‘Go on and let me finish me scrubbin’ and get yerself off to work. Yer’ll miss yer tram, an’ there’ll be no ’opping for no one.’
‘See yer tonight, Mum,’ called Jess over her shoulder.
The tram ran just round the corner from the Mission hut, up towards the Commercial Road. As Jess walked past the scruffy little building she was determined not to feel sorry about missing the Saturday dances. There’d be plenty of fun to be had in Tilnhurst, there always was.
‘Jess. ’Ere, Jessie, wait for us.’
Looking back down the street, Jessie saw a plump young woman running towards her. She was trying to put up her mass of wiry brown hair with one hand and hold a slab of bread and scrape, her breakfast, in the other.
‘Come on, Lil, yer’ll cop it if old Warner catches yer gettin’ in late again.’
‘Don’t worry, Jess,’ puffed Lil. ‘Winnie’ll cover for me. She’s always early. Frightened she might miss somethin’, the nosy cow.’ Lil won the battle with her hair as she fell into step at Jessie’s side. ‘Anyway,’ she said through a mouthful of bread, spraying Jess liberally with half-chewed crumbs, ‘I’ve got a good excuse this mornin’. We got our letter.’
‘So did we,’ grinned Jess. ‘Aw, I can’t wait, Lil, can you? Gettin’ away from all this muck.’
‘An’ from bloody Warner’s.’
‘Lil!’
‘Well, I ’ate him. The dirty old pig. Can’t keep his rotten ’ands to ’imself.’
Even in the warm summer sun Jess shuddered, thinking how their boss tried to get the girls alone in the storeroom so he could press his sweaty body against them. Warner seemed to think he was entitled to do as he liked with the girls, just because he was the governor.
‘Still, ’oo cares, eh, Jess? It’ll be us surprisin’ ‘im next month, when we all clear off down ’opping.’
‘Never mind next month, Lilly Dorkin, there’s our tram. Come on, Lil, run.’
Chapter 2
An Announcement
As Jess and Lil ran along the grimy London street to catch their tram, the staff at Worlington Hall were taking an early-morning break in the warm Kent sunshine.
Since first light, the estate servants had been busy in the house and grounds, getting everything ready for the evening’s festivities. Nothing had been overlooked in the elaborate preparations. In the kitchens and cellars food and wines of the finest quality were being made ready. Lady Worlington had planned the meal herself. She had decided to present it in the buffet style. This was a daring innovation for a Kent country house, although, she assured the cook and butler, it was the height of fashion in London society. Lady Worlington also personally instructed Garnett, the head gardener, to choose blooms which would fill every room in the hall with their scent. Garnett, in turn, supervised the under-gardeners in gathering the flowers from the walled gardens and the orangery. A rough-looking elderly man, Garnett’s appearance was at complete odds with his gentle manner and the way in which he cared for his beloved plants.
Lady Worlington also paid particular attention to the matter of entertainment. In this she had achieved a real coup. Rather than engaging the local, rather ageing ensemble, who did the rounds of balls and parties thrown by the neighbouring gentry, she had hired a professional orchestra from London. They were to play not only the ever-popular dance music from the Continent but also the very latest tunes in the foxtrot style. Like the buffet, the entertainment would be another first for Tilnhurst society.
All this intriguing innovation was a result of Lady Worlington’s hard work, rather than any enthusiasm on her husband’s part. No detail had been overlooked. Even the tree-lined drive had been dotted with braziers ready to light the way home for the departing guests. These weren’t simply decorative, although everyone later agreed they did look most attractive. They also had a very practical function. The last party at the Hall had ended with an incident which had distressed everyone and had almost spoiled the evening. A coachman had actually lost his hand in full view of the guests. The unfortunate man had been struggling in the dark to remove an iron brakeshoe from the wheel of his master’s carriage when his sleeve had become entangled between the wheel and the axle. The horses had suddenly pulled forward and the man’s trapped wrist was crushed, tearing the flesh from his bones as though he was an overcooked fowl. His screams echoed through the still night air right across the lake. Some people claimed his cries could be heard right down in the village of Tilnhurst itself. Everyone had been terribly upset. The fire-lit drive was an attempt to ensure that no similar event would mar the celebrations for this evening’s merrymakers.
