‘I’m glad of that.’ Mattie smiled, thinking of Mr Fullilove and his penchant.
‘Now,’ Hilda said, deftly tying the bow at Mattie’s waist, ‘I’ll dress your hair.’
Mattie sat at the big dressing-table, where she had arranged her few toiletries. The triple mirrors reflected her solemn expression, as Hilda brushed and combed her long hair, twisting it into a simple knot in the nape of her neck. It was certainly more becoming than the tight plaits she’d wound round her head first thing today.
‘Well, I’ll have to leave you to it, and get back to the kitchen! I left everything throbbing on the stove. Cook flounced off last week,’ Hilda said wryly.
‘If the brandy snaps are anything to go by, I look forward to my dinner! Thank you Hilda, you’ve made me look presentable.’
When Mattie entered the dining room, she mentally braced herself for the encounter with the formidable Mr Fullilove. He stood with his back to the fireplace, holding a glass of wine, which he deposited on the mantelpiece, when he saw her.
Like his wife, he was unlike the picture she had conjured up. Mr Fullilove was very tall, broad-shouldered with an aquiline nose and a piercing gaze. He wore a scarlet silk smoking-jacket, embroidered with Chinese dragons. He was perhaps ten years older than Sybil, dark jowled, with thick iron-grey hair. She tried not to flinch as he gripped her hand. She was aware, as she had been with Sybil, of a lavish use of perfume.
‘Good evening, Mattie. I gather you prefer to be called that? Be seated next to Griffith. He is adept at light conversation, I am not. The sarcasm was lightly veiled. ‘Would you care for a drink?’
Mattie found her voice. ‘No, thank you, Mr Fullilove’
‘I should say, you will naturally be treated as one of the family in my home, where you may call me Rufus. However, you will appreciate that at work you will address me formally. Is that understood?’
‘It is indeed.’ Mattie turned to Griff as he pulled out a chair for her at the oval table. ‘Thank you, Griff.’ She couldn’t help thinking that being treated as one of the family in Mr Fullilove’s case was not exactly to be recommended.
Sybil, on her right, leaned forward, whispering as her husband topped up his glass, before taking his seat. ‘You look very pretty, Mattie. I’m sure Rufus approves.’
I don’t want him to approve of me! Mattie wished she could say.
‘Didn’t have no time to make a first course,’ Hilda announced grimly, as she wheeled in the trolley once more.
Mr Fullilove rose to the challenge in her tone. ‘Not good enough,’ he said curtly.
Hilda slammed his dinner plate on the table before him. The condiments rattled in their silver holder. Mr Fullilove, lips tightly compressed, grabbed his glass.
‘Veal cutlet.’ Hilda looked defiant. ‘Bloomin’ palaver – cook’s book said to dip ‘em in melted butter, egg yolk, then breadcrumbs, grated lemon peel and chopped parsley.’ She brandished a finger tied around with a strip of bandage. ‘Chopped me bleedin’ finger, too. Comes of having to rush around doing two jobs, as you’re well aware – Sir. I nearly forgot to mash the potato, and stick a roll of fried bacon on top of each cutlet. Serve with a good tomato sauce, it said in the recipe – I never had time for that, so I admit it come out of a bottle. Here, Mr Griff, pass the rest of the plates for me, will yer?’
Griff cheerfully obliged. Sybil picked up her cutlery. ‘This looks delicious, Hilda. Eat up, all of you! Thank you Hilda, what would we do without you?’
‘Starve, I reckon,’ Hilda muttered as she went back to the kitchen.
Mattie glanced covertly at Mr Fullilove. He was slicing into his tender cutlet, but his expression was thunderous.
She became aware that Griff was addressing her. ‘Sunday tomorrow. Time for you to recover from your journeying, and a day off for me. If it’s fine, I like to take a stroll along the Hoe. Perhaps you would like to join me? We could take a packed lunch.’
Before Mattie could answer, Mr Fullilove said dourly, ‘I shall require your attention for an hour from ten in the morning, Mattie, to discuss your duties at the emporium. You will then be able to take them up with a minimum of fuss on Monday at 8.30 a.m.’
‘Naturally,’ Mattie returned smartly. To Griff, she added; ‘Yes, I’d enjoy a picnic.’
