The room had a high ceiling and two low Queen Anne velvet couches. She sat down, perching her behind on the edge of the couch, looking round her when the woman left the room. Two vases of decaying flowers stood on the hearth. Their scent filled the room, an acrid smell. A cabinet filled with china and ornaments was placed near the door, the surface covered in dust. In the corner near the fireplace was a small writing bureau, in the same colour wood as the cabinet. Its lid was open, papers stuffed in the pockets, newspapers, pens, ink and string piled up in a mess. Everything needed a good clean. She expected there hadn’t been time.
Minutes passed. She kept her posture, not allowing herself to sag. She could hear movement upstairs, but still no one came to attend to her.
A cry rang out. A newborn cry. It hung in the air, sharp, painful.
After some time, she got up from the couch and walked around, her heeled boots digging into the light-blue wool rug. It was pretty, a soft pink rose woven into it. Black streaks nestled in the fibres.
The door opened behind her and she turned to find a man standing there. He was tall, his face thin, his shock of black hair wetted and smoothed on his head. He looked dishevelled and tired.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice low. He had a large black moustache, a small gap between it and his sideburns. “I’m sorry for the wait. Do sit down.”
She returned to her seat and perched gently, leaning forward, keeping her chin up.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.
He sat down, pulling his trousers up slightly to allow his long legs to bend.
“Yes,” he said. “A terrible loss.” He paused, no emotion showing on his face.
“Can you tell me about yourself ... Miss …?”
“Miss Murphy,” she said. “Margaret Murphy. Well, I’m from Dublin. The southside. Rathmines. I worked as a governess for the past three years. They’re gone to boarding school now. Lovely girls. I was sad to leave. Before that I was with another family in Dublin. And before that I worked in Wicklow.”
“And babies?” said Mr. Thomas. “What experience do you have with babies?”
“Oh, I adore babies,” she said. “My family in Wicklow had a wee one who I was very attached to. The baby is three weeks old, sir?”
“Four,” he said. “She’s four weeks now.”
“And how is she doing?”
He paused. “Not very well, to be honest,” he said. “She is crying. Hunger, I think. Mrs. McHugh tries her best, but she cries day and night.”
“Ah,” she said. “That can happen with the bottle, you know.”
“Can it?” he said.
“I have a lot of experience with bottle-feeding. My family in Wicklow decided on the same thing, not to go with a wet nurse, so I am well used to making up bottles. It causes extra wind in the child, you see, so you need to give gripe water, something to ease the poor little mite. Yes, I have plenty of experience with that.”
He looked relieved. “Well, that’s good then. And references, have you brought any?”
She picked up her case and put it on the couch, clicking open the locks. She sifted through the papers inside and produced her references, one stamped with a wax seal.
She rose and handed them to him.
“Yes,” he said quietly to himself as he studied them. “Very good.”
From upstairs the muffled cries of the baby could be heard.
“I’d like you to meet her,” he said. “Could you come this way?”
He opened the door, allowing her to pass first, then he climbed the stairwell, holding on to the banister, his footsteps heavy. The cries grew louder as they climbed. He took her to the first floor and into the child’s bedroom. Balled-up sheets were strewn about. A dressing table was covered in glass bottles, some empty, some half full. Powdered milk was scattered in spilled piles, large rubber teats sitting among the mess.
A low wooden cradle was centred on the floor. Behind it stood Mrs. McHugh, her hair sticking out in wisps around her face. She clutched the wailing baby to her, shushing her, trying to rock the cries from her.
“Let me try,” the woman said, walking across the room, peeling the gloves from her hands.
She took the crying infant and the blanket from Mrs. McHugh. The baby was red in the face and was shuddering. She wrapped the blanket tightly around the child, swaddling her, and held her close to her chest.
She held her hand out for the bottle.
“It’s too cold,” she said. “Do you have a jug of hot water, to put it in?”
Mrs. McHugh looked at Mr. Thomas and said, “I’ll get one.”
The woman squeezed the baby tight, pushing her into her breast, humming a low sound.
