by Annie Murray
‘If we save we could afford it,’ she’d said. ‘And it’d be good for Lily – there’ll be so much to see. It’s going to be enormous!’
‘Waste of bloody money,’ Harry said, looking up from by the fire where he was polishing his boots. ‘What’s there to see that you can’t see ’ere?’
Rose stared at him. The ignorance of the question aggravated her beyond words. See here? What did they ever see here, in their little house, in these same old streets, going to work, coming home, keeping house? She stared at her husband as if he was a stranger – and things were bad enough already by then. In fact, she had her own secret little store of money, but she didn’t want to own up to that.
‘But Harry –’ She tried to control her resentment and speak persuasively. ‘There’ll be things from all over the world, from the Empire, like it says. And people going from all over, to see things, learn something new . . . Something big that you can be part of . . . We could take Lily on a train, get out for a bit. I mean, when have we ever . . .’
She had to stop speaking in order not to break down and weep with frustration. Harry kept brushing the boots with a hard, rhythmic stroke. She looked at his profile with his black, wiry hair and stocky body, so alien to her.
‘I thought,’ she recovered enough to say, ‘it’d be something we could do together. Something to look forward to, as a family – the three of us. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?’
He looked up again, his eyes full of a sullen indifference. ‘When’ve you ever wanted to do anything with me, eh – tell me that? If you think I’m spending a penny on carting down there to some fancy load of muck they’ve dreamed up to empty yer pockets, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not interested. Load of flaming claptrap.’
‘Oh, Harry, please . . .’ She longed to go so much, she almost sank to her knees. ‘Just this one thing – it’d mean the world to me!’ It felt like a tipping point in her life, something she had to do, whatever it took, something to treasure and to enlarge her existence. And he could see nothing of this.
Harry stood up, a boot stuck on his left hand. ‘I’ve said no. You’re not going and that’s an end of it! Think you can just do what yer bloody like, don’t yer? Well, I’m not having it.’ There was a smirk of triumph in his expression. ‘Now you can see how it feels.’
She knew it was hopeless. Harry would never change his mind. Once he went out she wept in bitter disappointment. She wasn’t going to do it in front of him and let him see how much he had hurt and frustrated her. It felt as if some door of hope had been slammed in her face for ever.
The King had opened the exhibition on 23 April and she followed everything avidly in the paper. Muriel Wood at church, a kindly person, had said she would love to have gone too and take her boy but she couldn’t run to the train fare. So they talked about it and shared their wistful longing to be there. Someone Muriel knew did go and kindly brought her back a souvenir. That tin of Sharp’s Super-Kreem Toffees was the closest Rose came to touching the exhibition and all it had meant to her.
Like the other setbacks of her life, she had had to fold it away and try to forget it. Far worse things happened, she knew full well, yet the bitterness had stung for a long time. Turning the page today tore it open again, the feelings of longing and the deep loathing and disappointment she felt in her husband.
For the umpteenth time she asked herself how she could have been so stupid, so hasty and misguided as to marry him. Leaning forward to warm her hands by the fire she reflected gloomily that there was no point thinking like that. She had married him: they’d both made a bed for themselves and now they had to make the best of lying in it.
Nine
If it wasn’t for Lily, Rose sometimes thought, she would have felt that her life was over. Though she was only twenty-five, her own mother died at thirty-seven of childbed fever and it had coloured Rose’s sense of how long life might be.
And if it hadn’t been for Mom dying – well, everything would have been different.
Rose, born in the spring of 1900, was the third child of David and Alice Spencer. Her big sister Bessie was six years her senior, her brother Peter four years. Their father ran a small photographic studio on the Stratford Road and Bessie had taken to working for him when she left school. Their mother’s health was never very strong and above all she suffered with childbirth. Peter’s birth had left her with an injury to her back, so that often she was in pain and found it hard to move about.
After Rose was born no more babies appeared for a long interval, but Rose had to learn very young to help her ailing mother about the house. Then, in 1911, Alice found she was expecting again.
