Along the Endless River

by Rose Alexander

  She had to be strong, she had to get through this. She thought of her sister, deep in the Amazonian jungle, the trials and tribulations she had faced since setting sail all those years ago. If Katharine could survive and overcome all the dangers and difficulties she had encountered, then Mabel must also be able to. But just then, lonely and cold and exhausted to her very bones, it was hard to summon the courage to believe she would ever get used to this new life.

  She clasped her hands together and glanced down. Even in the gloom, she could see dark spots staining the white sheet. Blood was oozing from her fingers, which had been virtually skinned by the caustic substance she had been given by Cook to scour the pots and pans. Her fingertips throbbed, her knuckles were red raw and the worst thing was that she was going to have to put her hands through the same torture again the next day. And the next. Her knees, too, were agony; when she was not washing dishes she was on all fours, scrubbing and polishing, the floors, the outside steps, the passageways, the hearths and fireplaces… There was nothing in this house that didn’t seem to require her ministrations and all the elbow grease she could muster. Everything ached: her limbs, her bones, her soul.

  At that moment, Mabel’s life stretched out before her, an endless grey monotony interspersed with pain. Her mother had always taught her that self-pity was indulgent and unallowable. But Mabel couldn’t help but feel sorry for herself as tears trickled down her cheeks and she wondered how she would get through another day, let alone a lifetime.

  The next morning, she jumped awake, sure she had overslept. She trembled, imagining Cook’s wrath, being summoned before the mistress – whom she had only briefly met at an interview in the employment agency offices – and given her notice for slacking. Leaping out of bed, she looked frantically around for her clothes and then remembered that she was wearing them all. Shivering, she rubbed her arms with her sore hands and moved towards the door. As she put her hand upon the door handle, a church bell sounded four long, sonorous chimes.

  Four a.m.! She’d got up an hour early. She stumbled back to her bed and half lay, half sat upon it, dozing fitfully until the five o’clock bells rang. Dragging herself up again, she hauled her weary legs and tired body down the stairs to work.

  A few hours later, crawling on her hands and knees the length of the long, wide hallway, smoothing the fringe of the rug so that every strand was absolutely straight, Mabel found herself convinced that this was the most pointless, sadistic of all the tasks that anyone could be asked to perform. Every day it had to be done, after she’d whitened the front steps until they were gleaming.

  Then she had to clean the drawing room, which was stuffed full of heavy, dark furniture and tables covered in ornaments. First, she had to sweep the floor and clear the grate, then leave the room for fifteen minutes for the dust and soot to settle before going back to complete the task. The rule was to start on the right-hand side of the door and work all the way around until she got back to the left. The room was huge and this took ages, and though it had a large window and should therefore have been full of light, in front of the glass and almost totally obscuring it was a miniature forest of potted plants. A strange earthy smell always filled the air and Mabel hated dusting the thick, unwieldy foliage, imagining that, if she tripped, the leaves would swallow her up and consume her so that she would never be seen or heard of again.

  Once this despised chore had been completed, and assuming she was not incarcerated in the deathly embrace of a Swiss cheese plant, she moved on to the rest of the fireplaces, the downstairs ones first and, when the mistress was having breakfast, those in the bedrooms. The handle of the ash pail had slipped out of its anchor on one side so she had to carry it clutched to her bosom. This meant her hands weren’t free to hold anything else and so involved twice as many trips up and down stairs.

  By mid-morning, it was into the kitchen to help Cook prepare the dinner, endlessly peeling and chopping vegetables. Tedious in the extreme but better than what came after – the washing-up. Then more cleaning, more meal preparation, more scrubbing dishes.

  The first days of Mabel’s employment all went like this. Already she thought that she could not bear it.

