by Irene Carr
Andrew nodded, and agreed fondly, ‘Aye, and that’s another reason I want to keep her here.’
He was not the first father to feel like that about his daughter, or the first to be disappointed. Eventually after he had another succession of long spells without a job, and their savings had dribbled away until debt and hunger stared them in the face, he agreed to Liza going into service. ‘It seems there’s nowt else for it,’ he said dejectedly. They had just eaten breakfast of bread and dripping and he looked around the cosy little kitchen. ‘I just want you to be happy, bonny lass.’ He stooped to kiss his daughter, then pulled on his cap. ‘I’m away to look for a job.’
Kitty went with him as far as the front door. ‘Now don’t you fret,’ she told him. ‘Something will turn up and we’ll manage.’
‘Aye, you’re right. I just wish I was a bit younger. It doesn’t help when you’re looking for work at getting on for sixty.’ He grinned lopsidedly. ‘But you always cheer me up.’ He kissed her and she watched him go. He turned to wave at the end of the street, then rounded the corner and was gone.
Kitty sighed and returned to the kitchen. Liza was clearing the table. ‘I’ll be able to help out all day long after this.’ It was to be her last day at school and she sang about the house as she worked before she left. That cheered Kitty, but then Liza waved farewell and her mother had the house to herself. Her happiness fell away. She knew it would be almost impossible for Andrew to find work at his age.
* * *
Andrew walked the banks of the Tyne for two hours that morning and his spirits were sinking, but then he was taken on at Armstrong, Whitworth’s yard. Kitty had given him a packet of sandwiches and these he ate at midday. In the evening he made his way home, hurrying with the joyous news. He had listened to the talk between his foreman and the other men, learned that the yard had just won an order to build a vessel and he had a job for a year or more.
In his haste he took a short-cut through the back lane instead of walking round to the front door. He was humming to himself when he came to the back gate and found it bolted inside. That did not worry him. He was still wiry and active and climbed the wall as he had before. But this time he slipped as he swung his legs over and fell head first. His skull was cracked and he died instantly. The man who had climbed the rigging in howling gales had been killed by a fall from a seven-foot wall.
Liza had to support and comfort her mother through the first days of shock and grief, and then through the funeral. They stood together, with a little knot of neighbours, at the graveside. It was a day of bright sunshine, the cemetery filled with birdsong, a day like many Liza had shared with her father. She could picture him laughing and hear him calling, ‘Away, bonny lass!’
The next day Kitty woke her daughter. ‘Come on, now, we’ve got to get on and find you a job.’ She had to see her started off in life. ‘It’s time to look ahead.’ She had already done that, and knew she could barely earn enough to feed herself. She foresaw a time when they would have to apply for parish relief or starve. Liza would be better off in a big house where she would have enough to eat and a roof over her head. ‘You must try to work your way up to being a lady’s maid. It’s hard getting there and I never managed it, but a lady’s maid is top of the tree. It’s clean work, good money, the next best job to housekeeper. And there are even some ladies, widowed or lost their money, glad to be housekeeper in a big house. It’s almost like being one of the family.’ But, as she had said earlier, big houses wanted girls with experience and strength. Liza was no weakling but not tall and had no experience. Kitty had taught her a lot but a potential employer would not take that on trust. They searched diligently through the newspapers and finally found an advertisement that read: ‘Girl required to attend single lady, helping cook and general. Live in. Apply Mrs Fanshaw.’ There was an address in Tynemouth.
The house was one in a terrace, with three storeys above ground and a cellar kitchen, which had a window that looked out on to a well at the front of the house and was approached from the street by a flight of stone stairs. There were three steps up to the front door, which, Liza noted, needed cleaning; the brass knocker and letterbox were dull from lack of polish. Kitty bit her lip but said nothing. She had worked in big houses with a score of bedrooms and as many servants. She knew that work in a small house like this was the worst kind. The only girl did everything, and the employer either could not afford to pay her a fair wage or was too mean.
She rapped on the door with the knocker. After a minute it was opened by a breathless, middle-aged woman in a black dress that strained over her ample figure. Her round face was florid and she peered at them owlishly. ‘Aye?’
