Together for Christmas

by Carol Rivers

  Mrs Bell took a seat beside Flora, folding her plump arms across her waist. ‘I miss Hilda more than I thought, you know,’ she confessed. ‘Took to her like the daughter I never had, or could ever hope to have. She was an affectionate child when she arrived, and because of that, I suppose I forgot she was not my own blood.’ The cook sighed. ‘But she seemed to change this last year, ever since the war began. I had to bite me tongue right up to the day she left, to prevent meself from saying something that would upset her. It was no business of mine, her leaving here for pastures green. But I knew she thought I was trying to clip her wings. And maybe I shall miss her more than she’ll miss me. But a girl like Hilda could easily put her trust in the wrong sort.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Burns, the housekeeper, will keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Yes, I have that thought to comfort me,’ Mrs Bell agreed. ‘Most housekeepers earn their stiff reputations. And from what Hilda told me about this lady, she sounds a scorcher, just as her name indicates.’

  They both laughed. Mrs Bell leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper, as if someone might be listening. ‘Tell me, now Hilda isn’t here to pull a long face, what’s your honest opinion of her prospects with the Calveys?’

  ‘Hilda has high hopes,’ was Flora’s only reply.

  ‘Indeed she does. But our girl assumes her good looks will get her to being a lady’s maid in the blink of an eye. She don’t realize she’ll be worked off her feet, much more so than with Lady Hailing. It was hard enough for a housemaid in my day. But with the war and the men going away to fight it, the gentry are said to be taskmasters to their remaining staff.’

  ‘But Hilda’s young and knows what she wants.’

  ‘She does that all right.’ Mrs Bell clucked her tongue.

  ‘Mrs Bell, I’ve something else to tell you.’

  ‘About Hilda?’ Mrs Bell looked hopefully at Flora.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. I went back to the convent where me and Hilda and Will grew up. I spoke to Mother Superior.’

  Mrs Bell got up to take the scones from the oven. Flora knew she was still thinking about Hilda.

  ‘I thought I might be able to go to Mass in the chapel and perhaps speak to our teacher, Sister Patricia. She was very good to me and Hilda.’

  Mrs Bell took out a knife from the drawer and slid the sharp tip into the hot dough. When the knife came out cleanly, she nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘But Sister Patricia is in France, at the Motherhouse,’ Flora continued.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Mrs Bell took a pair of tongs from the rack and transferred the scones to a large plate.

  ‘I hope she’ll come back soon. Mother Superior gave me a shawl. She said I was wrapped in it when I was found.’

  At this, Mrs Bell stopped what she was doing and looked at Flora. ‘Why weren’t you given this shawl before?’

  ‘Orphans aren’t allowed to have things of their own.’

  ‘Even if it belongs to them?’

  ‘No. It’s the orphanage rule.’

  A frown touched Mrs Bell’s forehead. ‘Was it your mother who wrapped you in it?’

  ‘Mother Superior said Sister Patricia might know. But she’s in France.’

  The cook raised her eyebrows. ‘The poor soul could be trapped behind enemy lines.’

  ‘She might be.’ Flora felt very worried now.

  Mrs Bell frowned thoughtfully. ‘What’s this shawl look like?’

  ‘There’s a “W” and an “S” embroidered in one corner.’

  Mrs Bell sat down and turned her full attention on Flora. ‘Is this shawl moth-eaten and poor in quality?’

  ‘Not at all. The wool is old, but still very fine.’

  Mrs Bell was silent. Flora could see that she was thinking as she sliced a scone with a sharp knife. ‘Well, my dear, the thing that strikes me is why was an abandoned little waif like you wrapped in such a fine shawl? You hear of orphans being found in rags and even in newspaper, but never in good shawls. Tell me, is it a clumsy hand that’s attempted the embroidery?’

  ‘The letters are sewn very carefully with gold and red silks,’ Flora replied.

  ‘If it was your mother’s work, then she had great skill.’

  Flora felt a warm glow. To hear someone speak about her mother was a new experience.

  ‘The “S” may very well stand for Shine,’ suggested Mrs Bell. ‘And the “W” could be Winifred or Wilhelmina.’

  Flora felt her heart skip a bit. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘It’s a pity this Sister Patricia’s in France.’

