by Dilly Court
Kitty lowered her head and said nothing.
‘I’ve just come down and found her like this, Mrs Dixon,’ Florrie said, hastily.
‘I’ll not have anyone working in my kitchen that can’t keep themselves clean and tidy, and I won’t stand for sloppy work.’ Mrs Dixon bustled over to the range and let out a snort of annoyance. ‘The range is barely warm. You’d better learn quickly, my girl, or you’ll not last the week. Fetch George and get him to show you how it’s done. And tidy yourself up. Change your blouse and put your cap on properly.’
Feeling a hot flush of shame spreading up her neck to her cheeks, Kitty had to speak out. ‘Please, Mrs Dixon. I ain’t got no more clothes.’
Mrs Dixon threw up her hands. ‘What was Mrs Brewster thinking of, taking on a child from the slums? Well, it’s up to her to sort this out. As soon as the breakfasts upstairs are done, you’ll report to Mrs Brewster’s office.’
*
‘So, you’re in trouble on your first full day of work. That’s not a very good start, is it?’ Mrs Brewster stared at Kitty over the top of her spectacles.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ Kitty protested, stung by the huge unfairness of it all. ‘I ain’t got no more clothes and this rig-out was one of Betty’s, what I cut down to fit me and stitched up again.’
‘Did you now?’ Mrs Brewster chewed the tip of her pencil, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I don’t usually give out dresses until I’m satisfied with a new girl, but we can’t have Mrs Dixon upset. You’d better come with me to the linen room and we’ll see if we can find something to fit you.’
Minutes later, dressed in a print frock at least two sizes too large and belted in at the waist with an equally large, white apron, Kitty went back to the kitchen.
‘Look at her,’ Olive said, pointing a finger at Kitty. ‘What a scarecrow.’
‘Don’t be unkind, Olive,’ Florrie said, looking up from the scrubbed pine table where she was peeling onions. ‘She’s only a kid, after all.’
‘You’ve changed your tune a bit,’ snapped Olive.
‘She’s trying hard. It’s not fair to go on at her all the time.’ Florrie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffed. ‘Bloody onions.’
‘I won’t have foul language in my kitchen,’ Mrs Dixon said, pummelling the bread dough as if it were her worst enemy. ‘And you get on with your work, Olive. You’re supposed to be dusting above stairs.’
‘Yes, Mrs Dixon.’ Olive snatched up her box of polish and dusters, pulling a face at Kitty behind Mrs Dixon’s back.
‘Don’t get on the wrong side of her,’ Florrie told Kitty, when they were alone in the scullery. ‘Olive can be spiteful when she has a mind to.’
Kitty shrugged her shoulders. She doubted if Olive had a right side to get onto, or if she had, then she kept it well hidden.
After a few weeks, Kitty had come to realise that there were two completely different, but co-dependent, worlds in the grand house in Dover Street. Her place was firmly below stairs, confined to the scullery and kitchen, ignored by the upper servants and tormented by those lower down the pecking order. The only time she was allowed beyond the green baize door, into the fairy-tale land above stairs, was each morning for prayers, when the servants gathered in the entrance hall. They lined up in order of precedence, waiting in respectful silence until the family, led by Sir Desmond and Lady Mableton, emerged from the dining room.
The one bright spot in Kitty’s day was to steal covert glances at Lady Mableton’s lovely face and silently worship her. From the bottom of the heap, Kitty could only gaze upwards and idolise her ladyship. She was, Kitty thought, just how she would have imagined an angel from heaven, and the cloud of perfume that lingered about her was sweeter than the scent of all the flowers in Covent Garden. Her elegant gowns, in sweet pea colours, trimmed with waterfalls of lace or tiny pleated frills, were so beautiful that they made Kitty want to cry. Sir Desmond read the daily lesson in a well-modulated voice, but Kitty never listened to his words; she daydreamed of being allowed to wait on Lady Mableton, just like the formidable Miss Lane, her personal maid. What a job that would be, even better than working in a dress shop.
After prayers, the family drifted away and the servants waited, heads respectfully bowed, until their betters were out of sight. Kitty knew she was risking a clip round the ear from Mrs Dixon if she was caught peeping, but she just had to catch the last glimpse of Lady Mableton gliding up the staircase, her hand resting lightly on Sir Desmond’s arm. Miss Iris, Sir Desmond’s daughter by his first wife, followed behind them, her thin face sour as vinegar and, by all accounts, her nature was just the same.
