your master?’

  ‘As God is my witness.’

  ‘Men.’ She scowls in the direction of the inn, not a prosperous-looking place. ‘Every man Jack of them ruled by the itch in their breeches.’

  She grasps her besom between strong hands as if it were a troublesome fellow that she would enjoy throttling.

  ‘They cannot abide being guided by their womenfolk, either. But marriage teaches you to manage them. Master Haggerty would not let me give work to the likes of you, but since he never goes near the kitchen, what need for him to know?’

  She sweeps her pile of rubbish towards the corner of the yard and then turns her back on it, indifferent to the fact that the wind will swirl it back across the cobbles within minutes, and has another vigorous scratch. But the biter, whether flea or louse, is too deep behind her stays to reach, so she gives up. Instead, she jerks her chin towards the open doorway.

  ‘Get inside and scour them dirty pans. If your work is to my liking, there might be some coppers for you. Meantime, help yourself from the pot on the kitchen fire. ’Tis only horsemeat and onions, stewed in the dregs of our beer, but none the worse for that.’

  The stew scalds my mouth, I am so anxious to spoon it down. The meat is stringy, the gravy thin and there is a taint to the food suggesting the ingredients were less than fresh, but I do not care. I crave meat. Of late, I have felt as if my innards are pressing against my spine from emptiness. I understand Peg’s reverence for a full belly.

  I have made a start with the cleaning, not liking to fall on the food before I had done anything to earn it, and it is satisfying to have proper work. The straw-plaiting I have been doing will not earn enough to cover my rent, never mind food.

  Although the place is shabby and the pantry stores stale, they are plentiful. I mix a lump of butter into flour, soften it with some of the gravy, and then stir it into the great simmering pot on the fire together with some extra salt.

  The customers in this place are working men, looking for quantity rather than quality in their victuals, but everyone likes good food if they can find it.

  Mistress Haggarty has been watching me and reaches across for the spoon for a taste.

  ‘Much better,’ she says, smacking her lips. ‘You did not lie about being able to cook.’

  ‘You have butter about to turn,’ I venture. ‘I could use it with flour to make sheets of pastry. Then, if you cut them into squares, you could sell them alongside the stew. Hungry men would love something like that.’

  Mistress Haggarty’s hand strays around to her back for another absent-minded scratch. If I were her, I would give those stays a long soak in some lye.

  ‘At a farthing apiece…’ she muses, and her eyes glaze over as if she is struggling with calculations. ‘That might put my man in a decent humour, for a change.’ She gathers up the armful of jugs I have just washed and turns to take them to the cellar to fill with the inn’s watery ale. ‘Do it. Make as much as you can manage. We have a cock fight tonight. That always stirs appetites as well as thirsts.’

  I had noticed the brick-built pit earlier, with rough wooden benches piled to one side, ready for those watching and placing bets on the fighting birds they fancy.

  I am glad to leave before the men begin gathering for the fight, since I hate seeing innocent creatures torn to pieces for sport and, anyway, am dropping with fatigue. But I have done a good day’s work and the kitchen is piled with scoured pewter plates and a basket of pastry squares sits, close to the fire, under a clean cloth, to keep warm. In my pocket to take away with me is a battered penny and two pastry squares wrapped in a scrap of paper. Today has been a promising day and I feel the possibility of hope. Perhaps I can manage to get through these weeks. Perhaps make it through until the child is born, and afterwards find a way back into service in a respectable house.

  I have to hope that fortune is smiling on me at last.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Work at the inn is hard and long, not helped by the burden under my apron. By the end of the day my back and legs ache and my ankles take the imprint of a finger, like fresh dough. In the hot kitchen, sweat collects under my cap until it is sodden. My hair is stiff with grease and I am glad it is hidden. I could weep for the state of it and of my under-linen, itchy and smelling unclean. Anything I have tried to wash remains damp in that cellar and threatens to disintegrate from rot.

