Netherwood01 - Netherwood

by Jane Sanderson

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ said Tobias. ‘I think his tweeds may need to be surgically removed. Do you remember,’ he said, beginning to laugh, ‘when he turned up at Buffy Mountford’s birthday bash in mud-spattered knickerbockers and woollen socks?’

  ‘And the butler thought he was a ghillie and sent him round the back,’ said Henrietta.

  Dickie, amiable and easy-going, smiled obligingly. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it turned out rather well. I had a slap-up dinner in the kitchens and an early night. Buffy Mountford’s more your thing than mine, Toby. A dandified ass.’

  ‘Dickie! No asses at the table,’ said his mother, provoking a small outburst of hilarity from everyone but herself. It was ever thus; the countess had never entirely shared her family’s sense of humour. There was a strong and regrettable seam of vulgarity running through the lot of them, in her view.

  The plates, emptied now of their asparagus, were swept gracefully away by the footmen, and clean, hot replacements instantly set down. Munster arrived hard on their heels, bearing a dish of veal cutlets, which he adroitly served: one to each of the ladies, two to the gentlemen. Vegetables – carrots and kale from Netherwood – followed swiftly, the whole operation being designed to preserve as much of the heat in the food and the china as was humanly possible. Like his wife, Mr Munster rarely cracked a smile but his professionalism was never in dispute. Lose not a moment of time between the kitchen and the dining room, he told his footmen, else the cook’s labours will have been in vain and the dinner spoiled. Their progress, up the back stairs, through the green baize door and along the corridor to the dining room was therefore always performed in silence and at speed.

  ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t be given two chops,’ Henrietta said, rather rudely, since Munster was still in attendance at the table when she spoke. ‘I’m just as hungry as Dickie and Toby.’

  Lord Hoyland sighed. Here we go again.

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ said the countess. ‘Think of your silhouette.’

  Lady Hoyland, who barely ate enough to keep a bird alive, was sure her oldest daughter would run to fat before they found her a husband. She was such a hearty, athletic girl, and though she looked well enough most of the time, one couldn’t let one’s guard down. Isabella, she was relieved to be able to say, had inherited her own slender frame.

  ‘I’m thinking of my empty stomach, in fact,’ said Henrietta. ‘I don’t want to spend half the afternoon longing for dinner.’

  The earl signalled to Munster, who stepped forwards.

  ‘Serve Lady Henrietta with another chop, Munster, there’s a good fellow,’ he said. These family luncheons were increasingly tiresome, he thought. It was high time these overgrown fledglings began to leave the nest. And now Clarissa was put out at being overruled. He could see from her face that he was in the doghouse. Oh well, he’d been there often enough before, and at least he had Henry for company this time.

  ‘Papa,’ piped up Isabella, ‘may I be allowed to attend the party tomorrow evening?’

  Little minx, thought Henrietta. She well knew that her mother wouldn’t permit it, so had directed the question at the earl, who found her almost impossible to refuse. However, he didn’t have time to reply before the countess issued a firm no.

  ‘Absurd question, Isabella,’ she said. ‘You’re twelve years old.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Toby. ‘She could have my place.’

  His father eyed him balefully.

  ‘You’re jolly lucky to be allowed out of the nursery at all,’ said Henrietta. ‘I’m quite sure I wasn’t at your age. Who’s invited tomorrow anyway?’

  Her mother perked up; this was the sort of table talk she enjoyed.

  ‘Just a handful,’ she said, preparing to count them off on her fingers. ‘The Abberleys will be here. The Fortescues. The Fitzherberts. I did ask the Devonshires, but they were previously engaged. The Campbell-Chievelys.’

  ‘So far so dreary,’ said Tobias rudely. His mother ignored him.

  ‘Oh, and Ambassador Choate and his wife have accepted,’ she said.

  The earl, who had until this point been with Toby, said, ‘Really? The American ambassador?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clarissa, a tad waspishly, since she still wasn’t really speaking to her husband. ‘And his wife and, I think, a young American woman who’s currently staying with them.’

  ‘Well, how very clever of you, dear,’ said the earl. ‘I shall bend his ear about Panama. Could be splendid investment opportunities there, boys.’ He nodded at Dickie and Tobias. ‘The Americans are picking up where the French left off.’

