A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Still she could not voice her torment, but she laid her head against his chest, finding comfort in the regulated beating of his heart.

  He held her, trying to think of something to detract from her sadness. ‘Major’s right pleased with how I’m handling the butler’s job. I’m rather chuffed meself, as a matter of fact; think I could manage it permanently. I’d miss driving but, you never know, if I became butler it would improve my status no end. I could get a post with better pay and proper living accommodation. We might even be able to afford a little car of our own.’

  He had said ‘we’. Beata raised her head from his chest to look up at him.

  ‘By the way, who do I approach to ask for your hand?’

  The nasty laughter completely vanished. Joy returned to her fluttering heart. She opened her mouth to stammer that she did not know, but no words emerged, for he quickly stifled them with a kiss. A warm, loving kiss that lasted for long passionate minutes, Beata returning it with such intensity that it seemed to frighten him and he broke away with a gasping laugh. ‘I think I heard the announcement of supper! We’d better go before we’re caught.’ Reluctantly, she nodded, but clinging to the lovely moment, she answered his question lest there be any misunderstanding. ‘I don’t think you need to ask anybody. Only me. And I say yes.’

  He smiled, then ground her lips with another quick kiss before taking a peek into the ballroom, then discreetly joining the mass departure to the servants’ hall.

  * * *

  There was nothing backwards about Jack now. It seemed that, once started, he could not stop kissing her. Furtive kisses in the pantry. Fleeting pecks behind the housekeeper’s back. Even on Sunday, stopping the car on the way to church to drag her behind a tree and express his love, stopping on the way home behind that same tree to kiss, kiss and kiss again.

  When they arrived home someone had closed the big iron gates. Coming to a halt outside he jumped out to open them, taking the opportunity to poke his head into the car and plant his lips to hers again.

  He withdrew with a playful expression. ‘I don’t know if it’s in order to kiss a girl on Sunday, but I’m going to risk it anyway.’ And he covered her mouth yet again.

  Alerted by the sound of the running motor outside the lodge, Mrs Lister tweaked a lace curtain aside to investigate, saw what was happening and banged on the pane, her frowning gesticulation causing Jack to react quickly. He jumped back behind the wheel and drove Beata up to the big house, his passenger smiling broadly at being caught out, he giving her a rueful smile upon depositing her, whence, both went their separate ways.

  A week later, the kiss having been surpassed by many another, Beata had almost forgotten about the incident when she went to the lodge for tea and was taken by surprise when Mrs Lister brought it up towards the end of the meal. ‘By the way,’ she smiled upon proffering the last slice of cake to Beata, which was politely refused, ‘I must apologize for my son’s misconduct, dear. He should know better than to treat you like that.’

  Puzzled, Beata responded with a smiling frown.

  ‘Last Sunday, when I had to knock on the window to him…’

  ‘Oh!’ Though still smiling, Beata flushed with guilt and began to wipe crumbs off the table into her palm.

  ‘Most improper, and on the Sabbath too.’

  Lucy had heard about the incident. Though respectful of her elders, she smilingly defended Jack. ‘They are walking out together, Mother.’

  ‘What nonsense.’ Mrs Lister gave a dismissive laugh as she stacked the empty plates.

  ‘But you know he’s been going to the pictures with Bea—’

  ‘As a friend, yes, but nothing more. Really, Lucy, after all I’ve taught you, you of all people should know it’s wrong for a man to lead a girl on if he’s no intention of marrying her.’

  Beata’s stomach lurched so violently she thought she might vomit.

  Jack looked unwell too. ‘I would like—’

  ‘It’s hardly relevant what you’d like, Jack, is it?’ Mrs Lister was gently domineering, not even bothering to pause in her action of clearing the table. ‘The plain fact is that it’s impossible for you to marry Beata so you’ve no right to lead her on.’

  He looked perplexed and embarrassed. ‘But, why?’

