by Irene Carr
The train was not full and Katy had secured a seat by the window. She stared out at the scenery sliding by as the train trundled along, stopping at one small station after another, each with its little garden bright with flowers. She began in dejection but she was still not seventeen and soon became more cheerful. The day was bright and she was starting again in a strange place — and the flowers helped. The train halted at Monkwearmouth station to set down a number of passengers and then rolled on across a bridge. She opened the window and leaned out, caught a glimpse of the river below and saw this new place had a familiar look to it. There were the shipyards lining the banks of the River Wear as they did along the Tyne. Ships were tied up to the quays or lying to their buoys. She sniffed the salt sea smell and the reek of coal smoke from thousands of chimneys. There was bright sunlight sparking off the black water of the river, and a stiff breeze whipped at her hair and brought a flush to her cheeks. Her father and his threat were forgotten. He was miles away and she was free now. She laughed with delight, a young girl’s glee.
Sunderland Central Station was an echoing cavern with a sooty glass roof and filled with the frequent thunder of trains pounding through or sighing to a halt. Katy struggled up the stairs to the concourse with her case a deadweight on her arm. Outside the station, in the sunlight, a cab stood at the kerb, the horse in its shafts with its head in a nosebag. The cabman on his seat was in his fifties, a stocky little man with a stubby clay pipe in his mouth under a walrus moustache. He lifted his whip to touch his bowler hat in salute: ‘Cab, miss?’
‘No, thank you,’ Katy replied politely. She set down her case, stood at the horse’s head and rubbed his nose. ‘Good boy.’
A cart passed in a clashing of steel shoes on cobbles and halted in the middle of the road, but beyond the cab and opposite a space between the cab and a wall. The driver of the cart jumped down, a tall, thin, gangling young man, sallow and his hair dressed with brilliantine and parted in the middle. A cigarette dangled from his lower lip and a thin moustache ran across the upper. He seized the head of his horse and backed it, cursing as it skittered, into the space. But he backed it too far and the cab shook as the tail of the cart slammed into its ironshod wheel.
The young man spat out the cigarette and shouted querulously, ‘What’re you doing, backing into me?’
‘Me?’ The cabman rejected the claim, bewildered. ‘I never backed up!’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ The cabman started to get down from his seat.
The young man seized a length of wood from where it lay on the cart and brandished it like a club. ‘Come on! I’ll brain you!’
It was then that a policeman came stalking with measured pace and demanded, ‘What’s going on here?’
The driver of the cart whined, ‘This bloody old fool backed into me!’
The cabbie stoutly denied this: ‘No, I didn’t.’ He inspected the rear of his cab and said placatingly, ‘No harm done, anyway.’
But the young man retorted, ‘Yes, there is! Look at my paint!’ He pointed to the fresh scratches on the tailboard.
The policeman hesitated, head turning from one to the other, his hand feeling for his notebook. But then Katy left the horse’s head and approached him: ‘Please, sir, the cab didn’t back.’
He turned to her, pencil in hand. ‘You saw it, then?’ ‘I was standing at the horse’s head. The cab never moved.’ Katy said that firmly.
‘Ah!’ The policeman pointed his pencil at the young man. ‘It seems to me that you’re the one at fault. What are you doing with that lump o’ wood?’
‘Defending myself.’ The answer came sullenly, with a scowl for Katy.
‘What?’ The policeman was contemptuous. ‘Against a chap twice your age? Put it down and get on about your business before you get into more trouble. What is your business, anyway?’
‘I’m here to meet a new serving lass, come to work at our house.’ He jerked his head to indicate the cart: Spargo and Son, that’s us. Hauliers.’ Then he tapped his chest: ‘I’m Ivor Spargo.’
The policeman was not impressed. ‘You behave your-self. If I have trouble wi’ you again, I’ll charge you.’ Now Katy, from her new position near the policeman, could see the legend on the tailboard of the cart: Spargo & Son. Her heart sank and she stepped back to stand beside her case. Just then a middle-aged, portly man in a check suit and carrying a suitcase, bustled out of the station: ‘Cabbie?’
