Forever Yours

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘Mother.’ A small round woman who was as fat as she was tall rose from a rocking chair placed at an angle to a monster of a range and came towards them. The kitchen was full of other girls of varying ages who all seemed to be busy working and who carried on with what they were doing with just a quick glance here and there at the newcomers.

  Constance watched her aunt embrace her daughter and then Florence turned to her. She didn’t smile or say hello, merely eyed her up and down, before saying, presumably to her mother, ‘She doesn’t look very strong.’

  ‘She is. And willing. She’s a hard worker, is Constance.’

  ‘Aye, well, she’ll need to be. There’s no room in my kitchen for malingerers.’

  ‘She’ll pull her weight, have no fear.’

  They were talking as though she wasn’t there, but bearing in mind her aunt’s warning to say nothing unless she was spoken to directly, Constance remained silent.

  ‘Sit yourself down there.’ Florence pointed Constance into a corner of the room where a long wooden settle without any cushions stood. Ivy she drew closer to the fire, saying to one of the kitchenmaids working at the enormous table, ‘Make us a pot of tea, Agnes, and fetch out that fruitcake we had yesterday. It’s a while till tea and you must be peckish, Mother?’

  Constance sat down, biting on her lower lip. Everyone was ignoring her, even her Aunt Ivy. She took the opportunity to gaze at her surroundings. The kitchen was bigger than her grandma’s whole house, so large and lofty it seemed incredible there was so much space just for a kitchen. Through an open doorway at one end she could see a scullery and that looked huge too. The lower parts of the walls were covered in glazed tiles and the floor was stone slabbed in the kitchen, wooden duckboards standing on the floor round the table where the girls were working, probably to lift their feet off the cold stone. Three enormous dressers stood against the walls holding jugs, copper moulds, a staggering array of dishes and utensils and many objects Constance had never seen before. Furthermore, she didn’t have a clue as to their purpose. Pin rails holding metal dish covers were positioned near each dresser, and against one was a tall pestle and mortar.

  Even as she watched, the young girl who had opened the door and who wasn’t dressed as nicely as the kitchenmaids with their neat white frocks, smaller aprons and tiny pancake of a cap, came to the pestle and mortar carrying a large lump of meat. The mortar looked to be made out of part of a tree trunk with a marble basin inserted into the top, and the pestle was a stout wooden pole with its bulbous base resting in the marble bowl and its top secured to the wall by a metal ring. The girl gripped the pestle with both hands after placing the meat in the basin and began to pound up and down with all her strength. Constance gazed at her, fascinated. The girl was so small and skinny and the pestle looked so heavy.

  The kitchenmaid, Agnes, had made the tea in the biggest teapot Constance had ever seen. Everything seemed larger than life here. After pouring Florence and Ivy a cup and taking it to them with a piece of cake, Agnes placed a mug near everyone else although no one stopped working. When she brought the tea to Constance, Constance smiled her thanks. ‘I didn’t know if you took sugar but I put a spoonful in anyway,’ Agnes murmured, returning the smile. ‘And don’t look so scared.You’ll be fine. If Gracie’ – she indicated the girl pounding at the meat – ‘can do the work, I’m sure you can. She’s the other scullerymaid,’ she added by way of explanation. ‘And she’s not very bright.’

  Constance just had time to whisper, ‘Thank you,’ before Agnes returned to her post at the table, but the little exchange warmed her far more than the hot tea. Suddenly the kitchen wasn’t such a strange and hostile place.

  A footman walked into the kitchen at five to three from the scullery and his tone was deferential as he spoke to Ivy’s daughter. ‘Mr Rowan is ready for the girl now, Cook.’

  Florence rose from her chair, brushing cake crumbs from the front of her dress. Constance had stood up too and now Florence beckoned her. ‘Come along, girl. Don’t stand there dilly-dallying.’

  As she followed the liveried footman and the cook into the massive scullery, Constance realised there were only two ways into the kitchen: one, the door she and Ivy had first come through, which led out into the courtyard, and this other, which took them across the scullery and out into a passageway leading to a back flight of stairs.

