by Nancy Carson
‘I’m glad to get our Sarah from under me feet,’ Mary declared as she peeled potatoes at the stone sink. ‘Thank God her’s started work. Her’s done nothing but sit about daydreaming ever since her left the Cooksons.’
‘She needs a sweetheart, Mother,’ Daisy said. ‘She needs to fall in love.’
‘Her needs my foot up her backside,’ Titus muttered from the miserable depths of his chair. ‘I’ll gi’ her bloody sweethearts at her age.’
‘It’d hurt your foot more’n it’d hurt her backside,’ Mary scoffed. ‘Even if you could kick her wi’ yer good foot you’d never stand on yer gouty un. Talk about a one-legged bloke trying to kick somebody’s arse … He does spout some tripe, our Daisy.’
Daisy sat down and chuckled. ‘I’ve just been to the Herald offices. I read in the last issue as how Mr Watkins, the hairdresser in Union Street – who’d got gout as bad as yours, Father – rubbed something called St Jacob’s Oil on it regularly. After three days he could walk normal, with no pain. Don’t you think it’s worth a try?’
‘St Jacob’s Oil, did you say? Shove it up St Jacob’s arse. It’s an advertisement, our Daisy.’
‘No, it was an article, Father.’
Titus shook his head. ‘A wik or two ago I read the same thing about a vicar in Liverpool what was using it. It’s wrote like an article but it’s an advertisement.’
‘But don’t you want to try it?’
‘What’s the point? If it was any good the doctor would’ve prescribed it.’
‘He’d rather suffer,’ Mary said stoically, drying her hands on her apron. ‘He’d rather drive me to drink with his moaning than try summat as might help him. It’s a pity he never went in a sick and draw club when he was at the ironworks. Anyroad, what yer bin to the Herald offices for?’
‘We want a maid. And a groom for the horses. I went to place an advertisement.’
‘A groom and all now, eh?’ Mary said proudly, placing a pan containing the potatoes on the hob. ‘I can scarcely believe as how you’ve come up in the world, our Daisy. He’s one in a million, that Lawson. Just you look after him, my wench.’
‘I do look after him. Too well.’
‘Never too well. He looks after you as well. And see how he’s looked after us and we’m only his in-laws. I don’t know what we’d have done without him and his kindness. Such a bostin chap. If our Sarah does half as well I’ll be that proud of her.’
‘She’ll do all right, Mother. She’s young yet. I had a fling when I was younger, but I didn’t start courting seriously till I was twenty-two, remember.’
They chatted on for another hour or so, until Daisy said she must go. She drove back home, unhitched Blossom from the shafts of her gig and tacked down. She fed and watered the mare, talking softly to her all the time as she would talk to a child. She brushed her down and was surprised at how naturally all this came to her. She would be sorry to leave caring for Blossom to a groom when she enjoyed it so much herself. There was something about the smell of the mare that was so sweet, something about her nature that was so appealing.
Back in the house, Daisy changed and set about her domestic tasks. Yes, she did need a maid. There was so much to do. To lessen the load she sent the weekly wash to the laundry; thank God there was no sweating in a steamy brewhouse, no turning a heavy mangle, or getting cracked hands. But their bed had to be changed regularly, the floors swept, the windows cleaned, the range blackleaded, the front doorstep reddened, and every other domestic chore that, while she was housekeeper in the Cooksons’ household, she organised others to do. Well, she would soon get some applicants, and the sooner the better.
Lawson returned home for his tea that afternoon earlier than she expected. He took off his boots, picked up the newspaper and sat down to read it. Brooke Robinson, the town’s Conservative MP, was still making defensive comments about the young Earl of Dudley, who had been found in a gambling hall in London at two o’clock one morning during a police raid. The furore had still not died down …
A gambling house, Lawson thought. Well, what was wrong with gambling? It was just as well they didn’t trawl the London brothels for notable persons; nobody would be in the least surprised who they might find in such places, royalty included, as events not so long ago had demonstrated. And the authorities worried about gambling …
‘I saw Alexander Gibson today, Daisy,’ Lawson said looking up from his newspaper as soon as she entered the room with a tray of tea and dainty cakes. ‘He says he’d like to meet you.’
