‘We’ll never get them up the stairs, Miss,’ said Winnie, already resentful that she and the other maids had been totally ignored by Edna as, with Louise, she had gone straight into the sitting room to be warmed by the fire and divested of her hat and jacket. Winnie had been the cook in the house when Miss Edna was a girl; unlike Dorothy and Ethel, she knew her. She even knew her favourite desserts, and had, that afternoon, made a magnificent apple pie with egg custard for her.
Celia noticed Winnie’s forlorn look and guessed the reason for it. She realised suddenly that Edna had treated her, too, exactly like a bad employer would treat a servant. She was reminded of Edna, as a young woman, ordering her to fetch and carry for her, without thought or thanks – exactly as her mother did.
She took off her own hat and coat, and said wearily, ‘Leave the trunks where they are, for the moment, Winnie. If we can’t get them up the stairs, they could be unpacked down here. The empty trunks won’t be too difficult to move.’
‘Thank you, Miss. Shall I send up the tea tray?’
Celia was so demoralised that she felt that she must first ask her mother, so she peeped round the sitting-room door to inquire.
The two women were already deep in conversation, and Louise barely turned her head when she answered, ‘Yes, bring the tea.’
The three servants were bunched by the door leading to the basement steps. Older than the other two, Winnie was still panting from her exertions with the trunks, and Dorothy was sullenly silent. Only Ethel’s eyes sparkled with interest at the arrival.
Celia passed on her mother’s instructions, and then said gently to Dorothy, ‘I’ll come down later on and hear how you got on in Meols.’
‘Yes, Miss.’ Dorothy sounded exhausted, and Celia had a sudden desire to hug her and tell her everything would eventually turn out all right. But one did not hug maids, so she turned and went slowly into the sitting room. She shut the door, and then took a seat a little away from the fireplace which was blocked to her by the other two women.
Her mother was weeping softly into her black handkerchief, while Edna lay back in her armchair and listened, with her eyes closed, to the story of the house and how awful the cottage was.
Celia thought of the warm comfort of Eddie Fairbanks’ back room, and, when her mother paused to wipe her eyes, she interjected with some determination, ‘I think the cottage can be made very pretty – and this morning I learned that piped water is probably available – you know, Mama, we never went into Mr Fairbanks’ kitchen – he may already have had his pump replaced by taps.’
‘Really?’ Her mother looked up from her hanky in surprise.
‘I should hope there is at least clean water there.’ There was scorn in Edna’s voice. ‘I’ve had enough of bad water these past seven years.’ She slowly heaved herself upright in her chair as Dorothy knocked on the door, and then brought in a tea tray heavy with scones and homemade cake. ‘How many bedrooms has it?’
Edna’s question confirmed to Celia that she probably expected to live with them, and the tiny hopes and dreams which had begun to grow while she was in Hoylake fell to ashes. She had a strong suspicion that Edna would never tolerate closeness with humble people like Mr Fairbanks or Betty or Ben Aspen who had been so civil to her; in Celia’s mind had been planted a timid hope that these people could become her own kind and helpful friends. She knew her mother would never approve – but she was used to Mama; and her father was no longer there to insist on filial obedience. She feared, however, that Mama, backed up by an imperious elder daughter, would decide with whom they made friends in Meols and Hoylake and with whom they did not. She would again find friends and acquaintances, if any, picked out for her.
With an effort, she answered Edna. ‘Three double bedrooms and a little hall bedroom.’
A tired Dorothy had set the tea tray on a small table by Louise’s chair. She poured three cups of tea and handed them to the ladies with an embroidered table napkin under each, and then asked, ‘Will that be all, Ma’am?’
Louise nodded, and Celia turned to ask the maid eagerly, ‘Dorothy, when you were getting water from Mr Fairbanks this morning, you must have seen whether he had a tap or a pump?’
‘Oh, aye, Miss. He’s got hot and cold taps in the back kitchen. And he’s got a water closet what flushes, by the back door.’