It was details such as these which ensured the popularity of Sir George and Lady Worlington’s galas throughout the Kent countryside. The Worlingtons’ July Ball was considered to be the highlight of the whole summer season. The last real event, in fact, until the harvest celebrations were over and the first of the hunt balls began. The harvest suppers were, after all, thought by most of Tilnhurst society to be a duty rather than a pleasure: a gesture to reward the servants and farm labourers with dancing and cheap ale.
But tonight’s ball was to be even more memorable than usual. Not just because Sir George was unveiling his new electrical lighting system – although the whole county was discussing it – but because the engagement of Sir George’s elder son Robert was being announced. His future bride was Julia Markington, the only child of doting parents. The Markingtons were an Anglo-Irish family with massive land holdings and increasingly valuable shipping interests in North America, and they were very rich, very rich indeed.
Julia Markington, and her fortune of course, would make a most suitable match for Robert, thought Sir George as he sat in the library, hiding from his wife and her interminable party preparations. From the comfort of his armchair, the owner of Worlington Hall could see right across his rolling parkland, down to the fruit-laden orchards, and all the way to the hop gardens and the village of Tilnhurst beyond. What he saw pleased him: a scene of order, tradition and fecundity. He watched as the estate servants returned to work after their rest, raking gravel and sweeping, tidying and cleaning. He saw the small flock of ornamental sheep grazing picturesquely by the lake, and, in the mid-distance, he could see Robert and Paul, his sons, exercising the hunters they would ride to hounds later in the year. Then, for almost as far as Sir George could see, stretching into the distance, were his orchards and hop gardens, the most valuable part of the Worlington estate.
He sighed loudly. The hop harvest would soon begin and the glorious peace would be destroyed. He stood up, pushing his chair back noisily across the inlaid wooden floor. He walked over to the window and slammed his hand hard against the oak-panelled wall. All those damned cockneys would be arriving in a few weeks, infecting the countryside with their vile squalor and city ways. He felt the same every year. He detested the invasion but he needed their cheap, and, he had to admit it, efficient labour. Those London women and their brats could certainly pick hops faster than any other workers he could get. Even if they only did so out of greed. All hop farmers knew that greed was the pickers’ only motivation, so they didn’t give the women a wage but paid them according to the number of bushel baskets they filled. That ensured they picked at full speed, that the harvest was completed in the shortest possible time, and that the Kent countryside was rid of the vermin as soon as possible.
A knock on the library door pulled Sir George back to the present. He turned to see a young maidservant entering, her eyes cast nervously to the floor.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said, dropping a quick, bobbing curtsey, ‘but Lady Worlington said she’d like to see you in the morning room.’ She bit her lip anxiously. ‘She said how she wants to discuss the, er, “boofhay” arrangements.’
When Sir George failed to respond, the girl’s voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper. ‘Least, I think “boofhay” is what she said. I’m not sure really, see.’
She laughed anxiously. Sir George wasn’t known fo
r his patience, particularly when dealing with servants.
He returned to his consideration of the view from the window. ‘Go away, girl,’ he bellowed. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
The maid backed out of the book-lined room, wishing, as she always did after being shouted at, that she could find a way to escape what fate had seen fit to give her. If only she knew how to dress hair in all the new styles and to sew a bit better, then she could be a lady’s maid, just like the snobs at the Hall who looked down on her for still living at her parents’ cottage. One day she’d show them all; she’d run away from Worlington and she wouldn’t have to put up with Sir George shouting at her any more.
Sir George had decided it was high time that he disappeared from the house too. He guessed a three-hour ride round the estate should keep him safe from any unwelcome discussions about buffet arrangements or other such nonsense. He strode out of the library and made determinedly for the stables.
After an infuriating and fruitless ten-minute wait, Lady Worlington abandoned all hope of getting any help from her husband. She should have known better than to have expected any. Arrangements for the party would, as usual, be her sole responsibility.
