A Different Kind of Love

by A Different Kind of Love (retail) (epub)

  But even the butler was to offer his praise before departing to the housekeeper’s room for dessert, the hall boy scuttling to open the door for him.

  Her superior gone and the others able to speak freely, Beata now found herself showered with congratulations.

  ‘We’ll have to give Mrs Temple more days off if this is what Beat serves us!’ said Lucy’s brother, Jack, tucking heartily into his pudding.

  Taking a sip of beer, the recipient of his praise glowed with pleasure, though she knew that Jack’s interest did not extend any further than his plate; what would he see in a kitchenmaid who had not yet reached her fifteenth birthday?

  Still, there was a great sense of achievement when Beata went to bed that night. Cook too seemed delighted with her performance when she heard about it the next morning. Henceforth, Beata was always to act as her stand-in.

  * * *

  A quick and willing learner, in a matter of weeks the kitchenmaid had acquired sufficient culinary skills to allow her to join in the creation of a dinner party for important guests. But, whilst the great industry of the kitchen did not unnerve her and the straightforward preparation of vegetables caused no hitch, Beata was to find herself overwhelmed by totally unfamiliar victuals.

  Presented with a collection of brown speckled birds, she admitted, ‘I haven’t done snipe before, Mrs Temple. What … ?’

  ‘Pluck them gently,’ instructed the red-faced cook, preparing a joint whilst minions rushed around her, ‘then leave everything on them, the feet, the guts, everything.’

  ‘What even the head?’ An incredulous Beata held a long beak between thumb and forefinger. ‘What do I do with this?’

  ‘Shove it up its bum,’ interjected Percy.

  ‘Don’t be so vulgar!’ Cook took a swipe at the laughing footman.

  ‘You just tuck it neatly under a wing like this, Beaty,’ she demonstrated. ‘By the way, did you get those crayfish done?’

  Beata looked dubious as she rushed to present the bowl. ‘Yes, but there’s not much on them, is there?’

  Mrs Temple was aghast. ‘Eh, there should be more meat than that!’

  ‘Sorry, when I removed what I thought was poisonous there wasn’t much left.’

  The cook groaned. ‘Don’t tell me it’s in the bin?’

  Beata flushed and said it was.

  ‘Clot – I hope it’s on top. We might be able to do summat with it.’

  This wasn’t going at all well. Hurrying away, Beata came back with a damp parcel of newspaper at which Mrs Temple brightened considerably.

  ‘Oh, you wrapped it up! Nothing to worry about then.’ Inspecting the contents she showed immediate forgiveness. ‘Mix it with a bit of mayonnaise and nobody’ll be any the wiser!’

  Another bout of furious preparation ensued, over the hours the kitchen becoming a receptacle of wonderful smells.

  Transferred to silver tureens, course by course, the meal was sent up, Beata anxiously awaiting any criticism.

  Weaving her way around the crowded kitchen with a tray, collecting pots to be washed, Lucy questioned her adopted sister’s look of agitation.

  ‘I’m just waiting for the complaints over the dishes I did,’ explained Beata, arranging another plateful of delicacies. ‘Especially that crayfish.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Beat, they’re probably all dead from poisoning.’ Lucy tittered and rushed past.

  Beata showed little appreciation of the joke, muttering as her friend came past again, ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out for this. It’s too much pressure. I don’t know why Mrs Temple’s chosen me as her prodigy.’

  ‘Protégée,’ corrected Lucy.

  ‘Did you never fancy being a cook?’

  ‘I can’t be fagged. I’m only biding my time in service till I get wed.’

  ‘Me and all,’ Beata whispered agreement. ‘But I daren’t tell Mrs Temple she’s wasting her time.’

  ‘Oh, it won’t be wasted, Beat,’ came the sage reply. ‘It’s your husband who’ll get the benefit. What sort do you want?’

  ‘Not too tall – he’d look daft beside me – but dark and handsome.’ She gave a self-deprecating chuckle. ‘Preferably with bad eyesight.’

