Her Sister's Gift

by Isabel Jackson

  A gentle lesson in humility, then, thought Isa, and looks like it has been well learned. “Guid. Ah’m richt gled you’re daein’ sae weel.”

  “And Margaret passed her maths test,” said Chrissie, proud of her sister’s achievement.

  “Well done, Maggie. Oh I’m sae proud o’ you baith. And are you happy?”

  “Oh yes. Oor hoosemither, Annie, is lovely, isn’t she Chrissie? Like Jessie Macleod. And we hae nice friends in oor room.”

  “Yes and efter lights-oot we can still whisper to each other and reach over to hold hands because Maggie moved oor beds closer thegither. She pit ma locker on the ither side.”

  “And if there’s enough light to see by we do the dummy alphabet.”

  “The what?” asked Isa, her brows furrowed as she tried to make out what Maggie had said.

  “I found it in a book. It’s for people who are deaf and dumb to communicate with each other. You use your hands and fingers to make shapes and each shape is a letter in the alphabet. See I’ll show you.” Maggie then proceeded to go through a series of shapes touching the fingers and palm of her left hand with the fingers of her right one. Each finger was a vowel, starting at the thumb for A, then index finger for E and so on. Clasped hands were for the letter W. Pinched index fingers and thumb on both hands were brought together like spectacles to make the curved shapes in the capital letter B. It was ingenious. Chrissie had been learning it too and so the two sisters could communicate silently when they did not want to be overheard or when they had a secret to pass on to each other. Maggie was not revealing to anyone else in the home what she had found in the book in the library, but by the end of the afternoon Isa was included in the secret too.

  They had reached the town now and Isa suggested they look for somewhere to find lunch. They walked up the main street past a butcher’s, a draper’s and a small greengrocer’s with boxes of fruit and vegetables out on the pavement to tempt his customers in, and finally they found a baker’s with a small tearoom attached.

  “This will do nicely,” Isa decided. “Let’s see if there’s a table.”

  She led the way in. The tearoom was popular but there was a nice table near the back, to which the waitress showed them. It was warm inside and there was a quiet background buzz of chatter, so the girls felt comfortable and very posh being out in a tearoom for their lunch. This was a rare event indeed. The waitress brought them a menu.

  Isa scanned the card, noticing the prices. She made a quick calculation about what they could afford. “Let’s see,” she said. “We could have the sausage casserole or the liver and onions. What would you prefer?”

  Margaret scowled. “I really wantit the steak pie,” she said.

  “Well,” said Isa, “that will cost more so you can’t have ice cream as well later.”

  “That’s okay,” she replied. “I dinnae want ice cream onyway.”

  “I do,” said Chrissie. “So I’ll hae sausages. I like them.”

  “So do I. I’ll have that too,” Isa decided. A smartly dressed waitress came over to take their order and it was not long before the food arrived, steaming hot, on white plates rimmed with silver. The girls all thought this was incredibly exciting as eating out had never been a regular feature of their family life. The waitress arrived again with a pot of tea and a tray of cups and saucers. She put the pot beside Isa and Margaret said, “You can be mither, Isa.” In the home this phrase was tripped out over and over when someone got the job of pouring the tea, but here it brought upon the sisters a sombre moment of shared loss. Isa organised the cups and saucers, took the teapot firmly by the handle and began to fill them.

  “You’re a guid mither, Isa,” Chrissie whispered.

  Isa looked into her sister’s warm brown eyes, her own misty with tears, and smiled. She realised that Chrissie’s memory of their mother would be very dim indeed and that in fact she had been the only mother her youngest sister would remember. “Thank you Chrissie. I think I was very hard on you at times.”

  “But you always loved us, Isa.” Margaret squeezed her hand. Isa took both her sisters’ hands and they held each other’s gaze. Rising within their hearts were memories of the love and tragedy that was woven through their lives, short as they were, and as they sat at the little table in the busy café they were grateful for their togetherness.

  Afterwards they walked further along the main street into the park by the river. All too soon it was time to head back up to Whinhill. Over the six weeks that Isa was at college, Margaret began to write her letters, short at first, on sheets torn from the back of her school jotters. She would ask her housemother for an envelope and stamp and post the letter at the bottom of the hill. But then she took to spending her small allowance on notepads and envelopes, and thus began a lifelong habit and love of letter-writing.

