A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  The figure directly beside her was stirring too. Since Kit’s departure it had fallen to Beata to heed Mrs Allen’s tap and consequently go and rouse her parents. Feeling her start to rise Kit murmured, ‘Stay there a while, I’ll see to your dad.’ Then, as was her usual habit, she rolled out of bed feet first, toes slipping expertly into boots placed at a strategic point the night before and, whilst lacing them, made use of a chamber pot.

  Standing in her chemise and drawers, a tousled plait dangling over one shoulder, Kit moved through the darkness between the beds crammed with slumbering bodies to the bowl of cold water on the dresser where she sponged her face and voluptuous upper body, dried herself, then put on her stays, her petticoat and her dress. The room smelled faintly of last night’s urine. Carrying a full chamber pot before her, her arm trembling under the weight, she opened the door and crept through the other bedroom on her way to the stairs, whispering into Monty’s ear so as not to wake his wife. Unable to pass the crib without smiling fondly into it, she lingered for a moment, then went downstairs.

  At her arrival, the beetles that came out at night to feed on kitchen debris scuttled back behind the skirting boards. Kit barely noticed them and proceeded outside, first having to count to five in order to make her exit. She did not know why this was, it had always been so. If she tried to go through an outer doorway without counting to five an invisible wall confronted her. It was not essential to do this when entering a house, just upon leaving. Kit was hardly conscious of her habit now, just did it instinctively. Once outside she tipped the slops over the grate, rinsed out the chamber pot and went back inside.

  The fire had been banked up overnight with slack and only needed the tease of a poker to get it going. Yet, its flame was insufficient to light the room, for the sun had not yet risen, and Kit was forced to grope about in the dinge for an oil lamp. The room was suffused with the smell of bacon. Contrary to this indication there would be none for breakfast, the aroma merely came from the lamp which had been fed with the dregs from the frying pan in order to save money. Still not fully conscious, acting merely from custom, Kit put the kettle on, shoved a communal toothbrush up the chimney and transferred the sooty bristles to her mouth.

  Last night, before leaving, Gwen had taken over Sarah’s kitchen in her usual bossy fashion and prepared the dough for a new supply of bread. All Kit had to do now was to put it in the oven. It would not be baked in time for Monty’s departure, though. Taking yesterday’s loaf from the bread bin, she carved numerous slices and spread them with dripping.

  At this point the fragile-looking Beata appeared.

  ‘Eh, I thought I told you to have a lie-in!’ Kit was softly accusing. ‘You don’t start for hours.’

  ‘I’ve got used to getting up early since you left.’ Her niece also used the brush on her teeth, then seeing that the kettle was boiling, made a pot of tea. ‘Anyroad, I have to get our Ethel’s and Rhoda’s snap ready.’

  Kit frowned. The last time she had come home Rhoda had still been at school. Then she remembered. ‘Oh aye, she’s twelve now!’ Monty and Sarah refused to let any of their girls go to work before this age. ‘So what’s she doing then?’

  Beata said she was at the same glass works in Castleford where she herself and Ethel were clerks. She coughed several times to clear her throat, her pale features always appearing more delicate than ever first thing on a morning. ‘She’s in t’factory, but just half-time, ’cause she’s still struggling with her sums. Some weeks she goes mornings and t’next she goes afternoons … sorry for this here beffing.’ She thumped her chest.

  ‘That’s all right. Who’s looking after your mam if you’re at work then?’

  ‘Alice is having time off school and Rhoda’s coming home at dinner time, and Mrs Allen’ll be popping in. Is there enough o’ that bread left for us?’

  Kit checked the loaf. ‘Aye, I think so. I’ll do it for thee. You pour us a cup o’ tea – oh, here’s your lord and master, best get him one first.’

  Monty hawked to clear his lungs, expectorated upon the fire, then sat at the table waiting to be served. The tea emerged like treacle, which was the way he liked it. After lacing her father’s mug with sugar, Beata spread a large handkerchief to receive the slices of bread and dripping prepared by her aunt, knotted it, then made a similar parcel for her sisters. Alongside these she placed three billycans, each with a twist of tea and sugar. Kit packed her brother’s wedges into his snap tin and filled his bottle with water. All would be consumed later at work; it was far too early for breakfast at this hour.

