by Mary Arrigan
‘You can start by taking all those plates to the sink,’ said Betty, with a smirk.
John Joe winked at me as he opened the back door.
‘Don’t let them get to you, Esty,’ he said. ‘You stand up to them.’
He was right. All the recent troubles in my life seemed to harden into an angry ball inside my head. It was time to grit my teeth and do as John Joe said.
‘Fine,’ I said, rolling up my sleeves. ‘I can do that.’ And, to my surprise, I felt my cringing attitude diminish.
Soon, the two scullery maids and I were the only ones left in the kitchen. Rose and I, with coarse aprons wrapped around us, were elbow-deep at the double sink, the gritty soap slipping in and out of my hands as I scrubbed.
‘Thanks for sayin’ nothin’,’ Rose whispered.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘For sayin’ nothin’ about me savin’ the bit of stew.’
‘Why would I say anything?’ I asked.
‘Because it’s forbidden,’ replied Betty, scraping plates into a bucket. ‘We’re supposed to only feed ourselves. There’s a back door collection for our families and the poor every morning. Mrs Burgess insists that she wants no sickly staff.’
‘But if there’s food collected for your family, then why are you giving away your dinner, Rose?’
‘For her brother,’ put in Betty as she lowered the scraped plates into the sink. ‘He’s on the run.’
‘Shush, Betty Murphy,’ hissed Rose, looking around. ‘That’s a secret.’
‘On the run from what?’ I asked, ignoring the smirking Betty. But neither of them replied.
Chapter Eight
In the weeks that followed, John Joe’s words: Stand up to them, became my strength. My mornings began at six o’clock, heating water to take upstairs for Mrs Burgess and her daughter’s wash-basins. The rest of the morning was spent mostly in the kitchen, scrubbing and cleaning or helping Mrs Casey prepare meals. By now, I had a uniform of a blue dress with puffed sleeves and a white apron for my afternoons with May. I also had to wear a starched bonnet which made my head itch. I learned how to wash and iron the Burgess women’s clothes, how to mend tears and sew on buttons. The sewing was the best part, because May and I could chat as we sewed. That, and being with Mrs Casey made up for many of the other hardships.
‘My mama is a very good cook,’ I said when I was first assigned to Mrs Casey.
‘Of course she is, alannah,’ Mrs Casey chuckled. ‘But your mama never had to cater for the likes of them upstairs. So, being a trainee lady’s maid, you’ll need to know how to make dainties.’
‘All this doesn’t seem right,’ I said to her once.
‘What are you saying, child?’ she wheezed. ‘Are you saying my cooking is not up to quality?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s just that it doesn’t seem right that we’re here making pretty food and out there…’ I nodded towards the window.
‘The Hunger, is it?’ Mrs Casey said, shaking her head as she spooned the mixture into baking tins. ‘It’s true, alannah. Don’t think we don’t feel it. We’ll carry the guilt of surviving this for years, but what else can we do? Madam gives to as many as she can. You’ve seen them every morning at the back door. We give them what’s left.’
‘But it’s not enough, is it, Mrs Casey? I wish we could do more.’
‘None of our business,’ she said. ‘Some things are out of our control. We just have to thank God that we have good jobs and comfort. Now, don’t you be going on too much about them out there. That will make people angry.’
So I kept my opinions to myself. My main worry was that Mama and Grandpa had enough to eat. When John Joe told me that Grandpa had got a job as a gardener on Lord Craythorn’s estate, I was appalled.
‘My grandpa is a middleman’s father,’ I protested. ‘He was a schoolteacher. He shouldn’t be doing menial…’ I stopped when I saw John Joe shaking his head.
‘No work is menial these days,’ he said. ‘Even though he’s probably earning just a few shillings, if it helps pay the rent for the cottage they’re in, then that’s the most important thing. There’s many would be happy to have that job. He only got it because of your father.’ He went on, ‘I like your grandfather a lot. He’s clever.’
I assumed John Joe was simply trying to humour me. I’d never thought of Grandpa in that light. To me, he was always just Grandpa.