Leonore Worlington had realised long ago that most things were her responsibility, and not just the duties she had expected to carry out in her position as mistress of the Hall. As well as confirming the monthly menus and dealing with other household matters, Leonore had increasingly been obliged to do things she had once expected her husband to attend to, such as overseeing the estate accounts and even conducting meetings with the farm bailiff. It was depressing, but true, that if something didn’t have a mane and four legs, or didn’t come in a bottle, then Sir George Worlington simply wasn’t interested in it. But it was no use wasting her time being angry; she had far too much to do, and she was rapidly learning more and more about how to get on with things alone.
By the time Sir George eventually got back to the house, after several detours to local taverns and the emptying of a number of bottles, the dancing was already well under way in the main ballroom. Lady Worlington was too preoccupied making sure that the Markingtons, the guests of honour, were introduced to everyone to bother with her husband’s absence or his late arrival. As for the Markingtons, they had arrived from Kildare over a week ago, and had become almost used to Sir George and Leonore Worlington’s rather eccentric marriage. At first they had been concerned at their daughter’s choice of future in-laws, but once they had seen Robert ride and had had his connections with the English aristocracy confirmed, Julia’s family had succumbed to her pleas for their consent. And, with the growing unrest in Ireland, they were actually rather pleased to think that their only child would be settled in England. Tonight’s impressive celebrations had done nothing to change their minds.
It was still only ten o’clock, and yet, notwithstanding Sir George’s usual difficult behaviour, the party was already being spoken of as a triumph by everyone present. Even those guests who were accustomed to Worlington hospitality, and those others who were perhaps a little jealous of its reputation, were as impressed by the opulence of the occasion as the Markingtons, who were experiencing it for the first time. The new electric lighting system added the final touch of enchantment to the glitteringly splendid spectacle of wealth and privilege.
Lady Leonore Worlington graciously accepted her friends’ congratulations, and was feeling justifiably pleased with her efforts as she silenced the orchestra. It was ten-thirty precisely and she wanted all her guests to hear the announcement for which they had been waiting.
‘My dear friends,’ she began, her lovely face glowing not just with pleasure at the evening’s obvious success, but with her hopes for the future. ‘My husband Sir George and I would like to welcome you all to Worlington this evening.’
On hearing his name, Sir George awoke from his alcohol-induced stupor in the corner, and executed a drunken stagger across the dance floor towards the platform on which his wife was standing. His journey was greeted with good-natured cheering and encouragement from the happy company. Even the Markingtons produced amiable smiles as he joined them and Lady Worlington. Their smiles disappeared rapidly, when it became evident that one important person was still missing from the dais. Robert Worlington was nowhere to be seen.
After repeated calls for Robert to come forward, and with the Markingtons’ only daughter close to tears, a rather inebriated search party was dispatched to find the fiance-to-be.
Leonore was managing, thanks to years of experience in dealing with her always difficult husband and sons, to hide her true feelings.
‘He’ll be found soon enough. You’ll see,’ she reassured the stern-faced Markingtons with a bright smile. ‘Young men of his age are so full of fun.’
But secretly Leonore was disappointed in Robert, saddened that he could behave so badly on tonight of all nights, when she had worked so hard to make everything a success. And her hopes that the engagement would tame his wild ways were rapidly disappearing. She was also more than slightly alarmed to see Robert’s younger brother, Paul, reassuring Julia in such a friendly manner. Watching the young girl so readily accept his comforting attention, Leonore decided that Miss Markington was obviously in need of a discreet word of warning from her future mama-in-law about the behaviour of men in general, and of the Worlington males in particular.
The search party lurched drunkenly from room to room, half of them not quite sure what or whom they were seeking. If only they had looked in the orangery they would have found Robert immediately. For there he was, with Milly Garnett, the young maidservant, who earlier that day had never even laid eyes on a ‘boofhay’, let alone engaged in what she and young Master Robert were now up to.
