There was a small fold-up bed in the last cupboard, and Sarah pulled this out with a flourish. ‘There we are, Hetty. Don’t look such a sour-puss. See, you have a proper bed, and you can use the sink to wash in.’
I hoped she was joking again, but she was serious this time. I felt my eyes filling with tears.
‘Lord help us, what’s the matter now?’ said Mrs Briskett, coming to inspect my ‘bedchamber’.
‘I don’t want to sleep in the scullery! It’s like the punishment room!’ I sobbed. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong yet!’
‘Hey, hey, don’t be so dramatic. I jolly well hope you don’t do anything wrong. Little maids have to be as good as gold or else they get dismissed! Sleeping in the scullery isn’t a punishment, silly. I slept in the scullery when I had my first job as a kitchen maid,’ she said. ‘It was practically the selfsame bed.’
I looked at her. ‘But – but you wouldn’t fit it,’ I said, between sobs.
Sarah burst out laughing again. I realized I had not been tactful.
‘I was a slip of a girl then, missy, not much bigger than you,’ said Mrs Briskett, looking offended.
‘I am sorry – I didn’t mean …’ I stammered. It was impossible to imagine Mrs Briskett as a slip of a girl. I was sure that she was vast even as a babe in arms. I pictured her in meat-red swaddling clothes, at least half the size of her poor mama … I found I was laughing too, but I pretended my snorts were still sobs.
‘Now, now, calm down, child, do. I’m going to start baking or we’ll have no tea – and Mr Buchanan will start complaining bitterly if he has to do without his cake. You come and sift the flour for me, Hetty, while I change out of my good clothes,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Cheer up, dearie – you know I can’t abide tears.’
I did cheer up considerably that afternoon. I had worked with dear Mama in the hospital kitchens, and was quick and capable. I sifted flour, I cut up butter, I cracked open eggs and whisked them to a froth. I measured currants and cherries and walnuts, taking a sly nibble every now and then, while Mrs Briskett was staring at the stove and Sarah’s head was bent over her mending.
She set me to darning an old torn nightshirt when I had finished helping with the baking. It seemed strange to hold the nightshirt in my lap, knowing that it had covered Mr Buchanan’s bony body, but I darned the worn patch obediently. I had spent nine years darning at the hospital, so it was second nature to me now.
‘My, Hetty Feather, that’s even neater than I can manage!’ said Sarah, peering at the patch. ‘Look, Mrs B, you can hardly see the stitches.’
‘Well done, dearie,’ said Mrs Briskett, patting me on the back with a floury hand.
I felt like bursting into tears again. No one had ever praised me at the hospital.
When Mrs Briskett had made her currant cake and her walnut cake, she laid neat slabs out on a fancy plate, and set a tea tray with a pot of tea, a little jug of milk, a dainty sugar bowl, a pretty cup and saucer. Sarah picked up the tray – and then handed it over to me.
‘Why don’t you save my legs? You go and serve the master, Hetty,’ she said.
She lent me her best cap and fancy white apron with frills, though the cap came down past my eyebrows and the apron hem swept the floor. Sarah and Mrs Briskett laughed heartily at this spectacle, but in a kindly fashion.
I wasn’t sure how to serve the tea and cake, so Mrs Briskett sat at the kitchen table, frowning and scribbling with her hand, pretending to be the master, while Sarah mimed serving ‘him’ with his tea and cake, while I watched carefully.
Then Sarah gave me the real tray and sent me on my way. The tray was wooden, covered with a lacy cloth, and heavy. It was a struggle for me to carry it steadily, and as I started up the stairs the teacup rattled on its saucer and the milk slopped out of its jug, but I managed to get all the way up to Mr Buchanan’s study without serious incident.
I knew I had to knock on the door before entering, but didn’t see how I could do so without growing a third useful hand straight out of my chest. I tried putting my leg right up under the tray to balance it for a second, but it tipped precariously. I was determined to do this properly. I set the tray down on the floor, tapped twice on the door, and when the master eventually murmured something, I opened the door a crack, bent down, hauled the tray upright, edged my bottom through the door, and ended up successfully inside the study.
‘I’ve got your tea and cake, Master,’ I said.