I bit my lip and said no more. At least it was comforting to know that they weren’t depending on my skimpy pay. Whenever he could, after delivering the master to the mill, John Joe would take the longer route by the Craythorn estate and deliver my notes and money to Mama. I kept Mama’s replies under my pillow and kissed them each night – though I sometimes wondered why she never thanked me for the money.
Mrs Casey had tut-tutted when I first counted out my paltry allowance.
‘There’s nothing you can do, alannah,’ she sympathised. ‘We can’t stand up against the gentry. They have the training of you, so I suppose they’re entitled to keep back money for that.’
‘But I work so hard, Mrs Casey,’ I protested. ‘Look at my red hands! I more than pay for my keep. It just doesn’t seem fair. Rose and Betty get more than I do.’
‘I know, child,’ Mrs Casey said soothingly. ‘But in time you’ll be a true lady’s maid and much better off.’
‘I can’t wait that long,’ I muttered. ‘Besides, I never wanted to be a lady’s maid. It’s pointless.’
Mrs Casey pretended to be shocked, and then chuckled. ‘And what would you be, then, Esty?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Something better. Something where I could use my mind.’
Mrs Casey’s chuckle became a laugh. ‘Mind?’ she said. ‘Your mind won’t put bread on the table, alannah.’ She held up her hands. ‘These,’ she went on, ‘these are what you need to stay alive. Working hands.’
‘I’m not afraid of work,’ I replied. ‘It’s just that I’d like to use my mind as well.’
Mrs Casey simply shook her head. ‘There’s a lot of hardship out there,’ she said. ‘There’s no place for the likes of us to be using brains. Who would listen?’
Who indeed? I wanted to tell Mrs Casey that I’d seen a girl die in front of me. Brigid – her name still filled me with a cold chill. A small life, one of thousands, wiped out because nobody would listen to people like Papa. But I said nothing. Brigid was in a part of my mind that would always serve to remind me how fragile life is.
I noticed that Miss Emma discarded The Illustrated London News after she’d finished reading about the Paris fashions. I took to stuffing them under my apron and taking them to the room I shared with May.
‘What are you doing with Miss Emma’s magazine?’ May said, her face aghast. ‘There’ll be trouble…’
‘I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been watching. As soon as she’s read about the fashions she puts the magazine in the wastepaper basket. And she only gets a chance to read it when Sir and Madam have finished with it, so nobody wants it after that.’
‘And what are you going to do with it?’ asked May.
‘Why, read it of course. What did you think?’
‘You can read, Esty?’ she exclaimed.
‘Of course. Can’t you, May?’
May shook her head. ‘Never got the chance,’ she muttered.
‘I could teach you, if you like,’ I offered.
‘Could you?’
‘Yes. We could save all these magazines and go through them together.’
‘Goodness!’ laughed May. ‘That would be fun. Me reading!’
And so we kept our eyes open for discarded copies of The Illustrated London News. We also gathered candle stumps and melted them together to make up a full-size light. We looked forward to our nights together, sitting on May’s bed with our quilts around us, peering at the small print as I taught May her letters.
‘Best not say anything to the others, Esty,’ she said. ‘Them upstairs don
’t care for their lower staff to know their letters.’ She added, with a laugh, ‘Something to do with us getting above ourselves. And them downstairs would be jealous.’
‘Mrs Burgess knows I can read and write,’ I said.
‘Maybe,’ replied May. ‘But she wouldn’t boast about it.’
Somehow, the thoughts of those nights spent with May made each day’s hardships easier to bear. I still fretted for Mama and Grandpa, but I got some comfort from knowing that the money I sent them would help in a small way, to keep them safe from hunger and eviction.
One night, while May was writing words into an old copybook I’d taken from the Burgess’s now-disused schoolroom, an article about Ireland in The Illustrated London News caught my eye.
‘May,’ I said. ‘Do you know what Whiteboys are? It says here that they are causing a lot of trouble…’ I broke off as May looked at me with alarm.
‘Whiteboys!’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘You must never mention that name here.’
