Nellie and Secret the Letter
Page 2
The laundry was still in semi-darkness, and the figure that loomed into view through the mist of steam around the copper was at first difficult to make out. Nellie wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman. The person was quite small, and wore a loose, floppy jacket and wide trousers. Women didn’t wear trousers, of course, so it must be a man. But a long pigtail fell from beneath a little round cap, and men didn’t have long pigtails. The face might have been carved from wood, for it was as brown and smooth as the face of Mary’s doll.
Suddenly a great shiver ran right through Nellie’s body, starting at her toes and finishing at the top of her head. Suppose it wasn’t a person at all, but a Pooka? Her workhouse friend Maggie Dooley had been terrified of Pookas. They were clever, mischievous fairies, and they could change their shape. If you made them angry they might throw you into a ditch, or lure you into a dark forest where you’d get lost or be eaten by wolves. Nellie didn’t fancy being eaten by wolves, or whatever might eat you in this country. Wombats, perhaps. She must be very careful not to cause offence.
She curtsied low. ‘Greetings,’ she said, her voice wobbling a little. ‘I am just a poor servant. Please don’t harm me.’
The Pooka smiled an evil smile, showing blackish teeth. Then he (by now Nellie was almost sure it was ‘he’) bowed too, and pointed to himself. ‘Li,’ he said. ‘Laundry master.’
Nellie’s heart beat so fast that she could scarcely hear what he was saying. ‘What is it you want from me, lordly master?’
‘Not lordly.’ The Pooka chuckled. ‘Laundry. I wash.’ He made scrubbing movements with his hands.
‘You wash?’
The Pooka nodded. ‘Sheets. Dirty clothes.’
‘Oh, laundry!’ Suddenly Nellie understood. ‘So that’s who you are – the person who does the laundry!’ She pointed to herself. ‘Nellie. Kitchen maid.’
‘Nellie kitchen maid,’ Li repeated, his eyes twinkling.
Nellie was enchanted. ‘I am so pleased to meet you – I thought you must be a Pooka, you know, a bad fairy who plays tricks on people, like the one who turned into a big black dog and scared Maggie Dooley so much she went to bed for a week. But now I can see that you’re not a bad fairy at all.’
‘Not bad at all,’ said Li, with a wide smile. Then, as Nellie continued to gaze at him, he went on, ‘I am from China. May I help you?’
‘Could you, please? My clothes are dirty, and I’m afraid they are a little burned.’
‘Ah yes, I burn.’ Li took the clothes from her and opened the iron door of the fireplace beneath the copper, where hot coals kept the water boiling.
‘No no no!’ shouted Nellie, horrified. ‘Not burn. Wash!’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Li. ‘I wash. So sorry for not understanding.’
‘There’s no need at all to be sorry. You must have thought I was daft, thinking you were a Pooka. And it is most kind of you to be washing my clothes. Thank you!’
‘It an honour,’ replied Li.
Nellie curtsied to him, and Li bowed, and Nellie curtsied again, and then they both laughed.
Imagine meeting somebody from China! Nellie thought as she danced back to the kitchen. I wonder where China is? I must tell Tom about Li when I write to him. He would be very interested. I shall write him a letter soon.
She was so happy to have found a new friend that not even Bessie Rudge’s bad-tempered face could stop her from smiling.
‘I took my clothes to the laundry, and I met Li,’ Nellie told Mary later. They were sitting at the kitchen table with Trotty and Mr Birch, the gardener, eating the tripe in white sauce that Bessie Rudge had prepared for the servants’ midday meal. ‘At first I was scared out of my wits. I thought he was a Pooka!’
‘You’d never find a Pooka here. Sure, they’d all be back home in Ireland, wouldn’t they?’ said Mary. ‘You can be such an eejit, Nell!’
‘I didn’t know there would be people from China in Adelaide,’ Nellie continued, ignoring Mary. ‘Why would he have come here?’
‘The same reason as you – to get work,’ said Trotty. ‘He does people’s washing, and he sends money home to his family in China. He lives in a low-down rental in Grenfell Street. The Golden Lily, or some such name. Ain’t he a queer one, with his pigtail and that?’
‘I like his pigtail,’ said Nellie. ‘And his little round hat and his funny shoes.’