  She only had time for a quick glance round the room in which presumably she’d spend most of her working hours if she got the job, but it was a dark, dismal place. There were several sinks dotted round the walls, some made of wood and some of stone, and a huge floor-to-ceiling plate-rack. Three rough tables stood in the centre of the space and a boiling copper took up one corner. The one and only window was tiny.

  There was no chance to see any more, but as they walked down the passageway towards the stairs, Florence waved her hand at doors as they passed them. ‘These are the storerooms. This one’s the dry larder holding bread, pastry, milk, butter and cold meats. That one’s the meat larder. This one’s the wet larder for fish, and the vegetable store’s between them. The last one is the salting and smoking store where we also store the bacon. It’ll be one of your jobs to cut sufficient rashers of bacon for the house and staff for the week every Monday morning. There’s a pastry room off the dry larder.’

  They had almost reached the stairs when Florence said shortly, ‘This is the housekeeper’s still room and private quarters, but that needn’t concern you,’ as she nodded at the door on her left. ‘And here’ – as she turned to the right of the passageway where the footman had just knocked on the last door – ‘is Mr Rowan’s pantry and private quarters.You keep your eyes lowered in his presence and only look at him to answer if he speaks to you, is that understood? Now stand up straight, girl, and don’t slouch.’

  The footman had opened the door for them and was standing to one side, but as the cook sailed past him he winked at Constance, mouthing, ‘Good luck.’

  Constance didn’t dare smile back. Her aunt had regaled her with stories about footmen and servant girls; they were to be avoided as much as gentlemen. She stepped out of the dark-brown-painted passageway into a sitting room of some considerable comfort, and the contrast made her forget the cook’s instructions to keep her eyes on the floor. The room was small but cosy, the two armchairs either side of the fire and the bookcase along one wall homely and the wooden floorboards polished, with a bright thick clippy mat in front of the hearth. Another door, which was closed, led to the butler’s bedroom and pantry, the place where in a pair of lead sinks all the tableware too valuable to be trusted to the ministrations of the scullerymaids was cleaned, and where a fire-proof safe held items of value the master and mistress wanted keeping under lock and key. Ivy had filled her in on all this, along with the fact that the butler, the housekeeper, the master’s valet, the lady’s maid, the nanny and the cook – this last had been said with some pride – ate their meals with the house steward in his room where they were waited on by the steward’s boy. The rest of the servants ate in the servants’ hall, a room with long scrubbed tables and benches which was situated next to the steward’s room on the next floor.

  The butler had risen to his feet as they had entered. Now he indicated an armchair as he said, ‘Please be seated, Mrs Banks,’ as he took Florence’s arm and helped her sit down.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Rowan.’

  Once Florence was sitting down, the butler also resumed his seat and now they were both staring at Constance. After one swift glance at the butler Constance remembered her manners and lowered her eyes to her feet.

  ‘So this is your aunt’s granddaughter. How old did you say she is?’ The butler addressed himself to Florence, his voice precise.

  ‘Thirteen in the December just gone, Mr Rowan.’

  ‘She looks older. And she’s a good worker?’

  ‘So I’ve been assured, Mr Rowan. So I’ve been assured.’

  ‘Well, in all matters appertaining to the kitchen, you know I
trust your judgement, Mrs Banks.’ There was a pause, and then: ‘You, girl. You’re aware of your good fortune in being recommended for this position by Mrs Banks?’

  Constance looked into the thin bony face staring at her. ‘Yes, sir.’ At least she could answer with genuine enthusiasm.

  ‘I hope so. You’re a most fortunate girl. Most fortunate.’

  Constance dropped her gaze again but not before the incongruity of the two figures sitting in the armchairs struck her. They were like the nursery rhyme about Jack Sprat and his wife which Miss Newton told the little ones, she thought with a touch of nervous hysteria. The picture she’d held up in her book had shown a woman so rotund her tiny feet didn’t look as though they could support her, and a man so thin he was skeletal.