‘Aye, here y’are, sir!’ The cabman hurried to take the suitcase from him and stow it aboard. Then he took the nosebag off the horse before climbing up onto his seat. But as he swung the cab away from the kerb he called to Katy, ‘Thanks, bonny lass!’
Now the policeman went on his steady way and Katy was left with the young man, who was moodily lighting another cigarette. She said miserably, ‘Please, sir, I think you might be waiting for me. I’m Katy Merrick, come to work for the Spargos.’
He glared at her as if he could not believe it. Then he said bitterly, ‘You’ve made a bloody fine start! What did you take his part for?’ Katy could only answer, Because it was right. But she wisely kept her mouth shut. He went on, ‘I’ve half a mind to send you back where you came from.’ Katy swallowed, frightened. What would her father say — and do? Ivor saw or guessed at her fear and it put him in a better humour. He smiled unpleasantly, ‘You’d just better behave yourself from now on. Is that your case? Shove it on the cart then get up there.’
Katy obeyed. The cart seemed to have been used recently for carrying coal. While its flat bed had been roughly swept out there was a pocket of black dust in one corner. A seat was fixed on the front of the cart and she sat on that. She knew Ivor had watched her for a glimpse of her legs as she scrambled up. Now he followed to sit beside her. He laid the whip across the horse’s rump and as it whinnied and jerked into life he wheeled the cart out into the traffic. ‘I’m Ivor Spargo. You call me dad Mr Spargo and me, Mr Ivor. I’ll call you Katy.’ He glanced round at her and demanded, ‘Well? Got a tongue in your head?’
‘Yes, Mr Ivor.’
‘That’s better. You’ll have to answer quicker than that with Ma or you’ll get a flea in your ear. You call her ma’am or Mrs Spargo.’ He smoothed his narrow moustache with one finger. ‘But when you and me know each other better and we’re on our own, maybe you can call me Ivor.’
He glanced at her again and Katy answered quickly, ‘Yes, Mr Ivor.’
‘That’s the way.’ Ivor showed his teeth in a smile then steered the cart close in to the kerb so a clanging tram could pass. He cursed its driver and then pointed with the whip. ‘This is Fawcett Street and that’s High Street East down there. . He charted their route for her as the horse walked on. And bragged, ‘Us Spargos are one of the biggest hauliers around. We’ve got another big yard full o’ carts and lorries, down in Yorkshire and there’s a manager looks after that. Ma likes it here and she won’t leave to go down there. We shift people’s furniture all over, and anything else for that matter. A lot o’ them take their coal with them when they move. . Katy listened, and saw that they were heading away from the bridge and the river, staying on its southern bank. The streets were crowded and busy and the people cheerful. After a time she thought that she could like this new place — except for Ivor. And what about Ma — and Mr Spargo?
He proved to be in his late forties, with a pot belly swelling out the waistcoat of his shiny suit and a jowly face. The waistcoat hid the braces which held up his trousers, but they had to be there because the wide leather belt with brass buckle hung loose below his belly like a decoration. He stood in the centre of the cobbled yard as Ivor turned the cart in through the double gates marked: Spargo & Son, Hauliers. The house lay at the back of the yard while a shed which served as office was on one side of the gateway. Katy could see a clerk in there, bent over books, and a telephone standing on a desk. On the other side was a ramshackle wooden workshop of some sort holding benches scattered with tools. The rest of the yard w
as empty save for two carts standing idle, their shafts upended. There was a general air of untidiness with litter lying about and harness tossed carelessly aside.
Ivor reined in the cart beside his father. ‘Here’s the lass, Da: Katy.’
Arthur Spargo inspected her as his son had done, then said approvingly, ‘Work hard, do as you’re told and you’ll be all right.’
Katy needed no prompting now: ‘Yes, Mr Spargo.’ ‘That’s right.’ Arthur turned away but told Ivor, ‘Take her up to your ma.’
Ivor drove the cart up to the front door of the house, which was three-storied and brickbuilt. No untidiness there. The windows were clean, the curtains hung straight, the paintwork was without a mark or blister. Yet Katy found it oppressive because there was a harsh coldness about the place. Ivor pushed open the front door and bawled, ‘Ma! Ma! And then, stepping back into the yard, ‘Here’s the new lass, Ma.’