  Isa loved receiving these letters, telling of their lessons, their friends and exploits. Margaret had an easy, friendly style of writing and describing things, which sounded as if she was in the room talking to you. Isa could just see her and Chrissie in bed at night, whispering to each other after lights-out, or hear Chrissie’s giggle when they shared a joke. Although she missed them, she felt sure they were happy and cared for. This allowed her to concentrate on her course and to get high marks for everything.

  Miss Munro was impressed. Isa was capable in all areas: laundry, cooking, cleaning. Moreover, she was an organiser. She could see her in charge of a household staff one day. She was polite and intelligent, and she could hide her broad Scots accent when required and speak excellent correct English. So when a request came from London from Lord Tolquhoun of Abernethy’s household for a girl to start on the staff of his London house, Miss Munro knew just whom she would recommend for the post.

  6

  King’s Cross Station was enormous. The platform was crowded with passengers and their luggage and those coming to greet them. Porters scooted around, bundling cases and trunks onto their trolleys in teetering piles, tilting them back and pushing them along at some pace, with their owners trailing behind holding on to hats and hand luggage. The hall was filled with steam, as trains let out hoots of arrival, their engines not yet cooled down. The steady clatter of footsteps, hissing of trains, porters’ calls and whistles echoed all around her and Isa stood somewhat bemused with her trunk at her feet, unsure of how to attract a porter’s attention. Gradually, as the passengers from her overnight train from Edinburgh dispersed and the steam rose to the high glass ceiling, she got her bearings, spotted a uniformed porter and raised her gloved hand when she caught his eye. Soon her trunk was propped on his trolley and he was leading her down the platform to the main area of the station.

  Her instructions said the Tolquhouns’ driver would be there to meet her and take her to the house on Cadogan Square. He would be holding a card with her name on it. So she told the porter he was to look out for a uniformed driver. Very shortly she spotted him, the card held in front of him declaring grandly “Miss Isabella Dick”. He was tall and dressed in grey, with a flat-brimmed cap trimmed with slate-grey ribbon and bearing the Tolquhouns’ coat of arms on a badge at the front.

  Isa approached shyly. “Excuse me. I am Miss Dick. I am to start with Lord and Lady Tolquhoun of Abernethy.” She thought they should have their full title since they had given her hers.

  He touched his cap. “Pleased to make your h’acquaintance, Miss Dick. I’m ’Arry Jamieson, chauffeur to the Tolquhouns. I ’as the cab waitin’ out front. Follow me please.” He signalled to the porter to bring the trunk out to the cab. Isa was not sure what his first name was. She’d never heard of anyone being called Arry before and assumed she had misheard. Perhaps he had said Larry.

  A lovely chestnut mare was in the harness and the cab shone and sparkled in the autumn sunshine. The driver and the porter got her luggage secured. The driver paid the porter, then opened the carriage door for her, flipped out the step and held his hand out to assist her climb. When she was safely sitting on the leather seat he shut
the door and climbed up to the driver seat, untied the reins and called, “Walk on,” to the horse.

  Isa could not believe she was sitting in a horse-drawn carriage. She had always walked everywhere in Falkirk and carriages had not even been hired for the funerals. This was such a new experience. She was filled with excitement and leaned forward so she could look out of the window. As they drove through the streets, she looked out at the people: gentlemen with silver-topped canes, top hat and tails; workers with patched jackets and flat caps; ladies with long skirts and fitted peplum jackets, smart in elaborate hats with feathers; poorer women bedraggled in dirty petticoats and black worsted with shawls wrapped round their shoulders. Buildings she’d heard about went past and she gasped as she read the street signs for Oxford Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly and Hyde Park. To her these had previously just been names from books, advertisements and newspapers. They moved away from the crowded areas into the quieter, tree-lined streets of Victorian red-bricked terraced houses in Knightsbridge, their tall windows beautifully dressed in lace, silk and brocade. Finally the carriage drew to a halt outside number forty-two Cadogan Square. It was a five-storeyed building with basement, situated on the corner of the terrace, with bay windows. On the second and fourth floors, these windows led on to railed balconies supporting plants in clay pots. Isa had never seen anything like it.