‘He does a lovely job with the linen,’ said Trotty. ‘The sheets and tablecloths are that white they fair blind you.’ She glanced towards the stove, where Bessie Rudge was taking a pie out of the oven. ‘Cook won’t have him in the house, because he’s a heathen who doesn’t believe in God,’ she added in a loud whisper. ‘Between you and me, she’s terrified to death of him. She thinks Chinamen kidnap English children and use them as slaves. They eat little babies, too, she says.’
‘Hush now, Trotty. It’s impossible to imagine Li doing any such evil thing,’ said Mr Birch. ‘We don’t know that he’s a heathen, neither. I heard he was schooled in China by Christian missionaries – God-fearing folk.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Nellie. ‘Whatever he is, I like him.’
‘He comes every Thursday to do the ironing,’ Mary told her, ‘and he has the dearest little contraption for ironing silk. It looks like a wee brass saucepan, but with a pattern of flowers on it. He fills it with hot coals, and it smooths the cloth out like magic.’
‘He mightn’t eat babies, but he does eat lizards and that,’ said Trotty, wrinkling her nose. ‘Leastways, that’s what Cook told me.’
I ate a rat once, back in Ireland, Nellie remembered. I shared it with Dada, but he let me have most of it. You eat worse things if you’re starving. Anyway, who knows if it’s true that Li eats lizards? Mrs Rudge would say anything about a person she doesn’t like.
But Nellie wisely said none of this aloud. Instead, she pictured herself sharing her thoughts with Tom. ‘Lizards!’ he’d say. ‘I never heard of anything so silly. Does he eat spiders, too?’
One Friday early in January, Nellie and Mary were unexpectedly given the day off and allowed to go in to town together. The Lefroys had taken the children to the coolness of the Adelaide Hills for a few days, and Bessie Rudge had gone to visit her sister in Stepney.
‘I don’t care what you do,’ said Trotty, who was left in charge of the house. ‘Just make sure you’ve done all your chores before you go, and be home before three o’clock. Cook’ll be back by then, and if you’re not here she’ll have my guts for garters.’ She sat back in one of the kitchen chairs, and then shocked Mary by putting her feet up on the table. ‘Me, I’m going to read my book.’
Nellie looked at her, wide-eyed. ‘Can you really read, Trotty?’
‘Course I can. There’s plenty of words I don’t understand, though.’
‘Imagine Trotty being able to read a book!’ Nellie said later as she and Mary walked out onto the street, Nellie skipping a little because it felt so good to be free. ‘D’you think she went to school?’
‘I suppose she must have,’ Mary replied. ‘Now, where shall we go first?’
‘Let’s visit Mr Dawkins at the draper’s shop. He used to live at the boarding house, remember? I need some new clothes so badly! After that I shall buy some writing paper.’
‘Writing paper? Why should you need such a thing as that?’
‘Perhaps I shall write you a letter, angel.’
Mary had a sudden fit of coughing. ‘And it would be a fine thing if I could read it!’
‘No, you eejit, really I want to write to Tom Thompson. I promised him I would.’
‘And how will you manage to do that, Nell, as you can’t write more than a word or so?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I’ll find a way.’
They turned into Rundle Street and walked quickly past Thompson’s Boarding House, now a blackened shell with the holes of its doors and windows boarded up. A little further along the street they came to the drapery. Arthur Dawkins was overjoyed to see Nellie. He
pressed her hands in his own plump ones and greeted Mary with a deep bow. When Nellie explained that she needed new clothes, he showed the girls bolts of fabric suitable for making dresses, spreading them out on the counter with a flourish.
How beautiful they were! There was a cotton print covered with swags of luscious pink roses, and another sprigged with tiny flowers in brown and gold on a cream background. There were striped fabrics and plain ones, ginghams and paisleys, checks and tartans. There were watered silks and plain silks that shimmered like jewels. And there were laces and ribbons more enticing than any Nellie had ever seen.
‘I shall need two new dresses,’ Nellie said. ‘The one I have won’t last much longer.’ She turned around to show Arthur where the scorch marks were starting to turn into holes, revealing her shift beneath. ‘Some of these fabrics would suit Queen Victoria herself, but for me there’s no point being fancy. I’ll take however much is needed of that grey twill, and the same of the blue gingham.’