Vera Spargo loomed in the doorway, tall and rake-thin, with a pointed nose and beady black button eyes that ran over Katy from head to toe. Then that sharp gaze flicked to Ivor instead and she ordered him, ‘You behave yourself. Do you hear?’
He muttered, ‘Yes, Ma.’ He was no longer swaggering but submissive and wary. When his mother jerked her head at him in dismissal, he dropped Katy’s case at her feet and slouched away. Vera said contemptuously, ‘Him and his father, both the same — slipshod. But you’ll find things different in here. I run the house.’ Katy was to learn that Vera ran the business as well. But now the little eyes swept Katy again: ‘You’ll need to tidy yourself up, lass. I’ll stand for no scruffiness in here. That’s one of the reasons I sacked the last girl. But you’ll dress plain, nothing to catch the men’s eyes.’ Her own dress which brushed the floor was unrelieved black and the white apron over it was starched and crisp, sterile. She went on, ‘You’ll have no trouble of that sort in the house, though. Speak a word to me and I’ll stop it. And if I catch you at it, I’ll put you out on the street where you belong.’ The black eyes glittered with menace.
Katy answered, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Fetch your case.’ Then Vera warned, ‘But after this you use the kitchen door and the back stairs.’ The hall inside the door held a coatstand with one lady’s coat, an umbrella and a walking stick. A wide carpet ran from the front door to the back of the house and also up the stairs. The floor on either side of the carpet gleamed with polish.
Vera led the way up the stairs. The bedrooms of the family were on the first floor but Vera went on to the landing at the top of the house and Katy followed, carrying the case. The house appeared immaculate to Katy’s eyes, so far as she could see. But Vera sniffed and complained, ‘There’s plenty needs doing. I’ve only had dailies in to help Rita and after a day or two they don’t come back.’ Four rooms opened out of the landing and these were the servants’ quarters. Vera pointed at one: ‘That’s Rita’s, and Cook is next door to her. They’re both working in the kitchen at the moment. You’re the youngest so you’ll do as they say if I’m not about. Otherwise, I give the orders and set out the duties.’ She threw open one of the other doors. ‘You’re in here. Put on your working clothes and be down in the kitchen in ten minutes. As I said, there’s plenty to do.’ And she swept off down the stairs like a black shadow.
The room held a bed and a small chest of drawers. A string stretched across one corner, so clothes could be hung on it, served as a wardrobe. The narrow bed had a strip of threadbare carpet alongside it, otherwise the floor was bare, but scrubbed white. Katy guessed who would do the scrubbing. She laid her case on the foot of her bed, opened it and got out an old dress for work. She changed quickly then paused for a second or two to peer out of the window. She looked out over the smoking chimneys of the town and the cranes of the shipyards and thought that there was some advantage in living on the top floor. But it would be icy cold in the winter. Then she remembered Vera Spargo was waiting for her and hurried downstairs.
Vera greeted her at the foot of them, ‘Come on!’ She beckoned with a finger like a claw and Katy followed her as she started back through the house, pointing to her right then left, ‘Drawing-room, dining-room, master’s study, my boodwar.’ She pushed open the door at the end of the passage and they entered the kitchen. Scullery and kitchen ran the width of the house. ‘Cook’ was Mrs Cullen, round faced, with flyaway grey hair and beaming vaguely. The ‘Mrs’ was a courtesy title which went with the office of cook; in fact she was a spinster. Rita might have been forty or sixty and was sullen and pouting. Vera said, ‘This is Katy. Start her on the vegetables.’ And left.
Cook said, with an absent smile, ‘Show her, Rita, there’s a good lass.’
Rita threw aside the mop she was using to wash the floor and muttered bad-temperedly, ‘In here.’ Katy found herself in the scullery with a sink, knife and sacks of potatoes and greens.
In the next hour or so she worked under Cook or Rita and learned from both — separately. Cook complained, ‘You’re just the latest. None o’ the lasses stay for long. That Rita, she only keeps on ‘cause she’s frightened she’ll never get another job.’
Rita whined that: ‘Cook, she’s been sacked from most o’ the houses in the town. The bottle, y’know.’ She mimed drinking. ‘Rum when she can get it, owt else when she can’t. Vera keeps her on because she’s cheap and the men won’t touch her. They won’t touch me, neither.’ She sniggered, ‘Wish they would.’