  Only now did Kit sit down to enjoy her tea. After the cups were drained Beata took them away to wash whilst Kit did her hair. Standing before the small mirror over the fireplace – which was set too high for children; it didn’t do to encourage vanity and the mirror was purely for practical purposes – she unravelled her braided tresses and swept them into a chignon. The insertion of several hairpins lent time for appraisal. The reflected gaze displayed a fundamental honesty, which was a great asset to one who, in moments of crisis, was not averse to resorting to untruth. With sleep not fully banished from the heavy-lidded eyes it was an attractive and sensual reflection. Beneath the residue of baby fat lay good foundations. Far from being rounded like her body, the head in the mirror was quite long with large dramatic features. Too large? Kit stared at herself. Was she truly as bad as everyone seemed to think?

  Monty glanced at his sister, thinking how vain she was, always checking her appearance. To discourage this display he stood abruptly. ‘Come on then, ’ee don’t wanna be late.’

  Kit turned away from her reflection and helped him into his jacket, Beata handed him his cap and then his snap tin which he affixed to his belt and was ready to go. There were few kisses exchanged in this household. Fondness did not have to be demonstrated.

  ‘Should I take Sarah a cup o’ tea?’ Kit’s offer was not completely altruistic. She hoped to sneak a last cuddle of the darling baby Probyn before leaving.

  ‘No, you get off,’ said Beata, bending her willowy frame to open the oven and check the bread, the smell of which had begun to permeate the house. ‘I’ll take her one. I have to go and empty t’potties.’

  ‘I’ve done ’em,’ replied Kit. ‘Leastwise one of ’em in our room. I left t’other; it had nowt in.’

  ‘Aye, I noticed but Father’s will be almost overflowing—’

  ‘Cheeky cat,’ interjected Monty.

  Beata laughed. ‘Anyroad I have to get our lasses up.’

  Thwarted, Kit reached for her bonnet.

  Monty groaned. ‘Do I have to be seen with ’ee wearing that?’

  ‘I’ll walk six paces behind you if you like, maungy.’ Kit fingered him playfully in the back, counted to five, and the two tall figures set off. Before reaching the end of the row Monty cautioned his sister to keep a low profile for, although he was not superstitious himself, some of the men with whom he worked would turn around and go home if they encountered a woman on their way to the pit. However, such characters were not in evidence at the moment.

  By now the sun was almost risen, which was a mixed blessing for as they were passing the allotments Monty noticed that one of his bantams had died overnight. Through the half-light he could make out the gleam of white feathers in the cleft of the lower branches of a lilac tree.

  Kit saw it too. ‘Aw, the poor thing.’

  ‘Poor thing?’ Monty looked accusingly at her. ‘It seems like an awful coincidence, you just mentioning yesterday that ’ee wanted a bird for your new hat.’

  She gasped in outrage. ‘I haven’t touched it! Look, there isn’t a mark on it!’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past ’ee to’ve made a little clay effigy and been sticking pins in it overnight!’ Monty relaxed his scowl and nudged her. ‘I’m kidding ’ee, daft clot. I reckon it’s that flaming dog o’ Kelly’s been chasing ’em again, scared the poor bird to death!’ He reached up into the tree and dislodged the corpse.

  Kit watched hi
m examine it. ‘Well, you won’t be able to eat it, will you? I mean, it might’ve died from some disease.’

  ‘If this be your way of asking if you can have it for your hat, then no you can’t. That bird were fit as a lop yesterday. She’s died o’ fright, I tell ’ee. Bain’t no way I’m throwing good food away.’ A slight note of relent entered his voice. ‘But you can have the feathers once it’s been plucked if you want.’

  ‘I don’t want ’em wi’ blood and muck all over ’em! I need the skin in one piece. Aw, go on, Mont! I’ll go back and do it this minute and the meat’ll be there for your tea. I won’t make a mess of it.’

  ‘Well, zee you don’t!’ Monty handed over the limp-necked fowl and, saying that he was going to be late if he dallied here any longer, headed for the grim silhouette of the pit headgear – for although it was only half a mile away he would have two more miles to walk underground before he reached his workplace. Kit hurried back to the house.