‘Fine choices, both,’ said Arthur, picking up his scissors.
‘But do look at the pink fabric, Nell,’ Mary urged her. ‘It’s so pretty, and the pink roses and green leaves would be lovely with your red hair.’
Arthur put down his scissors. ‘How much money do you have, Miss Nellie?’
‘I have two sovereigns that Mrs Thompson gave me, but I need to buy something else with them, too.’
Arthur scribbled some figures on a scrap of paper. ‘Five yards of the twill at a shilling a yard will cost you five shillings, and the same amount for the gingham. That’s ten shillings all up. The pink roses is a Paris voile, so it’s more expensive – one and sixpence a yard. Lovely stuff, though. It would cost you seven shillings and sixpence.’ He looked around, and lowered his voice. ‘Seven shillings for you, and I’ll throw in a handful of them little mother-of-pearl buttons.’
‘Seven shillings isn’t a great amount, Nell, is it? And the buttons are so pretty. Do get the pink, now.’
‘I don’t know, Mary angel. The plain fabrics would be much more useful. When could I wear a dress covered in pink roses?’
‘You could wear it any day at all because it would make you happy.’
Nellie looked at Mary’s pleading face, and gave in. ‘All right then, the gingham and the roses. And would you be so kind as to cut the pattern pieces for me, Mr Dawkins?’
‘I don’t wish to be rude, Miss Nellie,’ said Arthur carefully, ‘but are you, um, familiar with the sewing process?’
‘Of course I can sew! I learned it at the workhouse. We had to sew aprons and funeral shrouds.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘We made twice as many shrouds as pinnies, because so many were in need of them.’
She chose a simple pattern for the dresses, and some unbleached cotton for shifts and aprons. Arthur said he would personally cut the fabric for her. It would be ready to pick up in a couple of hours.
The girls continued to walk down Rundle Street, and soon Nellie had a surprise nearly as great as finding Li in the laundry. A small brick cottage had been turned into a general store, and outside it, hanging up a string of shining tin kettles, was Edward Strout. He had always been Nellie’s favourite among Mrs Thompson’s boarders.
Edward put down the kettles immediately and rushed forward to shake Nellie by the hand. ‘Why, Miss Nellie, you surely are a sight for sore eyes!’ he said. ‘Have you tamed the dragon yet?’
‘The dragon?’
‘Bessie Rudge.’ Edward winked. ‘She’s a devil, isn’t she? My Annie couldn’t wait to say goodbye to her, I can tell you.’
‘Indeed, the dragon and I are getting along quite well, thank you,’ said Nellie, laughing. ‘And how is your new shop, Mr Strout?’
‘Middling, Miss Nellie, middling. It’s not easy to start a place up, but I should be able to pay off my debts within a couple of years, with luck. And my wife is a tower of strength, bless her.’
When Mary had been introduced, and Annie had been called out to say hello, Nellie told Edward that she wanted to write a letter. What would she need?
Edward went straight into the shop and returned with writing paper, a bottle of ink, a wooden pen-holder and a box of steel nibs. ‘You can do some fine pot-hooks now,’ he said.
‘Pot-hooks?’ asked Mary.
‘That’s how you learn to write,’ Nellie explained. ‘You draw lines for the letters, and then you write the letters with curves like the iron hooks you hang a pot on. Mr Strout, how much do I owe you?’
Edward wouldn’t hear of payment. ‘It’s a gift, Miss Nellie. If it wasn’t for you, I’d never have found my Annie. I reckon I owes you for that.’
‘Oh, Mary angel,’ said Nellie later, as they walked home laden with parcels. ‘It makes you happy, doesn’t it, that there are such fine people in the world as Mr Dawkins and Mr Strout. I think I could put up with Mrs Rudge now for ever and a day.’
That night Nellie reached under her bed in the dark and pulled out her spelling book. It was the only thing she owned apart from Maggie Dooley’s tartan shawl, now with half its fringe burned off. Nellie blessed the shawl, because it had helped her to save the life of baby Albert Thompson, but the spelling book was even more precious to her because it was Tom Thompson’s gift. And apart from Mary, Tom was the person she cared most about in all the world.