  ‘Aw! Stop running yourself down. You’ve got more chance than me.’ A perspiring Lucy paused and sighed, scratching her thick midriff. ‘I’d hoped to be married at seventeen and to have four bairns by now, two of each – but I’m still waiting.’

  ‘And so is the master for his dinner!’ bellowed Mrs Temple. ‘Stop kallin’ and get on with it.’

  Dealing each other a grimace, the friends threw themselves back into their work, sweating for hour after hour whilst the stack of dirty pots in the scullery grew into a mountain.

  For her finale, Cook sliced the top off a full Stilton. ‘Right, this cheese is ready to go up. Oh, all the lads are busy. You take it, Beat – but don’t show your face in the dining room, just peep round the door and see if you can catch Mr Spaven’s eye.’

  Forming a look of distaste and holding the cheese away from her as maggots came squirming out, Beata declared, ‘If this is high living, you can stick it. I think I’m going to be sick.’ And it was with a sense of trepidation she went upstairs.

  At the end of the evening, though, her dread was to be replaced by triumph. With characteristic graciousness and an indication of why everyone loved working here, rather than summoning them by bell Major Herron came down to thank his servants personally for their hard work and to say how excellent the meal had been.

  * * *

  Thus, gradually, over the rest of the year, Beata was to gain assuredness, and with the extra responsibility came extra wages, allowing her to put away a sum every month towards the holiday in Scarborough that Lucy had booked for them, as well as improving her wardrobe.

  There was a slight hiatus in saving when Christmas came upon them and Beata, knowing that Lucy had bought her a present, was compelled to respond in kind – not that she wouldn’t have done anyway. Indeed, wanting everyone to share in her good fortune, she bought gifts for all her family, enjoying the reunion with them, albeit a brief one.

  There was also a dress to be purchased, for, in the weeks up to Christmas there was a succession of parties at all the big houses in the area and everyone was to do the rounds, including the staff, who, as reward for waiting all year on their betters, enjoyed their own ball. For Beata all this was like a fairy tale, for it was the first time she had danced – Lucy having taught her all the steps – and especially so as she got to waltz with Jack.

  Then it was back to the hard work, but it didn’t matter because there was the holiday to look forward to and new summer dresses to buy, for, with fifteen months of good eating Beata had put on a stone and a half. After years of suffering constant hunger there was an urgent need to finish all that was on her plate, just in case it might be snatched away, and with Lucy and Mrs Temple both wanting to nurture the youngster and encouraging her to take second helpings, it was inevitable that on a frame little over five feet, the weight was quick to show.

  But Lucy opined she was still too thin, as indeed she was beside her voluptuous friend, and insisted on plying her with cream buns whenever they enjoyed an afternoon in York.

  They would be going there again this week to buy Whitsuntide outfits. Imagining what hers would be like as she was driven to church that Sunday, Beata hoped the cold and drizzle would clear up by the time it came to wear them. So immersed was she in her dreams that when a brick thudded against the side of the car she screamed in terror.

  ‘The buggers!’ Reflex caused the chauffeur to swerve though he did not stop but drove straight on for he was not about to tackle the crowd of hostile-looking men who lined the roadside.

  The incident was over in a flash, but it had completely unnerved Beata and she craned her neck to look out of the rear window as a dark-faced Jack condemned the thugs.

  ‘If they’ve scratched my paintwork…’ Still on the outskirts of York, the flustered chauffeur moto
red on to a safe distance before braking to examine the damage. There was a series of scuff marks on the black chassis. His broad form bent double and he groaned as if in pain and hung his head.

  ‘What was all that about?’ gasped Beata, her heart still racing as she bent to look at the damage with him. ‘I thought that brick was coming through the window!’

  ‘Blasted pickets!’ spat Jack, angry blue eyes glaring from under the peak of his cap. ‘I read in the press they’ve been interfering with the buses … Aw, what’s the major going to say?’ He caressed the Daimler as if trying to make it better.

  Quite familiar with Lucy’s brother by now, due to the Lister family’s embrace of her, Beata projected drollery, her heart rate returning to normal. ‘My paintwork’s all right, Jack, just in case you were going to ask.’