  There was no one to talk to as she went about her work. Apart from Cook, there was only one other indoor servant, a lad called Joe, whose jobs included fetching the coal and carrying the scuttles up the many staircases, as well as cleaning the shoes, answering the door to tradespeople when Cook was too busy and various other odd jobs such as going to fetch a hansom cab when the mistress wanted to go out shopping or visiting. An old man named Mr Harrison worked mainly outside, cleaning the windows and tending to the extensive garden, but he didn’t live in. Cook’s room Mabel never saw but Joe’s lay on the half-landing up to the attic and was even more barren and miserable than Mabel’s. It had three external walls and a flat roof that must leak badly, for when Mabel glanced inside on her way upstairs, she saw big, mouldy damp patches on the wall, lurking like beasts ready to pounce.

  It was breakfast on the sixth day before Mabel heard Joe speak.

  ‘That ash pail,’ he said, in a voice that sounded husky from lack of use, ‘I’ve mended the handle.’

  Tears sprang to Mabel’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered, overcome with a gratitude that far exceeded what was necessary. It was such a small kindness – but so completely unexpected. ‘Thank you very much.’

  The words were out before Mabel remembered the nanny next door and the footmen; presumably you weren’t supposed to thank someone lower in the pecking order than yourself. She caught Cook’s quick glance of disapproval. But it was too late to take it back, and it was polite to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. That’s what she’d been brought up to believe, anyway.

  Joe was a workhouse boy who ate all his food at triple speed, as if he were expecting it to disappear before he’d had a chance to gobble it up. He eats as if he’s never seen a proper meal before, Mabel thought, and then acknowledged that this was probably exactly the case, given where he’d come from. Servants from those institutions were cheap, badly paid and poorly treated, because employers knew they wouldn’t leave. They had nowhere else to go.

  ‘I’m lucky,’ Mabel told herself sternly. ‘I have a loving family, a home, a happy childhood to look back on. How dare I complain and moan? I’m a thousand times better off than Joe.’

  Shoring herself up with these brisk words, she set to cleaning the silver cutlery, yet another of the repetitive, monotonous tasks that now took up her time. Day after day went by in a flurry of fetching and carrying, cleaning and laundering, sweeping and polishing. Mabel tried to keep smiling but it was hard to be always bright and sanguine when the mistress and Cook seemed to constantly find fault, not just with her work but with everything about her.

  One Wednesday morning, having been asked to serve at the lunch table, Mabel traipsed up and down the stairs with dish after dish of meat, vegetables and sauces and reflected that at least when the servants ate, their food was hot. By the time she’d got everything into the dining room singlehanded, the first lot would probably be stone cold.

  Waiting at table under the scrutiny of all the diners was a nerve-wracking experience, with so many rules of etiquette to follow – curtsey before leaving, go out backwards to avoid turning your back on your superiors, never utter so much as a word. Mabel chewed and chewed at the lump in her cheek with the effort of remembering it all.

  ‘Oy,’ Cook snapped on her fourth or fifth return to the kitchen for yet more dishes. ‘Stop making that strange face. Mistress will think you’re being rude or cheeky or something.’

  Abruptly, Mabel stopped the chewing. Immediately, her tongue flicked towards the place and found the lump, examining it.

  ‘I said, cut it out!’ Cook was really cross now, or perhaps just anxious to ensure Mabel didn’t attract the ire of the mistress, which would, inevitably, backfire onto her.

  ‘Yes, yes, sorry, I’m sorry,’ stuttered Mabel. She felt three years old,
scolded for picking her nose or wiping it with the back of her hand or some other disgusting habit.

  Steeling herself, she went back up the two flights of stairs to the dining room. She knew, and had already been told, that yet another rule decreed that you must never look your employers in the eye. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help casting a quick glance towards her mistress: an elderly woman, around fifty-five Mabel reckoned, but she looked older. She was tiny, much shorter than Mabel, but she was swathed in so much fabric from her multi-layered elaborate clothing – velvet, brocade, taffeta – that she appeared to be as wide as she was high. She wore strings of jewellery that Mabel assumed were family heirlooms. There couldn’t be any other reason for adorning oneself with items that were so ugly and heavy and old-fashioned. Extraordinary attire, Mabel thought, for the daytime, but who was she to judge? She was nothing but a lowly servant, who many of the higher classes ranked on a par with dumb animals.

