by Val Wood
‘I didn’t know that,’ Martha said. ‘You’ve never said.’
Cook shrugged. ‘It’s not summat you like to talk about,’ she said. ‘Besides, it was years ago, but you never forget it.’ She straightened up in the chair. ‘Let me tell you what’ll be expected of you supposing I tek you on. You’ll have to sleep down here in ’kitchen, cos you’ll be ’first up to mend ’fire and get ’water on to boil. Then you’ll wash ’kitchen floor and ’lobby. Windows need to be cleaned once a week and all ’pots and pans I use will want washing, and I like to see ’em sparkling,’ she warned, lifting a finger. ‘And it’ll be you what scrubs ’vegetables for dinner.’ She paused. ‘But that’s not all. You’ll be at my beck ’n’ call all day.’ She looked hard at Polly. ‘So what do you think? Are you capable of doing that?’
Polly nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can manage all o’ that. Will I get a uniform? My clothes are a bit shabby.’ She looked down at her old skirt. She had two, one for wearing and one for washing. They were both thin and faded, as were her second-hand blouses. All she wore underneath was a cotton shift.
‘Well, you could hardly be seen in them rags,’ Martha commented. ‘Not in this house. Mrs Kingston was allus most particular and I expect Miss Rosalie’ll be ’same.’
Cook glared at her. ‘I’m not finished,’ she said. She turned to Polly. ‘You’ll get two wool skirts. They’re not new but they’re good enough. Two grey blouses and two pairs o’ black stockings.’ She looked down at Polly’s bare feet. ‘I don’t know about boots. Do yours let ’wet in?’ At Polly’s nod, she muttered, ‘I’ll have to ask about them cos we don’t have any spare.’
She perused Polly for a moment, and then, pursing her lips, said, ‘Let’s see how you shape up. Come and mek a pot o’ tea.’ She pointed to the range. ‘Kettle’s steaming, ’tea’s in that caddy. That’s our tea, not for upstairs, not that you’ll be mekking that anyway.’
Polly looked at her anxiously. ‘I’ve hardly ever made it,’ she said. ‘It’s three and fourpence a pound; we could hardly ever afford it.’
‘I’ll show you,’ Martha said. ‘We can’t afford to waste it either but we like a good cup, don’t we, Cook?’
Cook agreed that they did and sat back as she waited for it. ‘Put a bit extra in ’pot as there’s three of us,’ she instructed. ‘We generally have two spoons.’ Surprisingly she winked at Polly. ‘But we’ll give you a treat if you haven’t had a cup for a bit.’
‘I haven’t,’ Polly said, picking up the cloth to hold the kettle handle. ‘Christmas Day it was, when I went to somebody’s house for dinner. But there were that many of us and they’d added that much water to ’pot, when it came to my turn I couldn’t taste ’tea.’
Martha had put the tea in the teapot and Polly poured the water on to the leaves and then stirred. ‘We’ve to wait now till it’s mashed, that’s what my ma allus said. It brings out ’flavour.’
Cook nodded. ‘She was quite right,’ she said. Then she stroked her chin and pulled at a single protruding black hair. ‘All right, Polly Parker,’ she said. ‘You seem willing enough. I think you’ll be all right. We’ll give you a month’s trial. Can you start straight away?’
Rosalie was astonished by the news that the lawyer had given her. Surely my father would have discussed this with Mama, she thought as she walked home, or perhaps he did, but why did they not tell me?
She had almost reached her house when she was surprised to see a girl dash up the basement steps and run along the street, her skirts flying and her shawl slipping off her shoulders. She was shouting something and it sounded like hurrah. Rosalie sighed. How good it must be to be so free and unrestrained, to occasionally be capricious and not be concerned about other people’s opinions. Not that I could be skittish just now, of course, not when Mama is not yet cold in her grave. But how invigorating it would be to taste such freedom and not always be so proper.