Rose remembered those months with a poignant clarity. Her mother had been a gentle, kind presence in their little house in Sparkhill. She had had a genteel upbringing herself and was able to teach her girls all they needed to know about keeping a good home and about sewing and mending. Alice played the piano for as long as the pain in her back would allow, and Rose could recall her mother’s sweet voice singing as she played. It was one of her dearest memories.
Rose could sense her mother’s terror of childbirth and there was a feeling of cold foreboding during those months. As the pregnancy advanced, the pain in Alice’s back also grew worse and she had to spend a lot of time lying down on her side to try and ease it.
On a muggy spring day in 1912, Maud came into the world. Bessie was kept back at home to help. Rose was very relieved not to be in the house and hear any of the disturbing noises of childbirth. She ran home from school at dinner time, anxious but excited. The baby had already arrived and she was allowed to go up and see. Her mother looked exhausted, her long brown hair lank from the effort of it, but she was full of relief and smiled when Rose came into the room.
‘You’ve got a little sister, Rosie,’ she said.
She had given birth to a healthy little girl. It was over.
But it was not over. Still in pain from her back, Alice found it hard to move and get out of bed. Within a week she was delirious with fever and they had to take it in turns to hold little Maud to her to feed as their mother scarcely even knew them. Bessie and Rose stroked cold water over Alice’s limbs with a rag as the doctor instructed, to cool her down. Gradually her left leg swelled. Her thigh was a disturbing sight, all hard and pale. They propped her leg up on pillows but the swelling grew worse. Soon, the whole of her leg was like a dead, white log.
David Spencer, their father, was distraught, kneeling beside his wife every spare minute he had, stroking her hand, his greying head bent over her, caressing her palm and begging her to speak to him. Once, as she was watching at the door, Rose saw her mother open her eyes and a look pass between them.
‘Oh, my sweet, my dearest lamb,’ her father said tenderly, leaning to stroke Alice’s forehead.
Alice gave a slight smile, whispered something, and Rose saw her father lower his head and rest it gently beside her, still holding her hand.
It was so loving that it brought tears to Rose’s eyes. Whenever she thought of it, even years later, it caught at her throat. It was what love was supposed to be.
Mom slipped away slowly. Her heart gave out in the small hours of a May morning.
They were all left bereft. Life was never the same again.
Her father lost heart. In all the fear and grief of the time, this was the most frightening aspect of all. With their mother gone, Bessie, Peter and Rose felt exposed and frightened, missing her care. They needed their father to stand firm and safe, to provide for them and help them learn to carry on. David Spencer was able to do none of these things.
Up until then he had been a good enough father, but his wife, weak as she had seemed, had been his mainstay. Without her he was lost. He became a shadow who disappeared to work early in the morning and returned to eat, then slipped away to his room, heavy with sorrow. It was as if he couldn’t even see them in front of him.
Most of the burden fell on eighteen-year-old Bessie, who was forced
to give up work and stay home. Somewhere along the line it was decided that baby Maud should be given over to be brought up by someone else. Rose only discovered this when she came home one afternoon to find her gone.
‘Where’s Maudie?’ she asked Bessie, looking round. There was no sign of her or of her little things and the house looked bare. Bessie’s eyes were swollen from crying. As Rose questioned her, Bessie broke down again, tears coursing down her good-natured face.
‘A lady came and took her this morning!’ She fell back on to a chair and wept. Rose sank down at her feet, clutching at her sister’s knees for comfort, not taking her eyes off her.
‘Our dad said it was the only way, that she’ll have a better chance in life. But it feels wrong – he should never’ve done it. I told him I could look after her and he kept saying all of us could get on better without a babby in the house. He never liked Maudie ’cause he thinks she killed our mom, but it wasn’t her fault . . . And oh, when the lady came . . .’ Bessie wept, her shoulders heaving.
Rose licked her lips, tasting the salt of her own tears. ‘What was she like?’ she whispered.