George had taken it upon himself to instruct Kitty in everything, from lessons in manners and improving her speech, to passing on servants’ gossip about the family. Miss Iris had an elder brother, Captain Edward, who was away fighting the Dervishes in the Sudan with Lord Kitchener. George had never met Captain Edward but he had heard all about him and, he said, Captain Edward was as handsome and charming as his sister was plain and grumpy. According to reports from the above-stairs servants, Miss Iris hated her stepmother, who was not only much more beautiful, but also several years her junior. Miss Iris took every opportunity to make unfavourable comments about Lady Mableton’s past career on the stage but, in George’s opinion – and Kitty had quickly learnt that George had an opinion on everything – Miss Iris was simply jealous. She might pretend to be fond of her spoilt little half-sister, two-year-old Miss Leonie, but, George said, everyone below stairs knew that she thoroughly disliked the poor mite.
Kitty had not seen much of Miss Leonie, who was looked after by Nanny in the nursery suite, but she had heard enough of her tantrums, which echoed throughout the house, to form her own opinion that someone needed a good spanking. Little Violet was the same age and she wouldn’t get away with such bad behaviour! In Sugar Yard small children soon learned to know their place and, if they didn’t behave, they got a clip round the ear from their mother and, when they grew bigger, they got a taste of their father’s leather belt across their backsides.
Suddenly everyone was on the move; Miss Lane broke away from the servants’ ranks and followed the family upstairs. Kitty was a bit in awe of Miss Lane; she was always neat as a pin in her severe grey dress, but she had bold, gypsy-black eyes set in a handsome face and, no matter how strictly she confined her raven hair in a bun, some of it always escaped, curling in tendrils round her forehead. Miss Lane, who had apparently been Lady Mableton’s dresser in the old days, gave as good as she got below stairs and Kitty sensed that the housemaids were actually a bit scared of her.
Least important and therefore last in line, Kitty shuffled behind George, glad that Olive and Dora went on ahead so that they didn’t have a chance to pinch or prod her. Returning to the scullery and the endless pile of washing-up, her head was still full of the glories of life above stairs. When living in Sugar Yard, she could never have imagined that there were people who lived in such unashamed luxury.
At the end of the first month, Mrs Brewster called Kitty to her office, told her that she would be kept on and handed her a cotton purse that jingled with coins.
‘Normally you’ll be paid quarterly, but Sir Desmond is a generous employer and he allows the lower servants an advance at the end of the first month. You’ll get the balance at the end of the quarter. You’re allowed one half-day off a month,’ said Mrs Brewster, locking away the tin cash box. ‘Mrs Dixon says she can spare you tomorrow afternoon, but you must be back by six o’clock sharp.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Brewster.’ Kitty left the office with the purse tucked into the pocket of her skirt. She had never had any money that was hers alone and, as she skipped along the flagged passage, the jingling of the coins was sweet music to her ears. But her joy was short-lived when Olive jumped out of the broom cupboard, seizing Kitty by the upper arm and pinching her soft flesh between bony fingers.
‘So you’ve been paid, have you, half-pint?’
K
itty tried to wriggle free. ‘Let me go.’
Olive only pinched her all the harder. ‘Not until you’ve paid me back the money you owe me.’
‘I never had any money off you.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Olive twisted Kitty’s arm behind her back.
‘No, Olive.’
‘Then pay up, you little bitch. Two shillings or I’ll tell Mrs Brewster you stole it off me.’
‘What’s going on then?’ Bob, the first footman, who had never bothered to speak to Kitty before, stepped out of the silver store, locking it behind him.
‘Mind your own business,’ snapped Olive.
‘It is my business,’ Bob said, barring Olive’s way as she tried to push past him, using Kitty as a shield. ‘What’s she done?’
‘I ain’t done nothing,’ Kitty said, kicking out at Olive’s shins.
‘She owes me money and I want it back.’ Olive twisted Kitty’s arm, making her yelp with pain.
With a swift movement, Bob separated them, sending Kitty stumbling against the wall. ‘Leave her be, Olive. That’s an old trick and it won’t wash with me. Best get on with your work before Mr Warner catches you.’