“Sometimes she takes the milk, sometimes she doesn’t,” said Mr. Thomas, his hand gesturing to the table of baby food.
“I find sugar helps,” she said. “But the milk must be kept warm, don’t allow it to go cold.”
Wrapped tight, the baby began to calm a bit, her heavy cries becoming light, peppered with hiccups now. Mrs. McHugh returned with a jug of hot water. The woman held the baby as the bottle warmed in the jug, then tested the milk on the inside of her wrist before using her fingers to rub the milk along the child’s gums and lips.
The baby thrust her mouth open and took the rubber teat offered. She drank, her jaws working as she suckled the milk hungrily.
Mr. Thomas and Mrs. McHugh stood and watched the woman sit down in the rocking chair in the corner. She fed the baby, while rocking gently back and forth. When the child had finished half the bottle, she placed her along her arm as though she were petting a cat and patted her back.
“A cloth, please,” she said.
Mrs. McHugh promptly produced a muslin.
She winded the baby, fed her the rest of the bottle and winded her once more. Full of milk, the child’s eyes fell backwards a little. She lifted her and placed her in the crib, covering her with a white crocheted blanket. The baby turned her head and went to sleep, her tiny chest rising up and down with her breaths.
Silently, the three left the bedroom and stood on the landing.
“I would like to have a word with Mrs. McHugh,” Mr. Thomas said. “Could I trouble you to wait in the sitting room, Miss Murphy?”
“Of course,” she said, and walked down the stairs, a smile, unseen, planted on her lips.
She waited, sitting, satisfied, her hands curled in her lap.
Things had gone well. The baby had cooperated. She knew she would be taken on now.
The door opened and Mr. Thomas appeared, his face less strained than when he had first presented himself.
He smiled and held out his arms in a welcoming gesture.
“When would you be in a position to start?”
Chapter 3
Mrs. McHugh
The nights and days had merged into one. Tears. Towellings. Dinners. Turning away visitors. And, all the time, the child had cried. A single bed had been moved into the baby’s room and she had lain there, passed out with exhaustion until the child’s cries pierced her black dreams again. And the grief. The grief she felt for Mrs. Thomas. Who would never see her baby grow up. Who would never feel the suckle of her child.
Sometimes, when it had got too much, she had cried into her sleeve – hot angry tears – for Mr. Thomas, for the baby girl, for herself who had lost a friend in Mrs. Thomas, a confidante. But the tears didn’t help. And they wouldn’t help raise the child either.
There was only one maidservant now at Number 43. Ethel did most of the heavy housework and the errands. She also helped in the kitchen, chopping, preparing, baking. Mrs. McHugh prided herself on being an efficient housekeeper, ordering the groceries, planning the meals and ensuring the girl cleaned like she was supposed to. They sent their laundry out and organised most of the household decorations and crafts themselves.
Mrs. Thomas had a talent for flower arranging and the last vase arrangements she’d made were still in the sitting room. She had yet to fin
d the courage to throw them out. They stood, turning brown, dripping their crispy, soiled leaves onto the mantelpiece. She had changed the water, pouring the green slimy liquid down the sink and replacing it with fresh, but she had put the wilted flowers back, hoping to get more time out of them. She should have organised to press them, to dry them out between the thick books from the dining room cabinet, but it was too late now.
All of the staff rooms under the attic lay empty. A collection of clutter had been added slowly, year on year, to the dark airless attic.
On the floor beneath the old servant rooms was Mr. and Mrs. Thomas’s bedroom, a spacious room that took up the width of the house. It offered a wide view of the street below through two large sash windows.
Below the master bedroom was the nursery and two guest bedrooms. The bedrooms were small and dark, but Mrs. McHugh kept them aired and changed the linen as regularly as she could to prevent the damp.
Many times, as Mrs. McHugh had sat in the nursery, clutching the crying child to her, going over in her mind all the tasks that remained undone in the house, she’d thought of the servant rooms and their vacantness, of the quiet stairs where once many footsteps had trod. She longed now for those extra hands.