‘Does he not recall me from Baxter House?’
‘I haven’t reminded him that you were in employment there. It hardly seems appropriate now. That life is behind you. He invited us to dinner a week on Friday evening.’
‘To dinner? Goodness. What will I wear?’
‘I turned him down.’
‘Why? What for?’
Lawson smiled, amused at her apprehension one second and disappointment the next. ‘Because I’ve enjoyed his hospitality enough in the past, without ever being in a position to return it. Now that I have a beautiful and capable wife to show off, and my home is presentable at last, I reckoned it was time he and Ruth enjoyed some of our hospitality.’
‘So you invited him here?’ she said, horrified. ‘But it’s little more than a week away and we haven’t got a maid yet. How shall I cope? How shall I be able to cook a meal, serve it and be hostess all at the same time? Oh, Lawson, What am I going to do?’
‘Well, you can hire maids just for the evening.’
‘But I could do with an experienced cook to prepare a meal such as they would expect.’
‘Give ’em a cheese sandwich,’ Lawson said flippantly.
‘Oh, it’s all right for you to make jokes, but it’s me they’ll be judging. I have to get a cook straight away. And a maid. I’ll have to plan a menu.’
‘It’s not going to be a formal dinner party with eight or ten guests for a seven course dinner, my love. Nothing so elaborate. You know what to do. I’m content that I can leave it in your capable hands. Are you going to pour the tea?’
As she poured, she said, ‘I wouldn’t mind, but he’s such a supercilious swine, from what I remember. Full of his own importance. Oh, Lawson, I wish you hadn’t asked them.’
‘It seemed only fair that I should. You’ll cope. I know you’ll cope. I have every faith in you …’
Next morning, after pondering the problem most of the night, Daisy drove up to Salop Street, to the grocer she enjoyed dealing with best. She got on well with the grocer’s wife and they chatted amiably, interspersing their conversation with items she asked to be added to her order.
‘I’m looking for a cook, Mrs Bowater. Urgently. If you know of a good cook seeking a position, please let me know, or ask her to contact me. Would you?’
‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Maddox, I do know somebody,’ Mrs Bowater replied, cutting a segment of mature Cheddar from a round. ‘Been a cook years, she has. Respectable woman. Pleasant. Middle-aged. The only drawback as far as I can see is that she’s a Catholic.’
‘That makes no odds to me, Mrs Bowater. She could be a Shaker for all I care.’
‘Would you like me to mention you?’
‘Oh, I’d be that happy if you would. If only to help out one night, although I am looking for somebody permanent.’
‘She should be here tomorrow for her grocery. I’ll mention it.’
‘You know where I live, Mrs Bowater. Just ask her to call on me. I’ll be forever in your debt.’
Next day, just before noon, there was a knock at the front door. Daisy went to answer it and saw a woman, small in stature but inclined to plumpness. She was plainly dressed, had a round face and a twinkle in her eye.
‘Mrs Maddox?’
‘Yes, I’m Mrs Maddox.’
‘I had a message off Mrs Bowater in the grocer’s shop to say that you’re looking for a cook, ma’am.’
Daisy breathed a sigh and smiled openly. ‘So you’re the
lady she told me about.’
The woman nodded, returning the smile. Daisy at once liked the look of her.
‘Won’t you come in so we can talk?’ She stood aside and the woman entered. ‘Let’s go in the sitting room … Please, have a seat … I take it you live locally?’
‘In King Edmund Street, ma’am. Five minutes’ walk.’
Daisy sat down in one of the armchairs, realising the woman would take her cue from her. ‘I understand you are free at the moment?’
‘I’ve not worked for six weeks, ma’am.’ She sat on a high-backed chair and turned to face Daisy. ‘I was in the employ of Mr Nicolas Archer in Bagley’s Lane, ma’am, until he passed away just before Easter, God rest his soul. He was a widower and his married daughter lived elsewhere. She closed the house up and now it’s for sale.’
‘I take it you have a character reference?’