‘She was all right. Quite nice. Looked kind enough. She was wearing ever such a nice coat with a fur collar. But they live over in Knowle. She said to me that Maudie’ll have everything she’ll ever need and they’ll give her dancing lessons and a good life and I s’pect she will – but they aren’t our family, are they? Maudie doesn’t belong over there with those people. She’s not going to know who we are and we’ll never see her now. Oh, Rose – I hate our dad for giving her away . . . I’ll never forgive him!’
Rose felt as if she might explode. Sobbing, she rested her head in Bessie’s lap and Bessie hugged her and they wept together. It was a long time before Rose could take in that Maudie had really gone and she wouldn’t hear her crying any more or feel her little hand grab a finger and cling on, or see her little clothes hanging on the line. Although she was only three months old, it felt as if Maudie had been with them for ever and they couldn’t imagine life without her.
Within a year of their mother’s death, their father was taken gravely ill and went into the Fever Hospital, never to return home. The children scattered. Peter, then nearly seventeen, announced that he was going to go to sea – ‘or anywhere but here’ as he put it – and set off to look for a merchant ship. Bessie hurried into marriage with a much older man who was a widower and went to live in Acocks Green. There was talk of Rose going to live with them but she didn’t take to Edwin Fisher, Bessie’s husband, a large, loud man. She did the only thing she could think of to make sure she had a roof over her head, and went into service.
The first sight she had of the house in Oxford Road, Moseley, was on a summer day in 1913. Even in bright sunlight, the house looked gloomy and neglected. Rose felt a shiver go through her as she turned in at the front gate and saw the peeling paint and dark, forbidding windows. There was a look of everything being covered in dust, even on the outside, especially when contrasted with the neighbouring houses in this genteel street, which looked in much better repair. A discouraging smell seeped out from under the door and the steps were still clogged with last winter’s leaves.
She hesitated before knocking. She had answered an advertisement for a maid of all work, preferably to live in. But could she really face living in this house? For a moment she was tempted to run away and look for a post elsewhere.
As she stood, dithering on the step, the door slowly opened and she saw an elderly man, dressed in clothes that appeared to be intended for someone several sizes bigger – perhaps the younger version of this man. He was little and birdlike, with pale blue eyes. The kindly way he looked at her was at least reassuring.
In a high, fluting voice, he said, ‘You must be the young lady we’re expecting? Miss Spencer?’
‘Yes,’ Rose whispered.
‘We were looking out for you. Do come in, my dear.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Professor Mount.’
Startled, Rose reached out and shook his blue-veined hand, which was cold as a dead bird.
‘Come along –’ He beckoned her into the hall and closed the front door. Rose’s nostrils were immediately assailed by an even stronger version of the heart-sinking, vegetable smell and in the gloom, following Professor Mount’s stiff–hipped progress, she made a face. ‘My wife and I are very pleased that you have come. We really are in rather a predicament.’
Rose was not entirely sure what one of those was, but she could tell from the smell and general state of the place that it badly needed attention.
‘Our last maid left a few weeks ago and we haven’t had much luck in finding anyone suitable – or who’s prepared to take us on.’ He stopped abruptly so that Rose almost crashed into the back of him. Without turning, which seemed to be a dangerous operation for his balance, he said, ‘D’you think you’re up to it?’
‘I don’t know – sir.’ She hardly knew what she was supposed to be ‘up to’ yet. However, compared with some of the stories she had heard about the treatment some maids had in big houses, she was encouraged by Professor Mount. ‘I hope so,’ she added, trying to sound confident.
‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Now come and meet Mrs Mount, my dear.’
They had passed what must have been the front parlour, though the door was closed, and Professor Mount led Rose into a room at the back crammed with furniture, a couch, several tables and more chairs than could reasonably be needed by two people, all looking ragged. Each side of the chimney breast and along the back wall was completely taken up by bookshelves which reached the ceiling, crammed with books. Rose had never seen so many books anywhere. The fire was lit even though it was high summer and the room was stifling. Rose took a deep breath through her nose, then wished she hadn’t. Then she sneezed. The place was thick with dust.