In some ways Tom reminded Nellie of her dada. She couldn’t quite say why. It might have been the way he laughed when they shared a joke, or the way he teased her when she did something daft. Or maybe it was just that she felt so comfortable with him.
She tried to remember Tom’s face, but already there was something shadowy about it, as if he were fading just a little.
Nellie had saved a Lucifer match to light her candle. Very carefully now she struck the match on the floor and cupped the flare with her hand. She wasn’t supposed to have a candle: Bessie Rudge had told her that candles cost good money and it wasn’t for the likes of a kitchen maid to have anything requiring to be lit up. Nellie stuffed her shawl along the bottom of the closed door so not the smallest chink of light would show outside. Then she sat on her bed, her back against the wall, and opened up her spelling book.
Looking at the illustrated ABC pages reminded her so strongly of Tom. ‘Look at the word, not the picture,’ he’d said, when she’d thought a picture of a nut was a picture of a potato. ‘Sound the letters out.’ Now she could read words of three letters, and sentences like I met a man and a pig. If only she could show Tom what good progress she was making! She knew he’d be proud of her.
She turned the pages until she came to the examples of handwriting. Then her spirits sank, for now that she looked at them properly, she saw how different the letters were from those of the simple words she had learned.
Never mind: if she was ever to write to Tom, she would have to master this.
She got out a sheet of paper and, with her tongue between her teeth, she carefully copied every curly letter several times.
The letters she formed looked more like squashed insects than anything else. The ink blotted and then ran dry. The pen scratched. The nib got stuck in the paper and sent up little sprays of ink. By the time she’d finished, Nellie had ink on her fingers, too.
Blowing out the forbidden candle, she pulled her blanket up around her chin. This was all so much more difficult than she’d thought it would be!
‘What are you up to with your inky fingers, my chick?’ asked Trotty at the breakfast table next morning.
Nellie jumped, nearly dropping the teapot into her porridge. ‘I’m learning to write,’ she said. She glanced at Bessie Rudge, who was sitting opposite her, deep in conversation with Mr Birch. ‘Or at least I’m trying to. But please don’t say anything to Mrs Rudge. I’d not want any more attention from her.’
‘And why should you not want my attention?’ asked Bessie Rudge. She looked suspiciously at Nellie. ‘What’s that on your fingers?’
‘Nothing, ma’am,’ said Nellie, putting both hands behind her back.
There was no point denying it now. ‘I’m teaching myself to read and write, ma’am. But only in my time off, I swear.’
‘Indeed. Thinking to better ourselves, are we?’
‘Not really – I mean, yes, I suppose I am … and wouldn’t that be a good thing?’
‘Not for the likes of you.’ Bessie seemed to grow larger and redder as she spoke. ‘You’re a kitchen maid, girl, and you’d best remember your place. You can put a silk dress on a pig, but it’s still a pig. An Irish pig,’ she added, looking pleased with herself.
In the brief silence that followed, Mr Birch put down his spoon and rose from the table. ‘Well, no rest for the wicked. I have to ride to town this morning to collect the mail. The Coromandel is docked at the Port these last few days, direct from London. Does anyone have a letter that needs to be sent off?’
‘Not me, Mr Birch, sir,’ said Nellie. ‘Leastways, not yet,’ she added, under her breath.
‘You have to send one to get one, maidy,’ Mr Birch said with a chuckle. ‘Can’t have Mary here being the only one to get letters from an admirer, can we?’
Nellie looked at her friend in surprise. ‘An admirer?’ she asked.
‘Never in all of my life,’ replied Mary, looking mortified. ‘The Lord knows I have no admirer, nor any hopes of one. I don’t know how you can suggest such a thing, Mr Birch.’
Bessie leaned back in her chair, which creaked in protest. ‘Admirers? I should think not,’ she said loudly. She frowned at Nellie. ‘Go and scrub your fingers this minute, and properly, or you’ll feel the back of my hand.’
Nellie escaped to the back yard and washed her hands under the pump, scrubbing her fingers till they hurt.
‘I’m never a pig in a dress, am I?’ she said to Trotty, who had followed her outside.