  The countess sighed. ‘I do not want your obsession with business and industry to dominate the evening,’ she said. ‘Ambassador Choate will be expecting light relief.’

  ‘Oh tosh,’ said Teddy. ‘He’s a Yank. They abide by a different set of rules to us.’

  ‘What’s happening in Panama that’s so interesting?’ said Henrietta.

  ‘They make hats there, Henry,’ said Isabella patiently. ‘Don’t you know anything?’

  And even Lady Hoyland found herself overcoming her pique and laughing.

  Veal-and-ham pies, steak puddings, scotch eggs, drop scones, raspberry jam tarts and lemon pancakes. This was Eve’s menu for Tuesday evening, and nothing on it would be bigger than bite-sized. While still in Netherwood, she had taken the trouble to write it down and present it to the countess for her approval – the proper way of things, she thought, in grand households. Lady Hoyland had trilled gaily and made a rather fatuous comment about the fun of serving food for the poor to her titled friends, and Eve had taken her leave feeling immensely relieved that Amos hadn’t been in the room to hear her.

  Since she had first devised the tiny portions for the countess at the opening of the mill, she had fine-tuned the process of making them, getting herself organised with a battery of special equipment which gave her the consistency she sought. She had had the inspired idea to visit the forge at New Mill pit yard, where she’d talked the blacksmith into a bit of freelance work on her behalf. Anna had made a set of drawings to show what they were after: cast iron trays with indentations for pies and puddings, but in miniature. The smith had obliged, producing twelve custom-made baking trays, some of them with rounded hollows for sweet tarts and pies, others with flat-bottomed indentations and traditional sloping sides. He made a set of high-sided cast-iron rings too, just an inch and a half in diameter, and she used these to stop the pancake batter and the drop scones running in the pan. The raised pies she still made entirely by hand, as the slight irregularities gave them charm, but she had a set of twenty-four china thimbles in which she made the daintiest suet puddings known to womankind. They were large for thimbles, but tiny for pudding bowls, so pressing the crust inside them could only be done with her little finger, and even that was a squeeze.

  She came back down to the kitchens wondering what sort of reception she might face now that the Hoylands had practically welcomed her as a member of the family. In fact, for a while, there was no reception at all; backs were still turned as she made her way through the main kitchen, facial expressions still set somewhere between neutral and hostile. Mrs Carmichael was nowhere to be seen, although the family’s meal was in the final stages of preparation so Eve assumed she would be making an appearance soon enough.

  Still, it mattered not a whit to Eve. She had her thoughts for company, and plenty to be getting on with, so she settled herself at her station and began to rub butter into a mix of flour and finely ground sugar to make a sweet paste for the jam tarts. The beaten yolks of two eggs stood at hand, ready to be judiciously added when the time was right. She wanted a very short texture, so that the pastry was no less of an event than the raspberry filling. It was all accomplished lightly and expeditiously, her cool fingers working the alchemy required to turn these few ingredients into something other.

  ‘There wouldn’t be half so many failures at the pastry table if greater care was taken over the making of it
.’

  Eve turned to see Mrs Carmichael in the open doorway. What a peculiar thing to say, she thought. She wondered if the cook had intended a compliment, but was so out of the habit of being pleasant that it came out as an admonishment.

  ‘Well,’ Eve said carefully, ‘t’same could probably be said about most things in life, don’t you think?’

  Mrs Carmichael nodded thoughtfully. She seemed to struggle for a moment, her mouth working soundlessly as she tried to frame her next sentence. ‘I believe,’ she said, with some effort, ‘that I misjudged this situation.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Eve. ‘Really? In what way?’

  ‘Well. If perhaps it had been clearer that you were only here for a brief period and for a very particular reason …’

  She petered out, looking somehow smaller than when Eve had first encountered her. The silence between them grew, and the cook spoke again.

  ‘I bear you no ill-will, Mrs Williams,’ she said. No, thought Eve, not now you’ve seen how things stand upstairs. ‘And I hope we can be friendly.’

  ‘Mrs Carmichael,’ said Eve. ‘I don’t think we can be friends, as a matter of fact, but there’s no call to be enemies either. I can see I’ve risen in your eyes today, and I think we both know why. You jumped to conclusions about me that were entirely wrong, and only now, when you see that t’family ’old me in esteem, do you trouble yourself to find out why I’m ’ere.’