  Yet I revel in being in this kitchen, for it surely proves I might survive my trouble. I have improved the cleanliness, taking care not to let Mistress Haggerty see my disgust at the dirt. It is better than it was, but there are still corners calling for a stiff broom and walls that have not had a lime-wash in years. The foods I cook are from the cheapest ingredients, from spoiled flour and flesh that often smells tainted. Master Haggerty refuses to let his wife buy anything but the leavings of the market stalls.

  How I wish to be at a clean-scrubbed kitchen table, flour on my hands and a loaf of hot, sweet bread in the oven, scenting the air. As my work here is rough, I wear a swathe of sackcloth to protect my solitary gown rather than an apron. Nothing is said, but Mistress Haggarty and I both know it is also to disguise my shape. My hands and arms are raw from washing pots and tankards, but hunger is a thing of the past and I am allowed to eat my fill from what I prepare for our customers. Business is looking up, because of my pastry squares and a suet duff I have introduced. Poor men crave full bellies and plates of cheap pudding are popular, especially if the man can afford a dribble of jam to spoon over it.

  She was right that Master Haggerty never enters the kitchen, though I hear his rough voice serving customers or chastising young Sam, who tends the horses. I have seen the innkeeper out in the yard, through the window. He is older than his wife by a score of years. Barrel-chested, with big ears and a weather-beaten face.

  If it were not for him, I would be tempted to ask to sleep in the hayloft over the stables, though their son Sam spends much of his time there. He is a great, lanky lad with freckles and a shock of rust-coloured hair who never speaks.

  Anywhere would be better than that cellar, but I must keep out of Master Haggerty’s sight. To lose this position would mean hunger again, for although there is money in my jar, I doubt it will stretch through until February. Most weeks see me selling something, the latest being my wool shawl. I have made a calendar of sorts on the wall, using the end of my spoon to scratch crosses marking the likely days until Peg and I think my child is due. But they stretch impossibly far and I do not like to dwell on their number.

  Mistress Haggerty returns to the kitchen while I am roasting a great tin of pig’s trotters. She is carrying a sweet pie from the corner pastry shop.

  ‘For my Sam,’ she says, nodding in the direction of the yard, where the boy is rubbing down a customer’s nag. She shakes her head. ‘The poor lad got kicked by a pony when he was barely walking. Never spoke after. Not a word. Not to this day.’ She shrugs. ‘Yet the boy dotes on horses. Even after what happened.’

  ‘I could make fruit pies for him, if you like. They sell dried apple rings in the market.’ I check the trotters. Nearly done. Then turn back to her. ‘And when I do the suet pudding, I can make extra for him, with sugar and currants.’

  ‘People are beginning to talk about our food,’ she says. ‘Better be careful. We don’t want Haggerty getting curious.’

  I nod. She is a bright woman, probably more so than her clod of a husband, and although she is unkempt and dirty, I welcome her friendship. It seems to me sometimes that it is often the poor who are the most generous with what they have.

  Later, I cut two pastry squares, brush them with butter and then sprinkle sugar and a grating of nutmeg on top. I leave them on the windowsill for when Sam comes over to collect his dinner. He is a good lad. Helpful to me, kind to his mother.

  At the end of the afternoon, men begin to gather around the
gaming pit, leaning forward on the wooden benches, excited, placing bets while they wait for the arrival of the fighting cocks. Many have rolled out of the inn the worse for drink and a black bottle or two have changed hands. They are like overgrown schoolboys intent on mischief, but there is a dark undercurrent of cruelty. Blood will be shed and they cannot wait to see it.

  Mistress Haggerty has set up a trestle table close by, with jugs of ale and some of my horsemeat patties to tempt their money before it is gambled away. She has also mixed a paste of powdered charcoal for the owner of a cockerel, Black Spur, to mask a weeping sore on the bird’s leg.

  I slip along the side of the inn wall with a platter of sliced blood pudding to add to the spread and she takes the dish from me and nods for me to get back out of sight. I am usually long gone by now, but have been promised some farthings to stay and help.

  Hurrying to the kitchen, I glance back and freeze to see flax-blond hair gleaming in the lamplight of the inn yard like a bronze helmet in a painting.

  Jack. This must be one of his haunts. I remember him offering to take me cock-fighting.