  By this time Ethel and Rhoda had risen and were poised in the scullery amidst a heap of bedding whilst getting the copper fired up. Both they and their elder sister gawked as their aunt rushed in, placed the dead bantam on the table, snatched off her bonnet and began to rattle the contents of a drawer. ‘Knife, knife – I need a sharp knife!’ Successful in her search, Kit rummaged in her pocket for the instructions, following them stage by stage, first making a neat incision down the bird’s breast, shallow enough to avoid drawing blood, then began a tedious peeling of skin and feathers. Thankfully the sun was donating more light now. ‘I have to get it off all in one piece,’ came her explanation to the watchers. ‘So’s it’ll look like a real bird on me hat.’

  ‘Are you gonna keep t’head an’ all?’ enquired Rhoda, grinding a knuckle into her eye corner.

  ‘You daft aporth, who wants a chicken’s head on her hat?’

  ‘I were only asking.’ Rhoda turned her back and rammed the dirty sheets into the copper.

  At the offended tone, Kit said, ‘Well, maybe I’d leave it on if it were summat pretty like a dove. Don’t talk to me for a minute, I have to be right careful.’

  Fascinated, the red-headed sisters stood watching for as long as they could before having to leave for work.

  ‘Kit, you should be off too or you’re going to be late!’ Ethel, who had the strict air of a school mistress, was never irresponsible like her aunt.

  Kit was too immersed in her delicate operation. ‘I can’t rush it, it’ll be spoiled. It’s got to go in t’oven yet – is that bread out?’ She dared not lift her eyes.

  ‘Aye.’ Beata pulled a shawl around her tall but slender frame. ‘We really have to go. Good luck with your thingy!’ The three sisters left.

  Without lifting her head, Kit returned their farewell and continued with her task, too involved to heed the faint summons of bell and whistle calling people to their labours at various manufactories across the Aire valley. Finally, after much biting of lips and facial contortions, the bird’s plumage came off in one clean piece, along with its wings. Another consultation of the instructions told her to apply salt and pepper to the underside of the skin, which she did, though could see no earthly reason why if no one was going to eat it. Then, leaving a grotesque pink carcass lying on the table, Kit transported its overcoat to the oven, handling it like precious china.

  Once it was installed there was time to relax and to share a congratulatory grin with herself in the mirror – until she caught sight of the clock’s reflection and balked at the time. If she left now and walked briskly she might still make her destination. Perhaps she should leave a note for someone to take the feathers out of the oven – but what if they got scorched? She dared not risk it. The new hat must come before all else. Putting her waiting time to good use she tried to make the carcass look presentable. It was at this point that Sarah came in looking like a wild Welsh mare, her black locks all tousled.

  Caught out, Kit tried to conceal her own guilt with a look of reproach. ‘What’re you doing out of bed?’

  ‘Never mind what I’m doing! What are you doing still here?’ Sarah wore a perpetual frown of anxiety that would only be smoothed by the safe appearance of the breadwinner home from the pit each night. To the onlooker she had always been middle-aged, had never been young and fancy free. Her dark eyes fell on the carcass. ‘And what’s that mangled mess?’

  ‘Kellys’ dog killed one of our Monty’s banties so I said I’d dress it so’s it’d be ready for your tea.’

  ‘Dress it? It looks as if it’s been undressed to me – and very violently.’ Sarah looked with some revulsion upon the flesh which Kit was frantically trying to make into something more attractive. ‘And I don’t know about it being safe to eat. If a dog’s had it in its mouth—’

  ‘Oh no, its teeth didn’t pierce the skin, it was just a bit knocked around, you see. I had to do the best I could with it. Do you want me to cut it into pieces, and you can use it in a stew?’

  Sarah tossed her head. ‘What I want is for you to go to work!’

  ‘Let me get you a cup o’ tea before—’

  ‘Kit, just go!’

  Kit wondered if the precious feathers were sufficiently dried and how she could get them out of the oven without her sister-in-law catching her. ‘I’ll just put this in t’pantry. You really shouldn’t be up, you know. I thought Alice was meant to be looking after you?’

  ‘I don’t need looking after.’ Hand pressed to the small of her back, Sarah wrinkled her nose and began to sniff the air. Above the fresh soapy scent of boiling linen was a less pleasant odour. ‘Has something crept into my oven and died?’