‘But who are they? They sound like a band of ruffians.’
‘Rebels,’ whispered May. ‘They’re a secret society – some of them decent, some of them bad – who fight against the crippling rents and the evictions. The decent ones steal a sheep or a pig from the landlord gentry and share out the meat. If they’re caught...’ May paused, ‘...if they’re caught, they’re either hanged or else transported to Australia, never to see their families again.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.
May just shook her head. ‘Just don’t mention the word, Esty. Put Whiteboys right out of your head.’
‘Do you know of any rebels around here?’ I went on. May said nothing. She pursed her lips and concentrated on a piece of torn lace on Miss Emma’s petticoat.
‘It’s Rose, isn’t it?’ I whispered. ‘Her brother…’
‘Sshh,’ hissed May. ‘Don’t mention names.’
‘He’s on the run, isn’t he? I heard Betty say so.’
‘Betty!’ May hissed again. ‘She’s a big mouth.’
‘It’s true, then, isn’t it?’ I persisted. ‘Rose’s brother is one of those.’ I pointed to the article I’d been reading.
‘He’s a good lad,’ said May. ‘He was almost caught stealing from Major Fawcett’s kitchen. One loaf of bread to feed a couple of families, and he’s on the run. He’s been in hiding ever since. And he’s not the only one.’
‘You mean there are others around here?’
‘Everywhere,’ May leaned closer. ‘You don’t have to look far.’
I started to ask more, but she put her finger to her lips and shook her head. ‘Not a word,’ she said.
I took her advice. There was no point in creating trouble. But I still read reports about the Whiteboys in The Illustrated London News. They were classed as rebels, but I wondered if the people who sent these articles over to London had any idea of the injustice that drove these rebels to steal food. Why couldn’t they all simply talk together and sort matters out in a peaceful way?
One afternoon, while Mrs Burgess and Miss Emma were out visiting, May and I were working in the sewing-room.
‘Oh dear,’ said May, as she rummaged through the mending bag. ‘I’ve left the two linen napkins that Madam told me to repair in the dining-room.’
‘I’ll get them for you, May,’ I said. Much as I liked it when May and I were in the sewing-room, I found needlework tedious and was glad to escape. ‘I’ve never been in the dining-room,’ I laughed. ‘Where is it?’
Following May’s directions, I skipped up the staff stairs and down the hall, nodding sympathetically to the sad, glassy-eyed creatures staring into eternity from the walls.
It was so quiet here. With Mr Burgess at the mill, the mother and daughter away and the servants downstairs, I could briefly shut away work and worries. I’d been here for nearly seven months now, and it seemed like an eternity. I hadn’t seen Mama or Grandpa in that time, but John Joe kept me informed. They were settled into their cottage and they were well. I’d come to terms with the fact that Grandpa was working as a labourer. So I was feeling content with life when I turned the handle of the dining-room door. Now I could have a look around, touch things.
I stood at the door and breathed in the opulent fragrance. The long table was set with a fine linen cloth, ornate candlesticks placed down the centre. Vases of flowers on high stands softened the effect of the stiff furniture. What joy it must be to sit here and be served good meals in comfort! Did they ever wonder, as they spooned their game soup into their mouths, about the wretched people who would queue for their leavings the following morning?
It was only when I went over to fetch the napkins from the table that I stopped short with shock and disbelief. I shut my eyes in case I was mistaken.
But there was no mistake. It was there in an alcove: Mama’s sideboard.
Chapter Nine
I fled from the room, my breath coming in gasps. I knew every twist and turn of the carvings, every brass fitting on the drawers and doors of that sideboard. How bad had things been, that Mama had had to sell the thing she treasured most?
With one hand over my mouth to fight back the sobs, I raced downstairs, through the kitchen. I was vaguely aware of Mrs Casey’s concerned face and Rose and Betty stopping what they were doing to stare at me. I ran across the yard to find a place to hide. Some place that would swallow me up. Across the cobbles I raced, until I came to a line of stables.
