by Valerie Wood
But the door wasn’t bolted, it yielded as she lifted the sneck but there was something preventing her from opening it. She pushed and something malleable moved behind it. ‘Is that you, Ruby?’ a voice whispered.
‘Yes,’ she whispered back. ‘Who is it? Let me in.’
The door opened. It was Mr Blake from upstairs. ‘I’ve been guarding ’door,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Your ma was worried about leaving it open, but didn’t want to lock it in case she didn’t hear you.’ It was dark in the entrance and she couldn’t see his face and knew that neither could he see hers.
‘Bessie said that you’d gone to ’music hall,’ he explained. ‘And might be late, so I said I’d wait up for you.’
‘Oh, Mr Blake. That was good of you. Yes,’ she added to the story which she was sure he didn’t believe. ‘A friend took me for a treat.’ She fingered the coins in her hand until she felt a sixpence. ‘Look what I found under my seat.’ She handed it to him. ‘You can have it for being so thoughtful.’
His hand reached out eagerly, then drew back. ‘Are you sure? It don’t seem fair when you found it.’
‘But I’ve had such a good time, Mr Blake, and you deserve it. Take it before I change my mind.’
He took it and she felt his smile glow in the darkness. ‘Thanks, Ruby. Any time if you go again I’ll watch out for you, and keep an eye on your ma as well.’
Grace rose early the next morning, washed, dressed, ate a slice of bread and wrapped her old shawl around her. Her mother had risen wearily from her bed and was dressing.
‘I’m going down to that house in ’High Street, Ma. The one that wants somebody to scrub floors.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Aye, get there early. It’ll show you can get up in a morning.’
It was only just five o’clock and still dark. Her father rolled out of bed and stretched. ‘Oh, what a life!’ he groaned.
‘Be thankful you’re in work,’ Lizzie said, ‘even though you onny get a pittance.’
‘Gaffer’s known for keeping his workers,’ Bob commented. ‘If they’re reliable and he can trust ’em.’
The streets were already busy with workers hurrying to their places of employment in the seed mills and blubber yards along the river Hull. Grace was now heading in the other direction, still following the line of the river but towards the town and the cobbled High Street. Here the shipping merchants had their offices, and some still had their homes adjacent to the busy waterside.
She cut down one of the staithes which led to the waterfront and round to the rear of a building, and knocked on a door. A young, sleepy-looking maid opened it and Grace asked to speak to the cook or housekeeper.
‘Housekeeper’s still abed,’ the girl said, ‘but Cook will be down in a minute. What is it you want?’ she asked curiously. ‘We don’t need any housemaids and mistress has a lady’s maid already.’
Grace shook her head. ‘I heard you needed somebody for scrubbing floors. My ma comes to do ’washing here.’
‘Lizzie?’ the girl said. ‘Are you Lizzie’s lass?’ She opened the door for Grace to enter. ‘You’d better come in.’
She took Grace down a flight of steps to the basement area which, in spite of having only one small window, was surprisingly light. It was lit by several oil lamps, and was very warm, the heat coming from an enormous iron cooking range. This was bedecked with several fire-bars, spit racks, basting ladles, a huge copper kettle and a stone salt box, set into the side of the fireplace wall.
‘Want a dish o’ tea while you’re waiting?’ the girl asked. ‘I’ve just brewed it ready for Cook. Go on,’ she said, seeing Grace’s hesitation. ‘I’ve just had one and she won’t be down until dead on quarter to six.’
Grace accepted and sipped the strong, scalding tea, so different from their own weak brew at home which was made with as few leaves as possible in order to eke it out.
‘You don’t look ’sort to be scrubbing floors,’ the maid said chattily. ‘I’d have thought you’d be a shop girl or a lady’s maid. Where did you work afore?’
‘At ’cotton mill,’ Grace replied. ‘I’ve worked there since I was nine. But our hours have been cut,’ she explained. ‘So I decided to look for something else.’
On the stroke of quarter to six the inner door opened and a portly woman in a huge white apron and cap bustled in. By then Grace had finished her tea and was sitting demurely on a hard chair by the kitchen door.