  ‘Why, you soft article?’ Mrs Lister’s amused exclamation condemned him as a half-wit. ‘That should be perfectly obvious to one who drives her to church every Sunday. Beata’s a Roman Catholic, isn’t she? She’ll be marrying one of her own just like you will, isn’t that right, dear?’ She turned amicably to Beata, who tried to put her view.

  ‘Well, I don’t think religion matters if two people—’

  ‘Of course it matters!’ Mrs Lister appeared shocked rather than amused now. ‘I’m surprised you can even say it. If it doesn’t matter to you it matters very much to us.’ She was addressing her son again but it was intended for all. ‘No one in this family has ever married a Catholic and they’re not going to start now, however fond I am of Beata, so you can both put that silly idea right out of mind. Now, anyone want more tea before I take the pot away?’

  Immediately Beata shook her head, unable to speak, barely able to breathe, her dreams shattered. Waiting in vain for Jack to stand up to his mother, to fight for his bride, she saw him then for the weakling he was. He said not a word, just sat there tweaking crumbs from the tablecloth, his face a picture of inadequacy.

  ‘I’ll have one, dear.’ A meek Mr Lister held out his cup which his wife refilled, but the atmosphere was very strained.

  Struggling to contain the shards of her broken heart, Beata made a dignified exit, her voice perforating the stunned quietude. ‘Thank you for the meal, Mrs Lister. I’d better be getting back to the house now.’ Oh Lord, there was an evening’s work ahead – how would she ever cope?

  Mrs Lister smiled but did not glance up from her pouring. ‘You’re welcome, dear. It’s lovely to have you. See you next week.’

  She actually means it, thought Beata, her knees trembling with shock and hardly strong enough to hold her upright. Could the woman not see how deeply she had hurt and insulted her guest?

  Without looking at Jack she made for the door. He remained in his seat.

  Lucy had the evening off but now she rose, her expression solemn. ‘I’ll just walk Beat to the house.’

  Outside she linked arms with her friend, promising earnestly, ‘I’ll try and talk her round, dear.’

  Beata turned and looked her full in the face, her tone uncharacteristically acerbic. ‘Do you really think it’ll help?’

  After a moment Lucy shook her head and stared at the ground, exhaling her sadness. ‘Eh, I’m sorry, Beat. I wouldn’t have subjected you to that if I’d known. I can’t understand it. Mother never said a word against Catholics before – and she was happy to have you in her house when she always knew what religion you were.’

  ‘That was before I wanted to marry her son.’ Beata could not stand to talk about it any longer, wanted to find a quiet corner where she could sob her heart out. Every week for almost three years she had been sitting at that table completely ignorant that the woman who feigned to treat her like a daughter was in fact the worst type of bigot, pretending to like her but in secret despising her. ‘You go back now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Lucy nodded, projecting commiseration with her eyes as the forlorn little figure limped away.

  To avoid any questions from the rest of the household, Beata threw herself into the many jobs that needed to be done before bedtime, even jobs that were not hers, donning a mask of cheerfulness whenever she was forced to encounter anyone, and taking out her anger and frustration on a pair of rabbits, which had their guts and skin ripped from them with such ferocity that they were barely fit to eat.

  It seemed like a month before she was finally able to escape. Dropping her teeth into a glass on the side table, she perched on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying to contain her sense of injustice and to work out how this had ha
ppened, her unfocused eyes staring at the dentures that grinned back at her.

  Then, turning off the light she rolled despondently into bed, poured her anger and misery into the pillow, sobbed and sobbed, ridding herself of every tear so that in the morning she might face the world with her usual aplomb. Tomorrow she would hand in her notice, hoping that the major would accept seven days, for she could not bear another month in Jack’s presence, knowing she was judged too inferior to be his bride.

  * * *

  Major Herron was upset to learn that this valuable member of staff wished to leave but, believing the lie she had given him, said that her elderly relative’s needs must take precedence and she must go to her aunt’s aid. ‘But if ever you wish to return you’ll be made welcome, and if you do not then here is a reference for your further use.’

  ‘That was kind of him, don’t you think?’ said Beata to her friend upon breaking the news.