Over the rhubarb tart and custard Mattie felt her eyelids begin to droop with sheer fatigue. She sat up with a start when Griff gave her a discreet nudge. ‘Oh dear, how rude of me. I’m so sorry . . .’ she said weakly.
‘Please don’t apologise,’ Sybil exclaimed. ‘We’ve expected too much of you, after your travelling. You are, of course, excused. Griff will escort you to your room. We breakfast late, at nine, on Sunday mornings. Have a good night!’
‘Thank you, you’re very kind,’ Mattie said.
As they left the dining room, they were aware of raised voices from within. Mr Fullilove was obviously haranguing his wife.
‘Best for me to retire early too,’ Griff said ruefully, at her door. ‘Sunday is Hilda’s day off too. Breakfast will be made by me, boiled eggs and toast. Then I’ll make us some sandwiches from left-overs from the emporium delicatessen. I brought home some tender prime ham which didn’t really fit that description . . . we take pot luck at dinner. No roast joint and trimmings! Rufus will be at his club, anyway. ‘Night, Mattie.’
‘Goodnight, Griff,’ Mattie said, as she closed her door.
The strong sea breeze on the Hoe, that great cliff towering around a hundred feet over Plymouth Sound, made Mattie and Griff scurry along the promenade, pausing only to admire the bronze statue of Sir Francis Drake, to find a sheltered spot. Mattie was glad of a long cardigan over her blouse and skirt, but she was ruefully aware that she had not placed the hairpins as skilfully as Hilda and her hair had tumbled loose around her shoulders. It must resemble a bird’s nest, she thought.
They plumped down on the rug, which Griff gallantly spread on the grass. ‘Here,’ he said, after rummaging in his rucksack, ‘binoculars. Know how to use ‘em?’
‘I can find out,’ she told him, truthful but determined.
Griff smiled, but left her to it. She adjusted the glasses, then gazed entranced over the grey swell of the sea, at a large grey vessel on the horizon, at waves rushing in and out of the inlets in the rocks, as gulls wheeled overhead. Griff took a sketchpad from his pocket and unwrapped a stick of charcoal. With swift, spare strokes, he captured Mattie with the wind in her hair as now she concentrated on Drake’s Island.
‘I’m hungry,’ Mattie said at last, with a meaningful glance at the rucksack. ‘I didn’t get a chance to have another piece of toast for breakfast, when Rufus told me it was time for our talk.’
‘Interrogation, don’t you mean?’ Griff asked. ‘Can you hold out ten minutes longer, I wonder? You see, I am waiting for a friend to join us. A lady friend.’
Mattie was candid as usual. ‘Is that why you asked me – as a cover-up?’
‘Oh, you’ve found me out! However, I am enjoying your company.’
‘Why the secrecy?’
‘Christabel is also employed by the emporium. All the female staff are selected by Rufus for youth and good looks, apart from Miss Teazel, in accounts, who’s known as a bit of a tartar! When I joined the company my dear stepfather warned me not to become romantically involved with any of the girls.’
‘And have you?’
Before he could answer, they heard a cry of ‘Yoo-hoo!’ Griff scrambled to his feet to greet the new arrival, who was holding on to her daisy-trimmed boater.
‘Gosh, I’m hungry.’ The girl smiled at Mattie. ‘I’m Christabel, by the way.’
‘I’m famished, too! I’m Mattie.’
‘And I’m the universal provider,’ Griff said, as he unwrapped the greaseproof parcels. He handed out the serviettes. ‘Tea or coffee? I made two flasks.’
‘Our boss’s face would turn puce if he could see us, enjoying his prime ham,’ Christabel said cheerfully, holding out her hand
for a second sandwich.
Mattie warmed to her immediately. Christabel’s short, wavy hair was sandy-brown rather than the blond Rufus was said to prefer, and there were freckles all over her pert little nose. She had a shapely figure, wide china-blue eyes and a smile which accentuated deep dimples in her rounded cheeks. Her accent was as rich as the Devonshire cream Mattie had sampled earlier.
‘You’ll be working with me in the drapery department,’ Christabel informed her.
‘I’m glad about that!’ Mattie replied, meaning it.
‘Your predecessor got the sack for inappropriate behaviour.’
‘What was that?’
