‘Feast your eyes,’ laughed Tom. ‘You’ll see plenty of that door from the inside, for you’ll be answering it. One foot on Ada’s clean steps, though, and she’ll have your guts for garters.’ Still chuckling, he offered an arm. I took it, and Tom led me round to the back of the house. ‘This is our door,’ he said, opening a small wooden door, its black paint cracked and sun-weathered, with a pane of distorted glass set into the top half. Next to it was a bell-pull, and a neat brass plaque: Tradesman’s Entrance. ‘Go on, in you go.’ He gave me a gentle nudge.
I stepped over the threshold. The corridor within was whitewashed, with a cheerful, threadbare runner covering the stone floor. Plain wooden doors led off, and I heard voices, and banging, from a room further down.
‘Cookie’s at work,’ said Tom, jerking his head in the direction of the sounds. ‘I’ll hand you over to her, and she’ll show you the ropes. Follow me.’ And with every step I took my former life grew more remote. My mission, my life with Sherlock, London — everything I had done before peeled away, piece by piece. I was a servant now, forbidden the front door and the main stairs, at everyone’s beck and call. And I was scared to death.
CHAPTER 28
‘Cookie!’ Tom bellowed, pushing open the kitchen door. ‘The new parlourmaid’s here!’
The noise was terrific. Pots bubbled on the stove, and I heard clattering from the scullery as the maid washed up. Mrs Harper — Cookie — was no longer a quiet woman in modest black, but a whirling, swooping figure in a striped cotton frock and a bright white apron, singing to herself as she banged and crashed around her empire.
‘Cookie!’ Tom walked round to face Cookie, who jumped back several feet.
‘Oh, Tom, you did give me a fright! You’re enough to turn the cream, you are.’
‘Sorry, Cookie,’ grinned Tom. ‘I’ve brought Bessie for you.’ He waved a hand in my direction, then went to the sideboard and carved a hunk of bread for himself. ‘Any jam left?’
‘You of all people ought to know where the jam is,’ Cookie retorted, waving a spoon at him resignedly. ‘Leave some for the house, if you don’t mind. Now dear,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Just let me get these vegetables on and I’ll give you the tour. The Cook’s Tour, heehee!’
‘You ought to be on the stage, Cookie,’ Tom said, through a mouthful of bread and jam.
‘And you ought to be in the circus,’ Cookie said mildly. ‘We’re a friendly house, as you can see. You’ll have to speak up to me, though, I’m a trifle deaf.’ She slammed the pan down on the stove and marched into the scullery with me following at her heels. ‘This is Janey, our scullery maid.’ Janey started guiltily and took her hands out of the sink as if she had been caught in a crime. ‘Janey, this is Bessie, the new parlourmaid.’
Janey dried her hands on her apron and gave a funny little bob. She looked about twelve, a scrawny girl with lank hair and limbs like a foal. ‘Good evening, Bessie.’ Her voice was surprisingly soft and sweet.
‘Good evening, Janey.’ Should I bob back, or curtsey, or shake hands? I nodded to her, and that seemed satisfactory.
‘You two will need to cooperate over the use of the sink,’ said Cookie. ‘Janey washes up our crocks and my pots and pans, but the family china and plate and cutlery is your job. Breakfast, luncheon, dinner, supper, and afternoon tea if milady has a mind, and your polishing day is Tuesday. The family ware is in Mr Craddock’s cupboard — Mr Craddock is the butler — and he is very particular about it. Any breakages come out of your wages.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact. ‘The coal store is outside, not that you’ll need to know that.’ She walked back into the kitchen. ‘You’ll be waiting on at family meals — including breakfast — doing the downstairs rooms, and answering the door, but otherwise you’ll lend a hand in the kitchen. Janey does quite well, but she’s young, and Ada is rushed off her feet as it is. Ada’s the housemaid,’ she said, in response to my look. ‘Nanny’s got her up and down the stairs constantly with this and that for the children.’
‘Oh, are there children?’ I exclaimed.
‘Miss Millie is five and Master Toby is two,’ said Cookie. ‘You probably won’t see them hardly, they spend all their time in the nursery. You might get a peep at them if they’re on a walk, or being driven out.’ Her face softened. ‘I take it you don’t…’
I shook my head. I had been pregnant, once, but had suffered a miscarriage.
‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ Cookie put a large, warm hand on my arm. ‘I didn’t mean —’
‘No, no, it’s quite all right,’ I said, hastily. ‘It was a long time ago.’ It felt like another life, which, in a way, it was.
Cookie’s eyes were full of sympathy, and I wondered for a moment where Mr Harper was — if there had ever been a Mr Harper — and whether she had had children of her own. ‘Come along, dear, and I’ll show you the rest of our quarters.’ She opened the door at the far end of the kitchen, which led straight into a large room containing a huge, battered wooden table ringed with chairs, and a few old armchairs before the fire. ‘This is the servants’ hall, where we have meals and gather. It’s directly under two of the reception rooms, though, so we can’t be too noisy.’
As if on cue, an elderly man in striped trousers and a cutaway coat, who had been dozing in an armchair, stirred. ‘Just a few — oh so sorry milady, so sorry —’ he blustered, getting hurriedly to his feet and looking around him.
‘It’s all right, Mr Craddock, you can go back to sleep. I’m just showing our new Bessie round.’
‘Parlourmaid, eh?’ Mr Craddock peered at me. ‘Are you a good girl, Bessie?’
I blushed. ‘I hope I am, sir.’
‘Good, good.’ He subsided into his chair.
Beyond the servants’ hall was a corridor. ‘Mr Craddock’s room,’ said Cookie, jerking her thumb at a closed door. ‘Make sure you give him plenty of time when you want anything out of his cupboard. He’s a good man, but he takes an age. My room is next door. The boot room is the other side, next to the flower room.’ She gestured to a door at the end. ‘That’s the way to the main house, only for use when summoned. Never mind seen but not heard; it’s not seen and not heard in this house, unless you’re doing your duty. The only exceptions are Nanny and Susan.’
‘Who is Susan?’
‘Milady’s maid.’ Cookie’s tone had cooled considerably. ‘Her territory is milady’s boudoir, but milady summons her all over the house, if she has a mind. You’ll meet her soon enough. Now —’ She bent and peered through the keyhole. ‘The family are upstairs. We’ll chance it.’ She quickly turned the key in the lock, and whisked through the door.
I found myself in a long hallway hung with family portraits and rich with brocade. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ said Cookie, gazing round. ‘This is Sir William’s family home.’
‘How long have you worked here, Cookie?’
‘Forever,’ said Cookie. ‘My mother and father were cook and butler, and I grew up in a cottage on the estate. I always dreamed I’d live here one day.’ She smiled contentedly. ‘Ada will oil the bolts on the front door for you once a week. It’s a heavy old thing, but you’ll master it, I’m sure.’ Cookie’s step had lightened perceptibly now that she was in the family’s part of the house. ‘So we have the drawing room, the breakfast room, the dining room, the library, and Sir William’s study —’ She paused as quick footsteps sounded in the room at the back, and a neat young woman popped her head around the door. ‘Ah, here’s Ada. She’ll be glad to see you, Bessie, she’s been doing double duty since the last Bessie left.’
Ada came forward, wiped her hand on her apron (I was beginning to note this as a servant trait), and shook mine firmly. ‘Pleased to meet you, Bessie.’ I would have said she was a few years younger than me, perhaps twenty-five. Her expression was friendly, but there was a hint of wariness in her eyes.
‘Pleased to meet you too,’ I said, looking into her eyes and returning her firm grip. I had a distinct feeling that Ada, apart
from being a useful ally as my approximate equal in the house, would also be able to give me the low-down.
‘I’m glad you two have met,’ said Cookie. ‘I should get back to the kitchen. Ada, will you take Bessie up to your room and show her where to wash? You can finish in there afterwards.’
‘Yes, Cookie.’ Ada bobbed.
‘Good girl.’ Cookie steamed away to the connecting door.
‘I need to put my dustpan and brush away, and then I’ll take you upstairs.’ Ada hurried into the study and I followed, curious to see Sir William’s sanctuary. It was a haven of dark panelling and green leather, furnished in mahogany, with two large bookshelves flanking a large desk, its top clear except for a banker’s lamp, a large blotter, and a pen tray. Ada ran her finger along one of the shelves, and sighed. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this now, but it’s been impossible to fit it all in. If you think this is a dust-trap, you should see the library. Well, I suppose you will, starting tomorrow. I’ll carry on with the mucky jobs, but you’ll be sweeping, dusting and airing, of course. Oh, and ironing Sir William’s newspaper.’ She said this with a straight face, which I took to mean that it wasn’t a joke. ‘Have you got your box with you, or did you send it on?’