Both said that Vera ran the house — and the two men: ‘She wears the trousers and they do as they’re told. Like us. And that stick she keeps by the front door, she uses it on anybody that gets on the wrong side of her.’ Rita hoisted up her skirts to show the leg above her black stocking marked by a livid bruise: ‘That was done by her and her stick!’
At six Cook looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘Katy, you tell Mrs Spargo that dinner is just about ready.’ So Katy walked through the hall and found Vera standing at the front door. She delivered her message and Vera nodded without turning. Katy could see past her into the yard and now it was full of vehicles. There were another three carts lined up beside those previously there and outside the workshop stood two steam lorries with their huge iron wheels, and tall chimneys giving off a drift of smoke from their coal-fired engines. As Katy watched a third turned in at the gate, its driver sitting behind the big locomotive boiler which ran across the front of it. There was a smell of smoke and oil and hot metal mingling with the ammoniac odour of manure coming from the stables.
Vera said with gloating satisfaction, ‘That’s a Yorkshire steam wagon coming in and that’s the last of them. They’re all ours and they’re all home now. Sometimes the lorries aren’t back till long after dark, if they’re carrying a load to Shields or Durham.’ Then she repeated what Ivor had told Katy: And we’ve got a bigger yard than this in Yorkshire. But I grew up here, and here I’m staying.’ She continued to watch as the drivers shut down their charges and dismounted, called to each other across the yard. One by one they reported to Arthur Spargo where he stood by the office, then walked out between the gates on their way home. As the last of them left, Vera turned away, but sneered, ‘He’s standing there like the boss but if it hadn’t been for me pushing him he’d still be working out of a back lane with one horse and cart! Him and Ivor, they’re stick-in-the-muds, the pair of them.’
Katy helped Rita to serve the dinner to the Spargos in the dining-room, then cleared up after it. By now Cook was sprawled in a chair before the kitchen stove with a glass in her hand, her speech thickened and face sweating. The work was left to the two maids and it was close to midnight when Katy locked her door and crept into her bed by the light of a candle. Nervous and physical exhaustion brought sleep soon, but in the few minutes before it claimed her images flickered through her brain like those she had seen in the silent films: her father sending her away, the Spargos, Cook and Rita. But she was determined she would not break and run. She would never go back to her father again, nor fall into vagrancy, whatever dreadful fate that might me
an — or go to the workhouse. She would make a better life for herself, somehow.•
It was a determination difficult to hold to. Rita was a hard-working maid under Vera’s eye but idle out of it —and no cook. So Katy had to cook when Mrs Cullen was unfit for duty, drunk and insensible. This was on top of her other duties. Then the Spargo men both attempted to fondle her but she immediately threatened, ‘I’ll tell Mrs Spargo.’ Somewhat to her surprise, they always retreated, grumbling, ‘No harm in a bit o’ fun!’ Or some similar complaint. It proved they were afraid of Vera, but they always tried again and the threat was always there. So Katy often went to her bed afraid, despite the lock on the door, and despairing of any improvement in her life. She slept in spite of her misery, the sleep of exhaustion, falling into bed every night, worn out, and was unconscious in seconds. Relief came only after three hard months which seemed like three years.
‘To hell with him! He’ll not tell me how to run my business!’ Arthur Spargo fumed as he sat down to the mid-day meal. He had just sacked his clerk after an exchange of Insults.
Vera Spargo said acidly, ‘Somebody has to. You’ll have to replace him.’
Arthur grumbled, ‘That won’t be easy, the money they’re wanting these days. It could take me weeks to find the right feller.’
Katy was leaning between Vera and Ivor to set a dish of potatoes on the table and she skipped away as she felt his hand on her leg. She said, ‘Mrs Spargo?’ And Ivor looked scared for a moment.
Vera glared at her, outraged. ‘How dare you! Speak when you’re spoken to — and till then you keep your mouth shut! Have you got that into your thick head?’
Katy swallowed her anger. ‘Yes, Mrs Spargo.’
‘I should hope so. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, with lasses like you putting your oar in.’