Louise forgot her tears immediately, and expressed great delight. She tucked her black hanky back into her sleeve, and said quite briskly to Celia, ‘That will solve so many problems.’
‘Yes, it will.’ Though a good water supply could in future save her a great deal of work, there was doubt in her voice. She feared that there would now be two women leaning on her. As a girl, Edna had always found ways of pushing unpleasant tasks on to Celia, by saying, ‘You are at home. It’s your job to help Mother.’
Up to now, there had always been servants to do the physically dirty daily tasks, like emptying the slops from the bedrooms and washing out the chamber pots, the latter still used at night despite the advent of water closets. Celia knew that her mother would never do such jobs; she would bully Celia into doing them. She would, very likely, find herself, in addition, washing the dishes, doing the washing, scrubbing the floors and front steps, and Heaven only knew what else.
How much would Louise and Edna do for themselves, she wondered.
She wanted to walk out, run away. In her perturbation, she wished that she never had to face either woman ever again. And then she told herself that she was wicked, sinful, to even contemplate such ideas.
In any case, to whom could she go? She could think of no one who would not simply scold her for being a fool and ship her back to her mother. Only her godmother, Great-aunt Blodwyn in Wales, who had not come to her nephew’s funeral on the excuse that it was lambing time, but, in truth, had not come because she cordially detested Louise, a dislike which was heartily reciprocated. Great-aunt Blodwyn’s reputation in the family as a battle-axe of the first water had scared Celia as a child, and she did not seem to be the right person to take in a runaway. Anyway, the farm she had inherited from her husband was far away in Pembrokeshire – and how would a penniless woman get there?
Penniless women could become like the harridan who had directed her to Lime Street Station, disgusting untouchables who slowly rotted to death. The idea, strongly held by her elders and whispered amongst the few girls she had known, was terrifying to her.
Louise was saying, ‘That will be all, Dorothy,’ and Edna announced that she would like to go to her bedroom to wash and change.
Edna asked if the gardener would take her trunks upstairs, to which Celia replied shortly, ‘He comes only twice a week.’ It took all her patience to persuade her sister that the trunks could be safely unpacked in the hall and the contents carried upstairs.
Louise said, ‘Celia, get Ethel to help Edna carry the stuff up. Dorothy will be laying the table for dinner.’
While Edna fumed and fretted in the hall and looked in her handbag for the right keys and demanded a knife to cut the ropes, Celia ran downstairs to the basement kitchen. She was informed that Ethel had gone for an interview for a job as a nursery maid.
‘Miss Phyllis’s Lily heard about it and told her,’ said Winnie, as she basted a capon in the oven.
Celia went slowly back up the stairs to tell her mother this. It immediately sparked an altercation. Edna said sharply that Louise should not allow the servants to go for interviews before she was ready to dismiss them – and, anyway, why wasn’t she taking them to Meols? ‘Good servants are never easy to find. In Salvador, I turned mine off on the day I was leaving.’
Bewildered, Louise told Celia to help her sister, and turned back into the sitting room, to pour herself another cup of tea and to weep.
The two of them cut the ropes and Edna unlocked the trunks. She then instructed Celia which trunk she should empty first, and went upstairs to her room.
As Celia appeared in the bedroom with a load of clothes and personal possessio
ns, Edna told her which drawers to put them in. She herself took off her dress and went to the bathroom to wash.
Celia plodded wearily up and down stairs with long gowns swathed in tissue paper, with linen walking suits and straw hats, cotton petticoats, boots and shoes, tea gowns and dressing gowns, all finely made and embroidered – but all rather old-fashioned, thought Celia, with surprise. Edna would need to shorten all the skirts; even Celia who was used to looking frumpy had turned up her skirts, despite her mother’s protests; they had, for a couple of years now, hung discreetly just above her ankles.
By the time the trunks stood yawning emptily in the hall, the dinner gong was being struck by Dorothy, for dressing, and most of Edna’s dresses were still laid across her bed.
Edna hurried back from the bathroom, selected a black gown, shook it out and tutted that it needed pressing. She said to Celia, ‘You might ask the maid to press the rest before they are hung up.’