‘Mm,’ he replied absent-mindedly, still writing. He made vague waving gestures with his other hand, indicating that I should set down the tray and serve him. I peered around the room but could not spot a single bare surface for my tray. In the end I had to balance it across two piles of books, but it seemed steady enough.
I served his tea on a tiny corner of his desk and offered him the plate of sliced cake. His hand hovered, first over the walnut, then the currant.
‘Which is best, Hetty Feather?’ he asked.
‘They’re both delicious, sir – and I should know because I helped make them,’ I said proudly. ‘Why don’t you take a slice of each?’
He took two slabs – the biggest – and proceeded to eat them, taking alternate bites of each. He made the waving gesture again, this time dismissively.
‘Will that be all, sir?’ I asked, and he nodded, his mouth full of cake.
I was a little disappointed. I wanted him to say, ‘Well done, Hetty. Here’s two more postage stamps as a reward – and take this book of fairy stories to read tonight – and here’s a blank manuscript book and a fresh quill pen for your memoirs.’ But maybe this was overly optimistic. I made do with his grunt, and bobbed out of the room.
When I got down to the kitchen, Sarah patted me on the back and Mrs Briskett cut me my own slice of cake. They were starting to act more like mothers than matrons.
When I trundled my meagre bed out of its cupboard that night, I sat up and wrote a letter to Mama by candlelight. I had helped myself to a good supply of paper and envelopes from the hospital.
Do not worry about me, dearest Mama. I will be a good, obedient little servant girl for a while. My new master, Mr Buchanan, is a strange man rather like a monkey, but he has been quite kind to me, I suppose. Mrs Briskett and Sarah have sharp tongues and mock me at times, but they mostly mean well. I am as happy as I can be WITHOUT YOU.
I signed my name with many kisses, and then tucked my letter into an envelope and stuck on my stamp. Then I started a new letter.
Dearest Gideon,
I can’t say I LIKE being a servant, but I suppose it’s not as bad as I feared. I do so hope that you will find being a soldier is not so bad either. At least you will wear a splendid uniform. Mine is very plain – but then so am I.
Keep well, dearest brother. Remember I am always
Your loving sister,
Hetty
Mrs Briskett had only given me a stub of candle, and it was already flickering – but I reached for another sheet of my precious paper. Because I knew I only had a few minutes before total darkness, I wrote hastily, without time to compose my words.
Dear Jem,
Was it you at the hospital gates???
I am so sorry we did not get time to speak.
But you can write to me at this address. I am a maid here, and it is quite a good house and the people are tolerably kind but I do not think I am cut out to be a servant.
With affection,
Your one-time sister,
Hetty Feather
P.S. Eliza is doing well at the hospital. She is a good kind child and rarely gets into trouble – unlike me. She says you are going to marry her one day. I hope you will be very happy.
I remembered the address accurately enough, and applied another postage stamp to the envelope. My candle guttered, and then extinguished itself. I lay down on my hard little bed. There was a dank smell of soapsuds and stale cooking, so I had to cover my nose with my sheets. It was so dark I could not see my hand before my face, and alarmingly quiet
too. I was used to sleeping in a large room with scores of other girls. I was accustomed to snores and sighs all night long. I lay tensely, feeling terribly alone. I tried to picture Mrs Briskett and Sarah up at the top of the house, and Mr Buchanan somewhere in the middle, but they seemed very far away.
I thought of the young man in brown and wondered if he really was Jem. If so, had he gone all the way home to the cottage now? I thought enviously of my foster family, all crammed together under that thatched roof.
Then, as always, I thought of dear Mama, tucked up in her faraway home by the sea. I whispered to her in the night … and after a while she seemed to whisper back to me:
Night-night, Hetty, my love. You’ve been a good girl and tried hard, and I’m proud of you. I miss you so much, my darling, but don’t worry. We’ll be together again some day.
‘Some day soon,’ I murmured, and at last I fell asleep.
‘GET UP, GET up, you lazy little girl!’
It was Mrs Briskett, shaking me so hard I had to cling to the sides of my bed, in danger of tumbling to the floor.
‘I said you had to be up at six to light the kitchen fire. It’s nearly half past now, and I can’t start cooking till the stove heats up. We’re going to be all behind like a sheep’s tail, and I can’t bear that! Get up, Hetty Feather!’