She didn’t know why she suddenly thought of the man who had spoken to her earlier as she had come out of the house. He had been polite in the extreme, but as she remembered their conversation now she couldn’t help but think that he might have been teasing her just a little and that he would have been more amiable and genial had she not been so formal. But there, she thought as she mounted the steps. It wouldn’t do to be too friendly towards an unknown man who hadn’t been introduced; and she became quite warm when she thought of it. I’m extremely vulnerable. Suppose he had heard that I am living alone! He knew about Mama and he’d seen me in the carriage. What if this business about a scullery maid was just a ploy, an excuse to speak to me, and he doesn’t know a girl suitable for the position at all!
She rang the bell for Martha to come up when she had taken off her coat and hat.
‘Martha,’ she said, ‘I hope you have taken the card out of the window. You may take it to the grocer’s shop and ask if it could be placed in his window. We might get all kinds of odd people applying otherwise.’
Martha smiled. ‘Don’t you worry, Miss Rosalie. We’ve got it all arranged. Cook has took on a young girl who seems very suitable. We’re giving her a month’s trial. Her name’s Polly Parker.’
CHAPTER NINE
A week later, the sky was grey and heavy with rain. Rosalie stood looking out of the window wondering what to do with her day. She saw the postman trudging down the street with his head bent and a heavy post bag over his arm. She had given up wishing that word would come from her father and was beginning to think that he had not yet received her letter. She heard the doorbell ring and waited for Martha to come up with whatever had been delivered.
Martha bobbed her knee. ‘A letter, Miss Rosalie!’ She sounded breathless. ‘Mebbe it’s news at last.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, turning it over in her hand. It was her father’s handwriting. The servants, she realized, were probably as anxious over their fate as she was over hers. ‘Thank you, Martha.’
The maid withdrew and Rosalie picked up a paper knife from the escritoire by the window. She took a breath. She was nervous, full of unease over what decision her father would make about her future.
She sat down on a chair and inserted the knife into the envelope. It was thick and wouldn’t slit easily and she had to tear at it before she could withdraw the pages.
My dearest daughter [it began],
I cannot begin to tell you how distressed I am to hear of your mother’s death. My own dear wife, who was in such excellent health when I saw her last. She had written to tell me that she was again with child and we both had great hopes that this time there would be a successful outcome. There is always a risk, of course. You must forgive me, Rosalie, for discussing such a delicate subject, but you are now fifteen or sixteen years of age, are you not, and I am sure that your mama acquainted you with these facts.
Goodness, Rosalie thought. Papa doesn’t know how old I am! Mama always sent greetings from both of them on my birthday. It occurred to her that there would be no birthday card for her this year; and had her mother not told him that she had been advised by Dr James not to embark on another pregnancy?
However, you have, I gather, taken care of everything. I am sure Mrs Fellowes was more than happy to advise you on the funeral arrangements. In view of the fact that your conduct has been so exemplary under such harrowing circumstances, when it might have been assumed that a young lady so afflicted would take to her bed, I cannot but feel relieved to know that your good sense and ability will carry you through.
I have decided therefore that there is no advantage in travelling home at present, and as my regiment will shortly be returning to Ireland I have written to my brother Luke, who would be your legal guardian if anything untoward should happen to me [well I know that already, she thought], and I await his reply to say when it will be convenient for you to travel to his home.
‘What!’ she exclaimed aloud. ‘But I don’t know him!’
She continued to read, scanning the letter quickly as she sought enl
ightenment regarding her future.
The alternative would have been for you to come here to Aldershot and live with the family of a fellow officer, who unfortunately was killed in action last year. I have tentatively broached the subject with his widow, as I felt that your kindness and understanding would help them over their bereavement. After some debate, however, I decided that it would be preferable if you lived with my brother until such time as you are of an age to consider marriage, and then you might come.
I will send funds to pay Cook and Mary for a month, which will be sufficient time for them to find alternative employment. If you ask them to close up the house they will know what to do, and when I return from duties I will decide what is to be done with it.
She dropped the letter on to her lap and didn’t bother to read the final pleasantries or condolences. ‘Shut up the house,’ she muttered. ‘And give Cook and Martha notice. He meant Martha, of course, not Mary. We’ve never had a Mary.’ She began to cry. ‘Why didn’t he come? No advantage! Does he not realize that I’m living here alone?’