  ‘Oh, Beat, don’t go ’cause of our Jack!’ wailed Lucy, knowing the brave face was just an act. ‘I know you’ll find somebody else, somebody better. He wouldn’t have been good enough for you, anyway. Tell you what, we’ll go on the monkey run in York on Saturday night and I’ll bet you five bob there are half a dozen chaps wanting to hold your hand.’

  ‘I’m not going because of Jack,’ lied Beata cheerfully, then admitted, ‘Well, maybe this has just pushed me into it – but I’ve been meaning to leave for ages. I want to be a cook and I’m never going to get the chance if I stay here. Mrs Temple’s still a young woman. How long have I been here, Lucy? Nearly three years and I’m still no more than a glorified skivvy standing in on Mrs Temple’s days off. I want to be boss of my own kitchen.’ Part of this was true, she did want to be a cook; it was not a towering ambition but better than scrubbing floors. She leaned forward as Lucy began to cry. ‘Aw, don’t worry. You and I will still be friends!’

  Lucy presented a distraught face. ‘We’re more than friends, Beat, we’re sisters.’

  ‘That’s right, we are.’ Beata petted her. ‘And that’s how we’ll stay. I promise.’

  26

  Sisters or no, Beata chose never to go to the lodge again. Be that as it may, the ordeal of having to work alongside Jack was too painful for words, both of them attempting to make out as if their romantic interlude had never occurred, trying to stay chummy in front of the others. So urgent was her desperation to get away that every night she trawled the situations vacant column of the newspaper, went for three interviews on her afternoon off and accepted the first job that was offered, leaving at the end of the week to floods of tears from Lucy. Jack was nowhere in sight that day.

  But the impulsive move soon proved to have been rash. The doctor who engaged her was struggling to maintain himself, let alone a servant, his wife’s snootiness and his father-in-law’s habit of sitting in his shirtsleeves on a Sunday betraying Beata’s new employers as lower class. Handing in her notice within a matter of weeks, she wrote to inform Lucy of her change of address, telling her that she was to work for another military family in Fulford as cook-general, ‘Which means dogsbody,’ wrote Beata, ‘but at least I’ll be employed by somebody who knows the correct way to behave.’

  Briar House, the home of Lieutenant-Colonel Druce, situated near the cavalry barracks, was a Victorian villa with privet hedging in the forecourt and an enormous garden at the rear. For those who entered through the front door the dining room was off the hallway to the left and the sitting room to the right, but of course Beata was relegated to the side entrance, which led to the kitchen. In here was a big Yorkshire range with an oven on either side and room on top for several pans. It was an unpretentious household. Apart from an old man who came periodically to tend the garden, there was only one other member of staff.

  Eve, the parlourmaid, was not half as nice as Lucy, unwilling to defer to the newcomer simply because she held the title Cook. Colonel and Mrs Druce might not be very demanding but with such an uncooperative colleague Beata found herself with much more work to do. Still, hard labour did have its benefits, giving her little time to think about Jack, and even though there was to be painful reminder in her meetings with his sister once a week, the wound eventually began to heal, especially in one so lacking in bitterness, and Beata retained the hope that she would in time meet a more genuine suitor.

  One thing was certain, she would not meet him here, for, even though the family owned a car, there was no chauffeur. Gone were the days of being driven to church, but, much nearer now to her place of worship, she could easily get there on foot, even if it did mean a rush to prepare Sunday luncheon.

  ‘I shall have to teach you to drive, Beata,’ announced Mrs Druce upon her breathless cook almost tripping in her haste to deliver the meal to the table and explaining why. ‘Then, not only can you drive yourself to church but can take me shopping.’

  Beata thanked the gentlewoman for her understanding and said she would look forward to it greatly, but her anticipation of this was quickly doused upon reporting to Eve, the parlourmaid saying in her blunt, sullen fashion, ‘You needn’t think I’m doing all the work while you’re carting her round.’ And her grumbles must have reached the mistress, for the driving lessons were never to materialize.