‘Indeed, ma’am.’ The woman felt in her pocket and withdrew an envelope which she handed to Daisy.
Daisy studied it. ‘Well, Mrs O’Flanagan,’ she said eventually, taking the name from the document, ‘this is a fine testimony to you and your work.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘I take it you’re not from these parts?’
The woman laughed pleasantly. ‘I know … The accent, ma’am. There’s no hiding it, and that’s a fact. I’m from Donegal. Came over with me husband five years ago. For the work, of course.’
‘And I take it you’ve settled here?’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Despite the muck and the smoke we love it. The folk are mostly good and kind.’
‘But if you’re married and your husband’s here, I take it you’d want day work only. You wouldn’t want to live in?’
‘That’s so, ma’am. I’d have to go home at night. I’ve a family to look after. But I wouldn’t be dashing off till the dinner was done.’
Daisy smiled. ‘Well, that’s not a problem. We have only one other bedroom made up as yet and we’re hoping our maid will occupy that – when we’ve found somebody suitable.’
‘You don’t have a maid?’ Mrs O’Flanagan sounded surprised.
‘Not yet. My husband and I are only recently married. I’ve only just begun finding servants.’
‘Oh, please, ma’am, I meant no disrespect. ’Tis just that … if you are looking for a live-in maid, I have a daughter, nineteen years old. She was with me at Mr Archer’s. She’s a fine girl, ma’am. A willing worker. Gets on with the job without having to be told all the time.’
Daisy’s face lit up. This could be the answer to her prayers. ‘And she has a character reference as well?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed, ma’am. A fine character. Like I say, she’s a fine girl. A very fine girl. The apple of her father’s eye.’
‘Then I’d like to see her, Mrs O’Flanagan. Can you ask her to call?’
‘Oh, with the greatest of pleasure, ma’am. I’ll get her to call this afternoon. We could both start work right away.’
‘That really would be most convenient, Mrs O’Flanagan … I’m certainly satisfied with your credentials. Perhaps I should show you the scullery and the brewhouse …’
Mrs O’Flanagan had a good look around and made some gestures and noises that registered her approval. ‘I think we could work together, ma’am. Don’t you?’
‘I believe we could. Tell me, how does fifty pounds a year sound? I’d be happy to pay you every week. Say, a pound a week?’
Mrs O’Flanagan looked disappointed, and Daisy’s heart sank. Yet she knew this was a fair rate of pay.
‘If you can stretch it to a guinea a week, ma’am, I’d say yes straight away. Remember, I don’t require board and lodgings.’
Daisy also remembered how desperately she needed her. ‘Very well then. A guinea a week. That’s settled.’
Mrs O’Flanagan smiled, a broad smile. ‘Thank you. When would you like me to start?’
‘Let’s say Monday, if you can.’
‘Monday it is. And I’ll send my daughter round this very afternoon.’
‘I’ll be waiting, Mrs O’Flanagan.’
Chapter 11
The young woman that stood on the doorstep when Daisy answered the door that afternoon was strikingly lovely, with hair that was a dark shade of titian pinned up neatly under her hat. She had large green eyes that creased into an appealing smile like that of her mother, Mrs O’Flanagan. She was tall and slender with an air of self-esteem about her that Daisy admired in a maid. Evidently, she was not ashamed of the lowliness of her station.
‘You must be Miss O’Flanagan,’ Daisy said with a welcoming smile.
The girl returned the smile. ‘At your service, ma’am.’
Her brogue was not as pronounced as her mother’s, but was still unmistakably different to the Black Country accents Daisy was used to hearing.
‘Won’t you come in?’
The girl stepped inside deferentially and, as with Mrs O’Flanagan, Daisy found that she instinctively liked her. She led the girl to the sitting room and gestured for her to sit down. When the small talk about the weather had been dispensed with Daisy said, ‘Your mother tells me you were in service at the home of—’
‘Of Mr Archer, ma’am, in Bagley’s Lane.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Oh ever since we came over, ma’am. About five years.’
‘And what sort of work did you do?’