I got up and barely sat down again the whole day long. I didn’t have time to wash myself properly – just a quick dab. I didn’t even brush my hair, I just crammed my cap on top. I scarcely had time to rush to the terrible outside privy.
I was put in a corner to clean Mr Buchanan’s boots while Mrs Briskett genuflected in front of the kitchen range. She tried to show me what to do, but it was so complicated and temperamental I couldn’t get the hang of it at all. I was sent off in disgrace to sweep and clean the downstairs grates. Then I was given a brush and cloth and polish, to clean the doorstep and brasses. I scrubbed my fingers raw trying to impress, but Sarah was in a bad mood too and sniffed at my efforts. Next I had to haul a huge jug of hot water up the stairs to set on Mr Buchanan’s washstand. He was sitting up in his bed, wearing a nightcap instead of a fez, but looking more monkey-like than ever. The sleeves of his nightgown rumpled up, showing excessively hairy thin arms. Maybe that long tail was lurking under the bedcovers after all.
I had to serve him a cup of tea, and then scurry back downstairs to down a cup myself. The kitchen was warm now, and something smelling delicious was sizzling in the pan. I sniffed at it hopefully, suddenly remembering the pigs we kept long ago in my country foster home.
‘Don’t you go making big eyes at me, Hetty Feather,’ Mrs Briskett snapped. ‘Lazy girls go without their breakfast.’ But she gave me a rasher of wondrous bacon, and a sausage too. I wished I had time to savour them properly, but I had to run to the dining room to serve Mr Buchanan his breakfast.
I would have thought a tray would suffice for one gentleman, but oh dear, no. We had to lay a white damask cloth over the table, with the fold exactly in the middle. Sarah fussed over a centrepiece of flowers and ferns, and then set me laying two small knives, two small forks, a dessertspoon, a dish, a plate, and an intricately folded table napkin before Mr Buchanan’s chair. I had to refold the wretched napkin three times, and even rearrange the cutlery, because I didn’t have the bowls of the spoon on the table and the prongs of the fork upwards. As if it mattered!
Then there was fuss fuss fuss with the salt cellar and pepper box and mustard pot, and the loaf of bread had to be precise upon its platter, and the butter – oh dear goodness, the butter had to be fashioned into a little rose shape with a pair of pats.
We set it all up, with covered hot-water dishes containing enough rashers, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms to feed an army, plus two boiled eggs in a napkin and a rack of toast. I saw Mr Buchanan left his toast, two rashers, a sausage and several mushrooms when I went to clear the table, and I crammed them all into my mouth quick to keep me going.
I was sent upstairs to clean Mrs Briskett’s and Sarah’s rooms, and then I did the master’s bedroom. He’d used his chamber pot even though he had his splendid water closet a few steps across the landing. I tried out the water closet for myself while I was stuck inside cleaning it. I clung hard to the edge of the seat just in case I was sucked down the hole by a sudden spurt of water – it still seemed eerily mysterious to me.
He’d left his bed for me to strip and make up. Thank goodness the beds in the guest rooms were still pristine, though I had to dust and sweep these rooms too. I was ready to crawl into bed myself, but Mrs Briskett was calling for me, needing me down in the kitchen to peel the potatoes and carrots and chop the cabbage. I chopped my finger too and had to suck it hard to stop it bleeding.
Then I had to see to the fires in the dining room and living room while Sarah flapped around with a duster. While Mr Buchanan was having his lunch, Sarah let me into his study to stoke his own fire, but I wasn’t allowed to touch anything else. Sarah dusted here with elaborate care, picking up books and papers reverently and replacing them precisely.
I hoped I might get time to breathe after my lunch, and maybe do a bit more fancy darning so that Sarah and Mrs Briskett would marvel at me again – but any chance of that vanished when I spilled a whole pitcher of milk trying to carry it out of the larder with greasy hands. Mrs Briskett smacked me hard about the head and set me to scrubbing the entire floor.
‘But my hands are all sore already, Mrs B, and my finger’s actually bleeding – look!’ I said, thrusting it at her.