She wiped away the tears that were coursing down her cheeks. ‘This comes of being capable,’ she sniffed. ‘If I’d behaved like a child he would have come instantly.’ But then he might have taken me back with him, she thought, and foisted me on to this poor woman who has enough sorrow to deal with without taking in a bereaved stranger.
Polly was on her knees when Martha came down the stairs into the kitchen. She seemed to spend most of her time on her knees or else up to her elbows in greasy water. Cook was exacting, but she hadn’t grumbled too much about her work. Polly quite enjoyed scrubbing the floor and seeing the rough tiles come up clean and shiny, although the shine disappeared once the floor was dry. She’d suggested that she might polish them but Cook was horrified. ‘I’d slip,’ she said. ‘And what if I lost my balance when I was carrying a hot dish?’
Polly was amazed at the amount of food that was prepared every day for one person, although she’d noticed that Miss Rosalie didn’t have a large appetite and usually sent most of it back. It wasn’t often wasted, though, as she and Cook and Martha generally finished it off. She thought that had she been doing the cooking she would have rehashed the leftovers for the next meal, but when she mentioned it Cook insisted that fresh food had to be supplied for upstairs every single day.
‘It’s come at last,’ she heard Martha say. ‘I recognized his writing. Now we’ll know what’s going to happen; whether we’ll keep our jobs or be given notice.’
Polly rocked back on her heels and picked up the bucket. She knew better than to ask a question, but had noticed that if she bided her time usually one or the other would impart some information.
‘And you, young woman,’ Martha addressed her. ‘You might be out of work even afore your month’s trial is up.’
‘Oh,’ Polly said. ‘I’m sorry. Have I done summat I shouldn’t?’
‘No, not your fault,’ Martha said hastily. ‘It’s just that we’ve been waiting on a letter from Master and it’s just come in ’morning post.’
Polly chanced a question. ‘Why? What’s a letter to do wi’ us?’
‘Cos of Miss Rosalie,’ Cook said. ‘She can’t stop here on her own. She’s too young to run a household unless Master comes home, and I can’t see him doing that, for why would he give up a career in ’army? So we could all be looking for work.’
Polly gazed at her. ‘But – I gave up my job at ’mill to come here. Will you be able to give me a reference?’
Cook pursed her mouth as she considered. ‘Well, probably, but don’t let’s cross that bridge till we get to it.’
‘It’s all very well for you, Cook,’ Martha grumbled. ‘You can get work in a household or a bakery, but there’s not allus a place for such as me. I’m thirty, past my prime, too old for a kitchen maid or even an upstairs maid in a new household.’
‘You’ll have to try for housekeeping,’ Cook advised. ‘Some old couple who want just one servant.’
Martha turned her nose up. ‘Jill of all trades, you mean,’ she groused. ‘Aye, well, mebbe. Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘But we don’t know yet, do we?’ Polly piped up. ‘Mebbe it won’t be as bad as it seems.’
Martha didn’t answer but took her coat off the peg behind the door. ‘I’m slipping out,’ she said. ‘Shan’t be long. I’ll not be wanted upstairs for a bit and I need some fresh air.’
Cook cocked her head towards the door as Martha went out. ‘She’s worried,’ she said. ‘I reckon she’ll be putting ’word out that she’s in ’market for a new position.’
‘How do you mean?’ Polly asked.
‘She’ll be calling on other maids that she knows in town. Asking them to let her know if anybody’s in need of a servant. That way she doesn’t have to go through an agency. Which nobody likes to do. It’s a bit degrading waiting about for summat to turn up.’
‘It’s serious then?’ Polly asked. ‘You really think we’ll have to leave?’
‘Aye.’ Cook nodded. ‘I do. Now then, Poll. Go wash your hands and mek us a nice cup o’ tea.’