‘I was a general maid, ma’am. I did everything, apart from cooking, of course. Mr Archer was very particular about his food. Only my mother was allowed to cook for him. I did the cleaning and dusting, carrying the coal up and laying fires, laying table and waiting on table. Everything, ma’am. I sorted myself a routine and stuck to it.’
‘My husband and I are only recently married, Miss O’Flanagan. As and when we grow into a family we shall no doubt increase the staff. But as yet there will be just the two of us. I have already engaged your mother as cook, as you know, and my husband will be engaging a groom-cum-handyman very soon. The duties I would expect you to perform would be in line with what you were doing at Mr Archer’s. I need you to live in, of course.’ Daisy was aware that she sounded slightly pompous, rather like Mrs Cookson at Baxter House. ‘I take it you have no problem getting up in a morning?’
‘Oh, none at all, ma’am. I’m up like the lark.’
‘Good. May I see your character?’
The girl handed over an envelope. Daisy opened it and read the reference.
‘You were evidently thought very highly of, Miss O’Flanagan.’
‘I believe so, ma’am.’
‘We have a room all ready on the second floor. I’ll show you.’
‘Yes, I’d like to see it, if I may.’
‘May I enquire as to what you were paid at Mr Archer’s house?’
‘Fifteen pounds a year, ma’am, all found.’
‘Then if you will take eighteen, the position is yours, Miss O’Flanagan.’
‘Oh ma’am, thank you very kindly. Of course, I accept.’
‘Then I’ll show you your room and around the house. I take it you can commence work on Monday?’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am.’
Daisy smiled at the girl reassuringly. ‘I’m pleased that you can. I hope you’ll be very happy here.’
She showed Miss O’Flanagan all there was to see. After the tour, they stood at the front door, the girl ready to go.
‘I’ll see you on Monday morning, then, ma’am.’
‘Yes. Can you get here for ten? My husband will be out of the way by then and we can get you settled in properly and talk in detail about your routine.’
‘Ten o’clock’s fine, ma’am. I’ll come with my mother.’
‘By the way … You haven’t told me your Christian name, Miss O’Flanagan …’
‘Oh, Caitlin, ma’am.’
‘Caitlin. What a lovely name. It’s Irish, I presume?’
‘As Irish as meself, ma’am.’ Caitlin curtsied as she turned to go.
‘See you Monday,’ she called over her shoulder.
Daisy naturally told Lawson that she had employed both a maid and a cook, mother and daughter, but was careful not to mention that they were Irish in case he held some prejudice against Catholics that she was not aware of, although she doubted it since religion did not impress him. There seemed little sense in jeopardising their positions by making their nationality or religion an obstacle. She liked Mrs O’Flanagan and her daughter, and was certain they would prove to be good, reliable servants. Only if they ultimately proved otherwise would she dispense with their services. But she doubted that would ever be the case. Their characters were spotless.
On Monday, the two women arrived and immediately got down to work. Daisy discussed the daily routine, first of all with Mrs O’Flanagan, and then with Caitlin. While Caitlin explored the house and made herself useful, Daisy began planning her menu with Mrs O’Flanagan, ready for the visit of Mr and Mrs Alexander Gibson on the Friday. They decided on slivers of smoked salmon with onion rings and imported tomatoes as a first course, and roast beef cooked to perfection for the main course. Pudding was to be a syllabub, and followed by cheeses.
At last Daisy was confident that she could give a good account of herself as the wife of Lawson Maddox to any visitors he might invite. She began to relax.
Lawson returned home that evening at ten minutes past six. He unhitched his horse from the cabriolet and stabled it with a bale of hay and clean water for its trough. Curious as to how Blossom was faring, he opened the door to the next stable and patted the mare on the nose. All was well. Daisy was making a good job of grooming her. Well, this very day he had met a lad who was keen to start work looking after the horses, the gigs and the garden. There was room over the stable for him to live and it just remained to make it liveable. A clean-up, a coat of whitewash, a lick of paint on the woodwork, a new bed, a chest of drawers and maybe a rug on the floorboards would suffice. He would get Jimmy Costello in to spruce it up later in the week.