‘Now then, Mary, have you got stoked up and ’tea made?’ She looked across to Grace. ‘And who’s this early morning caller?’
Grace stood up. ‘I’m Grace Sheppard, Cook. I understand you need some help in ’kitchen.’
‘Lizzie’s daughter?’ The cook looked her over. ‘I need somebody strong for scrubbing floors, I’m a scullery maid short. But I don’t think you’d do. You look as if a breath o’ wind’d blow you over.’
‘I’m very strong,’ Grace asserted. ‘I’ve been a mill girl for ’last seven years and that was hard work.’
‘Aye, so I’ve heard, and long hours as well? I suppose you’ve been finished cos you’re older?’
‘Decline in cotton industry, so I’ve been told,’ she said cautiously. ‘There’s not so much demand.’
The cook sniffed. ‘That’s what they say, is it? Well, I’ll put you on trial, your ma’s a hard worker so mebbe you tek after her. Can you start now?’ she demanded.
‘Yes.’ Grace took off her shawl and rolled up her sleeves. ‘I can.’
She was given a coarse brown cotton apron, shown where the pails and scrubbing brushes were and told to scrub the kitchen and pantry floor. ‘Can you show me where ’pump is?’ she asked Mary. ‘Then I’ll draw ’water.’
‘You can have hot water,’ Mary said. ‘You don’t have to use cold,’ and with both hands she unhooked the kettle from over the fire to fill the bucket. ‘Besides, we have a lad to draw water for us. We don’t do that. He keeps all ’pans and kettles topped up.’
Grace put washing soda in the bucket and was given a slab of soap, and she set to work to scrub the floors.
‘Mek sure you wipe suds off,’ Cook called to her. ‘Don’t want anybody slipping.’
When she had finished the kitchen and pantry, Cook came to inspect them. She looked into the corners and, as seemingly they were satisfactory, she told Grace to wash the floors in the butler’s pantry and in the cold pantry where the milk and cheese were kept, and also the wine cellar. ‘Onny don’t knock any of ’bottles or wipe ’dust off ’em, whatever you do,’ she said. ‘Just swab down ’floor.’
It was nine o’clock when she had finished, and the kitchen was bustling with maids preparing breakfast trays to take upstairs. ‘Sit down and have a cup o’ tea and some breakfast afore you go,’ Cook said. ‘Can you come again on Friday? I’ll give you regular two mornings a week. The other maid can keep dust down during week if you’ll come to do ’hard graft.’
Grace agreed that she would and the cook said that the housekeeper would pay her every Friday, seeing as she was a casual worker. ‘If you want more work,’ she said, ‘you can try next door at ’shipping company. Masterson and Rayner. They’re onny offices, there’s nobody living there any more. ’Family moved out years ago, but I happen to know they need somebody to keep ’place clean. Tell ’em I sent you,’ she added.
Grace finished her breakfast of bread and cold ham and another cup of hot strong tea. Although her hands were red and sore, she felt deliriously happy that she had obtained work and was promised more, and had the most unusual sensation of fullness in her stomach.
She took a deep satisfying breath as she went out of the door and glanced across to the bustling river. The sun was well up and although the wind was sharp, it was a bright morning. Silver ripples shimmered on the water and gulls screeched overhead. Ships were being unloaded at the staithe side and everywhere along the wooden planking there were piles of ropes and crates. Men shouted and called out instructions to each other.
She gave
a little smile. I like this town, she thought. Even though I’m poor and we have to put up with the stink of blubber and seed oil and the burning stench from the charnel house, this is my town. I like the river being close by, even though some of it’s a sewer, and the Humber estuary too, with its promises of other lands as it leads out to the sea. The sea. I’ve never seen the sea, but I can smell it even as I stand here.
She was turning away to leave the staithe side and go back into the High Street to try the building next door, when two men came into view, their heads down in earnest discussion. One was middle-aged, dressed in a black cloth coat and trousers, but hatless, and the other wore a grey overcoat with a grey top hat. When he raised his head, she saw it was Martin Newmarch.