‘And my heart’s bleeding listening to your endless excuses. And don’t you go calling me Mrs B: it’s Mrs Briskett. Let’s have a little respect around here. Get going with that scrubbing brush. Milk’s the very devil when it spills. I’m not having my kitchen reeking like a dairy. Go to it!’
I started scrubbing, squatting down and wiping the floor cautiously, because my hands were really throbbing.
‘Not like that! Get down on your knees and put some elbow grease into it, or you’ll go without any supper!’ she commanded.
How could I have ever thought she was like a mother! She was even worse than Matron Pigface Peters and Matron Stinking Bottomly. I scrubbed viciously, cursing Mrs Briskett under my breath at every stroke, imagining the flagstones were her big meaty face. I put such effort into it that my behind waggled in the air.
‘My, that’s a very tempting sight!’ said a loud Cockney voice. It was Bertie the butcher’s boy, bringing us a basket of meat.
‘Less of your cheek, you,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Now, let’s have a look at that minced beef. I hope it’s not all gristle and bone – I asked for prime mince.’
‘It’s the finest chopped-up backside of bovine, Mrs B,’ said Bertie. ‘Here, have a sniff, it’s lovely and fresh.’ He offered her a paper of meat as if it were a bunch of roses. She laughed and swatted his hand away, not seeming to mind at all when he called her Mrs B.
I muttered miserably to myself that it wasn’t fair.
‘What’s that you’re saying, Beautiful?’ said the boy.
He squatted down beside me. ‘Oh dear, what a face! You must have been a bad girl to be set to scrubbing at this hour! Remember, cleanliness is next to Godliness – so you and the kitchen floor will be wafting around the heavenly clouds one day.’
‘One day soon, I expect,’ I said. ‘When I faint from loss of blood, seeing as I have an open wound.’ I sucked my poor hacked finger.
‘Let’s have a look.’ Bertie held my grubby hand surprisingly gently and squinted at my finger. ‘Call that a cut! Look at mine!’
He spread his left hand out in front of my eyes, fanning his fingers – and I saw that the tops of three of them were entirely missing, not even a vestige of a nail left. He laughed when I gasped.
‘Now they really did bleed when I chopped the tips off. Old Jarvis minced them up lovely and everyone’s cottage pie tasted real good that day, with all my prime boy-meat!’ He fell about laughing at my face. But three missing fingers wer
e no joke.
‘You chopped them right off?’
‘I’m learning the trade, see. I got a great side of beef, hung onto it tight to stop it rolling around, raised my chopper – down it goes with a great whack … only my aim was a bit skewed.’
‘How awful!’
‘No it ain’t – not when you’re into butchery. My master, old Jarvis, he’s got three whole fingers missing – and Samuel and Sidney, his older lads, they’ve lost one apiece. It’s only to be expected. But when you’ve done it once, it don’t half sharpen your aim for the future!’
‘I don’t think I should care to be a butcher’s boy.’
‘Yes, well, when I left the workhouse they said to me, Bertie, my boy, do you want to go into Parliament, or do you fancy a career in the city, or maybe you’d like to set yourself up as a gentleman farmer – but do you know something, Beautiful, those jobs didn’t appeal to me. Butchery, that’s what I thought.’
I felt myself blushing. ‘You were in the work-house?’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes, and I ain’t ashamed of it, either. Weren’t my fault my ma ended up there, and I dare say it weren’t her fault either, so don’t you go looking down on me.’
‘Oh, I’m not!’ I glanced over to see if Mrs Briskett and Sarah were listening, but they were chatting together. Mrs Briskett was busy setting the pieces of meat out on plates and covering them with mesh domes while Sarah started sewing the hem of a tablecloth.
‘My mama was in the workhouse too,’ I said.
‘So you know what it’s like,’ said Bernie.
‘Well, I was brought up in the Foundling Hospital.’
He shook his head. ‘A foundling and an orphan. Well, we’re a matching pair, ain’t we?’
‘An orphan? So your mother died?’
‘Yup, when I was about ten.’
‘You poor thing,’ I said.
‘Well, I didn’t truly know her, did I? We were kept separate, see. We met up on Christmas Day, and that was a rum time, and it meant the world to all of us – but we still had to get through the three hundred and sixty-four other days.’
Sapphire Battersea Page 7