  Kit winced as her sister-in-law flung open the cast-iron door. ‘Ah, well, you see,’ she explained under the other’s responding glare, ‘I didn’t want to put the feathers to waste so I thought I might as well use them to decorate a hat.’ She bustled forward in an attempt to rescue her prize. ‘They needed to be dried in the oven so—’

  ‘Just get out of this house!’ Brooding Welsh eyes gave weight to the order. ‘I’ll take care of them.’

  ‘Well, you really shouldn’t—’

  ‘Be gone!’

  ‘You will look after them till next time I come? Oh thanks, Sarah!’ Kit thought it expedient to leave. ‘Oh, well then – I bid thee farewell!’ Counting to five, she grabbed her bonnet and fled.

  Across the meadow, along the road, down valley and up hill Kit ran, the urban sprawl of Leeds and its smoking chimneys looking deceptively close but the ache in her legs telling otherwise as she paused for breath, then ran, jogged, stumbled, ran again the entire six miles and finally arrived in the basement of the large sandstone villa at seven thirty clutching her side, dripping with sweat and barely able to issue an apology to the furious and dishevelled cook.

  ‘Mrs Atkinson, I’m really so—’

  ‘I’ll give you sorry!’ Cook was dour at the best of times but now looked ready to throw the breakfast tray she was carrying. ‘Where’ve you been? Never mind! Put your cap and apron on and take this up at once. The master and mistress are waiting!’

  Beads of perspiration on her brow, and heaving with exhaustion, Kit had already thrown off her shawl and rushed to snatch a clean apron from a drawer.

  ‘Come on, frame yourself! ’

  Mob cap askew, Kit grabbed the tray and hurried for the stairs.

  ‘And when you come down you’d better be able to give an explanation!’ spat Mrs Atkinson before collapsing into a chair.

  Staggering up to the drawing room, Kit prepared herself for retribution, but this manifested itself only in the form of arctic expressions from her employer’s family, the master registering his own disapproval by a theatrical look at his watch.

  Downstairs, however, was a different matter. Mrs Atkinson’s anger was unabated by the conciliatory cup of tea that Kit poured for her. Though she did not rise from her seat, the authoritative tone of her voice was sufficient to convey her superiority.

  ‘I am not a housemaid, Katherine, I am Coo
k! I do not clean fireplaces, do not light fires. I cook. That is why, strange as it might seem, my title is Cook!’

  ‘I’m really—’

  ‘If we were employed by Lord Bountiful there’d be other maids who could do the work when you failed in your duty, but we’re not, we’re working for a skinflint who can hardly afford the two of us, so when you decide you want to slonk in bed—’

  ‘I did set off in time!’ pleaded Kit, but was cut off by a glare.

  ‘When you give in to your idle nature it’s me who cops all the extra work!’ Cook lifted her teacup to her lips but stopped halfway. ‘Up to me armpits in black lead, looking like a nigger minstrel and the master wants to know where his kippers are!’

  Kit gave earnest apology, wringing her hands afore her buxom chest. ‘I’m truly sorry, I wear I did set off on time but you see, our Sarah had another bairn last night and—’

  ‘And you’re the one doing the lying in?’ Cook remained waspish.

  ‘No! I mean—’

  ‘You mean you’re using others as an excuse for your shortcomings!’ Mrs Atkinson took a last angry sip of tea. ‘I’m not having it, Katherine! There’ve been too many of these incidents. You started off competently enough but you’ve been very slack of late. This is the last straw.’

  Sensing disaster Kit sought desperate and shameful action. ‘We had a death in the family!’ It was only stretching the truth a little – Monty loved those banties as if they were his children.

  There was stunned silence, a look of horror, then an exclamation. ‘Eh no – the babby, was it?’

  Kit hesitated, then shook her head.

  ‘Oh no, not your sister-in-law?’ Cook pressed a hand to her mouth and spoke through fingers that still bore a hint of black lead. ‘Eh, that’s dreadful!’ She had no personal knowledge of Sarah but both were acquainted with Mrs Feather, the midwife, who had been responsible for Kit being offered this job.

  The look of shocked sympathy on the woman’s face sent a wave of guilt flooding through Kit, who was about to correct Mrs Atkinson’s assumption but was not given time, for the other was issuing profuse commiserations. Covering her eyes as if to stem tears she wondered how to rectify her rash proclamation. Perhaps later when Mrs Atkinson had cooled down Kit could explain that it was all a misunderstanding.