  Five steps led up to a porticoed entrance. Black iron railings ran along the front of the building either side of the steps, except for a short gap to the right of the portico where another series of steps led down to the basement. Jamieson came round to the cab door and opened it, flipped out the steps for a second time and aided Isa down to the pavement. He fetched the trunk down from the rack and then indicated the stairs to the basement. He turned the handle on the brown glossed door at the foot of the stairs and held it open for her.

  “After you, Miss Dick,” he said. As he watched Isa gracefully walking along the corridor, head held high, her light auburn hair gilded in the autumn sunshine, his eyes took in her shapely form approvingly. Aye she’s a looker. Ye could do worse and that’s a fact, he thought.

  Unaware she had created such interest in her colleague, Isa walked through the corridor, which was tiled from the floor up to waist height in white glazed tiles, and then painted in white. Where the two surfaces met, there was a row of narrow dark-green curved tiles. Brown lino covered the floor and off the narrow passage she could see several rooms, which Jamieson identified for her as they passed. There was a broom cupboard, where a young maid was filling a basket with polish and cloths ready for her cleaning tasks; a scullery with sinks, where another maid was washing basins and ewers used for early morning ablutions in the bedrooms; a pantry for the butler with a winged armchair, fireplace, books and writing desk; and one she assumed was the housekeeper’s, with a chintz-covered chair, fireplace with photographs on the mantle and an open sewing basket, filled with bright threads and tiny scissors. Further along, the corridor opened out into the kitchen, floored with pale-green linoleum, which gave the room a peaceful light despite being in the basement. In central position was the huge deal table at which stood a short, rotund figure wrapped in a spotless white bibbed apron. She had curly brown hair only just tamed by her white mob cap, and her hands were in a large ceramic baking bowl, sifting a butter and flour mixture through her fingers. Isa guessed this was the cook.

  The woman turned to look over her shoulder at Isa. Shaking the mixture from her hands and wiping them on her apron, she smiled a broad smile which crinkled the corners of her bright, berry-black eyes and said, “Ah, you must be the lassie comin’ doon frae Edinburgh for to start wi’ us. Another Scot like mysel’. Come on in. I’m Mrs Roberts.” She stretched out her hand and Isa shook it, nervous but glad to hear an accent she understood.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Roberts. I’m Isabella Dick. But everyone calls me Isa.”

  “Isa ye shall be then. Noo. Sit ye doon and we’ll hae oorselves a cup o’ tea. Harry’ll tak’ yer trunk up tae yer room, and later one o’ the lassies will show ye whaur it is. Right now ye’ll be needin’ some breakfast in ye efter yer journey. Pull up a chair.”

  As Mrs Roberts busied around, making the tea and rustling up some eggs and toast for her, Isa realised the mistake she had made about the driver’s name. She looked around her carefully. There was a large porcelain sink at the window, with a wooden drainer to the right. A huge range stove ran the length of the short wall, giving out warmth to the whole room and offering several heats for cooking on different hotplates and ovens. Near it was a basket she assumed contained the wood for stoking the fire at the centre of the range. Rails at the ovens held an array of cream-coloured kitchen towels and oven cloths. Opposite the range was the pantry, lined with cupboards and dressers in which the dry and tinned stores would be kept, and next to it a door she assumed would lead into the cool pantry, which would be tile-lined and used to store fresh food such as fruit, vegetables, fish, dairy foods and meat. Onions plaited onto strings hung from hooks, alongside bunches of herbs, away from the steamy side of the kitchen. She was impressed. It all looked just as she had learned about in class in Glasgow. Mrs Roberts clearly was good at her job.

  A plate of eggs and toast was laid in front of her, beside a steaming cup of strong tea, and after a grateful thanks to Mrs Roberts, Isa began to eat, careful not to spill or make a noise or in any way to appear clumsy or inept.

  “Nae doot ye’ll feel a bit strange the day, Isa, but we all get along fine here and Lord and Lady Tolquhoun are very fair employers. Ye’ll be introduced to them baith in time. Where is it yer from, lass?”

  Isa wiped her mouth on the napkin provided and replied, “I come from Falkirk, Mrs Roberts. I studied at The Glasgow and West of Scotland Domestic College.”

  “Ah right. That’ll be much like the one in Edinburgh I went tae masel. It’s grand tae hae anither Scott here. I can feel quite homesick for the accent, ye ken. Is it yer first time doon tae London?”