‘Put it this way, she had to let out the seams in her uniform, and Sir deduced why.’
‘How unkind of him. She probably needed her wages if she was pregnant.’
‘Never use that word when Rufus is within hearing,’ Griff advised Mattie.
‘He was actually affable this morning. He hoped I’d be happy at the emporium.’
‘I told you,’ Griff winked at her, ‘he’s got a—’
‘Penchant – I know,’ Mattie said.
Later, they returned along the promenade, linking arms.
‘What a lucky chap I am,’ Griff observed, ‘escorting two lovely ladies!’
When it was time to part company, Mattie rested on a seat, pretending to look in her bag for a handkerchief, while the other two stood a little apart from her. After a quick glance round Griff embraced Christabel briefly.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Mattie heard him say.
Christabel gave Mattie a wave in passing, echoing, ‘Yes, see you tomorrow.’
Mattie was really glad to have friends to support her at the emporium on Monday.
FOUR
‘Leave your shoes outside your door,’ Griff said, when he bid Mattie good night. He’d deduced that she’d only the one pair, now scuffed from their excursion.
Mattie retrieved them first thing, polished to a pleasing shine. He was a thoughtful young man: not only had he cleaned her footwear, he’d advised her to use the facilities in the bedroom instead of the bathroom in the morning. ‘Rufus takes priority then. Hilda will bring you a jug of hot water at 7. You and I will breakfast in the kitchen at 7.15 – porridge, I expect. By then, Hilda will be overseeing washing-day in the scullery, she has help on Mondays. Sybil, by the way, will stay in bed until we’ve gone.’
Sybil, Mattie gathered, was truly a lady of leisure. However, it was all too apparent that she didn’t have sufficient staff to run this big house. Mattie’s mother had been rather vague about her cousin’s background, but – I’ll find out! Mattie determined.
Griff drove Mattie to the Barbican in the delivery van. ‘Rufus will already be at the store. A cab collects him every morning and brings him back in the evening.’
‘Doesn’t he drive?’ Mattie asked. She was glad Rufus wasn’t travelling with them.
‘No. He likes to cogitate on the day ahead while smoking a small cigar. Very different from the way he started his working life.’
Mattie was curious. ‘How was that?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. Just what you’ve told me. Rufus marrying for money to save the emporium.’
‘He didn’t have an auspicious start. He was a foundling, brought up in a local orphanage. They gave him the name Fullilove after the chaplain, who took an interest in his welfare, and also suggested his first name. He was a good scholar, but he had to leave school at fourteen, when he was given help to set up in business. He bought a barrow, piled it with tea he had bagged up himself, salvaged from a warehouse damaged by fire, and made his first profit. Seven years on, he rented a shop, and after another ten he was able to take on the emporium. You have to admire him, eh?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think I like him . . .’
‘Not many do. I’m grateful, though, that he didn’t cast me out when my mother died. He knew what it was like to be an orphan. Any worries about today, Mattie?’
‘I hope my uniform fits.’
‘Oh, it will, Mattie. Your mother was asked to supply your measurements.’
Mattie’s face was decidedly flushed. She couldn’t help thinking that maybe, along with the photograph, this had made Rufus decide she was suitable for the emporium.
Still fifteen minutes to go before opening time. They went through the staff entrance, then took the lift to the first floor. Mattie glimpsed assistants unveiling their counters, before Griff led her to the drapery department, where Christabel was waiting.
‘I must leave you here,’ he said. ‘I’m on the ground floor, the food hall. Good luck!’
Christabel welcomed her with a smile. ‘Your uniform is in the washroom. See you in five minutes.’ She indicated a door.
The dark green linen button-through dress, with its skirt of decorous length, was a perfect fit. She folded her own garments and placed them on a shelf labelled MISS MATILDA ROWLEY. A quick tidying of her hair, and she was ready.
She emerged to the ringing of a bell: time to stand by, the emporium was open.
As their first customers did not arrive until after nine o’clock Christabel was able to acquaint Mattie with the location of the most frequently asked-for commodities. There were many deep drawers below the counter and shelves along the walls. The drawers were packed with smaller items, like ribbons, tapes, braids, cottons and silks, hooks and eyes, press fasteners and buttons, scissors, needles, thimbles, darning mushrooms and tape measures. On the shelves were bolts of material, varying in colour and texture from the sober to the exotic. Hanging from rails were translucent silks in all the colours of the rainbow.