For a cook who could prepare meals and hot food for Mr. Thomas who seemed to be fading before her eyes. For another two maidservants who could wash and clean and help with the soiled baby clothes that never seemed to cease. And for an errand boy, who could fetch the various new paraphernalia they needed for the baby. They hadn’t expected to be bottle-feeding her.
At least now, with the arrival of the Nanny, one of the servant rooms would be occupied. And she herself would be able to go home to sleep beside her husband. Mick had been so patient and understanding these past weeks.
She wasn’t quite sure what to make of Miss Murphy on first appearance. She seemed a bit stiff, proper. And she didn’t like the way she’d ordered her about, demanding hot water and towels – she didn’t like that at all. But she had settled the baby and, for that, Mrs. McHugh was grateful. If she could take over the management of the child, her feeds, her comfort, her care, at least she herself could get back to running the house. She could help Mr. Thomas get back to some semblance of his life.
“You can see everything from here,” she said.
She stood with the Nanny in the guest bedroom to the front of the house. It was the nicer guest bedroom, with light wallpaper and a reaching view onto the street below.
The Nanny was looking out the window, separating the net curtain with her fingers.
“You must have been very fond of her,” she said, her eyes fixed on the street.
“Mrs. Thomas?” asked Mrs. McHugh. “Yes,” she said softly. “Very.”
The Nanny continued to stare, until Mrs. McHugh folded her arms and coughed impatiently.
“Yes, this will do nicely,” the Nanny said, pulling herself away from the window and looking around the bedroom.
“I’m sure Mr. Thomas will decide on a more permanent arrangement,” said Mrs. McHugh. “We’ll sort out the attic rooms – they need to be cleared out and aired. They’re not bad for attic rooms though.”
“Oh, this room is perfectly adequate,” said the Nanny.
“But this is a guest bedroom.”
“Yes, and it’s fine.”
“We have staff quarters,” said Mrs. McHugh.
“I’ll need to be near the baby,” said the Nanny.
Mrs. McHugh pursed her lips. She walked over to the washstand and hung a towel onto the rail.
“I’ll leave you to get settled, Miss Murphy. You are very welcome to Number 43. It is a very lovely house and Mr. Thomas is a nice and accommodating employer. I do hope we will work well together.”
The Nanny glared at her before nodding her head slightly. Mrs. McHugh wasn’t sure if it was in agreement or defiance.
For the rest of the day, the Nanny cared for the baby, calling Mrs. McHugh to the room several times to discuss her feed, the preparation of formula, the method of washing bottles. “We can’t be too careful,” she said.
Mrs. McHugh felt a bit put out that her sanitary habits were being questioned, when it came to the baby. She had spent every waking moment looking after the child since she was born. She had done nothing but her best for her.
In the evening, Mrs. McHugh prepared a meal of boiled ham and cabbage for Mr. Thomas.
“Mrs. McHugh, will you ask Miss Murphy if she’d like to join me?” he said.
She looked at him in surprise.
“That is if the baby is asleep,” he said.
The house echoed in silence, the chaos of the past month eerily quietened. It seemed the baby was indeed asleep.
Mrs. McHugh wiped her hands on her apron and climbed the stairs towards the nursery. She opened the door quietly and found the Nanny standing over the cot, her arms outstretched into it. She jumped slightly as Mrs. McHugh came into the room.
“She’s quiet for you?” asked the housekeeper.
“She’s calmed right down.”
“Mr. Thomas would like you to have dinner with him. It’s ready now.”
The Nanny backed away from the cot and followed Mrs. McHugh onto the landing and down the stairs.
At the table, the housekeeper poured the two diners water to drink. Mr. Thomas asked for wine to be brought to the table.
“To celebrate Miss Murphy’s first day,” he said. “And a sleeping baby.” A smile crossed his face.
It was the first time Mrs. McHugh had seen a smile pass his lips in a month.
She poured the wine, careful to not overfill Miss Murphy’s glass.