  “Aye it is, Mrs Roberts. I hiv tae confess I’m no understandin’ whit folk are sayin’ tae me. I can speak good English but no’ like Mr Jamieson.”

  “Harry doesnae speak good English, lassie!” Mrs Roberts exclaimed. “He’s a real Londoner. He tones it doon a bit fer His Lordship and Her Ladyship, but he can’t even say his own name properly. They all drop their h’s down here. Took me some time to get used to, I can tell you. But ye’ll soon get the hang of it. Mind you, they’ll hae a go at yours. They don’t hear much Scots down here. Even though Lord and Lady Tolquhoun are Scots like oorsels they don’t talk braid in front of us. So try yer best English. I usually do.” She cast her eye down at Isa’s empty plate. “Feel better now?”

  “Oh, yes thank you, Mrs Roberts. It was very kind of you to make me breakfast.”

  “Well now, we could hardly be asking you to do a full day’s work on an empty stomach, could we?” She dusted down her apron. “Anyway I’d best get on. The housekeeper, Mrs Williams, will be through shortly to tell you your duties. Mr Westfield, the butler, would normally meet you but he’s up in Scotland with Lord Tolquhoun on the estate. No doubt Sally will show you up to your room after she’s finished with all the bedroom service.”

  Isa wondered if Sally was the young fair-haired maid she saw washing the ewers as she came in. “Can I be of help to you, Mrs Roberts, while I wait?”

  “You can fetch the pitcher of buttermilk in the pantry for the scones, Isa,” suggested the friendly, chatty cook, who had taken a shine to the newcomer. She watched Isa get up and assuredly go to the door next to the dry pantry, locate the pitchers, identify the one with the buttermilk and carefully carry it over to the table, shutting the door behind her. Aye, she thought, she’s quick. This lass’ll do well. Provided the others don’t tease her to death. Just as well she’s tae hae a room tae herself. It’ll gie her somewhere tae get awaw’ frae the blighters. And she turned to her mixture, sifting until it was ready for the buttermilk.

  When she look
ed up, Isa had taken the flour shaker and prepared a board and roller ready for the dough. Impressive indeed!

  “Ah there you are, Miss Dick.” Isa looked up to see before her on the other side of the table a tall, slender upright figure with grey hair plaited and wrapped tight around her head, dressed top to toe in black, with a belt at her waist from which hung a chain of keys which swayed and clinked as she walked. All of this created the impression of someone used to giving orders and being obeyed. This must be the housekeeper, she thought. She curtsied a little in respect.

  “My name is Mrs Williams. I am the housekeeper here and you will be working in my team today. I trust Mrs Roberts has seen you had a cup of tea after your journey.”

  Isa nodded and was about to say something in reply but Mrs Williams had continued, “Very well. Let’s get you kitted out with uniform and then upstairs to your duties. This way please.” She turned on her heel and with a swish of her skirts she led the way through a different corridor, running parallel to the one Isa had used to come into the kitchen.

  Along this corridor were several doors on the right and at the third, Mrs Williams stopped, knocked briefly and introduced Isa to Miss Higgins the laundress and seamstress. “Miss Higgins, this is Miss Dick, who needs a uniform for working upstairs. I’ll fetch her again in quarter of an hour. Thank you.” Isa was unnerved by the woman’s imperious tone and the nice warm calm she’d felt from Mrs Roberts’ welcome was ebbing away.

  Miss Higgins got up from her chair behind her sewing table and came toward Isa, brandishing her tape measure. As she approached, Isa could see she was being closely scrutinised from beneath arched brows as the seamstress eyed the newcomer. There were no words of welcome from the thin lips aligned as if to sneer. “Right. Let’s see what size you need.” Isa’s arms were raised, the measuring tape brought round her chest, then slipped to her waist and lower to round her hips, then from the nape of her neck to her waist and from there to her ankle. In no time, it seemed, Miss Higgins had decided what size would do and she went to a large wardrobe, where she rummaged through hangers till she found what she was looking for, then through shelves and drawers for caps and aprons. She handed Isa a bundle of clothes and indicated they should be tried on behind a screen. Feeling totally out of her depth and flustered by the hostility she had felt oozing from the seamstress’ appraisal of her, Isa was nervous and clumsy with buttons and strings, but the clothes fitted well and she came out looking the part.