With sudden spirit, Celia replied, ‘You will have to do them yourself. Dorothy is coming out to the cottage with me tomorrow morning, to continue the cleaning of it. I have to meet the plumber there – and the building contractor’s clerk.’ She put down a winter coat, two umbrellas, a parasol and two pairs of walking boots, and added, ‘That’s everything, I think. I’m going to get washed.’ And she went out quickly, before Edna could protest, to scrub her face, while she trembled with defiance.
Dinner was eaten in painful silence. Louise played glumly with the food on her plate. Edna did courteously praise the apple pie to Dorothy, and Dorothy conveyed the information to a depressed Winnie. Otherwise, almost nothing except the barest politenesses passed between them. Celia kept quiet, afraid that if she spoke, her resentment of the other two would show, and bring down upon her from her mother the usual accusations of ingratitude or bad temper.
After they had finished, they went in silent procession into the sitting room to sit by the fire and drink their coffee which Dorothy brought in on a tray.
Edna seated herself gracefully in her father’s chair and, after the parlourmaid had left the room, she opened a little black evening purse, which she carried dangling on her wrist. She took out a pretty silver case and a matching silver tube.
As she opened the case, took out a cigarette and fitted it into the silver holder, she asked, ‘Do you mind if I smoke, Mama?’
Aroused from her melancholic contemplation of a future without Timothy, Louise stared at her daughter in shocked disgust.
‘Edna! You don’t mean to say that you smoke?’
‘I do, Mama. The doctor in Salvador recommended it when I was so upset at the loss of Rosemary. He said it would soothe my nerves – and it does.’
‘The doctor must have been mad! No lady would surely ever smoke!’
‘Tush, Mama. A lot of women do nowadays, especially Portuguese and Spanish ladies. I couldn’t do without my cigarettes now.’ She waved the cigarette holder with its unlit cigarette around, as if to indicate a big crowd of female smokers.
‘I will not allow a woman to smoke in my house!’ exclaimed an outraged Louise. ‘I think it’s awful. Even your dear father never smoked here in my sitting room. He smoked in the library or in the garden.’
Celia was both astounded and intrigued by the disagreement. How daring of Edna to do such a thing! With her hands folded neatly in her lap, she forgot her own woes and watched, fascinated.
Edna was nonplussed. Her mother had rarely refused her anything, and, since her Portuguese friends smoked, as did her mother-in-law, she was unprepared for the objection. She had forgotten that the upper classes in the north of England were much more conservative than those in the south.
Edna’s lips were trembling. ‘I cannot give it up, Mama. It would be quite impossible. I had my last cigarette in the train, and I badly need to smoke now.’
‘Then you should confine such an unsociable activity to the garden or your bedroom.’ Louise sounded absolutely frigid.
‘Very well, Mama.’ Edna rose, picked up her coffee cup, and left the room, a picture of offended dignity.
‘This is horrible, Celia. Simply horrible.’ Louise pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve, and touched her eyes with it. ‘I never dreamed of a daughter of mine smoking! I hope you never indulge in such a shameful practice.’
Celia swallowed. She did not really know what to say. She knew that Phyllis secretly smoked. ‘Er – um, Mama. I don’t think I would ever want to,’ she finally said quite honestly, ‘though it is becoming quite common.’
‘I would never deny my daughter a home, but I must say I have always disapproved of women smoking. I cannot think what I shall do about it if she stays with us.’
‘You could insist that she does the same as Papa did – smoke in the library or in the garden.’
Louise sniffed in disdain. She heaved a great shuddering sigh. ‘I don’t know, Celia. I really don’t know. Our lives are all upside down, and I don’t know what to deal with first.’
‘I know, Mama. Just don’t worry. Try to rest a lot tomorrow. It will help you,’ Celia soothed. For a moment she forgot a lifetime of oppression and saw her mother as yet another casualty of the war and of pure bad luck. She felt sorry for the arrogant, selfish woman, suddenly brought low by circumstances which were not her fault. ‘You should go to bed now,’ she continued. ‘I’ll ask Dorothy to put a hot water bottle in for you.’