  Her voice was even and pleasant and caused no stir in the room next door. She had no desire to humiliate, simply to speak the truth, but it was supremely satisfying to be able to do so. Mrs Carmichael looked displeased; the conversation had not gone as she’d intended. She had hoped to bestow her approval on Eve’s appointment and had assumed Eve would be glad of it. But there was no arguing with the facts.

  ‘Anyroad,’ said Eve, falling into Netherwood colloquialisms in the thrill of the moment, ‘if you don’t mind, I’ve work to be gettin’ on wi’. Fairy pies,’ she added mischievously, purely to baffle.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Carmichael. ‘Indeed. And luncheon to be prepared.’

  She retreated into the main kitchen.

  ‘Dinner,’ said Eve, far too quietly for anyone to hear.

  Then she turned back to the preferred company of her perfect pastry.

  Later that day, when she’d done all she reasonably could for tomorrow, she took herself off to the courtyard to find Samuel Stallibrass. She’d had an idea and one that Anna, were she here to tell, would approve of enormously. This time Samuel was easily found, sitting on a three-legged stool in the sunshine, smoking a pipe and polishing a stirrup iron.

  He looked up as she approached, and beamed. ‘Well, well,’ he said, talking around the obstruction of his pipe. ‘You look happier than when I last saw you.’

  ‘I think that’s safe to say,’ said Eve.

  He leaned in and pretended to study her expression. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I think it is too.’

  ‘Shouldn’t one of t’stable lads be doing that?’ she said, nodding down at the stirrup and rag in his hands.

  ‘They already have,’ he said. ‘And a poor job they made of it too. How’re you getting on with Beryl?’

  ‘Beryl?’ Eve had no idea who he meant.

  ‘Mrs Carmichael. Cook.’

  ‘She thought I was after ’er job—’

  ‘So she was nasty to you?’

  ‘Yes. Then she saw Lady ’oyland greetin’ me like a long-lost relative—’

  ‘And now she’s changed her tune. It’s just like Beryl Carmichael, that. Judges a person by how much other people esteem them.’

  Eve nodded. ‘She sent me some ’elp this afternoon though. Young lass called Molly or Polly or summat. Sound of ’er own voice startles ’er, so I couldn’t quite catch what she said.’

  Samuel laughed. ‘She’ll soon learn to speak up. It’s the survival of the fittest down in that kitchen, dog eat dog. Give me an outdoor life any day.’

  ‘Never a truer word spoken,’ said Daniel, who had appeared through the wide stone arch that led to the garden. A brief flash of pleasure lit Eve’s features, which she snuffed out immediately, replacing it with a casual smile, though not before Samuel had spotted it. Aye aye, he thought, could be trouble, though if she’s free from obligation in Netherwood she could do worse.

  ‘Eve,’ said Daniel.

  She looked at him.

  ‘Will you come and sit in the garden for a while?’

  This was bold, and she flushed a little. ‘I just wanted to ask a favour of Mr Stallibrass,’ she said.

  ‘Is that so?’ Samuel said, taking out his pipe at last. ‘And what is it?’

  ‘I’d like to go back to that shop you showed me. Fortnum …’

  ‘And Mason. Would you indeed? Spending your money on canned exotics, are you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, wishing she wasn’t saying this with an audience. ‘I wanted to put a, well, a …’ – she wondered how Anna would phrase it – ‘a business proposition to them.’

  Samuel hooted with laughter at this, but Daniel didn’t. He said, ‘I’ll take you. We can walk from here.’

  ‘Can we? Would you?’ said Eve.

  ‘Yes we can, and yes I would,’ he said. ‘Come and sit in the garden for five minutes. Tell me about your proposition.’

  So she did, casting an apologetic backwards glance at Samuel, who shrugged as if to say, that’s life, and waved her on her way. She’d wanted to see Daniel anyway and had intended to seek him out in the garden after talking to Samuel. She had something for him, wrapped in a linen cloth in the pocket of her apron.

  ‘I wanted to give you this,’ she said, taking it out as soon as they were seated. ‘To say thank you for t’lily of t’valley. That was such a kindness, sending them to my room. I could smell them as soon as I opened t’door.’