  Flora knew Mrs Bell wasn’t going to say more as both of them knew that bringing the wounded troops home from the fighting was very dangerous. Some of the hospital ships had been sunk by enemy submarines. The war might take many more years to end. Meanwhile, was the Motherhouse in enemy hands and, if so, had Sister Patricia survived? All these thoughts were going round in Flora’s head.

  Mrs Bell patted her hand. ‘Come along now, eat up your scone.’

  But Flora had lost her appetite. She ate the scone slowly and quietly.

  ‘You need to keep up your spirits.’ Mrs Bell said as she cleared away their plates. ‘Now, before you leave you’d better go up to Hilda’s room. There’s a parcel on the bed for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Hilda left it. You’ll find everything just as it always was. Though I put a duster round her room every so often, to keep it smelling sweet. You never know . . .’ The cook sniffed and went to the sink, plunging her hands into the bowl of water.

  Flora reluctantly got up and let herself into the cold, dark passage. She didn’t want to go up to Hilda’s room. It would be upsetting not to find her friend there. Flora went up the back stairs as usual. Her view from the landing window was only of the fog that swirled eerily over the rooftops. She wanted to run back down the stairs again. Instead, she gave a long sigh and went along the passage to Hilda’s room.

  Inside it, the air smelled of mothballs, which Mrs Bell must have put in the wardrobe and drawers. The faded curtains that hung at the windows had been straightened and the bed was neatly made. On the bed was the parcel.

  Flora sat beside it. The last time she sat here, Hilda had been full of excitement at the thought of leaving Hailing House. Now she had gone. Flora looked around her. The room had lost its heart, as though it knew Hilda would never return.

  ‘This is for you, Flora,’ read the note on top of the parcel. ‘You must have it. Think of me when you wear it. Yours, Hilda.’

  Flora opened the parcel and took a sharp breath. It was the blue suit. Tears filled her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Hilda, I’d rather have you than the suit,’ she whispered, bringing the soft cloth against her cheek. ‘But that’s being selfish.’

  If only Hilda knew how much she was loved by Mrs Bell and herself. But then, Flora thought in a sudden flash of understanding, as if the room itself was speaking to her, it wasn’t possible to keep someone close who wanted to be free. Hilda had once had a mother. And although Rose had died, Hilda remembered a mother’s love. That’s why she didn’t want Mrs Bell to fuss over her. No one could ever replace Rose.

  Flora thought of her shawl, safely in the drawer. She would go home and look at it once again. And try to imagine the person who had wrapped her in it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hilda was still asleep in her uncomfortable bed when Gracie roughly shook her.

  ‘It’s time to get up,’ the scullery maid told her.

  Hilda pushed the coarse blanket away from her face. During the freezing cold night, she had burrowed down into the bedclothes, leaving only the tip of her nose to freeze. She pushed the tousled brown hair from her eyes and yawned. Sitting up, she took the cup of tea that Gracie had brought her.

  ‘Is it morning already?’ Hilda peered at the tiny girl standing at her bedside. Hilda wasn’t tall herself, just five foot four, and she rarely looked down on anyone. But Gracie was several inches shorter than her, which, as
Hilda blinked, brought her almost eye level to Gracie’s pinched face. Hilda had noticed how red raw Gracie’s hands were as she passed the cup and saucer. And even at this early hour, Gracie’s white pinafore was spotted with dirt or perhaps food, which would be much to Mrs Burns’ annoyance, reflected Hilda sleepily.

  ‘It’s a quarter-past five already.’ Gracie gazed adoringly at Hilda and said quickly, ‘I’ve got the kettle on. Violet and Mrs Burns’ trays are ready.’

  A second later and Gracie had vanished. Hilda yawned again as she climbed out of bed. It was her duty to take the housekeeper and the lady’s maid, Violet, their morning tea. For this, she had to be up three quarters of an hour before her official start at six a.m. However, Hilda had soon found help in the form of the scullery maid, Gracie, who could be very annoying at times, but had been indispensible at others.