Chapter Twenty
Long before either Louise or Edna had stirred from their beds, Celia and Dorothy had left for Meols. This time, Dorothy carried only a shopping basket containing newspapers and a bottle of vinegar for cleaning the windows. As well as her handbag, Celia carried a neat brown paper parcel tied with string, which Winnie had pressed into her hand, saying, ‘It’s a lunch for you and Dorothy, Miss.’ Dear faithful Winnie, she thought, and she smiled.
The news that Dorothy had given about Mr Fairbanks’ water supply had finally lifted her spirits a little, and this morning, after a good night’s sleep, she felt much more optimistic about her new home. Perhaps she could persuade her mother and Edna to share the domestic work, once they were in the cottage.
As they sat in the train, Dorothy, usually so silent, became quite talkative. She declared that, yesterday, Mr Fairbanks had been real nice. He had let her use his loo, as well as giving her hot water for her cleaning.
‘At the back of his living-room fireplace, he says, he’s got a hot-water tank just like we’ve got in the kitchen of your West Derby house. Hot water made everything easy for me, it did.
‘And the sweep was a nice young man. Didn’t make too much mess. He left his bill on the mantel shelf for you.’ With her red, ungloved hands in her lap, she considered her young mistress, and then added, ‘I promised as we would pay today. To tell truth, Miss, I think he’s waiting on the money. He’s only just set up after coming home from hospital. He says it’s proper hard to get started again in civvy street – but his dad were a sweep, so at least he’s got a trade.’
Celia promised to go into Hoylake and pay the sweep as soon as she had seen Miss Aspen and the plumber.
The fact that even a maid needed hot water to do her work properly had escaped Celia, and she was thankful for Eddie Fairbanks’ consideration.
Feeling relaxed in the unusual situation in which she found herself, Dorothy felt able to advise Celia to order in from Hoylake a couple of hundredweight of coal and some wood chips, so that fires could be lit in the newly cleaned fireplaces. ‘To dry the place out, like. Yesterday, it got proper cold what with the wind blowing in from the sea – and the damp.’
Celia agreed, and added a note to her list to find a coal merchant.
As they approached the cottage, they saw that Eddie was trimming his hedge. On seeing them struggling down the sandy lane, he laid his shears on the top of the hedge and came to relieve Dorothy of the basket. She simpered at him, as she handed it over to him. Real nice manners Mr Fairbanks had.
When he greeted Celia, he seemed to her to
be an old friend, and she told him without a hint of shyness what Dorothy and she were going to do that day.
‘I’ll get me ladder and clean the outsides of the windows for you,’ he offered. ‘It’ll be better than trying to reach them from the inside.’
Dorothy did not wait for Celia to answer. She accepted immediately. Then she turned to Celia and said, ‘Sash windows, like your mam has got, I can manage, because I can sit on the windowsill and lower the window over me knees to hold me, so I don’t fall. These here is casements – they open outwards. Even if I chanced a fall, I couldn’t get at them properly.’
Eddie Fairbanks, who had a daughter in service and knew the hazards of window-cleaning, said firmly that the last thing he wanted was someone around with a broken back. The women laughed, as they unlocked and went into the cottage.
‘It looks so much better!’ exclaimed Celia.
Dorothy beamed with pride. ‘This is a first go. You wait till you’ve had it painted. It’ll look real nice.’
Her words were echoed by Betty Aspen, who arrived soon afterwards and went slowly over the little building. Celia held the other end of her tape measure, as she carefully measured for two new boards for the floor of the small bedroom and suggested a new windowsill and new plaster below it, because the rain had probably got in between the brick and the plaster. She strongly recommended new window frames for the back windows. ‘They’re rotten,’ she said, ‘and beginning to let in the rain. Probably because they face the prevailing wind and have been soaked more often.’
When they entered the kitchen, she looked with mock horror at the heavily rusted old range.
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