Olive looked as though she would like to retaliate, but thought better of it, and went off grumbling under her breath.
‘You’d better get back to the scullery,’ Bob said, not unkindly. ‘And I’d put that purse somewhere safe if I was you, half-pint.’
Kitty mumbled a thank you and scurried back to the kitchen, rubbing her bruised arm. There would be yet another purple mark to add to the mass of bruises and scratches that disfigured her pale skin when she undressed at night. Dora and Olive gave her sly looks, but they hurried away without saying anything when Mrs Dixon stamped in from the cold larder, waving a knife and demanding to know why the pheasants hadn’t been plucked. Red-faced and sweating, Florrie stuck her head round the scullery door and called for Kitty to come and help her quick smart as the pheasants, four brace of them, had to be plucked and drawn, ready for a dinner party that evening.
The washing-up took Kitty until well after midnight and she crawled up the ninety-seven stairs to the attics on her hands and knees. She undressed in the dark and fell into bed, sliding her bare feet under the coverlet. A scream of horror was torn from her throat as her feet touched something cold, clammy and spiked with bristles. She fell onto the floor with a thump. The door opened and a thin stream of candlelight dazzled her eyes.
‘Had a bad dream?’ Dora said, giggling.
‘Got out of bed the wrong side?’ Olive poked Kitty with her bare foot.
Kitty scrambled to her feet and, pulling back the coverlet, she saw that the offending object was a raw pig’s trotter.
Helpless with laughter, Olive and Dora stuffed their hands in their mouths and ran off down the corridor to their own room. Trembling with shock and rage, Kitty was about to close her door when she heard Mrs Brewster’s angry voice scolding them for larking around. Serve them right, she thought, grabbing the trotter and hurling it across the room.
*
Next day, when the family luncheon dishes were washed and put away, and with Mrs Dixon’s permission, Kitty wrapped Betty’s old shawl around her shoulders and set off for Tanner’s Passage with the purse clutched firmly in her hand. No one had mentioned the pig’s trotter incident, although Olive had given her some black looks and George had been grinning all over his face.
Kitty walked as far as Trafalgar Square, enjoying the golden October sunlight that bathed the grey Portland stones of the buildings in a soft light. The sound of the coins jingling in her purse made her heart leap with pride; she had earned every penny of the money and now she would be able to repay some of Betty’s kindness, and send some home to Maggie and the nippers, who were never far from her thoughts. Stopping at a sweetshop, she purchased two ounces of bullseyes for Betty and two ounces of cream fudge for Polly, who might choke on anything harder. Kitty couldn’t resist sampling one of each herself, rolling the sweets around her mouth and making them last until she caught the horse-drawn omnibus that would take her down the Strand, Fleet Street and into the City. She walked the last mile or so to save her pennies and, as she neared Billingsgate, the familiar smell of fish, engine oil, naphtha, soot and sewage told her she was almost home.
Entering the narrow canyon of Tanner’s Passage, Kitty was startled to see everything through different eyes, and having just left the elegance of Dover Street and the West End, the contrast in lifestyles was appalling. She had always thought that Tanner’s Passage was so much better than Sugar Yard, but the reality was quite shocking. Mean dwellings were squashed between gaunt warehouses, broken windows stuffed with rags and newspaper; snotty-nosed, ragged children playing in the gutter next to the corpse of a long-dead cat. The foul smell of overflowing privies made her want to retch. Pressing a penny into the blue fingers of a half-clad child who sat on a doorstep, staring at her big-eyed, with painful-looking scabs of impetigo marring her pretty face, Kitty put her head down and hurried along the street to number seven.
Betty opened the door and her face split into a grin that was so reminiscent of Jem that Kitty almost cried. As the door closed on the depressing poverty outside, Kitty was aware only of the love and human warmth within, and was instantly ashamed of comparing Tanner’s Passage unfavourably with Dover Street. Betty hugged her until she was breathless, and then sent Kitty upstairs to see Polly, who chortled with delight at the sight of her.
‘You look splendid, dear,’ Betty said, when she brought up a tray of tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘Don’t she look just the ticket, Poll?’
With her mouth full of cream fudge and a little dribble sliding down her chin, Polly smiled her lop-sided smile and nodded.
‘I can’t stay long,’ Kitty said, glancing at the lantern clock on the bureau. ‘I’ve got to be back in Dover Street afore six or I’ll be mincemeat.’
