A Pocketful of Rye

by Anthony Masters

  The old lady lay rock-like, immovable in the huge, draped bedstead. Middle-aged elegance and regality had given way only a little to the fluffiness of old age. She still preserved the lassitude of a dying monarch, with Annie playing the part of the loyal retainer. Mrs. Harford had a slight paralysis, which her pride dictated to ignore, and a spreading loneliness that made her almost impossible to please. She was opulent enough to pay specialists to ward off her thrombosis, but had also had two strokes and was expecting a third. Mrs. Harford’s strokes verged on false pregnancy; she was forever crowding doctors and scattered relations around her as she prepared to meet death, and Annie bore the brunt of almost weekly outbursts, where the old lady sat pathetically up in bed as she tried unsuccessfully to vomit, or she lay rigid convinced that she was completely paralysed.

  Monday morning saw the regular and brief visit of Mr. Henry—Mrs. Harford’s only near relation. In fact her second cousin, he came out of a sense of duty that he considered befitted a successful local solicitor. He would arrive in a shiny car at ten on his way to work, and stay uncomfortably with his relation for an hour. Halfway through Annie would take coffee and chocolate biscuits to revive the flagging conversation. The old woman talked of failing health and patent medicines and Mr. Henry, perched uncomfortably in a straightbacked cane chair, would talk of legal affairs, and more of death duties and wills. Almost every two months the old lady would make a fresh will, and Mr. Henry, being directly concerned, was conscientious and forebearing. He would docket the crackling paper in a black valise and trudge wearily down the stairs. Fifty years old and tired, he longed to persuade his cousin to sell the house and move herself into a nursing home. There were times when Annie heard him pleading with the old lady, telling her that she was ill, would soon be too much for Annie to look after, would be happier in a home; to all of which the monarch merely said that she was quite independent and he only wanted to get rid of her. On these occasions Mr. Henry would walk even more slowly downstairs, his green trilby clasped sadly in a limp hand, his dream of the fat commission that he would make from a local builder for the site of the house vanishing once again. Each year Mr. Henry’s tread grew wearier on the step. Whenever Mrs. Hartford had a cold or was even slightly ill he would try and persuade Annie to leave, knowing that the old lady could not live without her.

  “Come on—you work too hard—you’re getting on too—I can find you a better position, with weekends and evenings free.”

  “I’m quite happy in this position, sir.”

  “But the money—you deserve twice as much as—let me ring this agency I know.”

  “I’m quite happy in this position, sir.”

  “How would you like to look after children?—make a change from an old lady—now I’ve a friend who needs—”

  “I’m quite happy in this position, sir.”

  Mr. Henry left irritably and Annie returned to the kitchen. This was all she had known and to leave was unthinkable. She spent the morning trembling in fear of Mr. Henry and his power. She was happy; it was hard, but it was everything to her. For excitement there were always her trips out.

  Every Wednesday afternoon she met her friend Emma and alternately they visited town and country. On fine summer days they would catch a bus and have a high tea in the country. Dressing up for it was part of the occasion, and Annie wore a pair of very highly polished, but desperately cracking black shoes, thick woollen stockings, sensible and very anonymous skirts and cardigans, and her coat—this she had bought secondhand years before and was very special. She had attached a little fur at collar and cuffs, which she continually brushed and soaked in unidentifiable liquids to keep it clean. The outfit was completed with a very floral hat, a shapeless umbrella and a crocodile handbag, bulging fantastically. Invariably halfway through the trip she would have to unlace one of the over-tight shoes to allow her pink, swollen ankles to ‘breathe’.

  Emma was a curious counterpart to Annie. Known to be ‘not steady’ she flitted from position to position, sometimes as cook, sometimes as parlourmaid, even occasionally a slapdash nanny. She never held a job more than six months and was well known in every domestic agency in London.