Kitty held up the paper with the advertisement. ‘It’s about the position in here. I’ve brought my daughter to see Mrs Fanshaw, if it’s still open.’
‘I’m Mrs Fanshaw.’ She looked at Liza and sniffed. ‘She’s a bit small.’ Her accent was a high-pitched ‘refined’. ‘I have no time for idlers and I like my standards kept up.’
‘I’m quite strong,’ Liza claimed.
‘Are ye now?’ Mrs Fanshaw did not sound convinced. ‘Well, you’d better come in.’
She led them into the parlour, crowded with chairs and armchairs, little tables and an upright piano. Every surface was littered with sepia photographs — and a fine layer of dust. Mrs Fanshaw sat on an upright chair but left Liza and her mother standing. She eyed the girl. ‘So what can you do, then?’
Kitty had primed Liza to answer that question and she reeled off: ‘I dust and clean, sew and darn, scrub ...’
Mrs Fanshaw listened to the list, then said, ‘Mm. Sounds all right. Whether you can do it ...’ She trailed off, doubtfully. ‘Still, I suppose I can give you a trial for a week. But there’s some things you have to get into your head: You address me as "Madam", speak when you’re spoken to, be quiet about the house, always neat and tidy, and no idling. I’ll pay you ten shillings a month, two shillings if you only last the week. You provide your own clothes: black dress, white cap and pinny. If I take you on permanent you’ll have one evening off every week and one day a month when I go to visit my sister and can’t keep my eye on you. But I want you in here by nine at night. Do you want the job?’
She did not, but knew there was no help for it. ‘Aye, I’d like it, please — Madam.’
Liza settled into her little room at the top of the house, with its narrow, hard bed and bare wooden floor. She pretended it was comfortable enough, bearing in mind that she spent little time there except to sleep, but she anticipated that it would be bitterly cold in winter. She was homesick, of course, and cried herself to sleep.
She worked a twelve-hour day — at least. Often it was longer. She would rise at seven to make tea for Mrs Fanshaw and carry it up to her. Then she would clean out the grate in that lady’s bedroom, lay and light the fire so the room should be warm when she eventually rose, then take her a jug of hot water for washing when the time came. The downstairs fires had to be lit, the front steps washed and whitened ... Mrs Garbutt, garrulous and moaning, came in each morning at eight and cooked, but Liza did everything else. She told herself she was gaining experience and everyone had to start at the bottom. She looked forward to the end of the month when she would have her first day off — and she would be able to give her mother seven or eight shillings out of her wages.
Liza learned more about her employer as she worked. While dusting the parlour Mrs Fanshaw lectured her in fluting tones: ‘A house in a good neighbourhood like this needs keeping up to scratch and I insist on it. Perseverance and routine, they’re the key to success, my husband used to say. Fanshaw was a turf accountant and left me well provided for. Not like my poor sister in Newcastle.’ She sighed and her stays creaked. ‘Give us them biscuits.’ Liza handed her the tin and Mrs Fanshaw munched, shedding crumbs for Liza to sweep up.
Later, in the kitchen, Mrs Garbutt snorted. ‘Turf accountant? Ha! I knew Horace Fanshaw and he was a back-lane bookie, with fellers he p
aid to stand on the corner and watch out for the pollis.’
It was on her second Sunday in her position that Liza answered a knock at the front door. Checking that her white cap was straight, smoothing her pinny, she opened the door and faced a tall, bony girl standing on the top step. Recognition was immediate and mutual.
Una Gubbins gaped. ‘Liza Thornton.’ In the time since she had left school, a year earlier than Liza, she had put up her hair and adopted a superior expression. She looked Liza up and down, taking in the uniform, and grinned unpleasantly. ‘Well I never. So you’re the maid here now.’
‘Aye,’ Liza answered curtly.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn,’ Una said. ‘You should say, “Yes, Miss.” ’ And when Liza stood tight-lipped, she went on, ‘I’ve come to see my aunt Nelly.’ She saw Liza’s startled reaction and smirked again. ‘That’s right. My mother’s her sister. One word from me and it’ll be the sack for you. I heard your mother had been left on her own. Shame. I expect she needs your money. Now what do you say?’