‘I hope they’re treating you right,’ Betty said, pouring the tea and frowning. ‘I asked Mrs Brewster to keep a special eye on you.’
‘It’s fine,’ Kitty lied. ‘I got me own bedroom and three meals a day, what more could I want?’
‘Well, now, that’s lovely.’ Betty handed her a cup of tea. ‘And I swear you’ve grown an inch since you left here.’
‘Have you seen Maggie?’ Kitty’s hand shook a little as she took the teacup. ‘And the nippers – have you seen them?’
Betty shook her head. ‘No, dear, I thought it best to keep away from Sugar Yard for a while in case I bumped into you-know-who. But I have had a letter from Jem.’ Taking a scrap of paper from her pocket, Betty handed it to Kitty, smiling proudly. ‘He’s doing ever so well, although he’s not a great one for letter writing.’
In Jem’s typical style, the letter was short, to the point, and ended saying that he was having a fine time, had seen sights that would make their eyes pop out and was getting the hang of things. He missed them all and hoped to be home in the spring.
‘I’m ashamed that I haven’t written to him,’ Kitty admitted, handing the letter back to Betty. ‘I couldn’t bring meself to write after what happened, but now I’m settled in me new position I will write to him.’
The clock ticked on relentlessly and, all too soon for Kitty, it was time to go. She kissed Polly and hugged Betty. Then delving into her pocket, Kitty brought out her purse and tipped a couple of coins into her hand, holding them out to Betty.
‘What’s this then, Kitty?’
‘It’s not much, just a couple of shillings, but I want you to see that Maggie gets it.’
Betty’s eyes widened and she shook her head. ‘After what she did to you?’
‘It’s for the nippers,’ Kitty said, trying not to shame herself by crying. ‘I think about ’em all the time. Just tell our Maggie it’s for the nippers.’
‘You’re a good girl. I don’t know many as would be so forgiving when they was treated so bad,’ Betty sniffed, fumbling inside her sleeve for her hankie.
&
nbsp; Next morning, after the breakfast things were cleared away, Kitty was stoking the range when Olive and Dora stalked into the kitchen. Mrs Dixon was with her ladyship, discussing the menus for the day and Florrie was in the larder, checking the stores. George was chopping sticks in the yard. Kitty knew that she was alone and at their mercy. She slid the iron lid back in place, turning to face them, bracing her shoulders. Maggie had always told her to stand up to bullies; she wouldn’t let them see that she was dead scared.
They came towards her; two she cats stalking their prey. Kitty thrust her chin up and held her ground as they circled her, tweaking at her cap and pulling her hair.
‘What a dirty little bitch we have here,’ Olive said, prodding Kitty in the stomach.
‘Leave us alone or I’ll bop you one,’ Kitty said, balling her hands into fists.
‘You and whose army?’ sneered Dora, tugging off Kitty’s mobcap so that her hair tumbled down over her shoulders.
‘Leave me be,’ Kitty cried, making a grab for her cap.
‘Look at this dirty girl’s hair.’ Olive grabbed Kitty by the hair. ‘I bet she’s brought a head full of nits back with her from the slums.’
‘I can see them all hopping about,’ Dora cried in mock horror. ‘You know what you’ve got to do, Olive.’
‘Indeed I do,’ Olive said, taking a pair of scissors from her pocket. ‘Hold her still, Dora.’
Kitty fought and struggled but Dora was taller and much the stronger; every time Kitty wriggled or kicked, Olive tugged mercilessly at her hair, nicking Kitty’s scalp with the sharp points of the scissors. Snip after snip, Kitty’s curls fell to the floor. Olive cut the last lock and gave Kitty a shove that sent her spinning across the flagstones, crashing into a chair. Unable to save herself, Kitty fell to the floor. Doubled up with laughter, they pointed at her, shrieking for her to find a mirror.
‘You missed a bit,’ Dora said, making snipping movements with the scissors and lunging at Kitty.
Scrambling to her feet, Kitty fled from the kitchen, up the stairs, barging through the baize door and racing down the passage that led to the main entrance hall. Too late, she realised that Sir Desmond and Lady Mableton were standing in the middle of the hall talking to Mr Warner. Kitty skidded to a halt, sliding across the polished marble floor and cannoning into Mr Warner’s stomach.