‘A box?’
‘Yes, with your things,’ Ada said patiently.
‘Oh! Yes, I brought a suitcase with me. Tom left it in the back porch.’
‘Can you manage it?’
‘Oh yes, it isn’t heavy.’
We returned through the connecting door and Ada led me back to the porch. ‘Here it is,’ I said, picking it up.
‘Onwards and upwards, then,’ said Ada. We went back down the corridor, skirting the kitchen, and Ada opened a door I had not noticed before, which gave straight onto a narrow, steep staircase with bare wooden treads. ‘Mind the third step up, it’s a bit loose.’
We went up, turned, and went up again, and again, and again. ‘We’re in the attics,’ said Ada. ‘The seniors get the first floor rooms.’ She opened a door and waved me in. ‘Welcome to your new home.’
My heart clenched tight as I walked forward. Two iron beds, one on either side, with patchwork quilts. A low chest of drawers, with a cracked glass nailed above it and a jug and basin on top. Ada’s other dress hung on a nail in the wall, with her hat over it, and her Sunday shoes placed beneath. A small square work table and two wooden chairs. A small pile of books and two photographs on the windowsill.
‘Your bed is on the right; I’ve changed the linen. We get fresh every fortnight. You don’t snore, do you?’ Ada asked.
‘I — I don’t think so.’ I put my case on the bed. I had never considered the possibility that I would have to share a room. How foolish, how stupid. What else had I not thought of?
‘The bottom three drawers are yours, and your nail is there,’ Ada said, pointing to it. ‘If you want to wash, there’s the bowl, or our bathroom is on the next floor down, but you’ll have to ask for hot water downstairs.’ Her tone suggested this would not be a wise proceeding. ‘I’ll leave you to put your things away, but you’ll need to be downstairs in half an hour, to wait at dinner. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so it’s a little more relaxed. Sir William breakfasts at nine, but if milady wants a breakfast tray in her room you’ll take it. If she comes down for breakfast you’ll have a bit longer; but you never can tell what milady wants.’ She nodded to me briskly, and soon I heard her light feet on the stairs.
Mechanically I opened the clasps on my case. I set the meaningless photograph on the windowsill, and placed the Bible next to it. I hung my other dress on the nail, and put everything else in the drawers. Then I put my face in my hands, and wept. ‘What have I done?’ I whispered to myself, tears running through my fingers. A servant, with no free will, space, or privacy, even at night. What have I done?
CHAPTER 29
Gradually I slipped into my new life. The thing I found hardest to get used to was the abrupt transition between noise and silence, motion and stillness. It began at five in the morning as the household shook itself awake. Mr Craddock’s footsteps would creak along the corridor, punctuated by his hacking, constant cough and a sharp rap on each door. We would hear him harrumph to clear his throat, then ‘Time to rise, one and all’, followed by groans, complaints and the occasional curse. From that moment until I left the servants’ quarters at half past six, I would be surrounded by shouts, bangs, and clatters.
I found it hard to leave my bed on those black mornings, and Ada was usually half-dressed by the time I struggled out, bedraggled and blinking. At least I did not have to think about what to wear. A print frock and a white cap in the morning; a black dress after lunch; a white apron at all times. Even so, Ada would be running to breakfast before I was properly awake, leaving me the dregs of the jug on the washstand. By the time I was dressed I knew that the most I could expect in the servants’ hall was the dry heel of the loaf with a scrape of jam, and a mug of lukewarm, stewed tea, while around me chairs squeaked as everyone went about their business, and Janey began the washing up, rattling cutlery and clanking pans as if the din would make them clean.
The tolling of the large mantel clock — two chimes to mark the half hour — signalled the beginning of my solitude. I opened up the downstairs rooms; drawing the curtains, lifting the window sashes to air them, sweeping the floors. I would dust later, when the sun had risen properly, before laying the table for Sir William’s breakfast. My flurry of activity would give place to standing, silent, at the side of the room, waiting in anticipation of a butter-dish to be handed, a dropped fork to be replaced, a cup to be filled. I was only noticed if I was not quick enough; a slight frown, a tut. At length Sir William rose, without acknowledgement, and I was left to gather up the dirty plates and smeared cutlery, and make them sparkle in time for the next meal. The house was awake now, but I would be silent and invisible until the kitchen door had closed behind me.