Liza swallowed her anger and pride because she believed she had to. ‘Yes, Miss.’ She stood back and held the door wide.
Una entered, shrugged out of her coat and held it out. As Liza went to take it, she let it drop to the floor. ‘That was careless of you. Pick it up and brush it off. I’ll look it over when I leave to see it’s been done properly. I’ll announce meself.’ She passed through into the parlour.
Liza heard Mrs Fanshaw cry, ‘Una, my pet!’
And the reply, ‘Hello, Auntie Nelly. That new lass of yours dropped my good coat ...’ The door closed.
Liza served them with morning tea in the parlour, lunch in the dining room at noon and high tea at six. All the time Una ingratiated herself with her aunt, meek and solicitous. And all the time Liza was aware of her mocking gaze. It was a long day and when Una left at the end of it her parting words were: ‘I come to see Auntie nearly every Sunday, just missed the last one because I was away. Me and my mam are her only relations, so one of these days you’ll take orders from us.’ She pulled on her coat and ground her heel on Liza’s foot. ‘I’ll see you next week,’ she called. That was ostensibly addressed to Mrs Fanshaw, coming to bid her farewell, but Liza, tears of pain in her eyes, knew it was meant for her.
That threat rode on her back every day and, true to her word, Una returned on the following Sunday. For Liza it was another day of niggling torture and humiliation. Una kicked the dustpan when she came upon Liza sweeping the hall carpet, elbowed her into a spindle-legged table that toppled over to shed its photographs, tripped her as she brought in a loaded tray, which Liza only saved by a miracle of dexterity and luck. And again at the end there was the warning, ‘I’ll see you next Sunday.’
Liza was due for her first full day off during the following week, but her anticipation was marred because she worried as to what might be in store for her. She was expecting Una to arrive at her usual time of nine, and this was on her mind when she washed the front steps shortly after seven. She whitened them with the stepstone and sat back on her heels to look them over with satisfaction. Then the voice behind her said, ‘Now then, lass, make room for your betters.’ Liza turned her head and saw Luke Cooper — Piggy — taller and heavy, though not so fat as he had been. He smirked at her, a giggling Una at his shoulder.
Piggy stood in the mud of the gutter, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘We came early ‘cause we thought we’d make a day of it.’ He stepped out of the gutter and shoved past the kneeling Liza to stamp up the steps, down and then up again, shedding mud with every bang of his boots. He stopped at the top. ‘You want to get these steps cleaned. They’re thick o’ clarts.’
Liza choked, eyes filling with tears but this time they were tears of outrage. This was too much to bear. She still held the cloth she had used on the steps and she plunged it into the bucket. Piggy laughed. ‘That’s right. Get on wi’ it. Ye should ha’ had it done by—’ Then he choked as the cloth was rammed into his face.
Una had been tittering but now she was standing with her mouth open. ‘Here—’ The contents of the bucket drenched her. She gasped, then screamed. Piggy clawed the cloth from his face but Liza swung the bucket backhanded into his midriff and he doubled over it. She tried to push him aside off the steps but he slipped and fell forward into the mud, so she seized the back of his head and ground his face into it.
Una’s screams had brought Mrs Fanshaw to the front door: ‘What’s going on?’
Una pointed at Liza. ‘Look at what she’s done to me — and poor Luke.’
He lifted his filthy face to add: ‘Aye! See!’
‘Disgraceful! I never saw owt like it!’ Mrs Fanshaw squeaked.
‘I’d just finished the steps when he came and walked all over them, on purpose and laughing at me!’ Liza, her blood still hot, defended herself.
And Mrs Garbutt, her head out of the window of the cellar kitchen, confirmed this: ‘Aye! I saw him, and heard him!’
Mrs Fanshaw rounded on her, indignant and red-faced — there were neighbours watching now: ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Don’t tell me to shut up!’ Mrs Garbutt bawled. ‘I’m trying to talk a bit o’ sense into you!’ And she slammed the window.
Mrs Fanshaw gave a moan of frustration and rage. ‘You’re dismissed,’ she snapped at Liza.