  She was definitely for her ‘little bit of frippery’ as she put it, and her dress was a fantastic mixture of Victorian lace and Woolworth blouse. She had hundreds of hats as against Annie’s precious two (one—the floral, and another—severe), and an in numerable number of enormous handbags—all mainly crocodile skin and each one stretched to bursting point with mysterious objects. She was as tiny as Annie, but made no attempt to pull herself up. She even walked with a slight stoop, making her seem smaller than ever. In the country she grumbled and her shoes hurt her too much to walk very far, but in the town she was in her element. She liked to begin by feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square with the sandwiches they had bought for tea. Then, their own provisions exhausted, there was every excuse to enjoy the luxury of tea in a huge Fortes palace where, to Annie’s mounting horror, she listened to everyone’s conversation even to the extent of joining in. Then to a News Theatre and eventually to Scotts or the Criterion for a Port and Lemon. Annie had to be home at seven to prepare the old lady’s supper and on this deadline she was always adamant. Emma, with monotonous regularity, wanted to make a night of it, but Annie always caught the 6.17 from London Bridge, and Emma, dubious of her own company, always joined her.

  Emma was Annie’s only friend and she found her lively and a good companion. But there was one possession of Emma’s that terrified her—the brown attaché case, and the dreadful insecurity that went with it. Whenever Emma left her employers she cheerfully packed the dowdy little case, carefully laying her frippery on top in case it creased and her shoes wrapped in layers of brown paper to avoid rubbing at the bottom. Then with a fantastic parody of a hat she was ready to launch herself at yet another domestic agency. And Annie watched the bobbling brown case and thought of the coldness that there would be without the warmth of the kitchen and the impatient rapping of the stick above.

  One Wednesday, when Annie had succeeded in pushing one foot into a tight black shoe and was resting before struggling with the other, Emma came early, crying, with the familiar brown case clutched in her hand. Emma always cried if she lost a job, although it was only a formality, and she would soon dry her eyes over strong sweet tea and tell Annie how bad They had been to her and anyway it could only have been a matter of weeks before She left Them. Annie would agree and fuss and cry over her friend and then, depending on their mood, they would go into town or country.

  Today Emma had cried and Annie consoled.

  “I’ll try Bensons—I’d like to do a bit of cooking again—fancy a big house and a new kitchen.”

  “Where’s Bensons?”

  “Strand, dear, Strand. Don’t you remember I got that job off them with that awful old cow out at Chiswick?”

  Annie remembered and hastily changed the subject before Emma began on an old story. They began to get ready, Emma powdering her nose in the mirror that was almost obscured by the message ‘A Souvenir From Great Yarmouth’ and Annie struggling with the other tight black shoe. After a great deal of packing, sandwich cutting and adjustment to dress, they set out to the station—two tiny figures bent against a blustery January afternoon. The wind came in great gusts and blew them together and they began to giggle as their heels clacked down the trim paving stones of Laburnham Grove.

  London Bridge and then a No. 13 and Trafalgar Square sheltered the two hat-clasping figures from the wind. They didn’t stop in the square but went straight to Bensons Domestic Agency in the Strand, from which they emerged half an hour later.

  “But Annie—it’s a wonderful job—first time too and the whole afternoon with no more tramping.”

  But Annie was cautious and the job had sounded too much for Emma—but she knew that she really need not worry about her for she would fall on her own feet all right—as usual.

  “Edmonton—it’s a nice district and quite near
you, dear.”

  And the brown attaché case was transferred to a firmer grip as Emma was once more settled to a new future. Bending once more against the wind they crossed the road back to Trafalgar Square, where Annie had to sit on a bench and unlace one of her shoes to allow the red puffy flesh to subside. Absent-mindedly Emma began to feed their sandwiches to the pigeons, which flocked around them until all that could be seen were three black shoes, a stockinged foot and a cherry on top of Emma’s hat. Annie loved to feed them and laughed as they flapped in her face. The wind had caught her cheeks and they were flushed and glowing. Up spun the tiny pieces of bread and down swooped the pigeons. The old man selling seed and nuts scowled as his customers flocked over to watch the two little women—and sighed with relief as the last piece of sandwich fluttered to the ground.

  Then happy and jubilant, they scampered to catch a bus up to Hyde Park for a walk in the crisp January air. The park was brittle with impending frost and Annie wished she had brought her big knitted scarf—but walking soon made her radiant and warm. Inevitably Emma quickly tired and her tiny button of a nose glowed a bright red. Annie laughed at this and Emma disapproved, so they sat in silent contemplation of the parkland.