  Master was not there, presumably at work. Mabel rarely saw him, and when she did, the impression she got was of sinister massiveness. He was tall, fat and always clothed in a black suit, with a thick black overcoat and top hat for when he went out. When he was around, his dark shadow seemed to loom over every corner of the house. Mabel already knew that he and his wife didn’t share a bedroom, let alone a bed. She didn’t know if this was usual or not, just considered her employers lucky to have so much space just for them. In Clerkenwell, Mabel shared with two of her siblings and many families, poorer than the Birds, lived in only one or two rooms for everyone, up to twelve people crammed claustrophobically together. But on the other hand, she thought with an inward ironic laugh, if the mistress wore as many layers at night as she did in the day then that, combined with the master’s bulk, would mean one bed wouldn’t be big enough for the both of them.

  Forcing herself to concentrate on her task, Mabel placed the last platters on the table as delicately as she could. Shame over her scabby, calloused hands, combined with the disdainful expression that always came over Cook’s face when she caught sight of them, meant that Mabel wore cotton gloves when doing anything that brought her into the presence of company.

  But they made gripping things harder, especially if they got wet, and on her final exit from the room, she not only collided with an occasional table, sending photo frames and knick-knacks flying, but also lost hold of the empty serving bowl she’d been taking away. The clatter of falling objects combined with the dull thud of the dish upon the floorboards were like the rattle of gunshot about her ears. Mabel’s heart stopped momentarily as she fell to her sore knees and desperately scrabbled around for the scattered items.

  ‘Hurry up!’ commanded the mistress, in a voice so deep Mabel at first thought it was a man. ‘You are completely ruining our meal with your clumsiness.’

  ‘S-s-sorry,’ stuttered Mabel. Terrified and gasping for breath, she staggered to her feet and this time got through the door in one piece.

  Later, Cook called her down to the kitchen.

  Now I’m for it, thought Mabel, bracing herself for a stern dressing down for being so ham-fisted. But instead, it was another infraction that she was found guilty of.

  ‘The mistress wants you to act more modestly next time you wait on table.’

  Bewilderment engulfed Mabel’s mind. More modestly? In what way, exactly, had she been immodest?

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ she said, doubtfully. ‘What the mistress means.’

  Cook tutted in irritation. ‘There was an occasion when you did not curtsey. And you spoke in front of both your employer and her guests.’

  Mabel lowered her eyes. Cardinal sins, both, it was clear.

  ‘You were noticed, Mabel, when you should be invisible.’ Cook’s emphasis on the word ‘noticed’ made it sound like Mabel had performed some kind of vaudeville act in the staid and stuffy surrounds of the dining room. ‘You realise how unacceptable this is?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mabel murmured. She had no idea how it was possible to be invisible but looking for logic or further explanations would get her nowhere.

  Hateful, hateful job. Tears stinging her eyes, she marched back up to the third floor and stabbed her feather duster at picture frames and ornaments with an aggression she couldn’t hide. She could not see how any of this was ever going to get any better. The gloves that had let her down so badly she’d discarded, shoved into the deep pockets of the dress that Mary had made. Mabel looked down at her hands. She hated the bloodied skin, the split knuckles, the badly-healing blisters. Though she was not vain, and rarely looked in a mirror, she was used to being loved, to being told she was lovely and loveable, and to being praised for what she did well. These things were part of her identity, what made her Mabel Bird – but she seemed to have left them all behind when she had come to live in Brampton Square. The sorry state of her poor hands symbolised everything she had lost and made her feel lonelier than ever.

  She wanted to go home, to find her mother and hold her tight, or to write to Katharine, defying her mother’s ban on her sister being told the truth, and hear her wise words of advice and encouragement.