Chapter 3
They Say that Hopping’s Lousy…
‘I can’t wait to see ’is face, Jess.’ Lil was shaking so much from the effort of suppressing her giggles that she was barely able to fold the cardboard shapes into boxes. ‘I’ve been waitin’ for this for weeks.’
Jess was more cautious; she wondered what mood old Warner was in and how he would react when the girls announced they were going off to Kent to pick hops. She didn’t have to wonder for long.
‘What’s all this noise about? What’s wrong in here?’ The loud male voice immediately caught the attention of everyone in the workshop.
‘Nothing, Mr Warner,’ said Lil. Always cheeky, she gave him an innocent smile and added another badly folded box to her lopsided pile under the bench.
‘Well, there’d better not be. But if you’d rather waste your time chatting, there’s plenty more girls’d be glad of the work. Now get on with it.’
Jess glanced along the row to Lil who was now fit to burst with the effort of looking serious.
Harold Warner hooked the arms of his spectacles around his big red ears and consulted his cheap metal pocket watch.
‘Five past one,’ he droned. ‘Here’s the wages.’
He sat down at the rickety, cup-ringed table which stretched the width of the long, narrow room. He placed a small tin cash box in front of him and lined it up precisely next to a maroon, cloth-bound ledger. Through one of the unwashed skylights in the roof, a single shaft of sun managed to break through the grime, illuminating the man bent over his money as he arranged it in piles on the shabby wooden table.
‘That sunray makes him look like the Bible picture what I got from Sunday school once,’ Jess whispered to her friend. ‘Like the angel Gabriel in a shaft of ’oly light.’
‘Do what?’ said Lil, a bit louder than she should have. ‘Angel ’oo? ’Ow can that ol’ bleeder look like an angel?’
‘Shhh!’ Jess stilled her. ‘It don’t matter. Look, ’e’s openin’ the ledger.’
Warner found the place where the workers’ names were listed. As each new girl was taken on at the factory her name was entered into the book in his mean, scratchy writing; thus they became part of Harold Warner’s list of debits – drains on his greedily accum
ulated and regularly counted profits.
One by one the women and girls were called forward. They went and stood in front of their employer. Then, ‘Thank you, Mr Warner,’ they mumbled, taking their wages quickly before he could touch them with his clammy hands, and returning to their places at the bench. Finally, there were only three names on his list left uncalled: Lil Dorkin, Winnie Baxter and Jess Fairleigh.
‘Lillian Dorkin.’
Lil moved away from the bench, and, giving Jess a nudge as she passed, walked the length of the room with her head held high and her boots clopping loudly on the dusty wooden floor. Most of her hair had, as usual, broken free of its pins, and was spilling round her fine, broad shoulders. Warner counted out her wages. Jess and Winnie held their breath and watched as he handed the coins to their friend. The silence was shattered by Lil’s indignant shouts.
“Ere, now ’old on a minute. This is two bob bleed’n’ short, this is. What’s yer game?’
Now it wasn’t just Winnie and Jess who were interested; all the other workers looked towards the table.
Warner didn’t glance up from his ledger. ‘Late four mornings. Two shillings forfeit.’ He dismissed her with a loose gesture of his flabby pink hand. ‘Next. Winnie Baxter.’
Lil wouldn’t be dismissed so easily. ‘It’s nothin’ to do with me bein’ late, yer slimy ol’ goat, an’ you know it. It’s cos I wouldn’t let you touch me when we was in the storeroom. Yer dirty old pig. Anyway, see if I care, yer ol’ bugger. I’m off down ’opping tomorrow, I am. So yer know what yer can do with yer boxes, don’t yer? Stick ’em where the monkey keeps ’is nuts, that’s what.’
With that, Lil flipped his ledger shut, leant across the table and pinched his cheek as though he was a great fat baby. ‘See yer in October, sweet’eart,’ she said. ‘If yer lucky, that is.’
If they hadn’t seen it with their own eyes the box-makers wouldn’t have believed it: old Warner’s face actually turned redder than ever. As Lil pranced saucily from the room, her wide hips swaying, Warner raised his voice, which he turned at full volume on his gawping audience.
The Cockney Girl Page 2