  “You need a change, dear,” said Emma after a while, slapping the attaché case. “You want to travel around a bit like I do.”

  “Oh, I’m happy,” and Annie realised how often she said this.

  “What, waiting on that old bitch hand and foot?”

  “Oh, I’m used to it now—she doesn’t worry me—and the house is warm.”

  “Well that’s not life,” said Emma sagely and waggled her cherries at Annie.

  “Well that is my life,” said Annie sharply, “and I don’t need a change.”

  For a while longer they sat and watched the walkers and then made their way to Fortes. Over their steaming cups they made light of the tiny estrangement, and Emma struck up a conversation with an old man at the same table. Her opening gambits over the borrowing of sugar and milk were met with grunts, and a comment on the weather was ignored. Annie breathed a sigh of relief and then of contentment as she thought of the warm secure nest she would return to. She pitied Emma for the strangeness she would find, the tiny bedroom and the gas fire. She pitied her for the brusque new employer, the building up of the arguments that would follow and the eventual withdrawal or dismissal. Most of all she pitied Emma for this ever-continuing cycle of insecurity. Annie stirred her tea, munched a tea-cake and thought warmly of Laburnham Grove. The great tea shop clattered around her as she thought of the kitchen whose warmth the incessant tattoo on the ceiling could never spoil. This was only shadowed when she thought of people like Mr. Henry or things like Emma’s brown attaché case. Was she so dull? What about the milkman in the mornings? Had she so little life?

  After tea they walked up to Piccadilly in the gathering darkness and arm in arm marvelled at the shop windows, mentally dressed themselves in a thousand modes of the season, chose hats, gloves, new shoes and handbags. In Burlington Arcade they chose tiaras, arranged hairdressing appointments and manicures. This game lasted them until half past five when Emma suggested a quick drink at Scotts.

  “Yes,” replied Annie, “but remember the 6.17 from London Bridge.”

  “You’re in a rut, my girl—same train home for years—where’s the life in you?”

  “Plenty of it but—know when to stop,” snapped Annie.

  “Come on—the 6.35 will still get you back in time to make the old girl’s tea.”

  “I’ve never done that yet, and I never will—6.17’s my train, Emma.”

  “You’re so ruddy lifeless.”

  “Emma!”

  “Not one spark!”

  “Emma, how can you?”

  “It’s true!”

  “No—I like to enjoy myself.”

  “Then for God’s sake”—and Emma laid a hand on Annie’s arm— “catch the 6.35.”

  They disappeared into the glitter of Scotts and there were crowds of warm, lively people. After her first, Annie eased her right foot out of its trap, wiggling her toes delightedly. Emma had done the same, and when they found out they laughed at each other. Emma smiled—“There you are, dear—what do you care about Mrs. ruddy Harford?”

  And temporarily Annie didn’t care—cared for nothing except the smiling Emma and the crowd of happy people. They ordered another round and leant back luxuriously, curling their toes in comfort. The seats were soft and their feet swung freely in mid air. The tinsel gaiety they drank in in great draughts, and Annie watched the lighted, bedecked bar and heard the shouts and laughs around it.

  They caught the 7.25 by the skin of their teeth, and the race up the platform left them breathless and angry. At the last moment Emma’s case had burst open and an item of personal frippery had fallen on the station provoking ribald comments from the guard. But he held the train for them and they scrambled in breathless and disarranged, and sat in hostile silence all the way home.

  But they parted amicably and Annie kissed her friend goodbye as Emma caught a bus out to Edmonton. She waved until the tiny figure with the drab suitcase on the bus platform faded and thankfully clacked up Laburnham Grove. She would be in trouble with the old lady who had probably worked herself into a fury banging on the floor with her stick. The house was dark, but there was a light in the old lady’s room as she slipped silently in at the back door.

  Home—the kitchen and a cosy glow of embers still in the grate. The cat was asleep in her chair and she dislodged it violently—thankfully she eased off her shoes and reverently put her handbag on a shelf. She put on her old slippers and began to set a tray with the cold food the old lady always had on Wednesdays. She was surprised that there was no banging on the floor—after all she was an hour late and was surprised again at her own callousness. She should be concerned, the poor old thing would have needed her. She hurried a little, and yawning climbed the stairs. The old woman’s door was closed, and opening it she found Mrs. Harford was dead.