  ‘You will receive a wage of eighteen pounds a year, along with your board and lodging and uniform. Mrs Banks will detail your duties. Do you have any questions?’

  Hundreds, but Constance knew better than to ask. ‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Florence had stood up again, so apparently the interview was over. It had lasted all of two minutes and for this she had got herself into a right state? Seeing him had obviously merely been a formality; it was clear Florence had the say in everything to do with the kitchen and its staff as the butler had intimated.

  Outside in the passageway once more, Constance followed the waddling figure of Florence back to the kitchen. Ivy was sipping another cup of tea as they entered and she didn’t seem surprised that Constance had got the job.

  ‘Agnes?’ Florence called the kitchenmaid over. ‘See to it Constance is given her uniform and show her where she’ll sleep and put her belongings. Run through what will be expected of her while you’re about it.’ Turning to Constance, she said, ‘Agnes is first kitchenmaid and you will answer to her if I am not here. She has been with me for fifteen years and knows how I like things done. My other girls are Teresa, Cathleen, Maria and Patience.’ Each kitchenmaid bobbed their head as she spoke. ‘And Gracie is the other scullerymaid,’ Florence added, looking over at the small figure still pounding away at the meat. ‘Put your back into it, Gracie. I want that beef fine enough to push through a sieve.’ Looking at her mother, she shook her head. ‘Drives me mad, that one.’

  The next few hours flew by in a whirl of confusion for Constance. After she’d been given her uniform from the laundry store next to the housekeeper’s quarters, along with a pair of the hideous boots Gracie was wearing, Agnes led her up the back flight of stairs.They climbed three floors to the attics which were icy cold, and there lines of pallet beds stood under the rafters with boxes beside each one holding the occupant’s meagre belongings. It was a dismal place.

  Agnes led her over to one at the far end of the attic. ‘This was Dolly’s, the girl you’re replacing,’ she said. ‘You know what happened to her? With the footman, I mean?’

  Constance nodded. ‘My aunt told me.’

  ‘Carrying on with any of the male house-servants is strictly forbidden, but they’ll try it on so watch them. They sleep on the floor below us but you never pass through the door leading into their billets whatever they might say.’ Agnes stared at her. ‘And they’ll say plenty to you, I’ll be bound. Once you reach a certain age, walking out with one of the outside staff is allowed, as long as you confine yourself to just walking out, if you know what I mean. The head gardener and the gamekeeper have cottages on the estate, but the rest of the garden staff and the grooms and stable-boys and what-have-you sleep above the stables or in the building between the stableyard and the greenhouses.’

  Constance nodded again. She’d made up her mind she’d steer clear of all the male staff; she wasn’t remotely interested in having a beau, ever.

  ‘Now as to your duties, I’ll try and tell you everything – but ask me if you’re not sure over the next days, all right?’ Agnes smiled. ‘And don’t look so scared. Cook’s bark is worse than her bite. She prides herself on running a good kitchen and if you work hard you’ll find her easy enough to get on with.’

  Constance smiled back weakly. She did so hope so. Remembering something that had puzzled her, she said, ‘When I was in the butler’s room he called her Mrs Banks but I didn’t think she was married?’ Her aunt had never mentioned it anyway.

  ‘She isn’t, but it’s respectful to address someone in Cook’s position as Mrs. Anyway, that won’t concern you. We call her Cook, it’s only those of the same standing who can address her as Mrs Banks. Mr Rowan, on the other hand, is Mr Rowan or sir, but it’s doubtful you’ll speak to him.’

  Her belongings deposited in the box next to her bed, Constance quickly changed into her uniform. The dress and apron felt as ugly and stiff as they looked and the boots weighed her feet down.

  ‘You and Gracie start work at six o’clock in the morning in winter and six-thirty in the summer.You finish when you finish.’ Agnes wrinkled her nose sympathetically here. ‘If there’s a dinner party you’ll still be washing pots and pans at midnight. You’ll mostly be in the scullery cleaning and scouring all the pans and things, and washing the scullery and kitchen floors. Plucking the poultry and skinning the game is part of your job and Gracie’ll show you how, but be careful how long you leave the birds hanging. Feathering is easier when it’s been hung a while but too long and it won’t only be the feathers that drop out.’