Rosalie blew her nose and considered her situation. Although her father hadn’t asked her opinion, he had at least considered two options for her welfare. I know nothing about my uncle except that he’s a widower. Where does he live? Is it in the middle of nowhere, as Mr Benjamin implied? If I go to Aldershot I would be among strangers. I won’t see my father, at least not very often, but perhaps more often than if I go to stay with his brother. Oh dear! Which would I prefer? Perhaps I should wait for the next letter. Uncle Luke might not want me there. He might only accept the commitment if Father dies. She gave a small gasp. Not that I would want him to, of course!
A headache began, probably because of her crying. She reached for the bell to summon Martha and order tea and toast, which her mother used to say was a comfort if you were feeling low. And an aspirin too, she thought, pressing her fingers to her temples. Poor Mama. Maybe she had often felt low, for she took aspirin quite often.
Martha was a long time answering the bell and Rosalie was about to ring again when there was a faint tapping on the door. ‘Come in,’ she called, frowning, for Martha generally knocked and then appeared a second later.
Slowly the door opened. ‘Who is it?’ she asked. ‘Martha?’
A slightly built girl she did not recall having seen before stood hesitating in the doorway and holding the door with one hand as if she would fall over if she let go. Then awkwardly she bobbed her knee. ‘Beg pardon, Miss Rosalie,’ she croaked. ‘Martha’s had to go out so there’s onny me and Cook.’
‘And who are you?’ Rosalie was astonished to find a stranger in front of her.
‘Polly Parker, miss. I’m ’new scullery maid.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘Please come in,’ Rosalie said. ‘Who recommended you?’
Polly came into the room and stood in front of Rosalie and bobbed her knee again as Cook had told her she should. ‘Sonny Blake, miss. He said I should come and ask as I needed a live-in job o’ work.’
Rosalie swallowed. The girl was about her age and she felt awkward asking questions as if she were her superior. ‘I understand that you’ve just lost your mother?’ she said.
Polly nodded. ‘She died, miss. Christmas Eve.’ She paused, wondering if there were boundaries she shouldn’t cross. ‘I think we buried her on ’same day as your ma ...’ Her voice trailed away as she saw her employer blink and press her lips together.
‘Sorry, Miss Rosalie. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Sometimes, when I’m on my own, I want to cry, and I generally do, but not when there’s other folk about. My ma used to say we should keep our troubles to ourselves, cos other folk have got enough of their own without hearing of anybody else’s.’
‘Yes, my mother would have said the same, I expect,’ Rosalie answered hesitantly. ‘Except – that it would help to be able to talk sometimes to someone who understood. So are you a
n orphan? Or is your father still alive?’
Polly shrugged. ‘He might well be, but I don’t know who he is, let alone where he is.’
She flushed when she saw Rosalie’s startled expression and lowered her head, but she glanced at her from beneath her lashes. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Ma and me were all right wi’ just ‘two of us. But now ... well, now that she’s gone, I do get sad and a bit lonely.’
‘Yes,’ Rosalie said softly. ‘So do I.’
‘Would you ...’ Polly faltered. ‘I mean, it might not be right, but I was just mekking a pot o’ tea and, well, mebbe you’d like to come down into ’kitchen and have a cup with us? There’s just me and Cook, cos like I said Martha’s gone out.’ Polly chewed on her bottom lip. ‘I mean, it might cheer you up a bit.’
‘Well ...’ Rosalie wavered. ‘I do need to talk things over with Cook and Martha as a matter of fact, so ... I suppose I could.’
Polly beamed. ‘That’d be grand. Shall I go and tell Cook?’
‘No,’ Rosalie decided. ‘No, I’ll come down with you now. If you told her I was coming she might get into a state and bring out the best china, and I don’t want a fuss.’
Polly clattered down the basement stairs whilst Rosalie followed more slowly. She had been into the kitchen many times, but then she had been expected and both servants had been waiting for her. Now as she entered the kitchen Cook was sitting in her chair with her head back and her eyes closed. She sat up when she heard Polly.
‘What did she want? Were you polite?’
Then she saw Rosalie standing in the doorway and hurriedly got to her feet and adjusted her cap.
‘Oh, Miss Rosalie. I hope there’s nothing amiss? I’m sorry that Polly had to come up, but Martha—’