Liza threw down the bucket, and Piggy shied away. She declared, ‘I was leaving anyway.’ And, with a jerk of her head at Una, she added to Mrs Fanshaw, ‘She said when you’d gone I’d be taking orders from her and I couldn’t stomach that.’ And she ran up to her room.
It only took minutes for her to pack her few belongings into her box and dress for the street. As she came out on to the landing she heard Mrs Fanshaw railing below: ‘... so if it was my money you were after you can have another think! You’ll get damn all! I’ll leave it to charity!’
Liza looked over the banister just in time to see Una and Piggy leave dejectedly through the front door. Mrs Fanshaw slammed it behind them and stumped into the parlour.
Liza dragged her box down the stairs into the hall. She left it there while she ran down the stairs to the gloomy cavern of the cellar kitchen. ‘I’m off, but thank you for sticking up for me,’ she told Mrs Garbutt.
‘You’re welcome, hinny,’ said the cook. ‘The cheek of her! Telling me off! Any more o’ that and I’ll be away an’ all. Here, I’ve done you a bite to take with you.’ She handed Liza a brown-paper bag. ‘A bit o’ bread and cheese.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ Liza accepted it gratefully.
‘Now, how are you going to get to the bus wi’ that box?’ ‘I’ll have to carry it, a few yards at a time,’ Liza said ruefully. It would be a long, hard haul.
Mrs Garbutt winked. ‘Harry Sims will be round the back door afore long.’ He was the milkman. ‘He’ll give you a lift.’
Liza hugged her, then went to see her employer. Mrs Fanshaw dug into her purse and counted out ten shillings. She handed them over with a baleful glare. ‘More than you deserve after the trouble you’ve caused. You’ll come to a bad end. And don’t ask for a reference because you won’t get one.’
Liza took the money. ‘Thank you.’ She tried to look as if she did not care about the lack of a reference. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Fanshaw.’ The woman turned her back and Liza went on her way.
Harry Sims, round of face and body, took her and her box on to his float and slapped his horse’s rump. As he carried them along he shouted, ‘Milk-oh!’ He dipped into his churn to fill the jugs as they were brought out to him. Liza shared her bread and cheese with him and he gave her a cup of milk.
The open bus took her into Newcastle and its conductor hauled the box down for her: ‘There y’are, bonny lass.’
‘Thank you.’ Liza looked around her, more cheerful now she was nearer home. She did not relish telling her mother that she had been dismissed but knew that Kitty would not blame her.
Another bus drew in beside her. Its passengers climbed down a
nd one of them was a girl two or three years older than herself. She, too, had a box that the conductor lifted down for her. Liza smiled at her. ‘Changing your job, like me?’
The other girl grimaced. ‘Oh, aye. The job was all reet and the hoose was all reet but there was nowt for miles! Not a music-hall or owt, nowt! So I walked oot this mornin’. They said, "What aboot working your notice, Bridie?", but Ah said, “Ah cannae stand another day here,” and Ah came away.’
Liza hesitated. She was nearly home, but suppose ... ‘They’ll be looking for somebody, then.’
‘Aye, they will.’
‘Where is it?’
‘The Grange.’ Then Bridie stared at her. ‘Are ye thinking o’ gannin’ up there?’
‘Aye.’ If they needed a girl urgently they might overlook one or two things.
‘You’re a bit young and on the small side,’ Bridie said doubtfully.
‘How do I get there?’ Liza said firmly. Five minutes later she and her box were on another bus.
‘I’m going to the Grange,’ she told the conductor, and repeated the directions Bridie had given her.
‘Right y’are, lass,’ and he told the driver. Five minutes later the first drops of rain splashed on to the windows. This bus was not open but by the time they set her down at the gates of the house the spots had become a downpour. Liza, heart sinking, climbed down reluctantly. ‘Run up and get in where it’s dry!’ the conductor called.
‘Thank you!’ Liza realised he thought she had a job at the house. The bus drove on and she and her box were left alone on an empty road under the rain. On one side, beyond a quarter-mile of meadow, lay the North Sea. On the other, distantly vague in the rain, rose the Cheviot Hills. Liza stared at the desolate landscape that was Northumberland on a dismal wet day. She was a town girl. For most of her life the only grass she had seen had been in a churchyard. This was a foreign land to her.