I threw myself into the hay behind one of the stalls and let all the anger spill over into tears. I just wanted the hay to cover me. If I could just close my eyes and will myself back home…
I was startled out of my dark thoughts by a rustling. Peering around the stall, I was surprised to see John Joe. He had a white bundle in his hands and he was thrusting it into the hay, looking around furtively. When he saw me, he jumped.
‘Esty?’ he said with a note of relief. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then he saw my red eyes and white face. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.
‘What’s wrong, Esty?’ he asked, coming towards me. ‘Has someone upset you? Tell me who and I’ll…’
‘Oh, John Joe,’ I cried, running to him. He put his arm around my shoulders and I told him about Mama’s sideboard. ‘She’d never sell that.’ I said.
‘She had to,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, backing away from him.
‘I knew your mother had sold it,’ he went on. ‘I had to help load it on to the cart. Your mother told me to say nothing. Mrs Burgess took a fancy to it when she called on your mother. Now she’s boasting that she has a sideboard that came from the Earl of Kildare. At least, that’s what Mr Egan told Mrs Casey.’
‘Well, that’s it,’ I said decisively. ‘I must go home.’
‘Shush,’ he said. ‘Try to stay calm, Esty. If you leave this household you’ll never get work anywhere. If you go home, they will have an extra burden, someone else to feed. You must stay. Don’t you see? It’s the only thing to do.’
I pushed him away from me. ‘I can’t stay here. Mama must be heartbroken over selling her sideboard. I promised Papa I’d look after her…’
‘It’s a sideboard, Esty,’ John Joe put in. ‘It’s a thing. People are more important than things. Now, come back to the house with me and try to behave as if nothing has happened. Things will change – you’ll see.’
‘How will things change?’ I said, wiping my face on my apron. ‘Nothing changes for the likes of us, John Joe. We’re for ever at the mercy of landowners and gentry.’
John Joe turned me around to face him.
‘Believe me, Esty, things will change.’ He said it with such intensity that he almost frightened me.
We went back to the house together.
Mrs Casey looked at me curiously.
‘Are you all right, alannah?’ she said, wiping her hands in her apron and coming towards me. More than anything, I wanted to lose myself in her comforting arms, but I took a deep breath and sho
ok my head.
‘She’s all right,’ said John Joe. ‘Isn’t that right, Esty?’
I nodded, and went back to the sewing-room.
‘Where are the napkins?’ May asked. ‘You’ve been gone ages. Why, Esty, you’ve been crying!’ She got up and put her arms around me. ‘Has someone said something?’
‘No, May. It’s not them.’ And I told her about Mama’s sideboard. Her attitude was much the same as John Joe’s.
‘If she did have to sell it, Esty,’ she said, ‘it means she got money for it, and money is life right now. Can’t you understand that?’
I nodded miserably. ‘But it was something so precious, May. It was her mother’s. It was her claim to something better than just being his lordship’s tenant.’
Curious eyes looked at me when I took my place at table at supper-time. Betty nudged Rose and grinned.
‘Work getting too much for Missy?’ she said.
I looked around for John Joe, but once more he was missing. He often missed lunch, but never supper. I presumed he would turn up late, as usual, and that Mrs Casey would have a spare dinner kept for him. But he never came. If anyone noticed, they never said.
The next day was my thirteenth birthday. I didn’t tell anyone. There was no time for birthdays. Not like at home when Mama, Papa and Grandpa would celebrate. I didn’t even tell May when we tucked our quilts around us and I read her bits of The Illustrated London News.
I was late for lunch next day. There was a strange silence in the kitchen. Nobody seemed to notice me as I slipped into my place beside Rose and Betty. Even they were tight-lipped. I looked around for John Joe, but he wasn’t in his place.
Just then, the back door opened and several soldiers rushed in. One of them held up a white cloth. ‘Where is he?’ he shouted, shaking out the cloth. I gasped when I saw that it was a white shirt – the uniform of the Whiteboys. What had this to do with us? And then I remembered John Joe in the stable.
‘Is it John Joe?’ I whispered to Rose.
She nodded, without taking her eyes off the troops.