They both looked across at her, and she gave a little dip of her knee and went on her way down the next staithe side to the building of Masterson and Rayner. There was a large yard with stables and empty waggons, but no-one about. She knocked on an open door but there was no response, so she climbed up an outside wooden staircase and knocked on a door at the top.
‘Come in,’ a man’s harassed voice called, and she opened the door and said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m looking for work and was advised to come here.’
A broad-set man in his mid thirties leaned back in his desk chair and laughed. ‘I never thought I’d see ’day when a woman worked in shipping.’
He wasn’t the owner, she decided, judging by his accent, though he was obviously in authority. ‘No, sir,’ she smiled. ‘Cook next door at Emersons’ recommended I come. I understand you need somebody to clean ’offices.’
‘Yes. Can you start tomorrow morning? Half past five before ’place gets overrun with men?’
‘Yes, sir. Don’t you want to check with ’cook next door before I start?’
‘No.’ He grinned at her. He seemed to be a very cheerful fellow. ‘I can generally tell somebody’s character when I meet them, though I expect everybody tells you that you look more like a lady’s maid than a scullion!’
‘Yes,’ she smiled again. ‘They do.’
He nodded. ‘My name’s Hardwick. Robert Hardwick. I’m manager here, in charge of loading ships’ stores. My family’s worked here for donkey’s years.’
‘I see. Do I report to you, Mr Hardwick?’
He pursed his lips. ‘I suppose so. There’s no other cleaning staff here, they all seem to have vanished. Can you organize yourself? See what needs doing?’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know how often you’d need to come in. Mebbe three mornings. Would that suit? And I’ll pay you at the end of ’week?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Hardwick. You can trust me,’ she said, and hoped that he was more efficient in dealing with his men than he was with the female staff.
She was jubilant as she walked back down the High Street to return home. She calculated that with five mornings’ work, she would be earning almost as much as she would have done with six full days at the mill.
She moved closer to the buildings as she heard the clatter of wheels behind her in the narrow road and a chaise went by. The driver raised his whip to her and she saw that it was Martin Newmarch again, heading towards the cotton mill. The chaise rolled to a stop further up the street and she realized that he was waiting for her.
‘Miss Sheppard.’ He touched his hat. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
‘No, thank you, sir. I’m going home and enjoying the walk.’
He jumped down from his seat into the road. ‘Have you found work?’
‘Yes, sir. Five mornings a week.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Good! Doing –?’
‘Cleaning, sir.’ Why does he want to know? she wondered. Does he feel guilty? It’s nothing to do with him.
‘You can do better than that, Grace,’ he said in a low voice.
‘I have to eat, sir.’ She gazed at him steadfastly.
‘So, your afternoons are free?’
She felt a moment of panic. What was he going to suggest? Surely he wasn’t like his brother, wanting to take a mill girl to his bed?
‘I shall try for other work,’ she said stiffly. ‘Honest work.’
He nodded, his face serious. ‘I would never imagine you doing anything other than honest work. It’s just that – Miss Gregory and Mrs Westwood were asking about you. There was something they wished to discuss with you.’
‘Oh!’ She felt a great relief. She would have been so disappointed if he had suggested anything improper. He had always appeared to be worthy and honourable.
‘Would you be willing to meet them? I could arrange a suitable place, perhaps a coffee house in the town? Miss Gregory lives in Hessle with her aunt, and Mrs Westwood, because of her present difficulties, is staying with Mr and Mrs Emerson.’ He pointed down the street to the house where she had been working.
‘I think you must be mistaken, Mr Newmarch! There can be nothing that those two ladies would have to say to me.’ She almost laughed. Mrs Westwood having a discussion with a scullery maid from the house where she was a guest!
The traffic in the High Street was getting busier as they talked and other drivers were shouting at Martin Newmarch to move the chaise out of the way. He climbed up onto his seat. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Come up. I have to move the carriage and I haven’t finished talking to you.’