“If that is all for tonight, sir, I think I will be on my way,” Mrs. McHugh said.
“Yes, of course, Mrs. McHugh. Thank you.”
She bowed her head a little and walked away from the table, smoothing her apron.
“Oh, Mrs. McHugh!” he called just as she left the room.
“Yes,” she answered, retracing her steps a little.
“The guest bedroom. I don’t see why Miss Murphy can’t remain there for the moment. It’s near the baby. It will suit fine.”
“Yes, Mr. Thomas,” she said, looking at the Nanny who had her head bowed, on her mouth a trace of a tight-lipped smile.
Chapter 4
Betty
You see all sorts from up here. Fights. Kisses. Children breaking from their mother’s hands and darting right across the road, nearly under the legs of a horse. They’re so innocent, those kids. With their white faces looking out from their bonnets, their little hands gripping onto their mothers’ tightly, until they spy something more interesting that they must dash to.
I look out on the street all day. I pause between my reading and taking my meals to overlook the goings-on right under my window, under my nose. I see a lot from up here. Secrets. I know that Mr. Ferriter, the butcher across the road, takes in meat that’s not fresh, that has already done the rounds in the shops in Dublin, and he chittles it down and sells it for cheap here. I tell the girl not to buy any scrap of carcass from him at all, and if I catch any of his fibrous offal floating in my soup, she’ll be for the sack.
I know that Mrs. Shepherd has a thing for Mr. Ferriter and she leans across the counter and touches his arm when he’s slicing up the meat for her. I see her, laughing, throwing her head back, flirting. I hear things too. Boys with the handcarts, shouting. The brewery deliveries and the barrels as they clunk and roll into the cellar. Horses’ hooves clopping by all day and, at the weekends, the bustle of the fancy carriages making their way to the Whitworth at the top of the road for the dances and opera performances and shows. What I’d give to be able to see a show now!
I hear the girl, coming in the morning, always late, flying in, nearly bursting the door off the hinges. She thinks I don’t notice she’s late, but I notice everything. I’ve added up the five minutes here and the ten minutes there and I reckon she owes me at least a month in overtime by now. But I say nothing, because
I don’t trust that she wouldn’t spit in my tripe and I know some of her family from the far side are as rough as they come.
There’s no harm to her, but she’s thicker than I like in a girl. I’d love her to pick up one of my books, to feel the jacket, to ask what it’s about and if she could borrow it. That would be my ideal type of girl. That type of girl could have been my daughter.
My favourite days are Fridays. Those were always my favourite days in the shop – the busiest days, when the wages came in and the form was merry and the tick would be paid off a bit and you’d have groceries going out up to your ears and the men coming into the pub for pints. There was always something about Fridays, when everything seemed that little bit brighter for one day of the week.
On Fridays, I watch the women from the country doing their shopping, their baskets over their arms, a smile on their faces as they stop to chat in the street. I look at the businessmen and their jackets and them clutching papers to their chest. I see the sailors who have just arrived and the travellers who are going off, carrying heavy cases, taking the one o’clock out of port for Liverpool.
My window faces into the houses and shops of Laurence Street. Beside the dirty butcher’s, Ferriter’s, is Joe’s Fish, his window a bed of ice and the sparkling fish all laid out, ready to be cooked. He is always flat out on Fridays, and he is a good sort, throwing in a few kippers maybe if he has them spare.
Beside the fishmonger’s is a narrow alleyway, leading down to three taverns where men hang about all day and night, pissing and shouting and drinking and causing an awful ruckus. You’d see the policeman often there waving his baton, telling them to be quiet, but they never pay much heed, not when they’ve the drink on them.
Laurence Street is a great location and it isn’t. It’s the centre of the town, hardly any distance to walk if you want to fetch some groceries or a newspaper or a shawl or a nail. You have the steamer on the quays, five minutes away, which would take you to Liverpool and beyond twice daily – and you have a lovely walk, down along the river, under the Viaduct bridge, where the air would take the cobwebs away from your head.
The Nanny At Number 43 Page 2