  I make my ungainly way back to the kitchen, unsettled. He has not seen me. One more girl in rags with a protruding belly would be beneath his notice. Usually I try not to dwell on what I have lost. How much further I might sink. But seeing Jack brings everything jolting back. He is far from the kindly youth I thought him and I suspect he would sneer at how low I have sunk.

  When Mistress Haggerty comes in to refill the great jugs with beer for her customers, she gives me a keen look.

  ‘What’s up, Annie? You have a pain?’ She opens the bung on a keg of ale and tops up the first jug. ‘Set yourself down a minute. Take a sip of this ale.’

  ‘I am fine.’ Under that sour exterior, she is a compassionate woman. I was lucky to find her. ‘But I saw someone outside. From my old life.’

  She closes the spigot and frowns over at me.

  ‘Not the bastard who attacked you?’

  I shake my head. ‘Some else who thought to take advantage of me. A young man.’

  She sets the full jugs on the table and peers through the open doorway. ‘Where?’

  ‘Bright golden hair, blue eyes,’ I say. ‘Imagine St George in a church window.’

  Mistress Haggarty makes a rude noise. ‘Good lookers are often the worst. They get away with more.’ She balances her brimming jugs with practised care and purses her lips. ‘Best keep out of his way.’

  On yet another trip to the necessary house, as the contests are about to begin, I step aside for a man making his way back across the yard, still fumbling with his breeches. I rarely see the inn’s customers and avoid them, not wanting anyone mentioning me to the innkeeper.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ the man says, ale-sodden breath gusting into my face.

  ‘I am a widow,’ I say, not liking his expression or his proximity. ‘And expecting a child. As you can see.’

  ‘Some of us like a belly on a wench,’ he hiccups, unsteady on his feet. He looks like a tradesman, slipped away from his counter for a drink. Maybe his customers don’t mind the smell of beer on him. Or more likely he does not have any because he is a drunkard. Yet though not prosperous himself, a surfeit of ale does not stop him recognising someone too far below him to complain of coarse behaviour.

  He leans in closer, swaying. ‘Shows she knows what she was made for.’

  I may be ungainly, but my feet are still fleet enough to sidestep a sot, so I shove past him and hurry back towards the kitchen, taking care not to look back.

  I can only suppose the drunk distracted me, for I jump with fright to find myself face to face with Jack.

  He must have come from the pens where the birds await their turn for the ring.

  ‘What the devil!’ There is shock in his eyes. ‘Little Hannah?’ Then his expression changes. He looks almost amused, though his smile is cold. ‘Though not so little now.’

  ‘Did nobody tell you of my misfortune?’ I say, my cheeks hot with humiliation.

  ‘Sara, the Chalkes’ new girl, prattles of little else,’ he says, with a snort. ‘But she is too coarse for my taste. I doubt she can even read her name.’

  He tugs at his neckerchief, then jingles coins in his pocket. ‘You work here?’

  I nod. It may be a poor place, but my labour is honest.

  ‘Then what do you know about today’s birds? Is there a favourite?’

  He has no more interest in me or my situation than he had for little Suzy. At least there appear to be no suspicions about me. Though why would there be, since nothing appears to have happened about my letter except that brief visit from Chalke’s brother.

  ‘Black Spur is thought the strongest,’ I say, clutching my sackcloth shawl around me and wishing him ill.

  ‘Then I will risk a wager. Uncle talks of us having to tighten our belts. Perhaps even move the shop elsewhere.’ About to walk away, he turns back. ‘There was a farmer asking after you at the bookshop the other week. Grantham, or some such name.’

  ‘Oh.’ My hands tighten on my hessian shawl.

  ‘You are a dark horse, Hannah. With all these men after you.’ His eyes run over me. ‘Though for some reason he thought me the father of your brat. Had the brass cheek to threaten me for not making an honest woman of you.’ He laughs. ‘But it gave me considerable pleasure to tell him your belly was the result of a convenient arrangement with your master. That the two of you were at it as regularly as rats up a drainpipe. That shut him up.’