  At Constance’s wrinkled brow, Agnes added significantly, ‘Maggots.’ She shuddered. ‘Gracie doesn’t mind them so she’ll leave a bird ten days sometimes, by which time it’s heaving.’

  Constance was aghast and her face reflected this.

  ‘If you don’t like them, then be careful to watch the fat that scums the side of the sinks. You have to scrape it off by hand and put it in boxes for the woman who buys it at the back door for making soap, but the maggots will get in that quicker than you can blink in the summer. Best to clear it every other night then.’

  Agnes paused for breath. ‘You and Gracie wait on table in the servants’ hall and once everyone’s finished, you clear away and set the places again. Breakfast’s eight o’clock in the summer and half eight in the winter. Lunch is at eleven and the main meal of the day is half one. Tea’s at five and supper’s at nine o’clock. Once breakfast is over the upper staff join us in the servants’ hall for morning prayer which Mr Howard, he’s the house steward, takes. On Sunday mornings we attend the estate church with the family. You’re allowed every other Sunday afternoon off and a full Sunday once a month, but you’re still expected to attend church in the morning.’

  Agnes had turned and led the way out of the attics as she had been speaking. As they descended the stairs she pointed to a heavy green-baize door. Constance had noticed one on each landing. ‘These doors lead to the main house and you must never open them, not ever. If one of the family or any guests caught sight of you there’d be ructions and Cook would have a blue fit. None of us kitchen staff must be seen.’

  Constance stared at the back of Agnes’s neat head. ‘When do we go into the main house then?’

  ‘We don’t. I’ve been here fifteen years and I never have. Only Cook does on occasion when the mistress wants to discuss a special menu or a dish she’s had when she’s been out visiting. If you should happen to be outside in the yards or fetching stuff from the glass-houses or dairy and you see any of the family or guests, you make yourself scarce till they’ve gone.’

  Agnes continued to reel out further instructions until they reached the kitchen once more, but Constance found she couldn’t take them in. Her head was spinning, her cap kept slipping down over her forehead and she felt as if she was walking in seven-league boots. The earlier feeling of warmth and comfort brought about by Agnes’s kindness had evaporated, and now she felt lost and lonely and bewildered, and not a little afraid of what was expected of her. If it wasn’t for the thought of Tilly and Matt she would run out of here this very moment and make her way back to Sacriston – which had now taken on a heavenly aura – even if she had to walk every mile o
f the way, she told herself wretchedly. She didn’t belong here, she’d never fit in. There were so many dos and don’ts, so many pitfalls, and she didn’t think Florence – or Cook as she must be called – liked her.

  Ivy looked up as she followed Agnes into the warmth of the kitchen. ‘All right?’ her aunt asked brightly. ‘All settled in?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Her voice sounded very small.

  ‘That’s a good lass. You’ve landed on your feet here, hinny, and no mistake. Your grandma and granda will be tickled pink when I tell ’em.’

  Constance stared back wanly. Her grandma and granda wouldn’t be tickled pink. Her granda’s face had been pulled tight when he’d said goodbye on the morning she left and he’d looked ten years older, and her grandma had cried so much she’d been unable to speak. A great wave of desolation and guilt washed over her.

  Florence’s voice, coming at her now, startled her. ‘As you’ve changed, there’s no time like the present to get started, girl. There’s a pile of dishes six foot high in the scullery for starters, and I hope you’re a bit more nimble on your feet and quicker with your hands than Gracie. Drive you to drink that one would,’ she added, turning to her mother. ‘Been here nearly a year and I’m still wiping her nose for her.’

  Constance glanced at Gracie who was still wrestling with the pestle and mortar. She must have heard what the cook had said but she gave no indication of it.

  Her heart in her boots, Constance went to do battle with the dishes.

  Chapter 6