  For the four weeks that Hilda had been at Adelphi Hall, Gracie had attached herself to Hilda, had almost become her shadow, watching everything she did and correcting her mistakes. But Hilda had soon found that Gracie would willingly shoulder some of the duties that Hilda didn’t care for. Most importantly of all, she provided Hilda with background information on both the upstairs and downstairs worlds of Adelphi Hall. Rather humiliatingly, Hilda had found herself made to share a room with the scullery maid. The smaller servants’ dormitory on the second floor of the house housed four iron bedsteads, all with very hard mattresses. Hilda had been expecting a room of her own. She had at first resented Gracie’s delight in having a companion. But in exchange for Hilda’s reluctant friendship, Gracie had become her willing slave. During the first week of her employ at Adelphi Hall, Hilda had collapsed into bed at night, too exhausted to even eat supper. Gracie had brought her tea and stolen biscuits from the larder, prepared her uniform for the morning and performed the sewing tasks that Mrs Burns had instructed Hilda to do.

  Hilda had soon realized that Gracie was absolutely necessary to her survival here. Mrs Bell had been right. The many duties she had to perform, like the cleaning of brass, china, glass and furniture, the making of beds, the sweeping and scrubbing of floors and dusting of each visible surface, took up every moment of her day. Not to mention wrestling the dirt from the thick carpets that she had admired so much at her interview, not realizing it would be her, Hilda, who would clean them. Heaving coal into the many fireplaces and preparing the fires had only been completed with Gracie’s help. Scouring the bathrooms from floor to ceiling had been Hilda’s least favourite task. And without Gracie to carry the many pails of water up the servants’ stairs, Hilda thought she might well have expired in the first forty-eight hours of her new life in service to the Earl of Talbott.

  Still, Hilda reflected, as she washed in the freezing cold water of the bedroom’s only china bowl, Gracie had proved to be her unexpected bonus. In return for her friendship, Gracie never failed to comply with Hilda’s demands.

  Hilda finished her washing and put on a fresh pair of knickers. After a day’s labouring, a change of underclothes was most important. Next, came her chemise, tightly laced stays, flannel petticoat and, lastly, her dark-grey uniform and apron. Then, still yawning, she braided her hair rather clumsily, and tucked the braids up into her mob cap.

  With her teeth chattering with cold, Hilda ran down the many steps of the servants’ staircase to the kitchen. To Hilda’s relief, Mrs Harris had not yet appeared. Had she been at the stove, barely a word would have been spoken before Hilda was swamped with instructions. Now that the family had returned from abroad, Mrs Harris was cooking three hot meals a day and afternoon tea and supper trays when requested. Hilda, together with two live-out housemaids from the village, was required to help clean and prepare the vegetables, together with all her other duties.

  ‘’Ere you are, ’Ilda,’ said a small, squeaky voice beside her. Gracie was standing with a tray in her hands. On it was a white china cup and saucer, a sugar bowl and jug of milk. ‘This is for Mrs Burns. Then you can come back for Violet’s.’

  ‘Why can’t you bring Mrs Burns’ tray for me?’ Hilda said sulkily. ‘And I’ll carry up Violet’s.’

  ‘If anyone saw me, I’d be sacked.’

  ‘But there’s all those stairs to climb.’

  ‘Mr Leighton’s always about early. And so are James and John.’

  Hilda grinned at the thought of the two handsome footmen. ‘I wouldn’t mind bumping into one of them.’

  Gracie snorted. ‘They ain’t got the time of day for the likes of us.’

  Hilda didn’t like Gracie hinting that she was as lowly as a scullery maid. She took the tray begrudgingly. ‘I suppose I’ll have to do it.’

  ‘If you makes it quick and gets back before Mrs ’Arris starts dolling out orders, I’ll tell her you’ve already got going on the fires. Then the two village girls will get lumbered.’ Gracie laughed strangely through her broken front teeth. ‘Serve the snobby cows right.’

  Hilda smiled. No one at the Hall liked the casual staff from the village. They were lazy and rude, and often left within the first few weeks, to be replaced by others who were equally rude and lazy. It was generally accepted, Hilda discovered, that they were employed under sufferance.

  ‘It’s either them dopes or no one, as Mrs Burns can’t get live-in staff these days,’ Gracie confided when Hilda complained about the village girls’ slovenliness. Hilda herself had been given the cold shoulder by the permanent staff for the first week she’d been at Adelphi Hall. But Gracie had told her it was quite normal until she had settled in and proved her worth.