Once every piece of silver and china had been counted into the cupboard under Mr Craddock’s watchful eye, my duties varied by the day. Monday was towel-washing day, on Tuesdays I polished the silver; a dirty, hard yet finicking job that made me sweat and sneeze and itch. On Wednesdays I turned out the pantry, clearing and washing the shelves and checking the food for spoilage. Thursday and Friday were my thorough-cleaning days, where I moved furniture to sweep into every cranny, beating rugs and polishing wood to a shine. Often I had to hurry upstairs to make myself presentable before laying the table for lunch. Usually only milady was there, and she would pick at her meal absently, reading a novel or a periodical, then wander away without a glance. The table cleared, the washing-up began again. Only then was I free to take my own lunch. After such hard physical work I ought to have been hungry as a hunter; but strangely I was not. I would often leave half my own plate of food, leading to recriminations from Cookie.
The afternoons were easier. My special treat, provided the family were not in the garden, was to cut flowers to replenish the vases in the downstairs rooms. Once I had changed my print dress for afternoon black I roamed the rose garden and the hothouse, lost in a world of colour and scent and stillness which made my existence seem harder. I lingered over the task of choosing as long as I dared; but even then the pleasure was not finished, for I could then spend time in the flower room, alone, fussing over the flowers as I arranged them in their crystal prisons.
That task done, I proceeded to a different kind of arranging; cutting thin bread and butter, making finger sandwiches and filling the cake stand with Cookie’s delicacies, breaking off every few minutes to answer the door to another caller, and show her in to milady. Often I would spend an hour in the drawing room, handing bread and butter, refilling teacups, passing the cake stand, replacing cutlery, and putting used items out of sight of the guests.
Milady was ‘not at home’ once the clock had struck five. She would murmur ‘Thank heavens for that,’ and, picking up her embroidery or choosing a book, would drift off to another room, casting a disgusted eye at the stack of us
ed plates and the half-empty cake stand. Everyone would fall on the leftover cakes when I bore them back to the kitchen; everyone except me, for after standing next to the mingled smells of vanilla and jam and cream and chocolate for so long, I usually felt slightly sick, a feeling I cured by retreating to the scullery and washing up.
The household ate late, so we ate early; stews and casseroles, cold meat and pickles, huge fluffy potatoes and vegetables from the garden. Now I was hungry, and cleared my plate with relish, so that Mr Craddock nicknamed me ‘the trencherwoman,’ and declared with a twinkle that I was swelling up before his eyes. Everyone laughed, for fat was the last thing I could have been called. On the rare occasions when I caught sight of myself in a mirror, my cheekbones stuck out. I had to lace my flannel corset tighter to keep it from slipping. When I used the big bathroom I left undressing till the last moment, and got washing over as quickly as possible. Sometimes, though, in bed, in darkness, I would squeeze my arm, feeling the muscle beneath the skin, and wondering at the change. But dinner was a time for jollity, so I joined in with the laughter and told Mr Craddock that I had a mind to eat the plate too.
On weekdays dinner was usually just Sir William and milady, perhaps with a guest or two, but every weekend there was a dinner party. On those days Ada and I bustled to and fro checking the company rooms, giving a final sweep, plumping a cushion, straightening an ornament, and she would help me lay the table till it groaned with every bit of gleaming silver and fine china that we could fit on it. I would load the centrepiece with more fresh flowers, and then rush for a clean cap and apron before the doorbell sounded, over and over and over. There would be pre-dinner drinks, giving us time to help Cookie with the final touches, and then Mr Craddock would turn up his jacket sleeves and cough ceremoniously before sounding the dinner gong. Mr Craddock would wait at table with me, Ada, and Susan, although she would only wait on milady and Sir William, leaving the guests’ needs to us. I began by straining my ears for every word that was said, while maintaining the blank expression of a model servant, until I realised that stock prices, hats, and Hardy’s latest novel were as thrilling as the conversation got. Everyone was far too well-bred to raise a topic which might lead to controversy or excitement.
In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Page 15