  ‘Plenty more where they came from,’ he said. ‘You can have them every day, my lady. Well, until they’re finished.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I’m a gardener, not a worker of miracles,’ he said. ‘So, what’s this?’ He took the proffered parcel.

  ‘A pie,’ she said, and smiled, because it sounded so prosaic. ‘A fairy pie.’

  He opened it with careful fingers, and lifted out the perfect little veal-and-ham pie, holding it delicately between thumb and index finger.

  ‘Did you shrink it?’ he said.

  She laughed again. ‘It was never big,’ she said. ‘I make ’em like that for Lady ’oyland.’

  ‘That’s just beautiful,’ he said, turning it all angles. ‘Look at it. We should leave it under the trees at the bottom of the garden for the little folk.’

  ‘Eat it,’ she said.

  He grinned at her and put it in his mouth, chewed a few times and swallowed.

  ‘My oh my,’ he said. ‘Pie heaven.’

  Chapter 44

  The afternoon shift at the Netherwood collieries started at half-past one, and many of the men preferred it to days or nights. There was a leisurely start to the day, a spot of dinner at your own kitchen table and a clocking-off time that, if you moved sharpish, left enough time for a jar at the local. Generally the shift rota was a straightforward alternation between the three: afternoons, days, nights, in an endless cycle. Occasionally, if you were lucky, there’d be a swap with another man who preferred a night shift, or who was laid off with sickness or injury. A two-week run of afternoons almost passed for a holiday, in a life where holidays didn’t exist.

  Amos, though, was contrary. He would always choose days or nights over afternoons. Days got the shift over with, left you free to grow vegetables, swing a pummel at a knur or waste your money at the dog track; nights were the same. But afternoons hung over you like a threat from the moment you woke, tarnishing your free time with its inexorable approach. You had to watch the clock, on afternoons. You were a slave to the march of time.

  This is what Amos thought, anyway. He had spent this Tuesday morning in the allotment, hoeing weeds in the spring
sunshine, breaking off every so often to have a look at his fob watch. His cap and jacket were hanging on the handle of a spade, and his snap tin and dudley were balanced on the walls. He had rolled up his shirt sleeves, but it was hot work, and when Percy Medlicott turned up, he paused by the gate and said, ‘That’s a right muck lather tha workin’ up, Amos.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Amos, keeping his head down.

  ‘That spring cabbage looks grand,’ said Percy.

  ‘Aye,’ said Amos.

  ‘Them carrots want thinnin’ aht.’

  Amos said nothing. He didn’t mind Percy in general, but on occasion found him as irritating as a persistent horsefly.

  ‘Tha’ll be on afternoons, then?’ Percy said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Amos. ‘Well spotted.’ He really couldn’t be doing with this pointless to-ing and fro-ing like a pair of old women on their back doorsteps. He rammed his hoe into the ground, and turned to collect his cap and jacket. Might as well be off. He passed through the gate, forcing Percy into reverse.

  ‘Your weeds are shootin’ up while you stand ’ere chewin’ t’fat,’ Amos said.

  He walked off, thinking how much he valued young Seth’s silent companionship in the allotment. Now there was a lad who understood how to garden. They could work side by side for two or three hours, without more than a couple of words being exchanged. Then on the walk home, the boy would talk for England about what they’d done, should be doing or shouldn’t consider. He was still after planting a melon bed – Seth had fancy ideas – and wouldn’t be dissuaded by Amos’s argument that without a glasshouse they had no chance of thriving. And he’d got hold of the top of a pineapple from a kitchen lad down at the hall, having read in his gardening books that they weren’t hard to grow. He was bringing the top on at home until it sprung roots, then his heart was set on planting it on a hot bed. He was pestering Amos to fetch some stable dung from the pit ponies’ living quarters at New Mill, and Amos – really more of a parsnip man than a pineapple one – found himself catching the boy’s enthusiasm and thinking it was worth a crack at it. If he could find time to build a cold frame, they could sit his pineapple top on a hot bed and see what happened. It might take years to fruit, Amos had told Seth. Well, we can wait, he’d said, and Amos had thought – not for the first time – what a fine boy Arthur’s son was. Not many young ’uns would have the patience to watch a pineapple grow in Yorkshire.