‘Hester, my dear?’
It took a moment for Rose to work out that what seemed to be a pile of bedding on the couch topped by a lace-edged muslin bonnet was a person, until Mrs Mount’s fleshy face bobbed up to look at them both.
‘The girl has come.’
‘Ah –’ A tremulous voice came from the mound. ‘Help me up a little way, Benjamin.’
Professor Mount did as he was asked. But he had such a job hoisting his large wife into a more upright position, with grunts and ‘oh, deary me’s from him and ‘ooh’s and ‘oh, dear Lord’s from her – all quite cheerful on both sides, Rose noted – that she almost felt she ought to offer to help, but was too timid. The woman’s left arm seemed limp and useless.
Mrs Mount, once upright, had greyish-white hair spilling out from under her old-fashioned white bonnet. Her face was round with very pink cheeks and eyes almost as vivid as her husband’s. Her gown was of a pale sugar pink, with a frill down the front. Quite breathless after her arduous ascent to a sitting position, she waved a handkerchief in front of her face for a few moments. But she was smiling.
‘Well,’ she observed at last. ‘You do look young. How old are you, child?’
‘Fourteen, ma’am,’ Rose lied, adding an extra year. Fortunately she was well on in height for her age.
‘She looks a strong young thing,’ Professor Mount said. ‘Like a useful little sapling that won’t bend or break.’
‘And so fair of face!’ Mrs Mount added. ‘Do you have any experience about the house?’
‘I learned from my mother, ma’am.’ Rose wasn’t quite sure where to look as she was talking, and kept her gaze on the floor until she realized this might seem rude, and looked across at Mrs Mount. On the table beside the couch, Rose saw skeins of embroidery threads. The bright colours lifted her spirits. ‘Her health wasn’t good. After she passed away we all had to manage.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ Professor Mount said, perching on the chair beside his wife’s couch. His jacket rose up round his neck as if he might disappear into it completely.
‘We have a cook,’ Mrs Mount went on. ‘She comes in every day and makes sure we are suitably fed and
thereby kept alive. But we are crying out for some domestic help – for someone who will stick. We are not the most orderly of households, but we shall so appreciate you.’
She went on to explain that there were only the two of them there unless their son came to visit, so that once Rose had ‘refreshed’ the rest of the house as she put it, her tasks would not be too onerous.
‘We should like to have someone sleeping in,’ Mrs Mount said. ‘Just in case. And it does so add life to a house.’
After she had explained the duties in more detail, the two of them sat looking expectantly at Rose, who had no idea what to say.
Professor Mount leaned forward, bony hands palms up.
‘So – are you to be she?’
It felt impossible to say no, although the house already oppressed her. Slowly, Rose nodded.
March 1925
Ten
‘Where’s Mom?’ Aggie asked, worried at seeing her grandmother downstairs and no sign of anyone else. Nanna hardly ever appeared this early. Her joints were very painful to move first thing. ‘It takes a while for me to get my turbines going,’ she’d say. And Mom was always shooing her out of the kitchen. But Nanna seemed quite lively today.
‘Your mother’s bad this morning – and your pa. So I thought I’d better get myself down here instead of lying up there like a lump of lard. Now come on – get yourselves ready for school.’
She winked at Aggie. The two of them always had had an understanding. ‘I was the oldest girl,’ Nanna said to her once. ‘A lot falls to you.’
She had brewed up a pot, which was standing under its cosy on the grey oilcloth covering the kitchen table, along with the milk bottle and the carved-up remains of a loaf. There were a few lumps of sugar and a scrape of margarine on a saucer. May was still asleep, but the other four of them who had to get to school, Aggie, John, Ann and Silas, all stood round hurriedly eating and for once not squabbling. Things felt different.