  As Hilda climbed the stairs with the cold penetrating her thin uniform and making her shiver, she thought about all that happened to her since she started at Adelphi Hall on that miserable day in October. After leaving Flora in the street, doubts about what she was doing with her life had crowded in. She suddenly realized that she was on her own now. No Mrs Bell to fuss over her, no dear friend to take into her confidence. She was completely and utterly alone. The journey in Albert’s covered cart had taken for ever. It was all she could do to stop herself from telling him to turn the cart round. All the excitement she’d felt as she’d dressed that morning in her fine clothes had turned to fear. Even Flora’s bread-and-dripping sandwiches hadn’t cheered her. By the time Albert had driven past the gatehouse and entered the long approach that was the tradesmen’s entrance to the house, she had been cold, tired and very frightened.

  But at the first sight of the mansion, bathed in a soft mist with its tall pillars caught in a fleeting ray of sunshine, her heart lifted. Not only was this place going to be her new home, it was where she intended to better herself in ways that would never be possible in the East End.

  Exhausted by the long climb of the staircase, Hilda stopped outside Mrs Burns’ door. Balancing the tray in one hand, she gave a discreet rap. She had learned, to her cost, that she must never be later than a quarter to six. By this time Mrs Burns was always up, washed and dressed in her black satin and white frilled collar with the key belt tied at her waist. Hilda had reached this room five minutes late on her first morning and had been thoroughly scolded.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Burns,’ Hilda said, keeping her eyes down as she placed the tray on the wooden table beside the bed.

  Mrs Burns, sitting at her desk, didn’t answer. Instead, as Hilda left, she muttered, ‘Tell Mrs Harris I shall be down shortly.’

  Hilda nodded and quickly left the suffocating atmosphere of the housekeeper’s quarters. She had noticed that Mrs Burns had no photographs of loved ones or family. Only a small crucifix and framed religious prayer were placed on the wall. The room’s drabness did not suit Hilda at all.

  Running down the stairs, Hilda was met by Gracie who whispered, ‘’Ere, take this tray up to Violet, quick. The old dragon’s breathin’ fire this morning. The mistress wants dinner for twenty tonight. And Mrs ’Arris ain’t been given no notice. I warn you, it’s gonna be bedlam today.’

  ‘Twenty?’ asked Hilda, at once dismayed and excited by thi
s news. How much extra work would be involved for her? Would there be fine ladies and gents attending that Hilda might catch a glimpse of?

  But Hilda didn’t have time to consider this longer, as Mrs Harris’ loud voice echoed from the kitchen.

  Gracie was gone in a flash. Hilda started up the stairs to Violet’s room. She knew Violet would also be up, preparing herself before going to wake Lady Bertha. Hilda tapped on the door and opened it. The familiar smell of lavender wafted out. Hilda knew Violet filled her chest of drawers with linen pouches of lavender. She also placed them in her wardrobe to cover the strong odour of mothballs.

  ‘Leave the tray there,’ Violet said, pointing to the small table but glancing at the mantel clock. ‘You’re five minutes late, Hilda.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s a panic in the kitchen.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Mrs Harris has twenty to cook for tonight.’

  ‘Lady Bertha’s friends are up from town. I’m helping the mistress to decide on the menu this morning.’

  This was said very formally and piqued Hilda’s interest. Gracie had told Hilda that sparks often flew between Violet and Mrs Harris. The cook and lady’s maid both laid equal claim to advising Lady Bertha, Gracie had reported. Each day, Mrs Harris would confer with the mistress on what was to be prepared and cooked. Every so often, Violet would tell the cook there had been a change made to the arrangements, which made Mrs Harris very irritable. Gracie had also revealed that Violet, a spinster in her late thirties, had served the mistress for only four years. This had come as a disappointment for Hilda; such a recent appointment meant Lady Bertha was hardly on the brink of wanting a replacement. Hilda had found Violet’s fashionable and rather youthful appearance a surprise too. Violet’s pure pale skin, small-featured face and wide hazel eyes were not displeasing. So the news from Gracie that there was some disagreement between Mrs Harris and Violet came as welcome to Hilda’s ears.

  ‘I’d like you to dust around the shelves in here today,’ Violet said and Hilda groaned inwardly as she gazed around the room. Not that there was much to dust, but the chore was added to her already full schedule.