  ‘Oh sorry, Beat!’ He turned to deliver a fleeting but sincere pat to the stocky little figure. ‘I suppose it frightened the wits out of you, didn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll live. I still don’t understand though. What—’

  ‘The strike, Beat! This blasted general strike, have you not read about it?’ His annoyed face was back to examining the Daimler.

  ‘When do I have time to read a paper?’ she laughed.

  ‘It’s no joking matter!’ scolded Jack, and, indicating for her to get back in the car, drove onwards to church, muttering under his breath.

  After Mass, as usual, there was her brief weekly meeting with her sister Gussie and a quick exchange of news before an impatient Jack pipped his horn to summon his passenger back to the car.

  It was a rather unsettling drive home, knowing that the mob would be waiting at the roadside, but apart from shouted insults as the Daimler went by, there was no further violence.

  The moment they were back, whilst Jack went to inform Major Herron of the incident, Beata rushed to tell her friend. ‘It was real scary, Luce! I hope they don’t attack our bus on Thursday.’

  ‘Well, they’re not intimidating me,’ vouched the bigger girl, folding piece after piece of linen. ‘I’m having my new outfit come hell or high water.’

  But the incident had frightened Beata and she remained worried about her coming visit to town.

  First however, there was Monday night’s dinner party to be got through.

  Utterly proficient now, Beata was quite happy to take charge during Mrs Temple’s day off, extra staff having been hired to do the washing-up normally done by her. Cook’s mother had come in to help too. More obese than her daughter, she moved about the kitchen like a steam engine, huffing and puffing and mowing her way through a stack of carrots as efficiently as a threshing machine, her incessant enquiry punctuating the afternoon: ‘Finished! What do you want me to do now, Beat?’

  Though thoroughly enjoying the novelty of giving instruction, Beata did not overstep the mark and issued each request politely. ‘That broccoli, Mrs T, if you’d be kind enough.’

  With such dual respectfulness, each course was sent upstairs without hindrance and at the end of the evening, as was his custom, the master came down to thank them for all their hard work.

  Almost caught in the act of transferring a bottle of wine from the major’s cellar to his own room, Bert Spaven stood with hands behind his back. Knowing it was a gift to his friends whose wedding he would be attending on Wednesday, Beata bit her lip at his audacity and concentrated on her employer’s speech.

  ‘All my guests send their compliments, Beata. You have done a tremendously fine job, thank you – thank you all.’ Resplendent in stiff-winged collar and dinner suit, the elderly Major Herron encompassed everyone in a congratulatory smile.

  Expecting him to leave, the perspiring servants were obliged to wait there as he tweaked on his silver moustache, mulling over his next announcement. ‘It’s rather unfortunate that I have to mar the occasion with a warning.’

  Concerned that he might finally have been unmasked, the normally self-possessed Mr Spaven blanched, his hands tightening on the bottle of stolen wine.

  But the lecture was for everyone. ‘Now, you have probably been told of the damage to my car which occurred on Sunday and might be wondering at the cause of it. It comes as a result of this general strike which, if common sense does not prevail, will be thrust upon us from midnight tonight. At the root of all this is, as usual, the Miners’ Federation, whose latest demands have, quite rightly in my view, been refused. The matter could all have been so easily solved by the colliers showing some patriotism to work a longer day or the well-paid men reducing wages, but the fact that their leaders have offered no solution leads one to believe that their sole intent is to smash private enterprise. They will not be satisfied until they have brought about nationalization and that, I can assure you, would be the greatest industrial disaster that could befall our country.’

  Clasping his hands and looking deeply into each and every face, Major Herron spoke persuasively. ‘The British communists and their masters in Moscow see this as an opportunity for creating strife. The TUC has been agitating for a general strike for some time, and in calling out other unions in support of the locked-out miners it has challenged the nation to a fight for its life. Just in case any of you should doubt the seriousness of this, let me tell you that a strike by the transport workers alone would bring about total disruption of the circulation of food, and you might imagine the effect of similar action by the power workers. So you see how very dire this all is. You might commiserate, as indeed I myself do, with certain members of society who have fallen victim to unemployment. But however sympathetic, I sincerely trust that no member of my staff will seek to emulate the Bolshevik example. It would certainly be against their interests to do so. Mr Baldwin is trying his best to get this country back on its feet and we must fully support his actions, however harsh they might appear to some. It will all be worthwhile in the long run.’