  Mr. Henry’s step was swift and sure on the stairs as he came down to Annie on an unaccustomed Thursday morning. He hummed a tiny tune and quickly suppressed it as he entered the kitchen. He paused by the door and watched Annie, who was preparing coffee.

  “Thank you”—Mr. Henry bit into a chocolate biscuit hungrily—“oh! and your excellent coffee!”

  The little tune returned to his lips and he frowned. In the presence of death Mr. Henry had strict conventions. He cleared his throat.

  “We—er—the family that is—would like you to know that—we attach no blame to you at all in this unfortunate business. It will no doubt set your mind at rest to know that my cousin died at about four o’clock. You would not normally have been late—you have been a very faithful servant—to the family—and if there is no benefit in the will, as I’m sure there will be, then the family will undertake to give you some token. We—er—naturally intend to sell the house, but obviously you will have time to find a new position. Er—I unfortunately have an appointment so perhaps you can see the doctor out when he has finished. He says it was a stroke—and she died—er—quite quickly.”

  Annie remembered the dishevelled bedclothes and the huddled figure on the floor. Mrs. Harford could not have submitted very quickly.

  Annie’s stockinged feet waved luxuriously as she rocked herself in the big Victorian chair. The fire glowed and the kettle began to softly sound. Automatically she picked up a tray and went to search for clean linen—then she stopped herself and smiled. Three weeks ago—three Sundays—and still she waited for the rapping on the ceiling. She looked around her and wondered how she could forget. Packing cases, crates and straw lay in disorder around the kitchen. The crockery had to be packed today—the furnishings would go tomorrow. Upstairs the great rooms were empty—and Annie had been sleeping in the kitchen, as she found that the sound of her feet on the uncarpeted stairs and her progress through the echoing rooms unnerved her.

  A knock and Emma flooded
the room with lace and flying frippery. There was a gay light in her eye.

  “Well, my girl—new horizons tomorrow in Surbiton—long way but nice area— Why, you’ve not packed all your old junk!”

  “I haven’t a case.” Annie started as Emma hid something behind her back.

  “Solved—easy as winking—one suitcase I don’t need for a while!” And there suddenly was the brown attaché case on the kitchen table, battered from trips to every suburb in London, bent from lying under sagging bedsprings in tiny cold rooms.

  “Well”—Emma was flushed with excitement—“I’ll give you a hand packing—excited? I know how you are—and nervous too, I bet. But you need a change—I always said you needed a change.”

  Annie got out of the rocking chair and began to pack.

  Crooked Ella

  The woodland seemed auburn burnished, brushed with an increasing autumn transparency. Glades, closed and dark in summer, began to open, protected only by leaf sheen, brittle and dry to the touch. Higher up on the hills, pine copses rigidly defied the elements, allowing nothing to spoil their stately symmetry, whilst on the lower slopes the land was more fertile and there was a small farm with a few ramshackle out-buildings. They were of a harsh blackening stone and built in a huddled semicircle.

  Jacob and Ella still had the house, but the barns were occupied by the soldiers who had fought in and around the valley over the last two years. During this present lull in activity the men lounged on the hard earth outside the main barn, pulling out great bales of rotting hay to gain more comfort. A dispirited parade was held in the morning, and apart from the preparation of food there was little else to do all day except clean already spotless equipment and doze the long dusty afternoons away in the farmyard.

  Jacob, elderly and widowed for twenty years or so, had never farmed well and the land was badly tilled years before this present devastation overtook it. Senile and consistently morose, he was no companion to Ella, his daughter, who acted as housekeeper to him. She was thirty, hunchbacked and incredibly misshapen—under five foot she was bent almost double under the weight of her misformed back, and her legs had buckled pathetically. She shuffled around the cottage, continually throwing herself forward as if to rid herself of the grotesque burden. Her arms and wrists, though, were very strong, and although she could not lift she could drag very heavy weights. Her world of vision was limited to anything about four foot high, and it caused her considerable strain to look into a face or beyond the treetops at the sky.