She shook her head and started to walk on. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But there’s nothing they’d need to talk to me about.’ And she slipped into one of the narrow entries where she knew he couldn’t follow, and which would eventually, by means of cutting down alleys and courts, bring her out into Lowgate.
But he was waiting for her as she reached the top of Lowgate where the road widened. He had tied his horse to a post and was standing with his arms folded across his chest as she walked towards him.
‘Miss Sheppard,’ he said, taking off his top hat. ‘They really do want to talk to you. They would like your opinion on certain issues.’
‘Why?’ she asked, and for some inexplicable reason tears smarted in her eyes as she realized how inadequate she was. ‘I have no education. The onny learning I had was at ’chapel school in Mason Street which my parents paid for two years until they could no longer afford it. What can I have to say to such as Miss Gregory or Mrs Westwood?’
‘That is precisely why they want to talk to you.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Don’t you realize, Grace, Miss Gregory and Mrs Westwood are forward-thinking women, but there are others who are totally ignorant of what happens outside their own circle. Less educated than you are, in fact,’ he added softly.
He seems sincere, she considered. Though I never really thought him anything else. What should I do? I suppose I could go and find out.
She took a breath and exhaled. ‘All right, Mr Newmarch. I’ll listen to what they have to say. What about Thursday at twelve o’clock at ’coffee house in Queen Street?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
On the Wednesday morning at Masterson and Rayner’s, Grace swept down the walls and ceilings of two rooms, moved boxes to make more floor space and washed the floors and windows. There was a cooking range in a room which had once been a kitchen, and she asked Mr Hardwick if it could be lit on the mornings when she came in to clean. He agreed that it could and asked one of the stable lads to light it and fill up a hod with coal. She searched in the cupboards and found a kettle and a pan, filled them from the pump in the yard and asked the boy to make sure they were put on the fire the next morning, so that she could have hot water for cleaning as she did next door at the Emersons’.
She had started at five thirty and was finished by nine o’clock when the yard and offices were bustling with men. When she saw their feet tramping in and out of the building she knew that there would be constant work for her. As she left the premises an old-fashioned carriage pulled in. The stable lad ran to open the door and let down the step to allow an elderly man to descend. She dipped her knee as she passed. She guessed that this was the owner of the company, one of
the Rayners, for the Masterson connection was no longer in evidence. He smiled at her and touched his beaver hat.
By Thursday she had a routine, and ventured upstairs to Mr Hardwick’s office where he was at his desk and sitting in his overcoat, for there was no fire.
‘Shall I light a fire, Mr Hardwick? It won’t take me a minute to bring up some kindling and coal.’
He looked up from his paperwork in some surprise, as if he had forgotten she was there. ‘Oh! Please. Has the lad forgotten to make it?’
She smiled and ran down the wooden steps and saw the stable lad crossing the yard. ‘Will you take some coal up to Mr Hardwick’s office? There’s no fire made and it’s freezing in there. Look sharp,’ she added confidently and decided that it must be really quite enjoyable to have others do your bidding.
She washed her hands and face and hurried home, brushed her hair and tied it in a coil at the nape of her neck, changed her blouse for a clean one and then remembered that she had lent her best shawl to Ruby.
‘Ruby!’ She hammered on her door and on getting no reply, peered through the window and saw two motionless humps on the mattress. ‘Ruby. Wake up!’
Ruby sat up and gazed at her, then signalled for her to go away. She was half asleep with her hair dishevelled.
‘I need my shawl,’ Grace implored through the glass. ‘Be quick!’
Ruby opened the door. ‘It’s ’crack of dawn,’ she complained. ‘It’s not a work day, is it?’
‘Mebbe not for you, but I’ve done a day’s work already,’ Grace boasted triumphantly. ‘It’s gone ten o’clock! Why are you still in bed?’
‘I’m worn out.’ Ruby yawned and stretched sleepily. ‘Ma’s been awake all night again. Tossing and turning and wanting her loddy. I’m going to have to get a supply and give it to her when she’s desperate.’
‘Can you afford to?’ Grace was astonished.