‘Those are quite dazzling! Beautiful!’ Mattie exclaimed, in awe.
‘From India. Can’t you just picture them made up into saris?’ Christabel brushed a stray thread from the counter, indicated the shining brass measure along the edge. ‘Have you done much dressmaking yourself?’
‘I’m afraid not. My mother makes most of our clothes; she has a treadle machine.’
Opposite the drapery department was the linen hall. The assistants there were almost hidden by pyramids of plump goose-feather pillows and Egyptian-cotton sheets.
Mattie watched the hands on the clock. She felt an urge to tap it, like the men with their pocket watches on the train, to hurry it up. She gave quite a start when the doors swung open and a middle-aged woman in black came bustling up to the counter.
‘Watch me, this time,’ Christabel whispered to Mattie. ‘Good morning, madam.’
‘Good morning. I require serviceable blue cotton for our maids’ summer frocks.’
‘How many maids?’ Christabel enquired, reaching down a bolt of saxe-blue cloth.
‘Three. I believe you stock ready-made detachable collars and cuffs, in white?’
‘Yes, madam.’
Mattie was fascinated by the confidence with which Christabel flipped the bolt of cloth over and over on the counter, estimating the yardage required. Taking up a pair of large scissors with curved grips, she sliced decisively across. She didn’t nick the material, then tear off the piece, as Mattie had seen her mother do.
The customer rubbed the end of the cloth between finger and thumb, looking thoughtful. ‘This should wear well,’ she decided. ‘Wrap it up.’
A neat brown-paper parcel was deftly tied with string. The cuffs, collars, cotton and other necessaries were placed in a large bag, neatly folded over at the top.
‘Does madam require a pattern?’ Christabel asked.
‘No, thank you. Mrs Trembath’s seamstress knows exactly what is required. Certainly not the latest fashion! Kindly send the bill to Knockwood Hall in due course.’
When the customer had departed, Mattie observed: ‘What a grim-looking lady!’
‘Oh, you must learn to tell the difference! Mrs Barnes is not exactly a lady, even though she sounds like one. She’s the Hon. Mrs Trembath’s housekeeper. However, she’s entitled to be called “madam”.’
&n
bsp; ‘I must admit I’m dreading cutting the cloth . . .’
‘Don’t worry by the end of the day you’ll be expert at it!’ Christabel assured her. ‘Though Monday is always slow. Most of the drapery customers are of a similar status to Mrs Barnes. The real ladies are to be seen in the millinery or couture departments, later in the day. They try on the new lines, but they don’t always buy. The bridal suite was hard-hit by the war, and now, as there are not many eligible young men, they say ours will be a generation of spinsters.’
‘Maybe more of us will make a decent living wage in occupations which have always been regarded as men’s work,’ Mattie said. ‘Though I imagine you will marry.’
‘You are thinking that Griff and I . . . ?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘It’s likely that it’s just a flirtation on his part. He talks of emigrating when he’s twenty-one. He will come into a little money then, left in trust by his grandfather.’
‘How exciting! I wonder where he intends to go. Wouldn’t you like to travel too?’
Christabel shook her head. ‘I have a sick mother to consider. My father was killed in the war. I’m the breadwinner in my family. By the way, don’t mention to Griff what I just told you, will you?’
‘Of course not,’ Mattie agreed, as a potential customer approached them.
‘All yours!’ Christabel whispered.
‘Stay close by, then. I may need your help!’
On Tuesday mornings, the Fullilove kitchen was always full of steam. Flat-irons smoothed out the creases from the newly laundered clothes. Little Hilda mopped her damp brow and muttered under her breath.
Sybil, of course, wasn’t involved. Wearing a pristine white overall, with a turban, she was happily occupied in what had been the butler’s pantry in more affluent times. Having unlocked a cupboard, she selected various flagons, pots and waxed cartons and set these out on a work table. Then she took from the drawer a notebook with marble-patterned covers. She turned the pages, a silver propelling pencil in hand.
‘Hilda,’ she called presently, ‘Time for a cup of hot chocolate, I think!’
The Meadow Girls Page 3