  But she couldn’t tell anyone what she was feeling. It was nobody’s fault that she’d had to take this job, just dad’s rotten bad luck to have that terrible accident, and even if Katharine suddenly bestowed on them a fortune, she wouldn’t resign. She’d never want to be a scrounger. It was right and proper to work for your living – everyone else at Hawthorn Road had to, and moaning about it would not only do no good but also make her seem lazy and begrudging or as if she somehow thought she was worthy of special treatment. Mabel was old enough to contribute to the family purse now – more than old enough; many girls started in service aged eleven or twelve. She just had to knuckle down and get on with it.

  However hard it was.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Norwood, 1900

  Not long after the purchase of Fortunata at the auction, Jonathan and Santiago returned, triumphant, having sold all the rubber at an excellent price. They’d spent most of the proceeds on paying a mass of bills and debts, but on Katharine’s instructions had also wired a small sum to London. On hearing this news, Katharine breathed a sigh of relief. She was plagued by a constant feeling of guilt at the length of time it was taking to repay her father and although her mother’s letters revealed nothing untoward, she had a sixth sense that something was wrong. Nevertheless, the sending of the money meant she went to bed on the night of their return more contented than she had been for many years.

  Meanwhile, as the days, weeks and months passed, Thomas was becoming more and more invaluable. Katharine could not imagine what she had done without him. He was full of interesting plans, considered opinions, new strategies, and they spent many enjoyable hours discussing business, batting ideas and suggestions around. Secretly pleasing, though, was that her command of maths was better than his. Katharine didn’t want her manager to outclass her in absolutely everything.

  The flies in the ointment – and there were no shortage of them in the Amazon at any rate – were Mayhew, Antonio and little Fortunata. Antonio would be ten at the end of the year, Fortunata two or three years older, Katharine reckoned. She had grown no taller and was barely any fatter than when Katharine had rescued her, and still regularly ate dirt, an inexplicable habit that was common amongst the forest Indians, especially children and pregnant women. Katharine had tried to find out why they did this, but no one knew, not even the Spanish pharmacist who lived in the town where the slave auction had been held, nor any other passing doctor or scientist she had quizzed about it over the years.

  Antonio, on the other hand, was a tall and stocky lad who looked older than he was and whose temper was not improving with the years. He was often obstreperous and difficult, and Katharine was beginning to despair of how to cope with him.

  And added to that was Mayhew. While she valued the time he spent with Antonio, he was increasingly becoming an irritant to Katharine. He complained constantly ab
out the food, the house, the Indians, the forest, the isolation. Katharine often looked at him, amazed at how little they had in common even though they were of the same flesh and blood. Having brought Thomas here and imposed him on Katharine and her business he seemed to be oddly jealous of the man, frequently admonishing him and trying to muscle in on plans she and Thomas were hatching. What made him even more annoying was that, when he did put forward ideas for the business, they were invariably rather good ones, revealing a level of business acumen that Katharine hadn’t realised her brother possessed.

  It made everything worse to have to concede that Mayhew, on occasion, was right.

  One night after supper, Katharine and Mayhew were sitting in the sparsely furnished open-sided living area of the main house. Mayhew was being particularly aggravating, constantly shifting in his chair and muttering, exclaiming about what he was reading in the three-month-old Manaus newspaper, and obviously wanting to evince some kind of response from Katharine, which she was equally determined not to give him. She just wanted to read quietly with the familiar night sounds of the jungle to keep her company.

  She became aware of Mayhew looking critically around him, as if sizing up the setting, the room and the dark river beyond, the forest surrounding everything like the sides of a stage set.

  ‘I don’t know how you can live here,’ he blurted out.

  Katharine smiled. She wanted to say something rude in retort but resisted the urge, instead trying to humour him. ‘As I’ve told you before, I’ve grown used to it. I like it.’