  Yet, life was not all drudgery. When the parents went away, leaving daughter Alice at home, there would be games of hockey on the tennis court and all kinds of mad antics, for nine-year-old Alice was something of a live wire and Beata, only eight years older, needed little encouragement to join the fun. Thereafter the pair of them would take tea in the kitchen like old friends, sniggering behind Eve’s back at the maid’s curmudgeonly ways.

  Not infrequently, too, Mrs Druce would announce, ‘Beata, take Master Reginald to the pictures. He will pay.’ And off they would jaunt to the matinée.

  And in reward for any extra work when Mrs Druce’s elderly mother came to stay Beata would be handed an envelope bearing cash, the dowager handing it over herself and shaking hands with Beata as if they were equals.

  Eve treated Beata like an equal too, though in quite a different regard, plonking herself down at the same table without so much as a by-your-leave. Never one to put on airs and graces, Beata chose not to remind this trespasser that it was most inappropriate for a parlourmaid to sit down alongside Cook, though it annoyed her and she was to complain loudly to her friend whenever they met about Eve’s lack of decorum.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if she were nice, but she isn’t! A face on her like a blasted haddock. I’ve never seen her crack a smile once – probably ’cause it’d take too much effort, I’ve never known anyone so lazy and catty. I had to follow the rules when I was a maid; I thought when I rose to be cook I’d at least have some respect.’

  ‘It’s no good moaning to me.’ Lucy was unsympathetic. ‘You must put her in her place.’

  But this was not Beata’s way. Preferring to suffer the lack of deference than all-out warfare, she made the best of life with Eve, though it was very hard to find any rapport, especially as the maid took every petty opportunity to flout the fact that she was five years older than her reputed superior. Spring had just brought the announcement that women were to be given the vote on the same terms as men. ‘But, of course, it won’t make any difference to you,’ said Eve, standing idle whilst the other worked, ‘you being only seventeen.’

  Leg throbbing, moving from cupboard to oven to table, Beata chose not to rise to the bait but calmly went back to stirring her pudding bowl. ‘I doubt I’d have time to vote anyway. I’ve hardly time to pass water. Have you finished in the sitting room?’ Immediately Eve bristled. ‘I’ll finish in my own good time!’

  The stocky little cook held on to her temper. ‘It was a civil question. I thought perhaps if you’d finished you might like to help with—’

  ‘Do your job as well as my own?’

  ‘It’s just that you appear lost for something to do.’

  Eve put her hands on her wide hips. ‘For your information Mrs Druce is eati
ng an orange!’

  Beata was totally flummoxed, at which Eve took officious pleasure in telling her. ‘I can’t get into the parlour. She loves her oranges dipped in sugar and won’t allow anyone in whilst she’s eating one because she makes such a noise – likes to slurp in private. She’ll ring when she’s ready.’

  Beata gave a curt nod and went back to her work.

  As if to irritate, the maid sat down to watch her, offering smugly, ‘When you’ve been here longer you’ll get to know all our little quirks.’

  Her spoon mixing furiously, Beata wondered if she could bear to remain here much longer with such a lack of friends, and tried to focus instead on her holiday in June.

  Upon being hired, she had been told that the Druces always went to Scotland or London for their holidays and that staff were required to take annual leave at the same time. ‘But you will be driven to the station and picked up,’ Mrs Druce informed her kindly. ‘Where might you be going?’

  ‘Scarborough, I should think, madam. That’s where we usually go—’

  But upon giving Lucy this information so as to enable her to make a booking, she had been surprised.

  ‘I’ve decided we’re going further afield this year,’ Lucy had announced. ‘Blackpool! Two pounds ten with morning call and shoes cleaned.’

  It was less than three months away, but just at that moment, with no one to share a laugh and a joke, it seemed to Beata a very long way off and she wondered bleakly whether she could survive until June.

  * * *

  But survive she did and, her time filled with cleaning and cooking, she was amazed to note that there were now only twenty-four hours to go.

  After an even busier day of preparing food for the Druces’ travelling hamper, an evening spent packing cases for the entire household and a last breakfast rush, she was on her way.