  ‘You have our total support, sir,’ announced the butler, his pock-marked face assuming a dignified fealty whilst the hands behind his back endured cramp from holding on to the stolen bottle of wine. ‘Anything we can do to help…’ He cast a deep-set brown eye around the gathering, who, as one, nodded in agreement.

  ‘Capital!’ The head of fine snowy hair generated pleasure. ‘I would not have presumed upon your loyalty but as you have volunteered perhaps some of you might like to respond to the Government’s call for help in maintaining vital services if the strike does go ahead.’ Rewarded with their affirmation, the old soldier made for the stairs. ‘Fine, I shall provide details as and when. Well, that is all, and thank you, once again, for a splendid effort this evening.’

  Jack had been commandeered to wait at table for the night. Now that the master had gone he ripped off his white bow tie, grumbling, ‘I don’t think there was any need to threaten us.’

  ‘Did he?’ His sister frowned, as did all the other maids.

  ‘Course! He was warning us if we went out in sympathy for the miners then we might not have a job to come back to. I’d like to know how he thinks we’re going to strike without a union behind us.’

  ‘And if you did have, would you be supporting the miners?’ asked the butler, putting aside the bottle to flex his cramped digits.

  ‘Not at all, Mr Spaven! I’m just saying—’

  ‘I don’t think it’s your place to discuss politics, do you?’

  ‘No, Mr Spaven.’ Jack showed contrition and his audience went about clearing up the kitchen, but when the butler left in order to secrete his wine the discussion was resumed, Jack denouncing the miners as, ‘A bunch of bloomin’ rabble-rousers.’

  ‘Eh, do you mind?’ Lucy cut in. ‘Beat’s from a coaling family.’ ‘Sorry, Beat, I meant no harm,’ said Jack. ‘I’m sure not all of them are troublemakers. But they’re bandying it about that theirs is a starvation wage and it’s just a downright lie. I know someone who’s a miner and he gets a lot more than I do.’

  ‘But it’s a more dangerous job than ours, Jack,’ Beata pointed out.

  ‘So you
side with them?’

  The last thing Beata wanted was to upset him. ‘No, I’m just saying that they deserve every penny they get. I wouldn’t go underground myself, would you?’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ Jack looked somewhat annoyed that she had shamed him into admittance.

  ‘Even so, I don’t think it fair that they’re holding the country to ransom like this. It might cause inconvenience to the masters but it’s the people at the bottom of the pile that’ll be the ones to suffer. I mean, what about those in hospitals, old folk and the like?’

  ‘Exactly, Beat!’ Jack seemed pleased that she agreed with him on this. ‘Great minds think alike.’ And he tipped his hat as he went home to bed.

  Happy to have resumed accord, a smiling Beata joined in the clearing up of the kitchen, one by one the others going off to bed in order of seniority until there was only herself left behind. With a rabbit to be skinned and her scullery to be cleaned, it was long after midnight before she herself could give vent to her exhaustion, her last thought as she closed her eyes being of Jack’s approving face.

  * * *

  With the strike going ahead, that Wednesday Jack was instructed to take Major Herron to York railway station where both would be assisting with the running of the trains.

  But, ‘What a waste of time,’ he reported upon coming home that evening. ‘The station was deserted, not one train came in all day until a quarter past four. Must have been a thousand of us volunteers standing around doing nothing. Why on earth the major insists we’re going back tomorrow I don’t know.’ He turned to his sister. ‘I told him it’s your afternoon off. He says we’ll set off a bit later so’s you and Beata can have a lift into town if you want, instead of having to rely on the bus.’

  ‘Oh, that’s decent of him,’ smiled an appreciative Beata.

  ‘I don’t know about that. He probably wants to rope you into volunteering an’ all.’

  ‘He needn’t bother.’ Lucy was determined to get her summer outfit.