  My mouth falls open, but with only the briefest nod, Jack turns on his heel and heads towards the ring and his wager.

  I could cry with vexation. Why be so needlessly cruel? Mistress Haggerty is right. The handsome ones are the worst. Thomas was looking for me, must have thought he was helping me, but will now despise me as a loose woman and look no more. Not that I want him to find me and see how low I have sunk. But I realise the thought of him searching would have been a comfort.

  I drag back towards the kitchen, hoping Jack wagers the whole contents of his purse on the sickly Black Spur. Praying the bookshop and its adjacent brothel might soon be closed.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Next morning the kitchen door crashes open.

  ‘Where is she! Where is the slut?’

  Freshly scoured pewter plates clatter from my hands to the floor. In a stride, Master Haggerty is looming over me, his wife at his heels. A row of livid bruises on her cheekbone mark where knuckles have recently landed.

  ‘So, it is true,’ he says. ‘Not only lying to customers about the fighting birds, but flaunting a whore’s belly in my kitchen. I have a mind to take my boot to you.’

  I stoop to retrieve the plates, afraid of his meaty, bunching fists, and do not see the foot coming. Then I feel a thwack to my buttocks and am knocked face down on the flags. Through my threadbare clothes a boot is slamming into me and I curl up to try and protect myself.

  To be kicked. Like an animal. Like a beast. Will there be no end to my shame?

  ‘I am going, Master,’ I scramble to my feet and grab my rough shawl, not daring to meet Mistress Haggerty’s eye. ‘I am sorry to have made trouble.’

  ‘Aye. Bugger off.’ I catch a glimpse of his face and see a trace of pleasure around his mouth. He enjoyed kicking me. It made him feel like a proper man. ‘Come near my inn again, and I will really make you screech.’

  I limp along the street, shivering, and not just from cold. But at least my hurts are not worse and though the child squirmed inside me in protest, it quickly quietened. I have left behind my bundle, with its scraps of food and the farthings Mistress Haggarty gave me this morning, and am sorry for that, but even more sorry for the loss of regular work.

  Doggett’s eye is on me, calculating how much longer I will be able to pay for the squalid hutch under his stairs. The money in the jar under the straw will not see me through, and I will have to get used to hunger again. Not the hunger we had at the poorhouse, where we dreamed of f
ull plates and puddings rich with sugar, but the hunger that brings fear. Fear that if I am not careful, or lucky, I might starve to death and my child with me. I find I do not want that any longer and am grateful not to have been kicked in the belly. I wish, of course, the child had never come into being but, now that it exists and constantly reminds me of its presence, I find I have sympathy for it.

  On my return to the tenement, Doggett is perched on a sagging chair in the doorway of his room. He bares yellowed teeth in a leer and stands up. ‘About your rent, sweetheart.’ His hands reach towards my breasts. ‘That is a mighty fine pair of threepenny bits you’ve grown there. Why make life hard for yourself? Let me have a proper feel and I might even let you off this week’s money.’

  Nausea floods my mouth, but I swallow it down and turn on my heel. He is not Chalke. What can he do? Turn me out on the street if I will not oblige him? There will be other loathsome cellars like his. Thank God there is still a little money left in my jar and a basket of straw is waiting to be plaited.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  `

  There is a tremendous thump at my door which I fear is the landlord after his rent and swearing he will throw me into the street if I do not step inside his room and oblige him. The man is almost as much of a brute as Chalke. Yesterday he was red-faced and unsteady on his feet from some bottles of illicit brandy he is swilling his way through. The tenants are all avoiding him. At least the raw smell of it distracts from the stink of human waste in the hallway.

  But when I open my door, I see carrot-red hair and freckles. Mistress Haggarty’s Sam, his lop-sided grin at seeing me fading as he peers over my shoulder at the kennel in which I live. His nose screws up at the poorly covered bucket in the corner that I am waiting for nightfall to empty. His eyes are so full of shock and pity that I think I might cry. Though these days I have precious few tears left to shed.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I say, though I know he cannot answer. Then I remember telling his mother about Doggett, my landlord. With such an unusual name his ramshackle house would not have been difficult to track down.