by Irene Carr
Ruby whispered back, ‘So when you’re shot of that bucket we’ll do upstairs.’ And when they stood on the first-floor landing: ‘I’ve had to do both since I came here, and we’ll do the rooms together for a few mornings till you get the hang of them. Then you’ll see to the mistress and I’ll look after the master.’ She giggled and scurried away.
They lit fires in the dressing-rooms and laboured up the stairs with big jugs of hot water for the bedrooms. Downstairs again they found Mrs Garrity cooking breakfast. Ruby showed Chrissie how the table in the morning-room had to be set for the meal and then they served it together when Max Forthrop and his wife came down to eat.
Chrissie’s master was in his late twenties, tall and heavily handsome. He looked down at, and through, all of them. When Chrissie set a plate before him, Sylvia Forthrop told him, ‘That is Chrissie, the new girl.’ Chrissie bobbed in a curtsy but Forthrop only grunted acknowledgment, shot her one glance that was half glare, then returned to his food.
After Ruby and Chrissie ate their own hurried breakfasts, the work of the day went on. They cleaned and aired the bedrooms, lit more fires in downstairs rooms. In the afternoon they sewed busily at the household linen or their own or answered calls from Sylvia Forthrop for tea or some other service. In the evening they served dinner to a near-silent Forthrop and his fluttering, nervous wife, then cleared up afterwards.
That became the pattern of Chrissie’s days. Here on the outskirts of the town the machine-gun rattle of the riveting hammers could scarcely be heard. Chrissie missed that background to her life. But the work that she knew, and she knew most of it, she did well. That which was strange to her she learnt quickly. After singlehandedly coping with the three Milburn men and five lodgers to boot, she had no difficulty carrying out the duties of an under housemaid. All that irked her was that she could not organise her chores the way she wanted. Always she had to work to the orders of the stolid, unimaginative Ruby, who would not deviate from the way she had always worked, even when Chrissie showed her a better, time-saving or labour-saving method she had thought up. That irked and exasperated her, but she learnt to accept it, shrug and carry on, because otherwise she got on well with Ruby.
When Chrissie approached her, Ruby asked, ‘What d’you want to go to night school for?’
Chrissie repeated stubbornly, ‘I want to learn bookkeeping and typing so I can get a better job.’
‘I was damn glad to finish with school.’ Ruby shook her head, unable to understand why any girl would give up a Thursday afternoon off, with its chance of being ogled by the young men in the park, to go to night school. But she agreed: ‘Still, if you’ll work my Thursday turn, I’ll do your Wednesday night.’
So Chrissie returned to her studies.
Ruby and Mrs Garrity kept up their pumping to delve into Chrissie’s background and she adroitly manoeuvred her answers to give the pretence that she came from a happy home, though that fooled neither of them after a time.
Chrissie had only been in her new ‘situation’ a week when there came an echo from her previous existence. She answered a knock at the kitchen door on a Saturday afternoon and found Ronnie Milburn standing there. He wore his good blue serge suit with a scarf knotted around his throat. His boots were his polished best and he held his cap in his hands, twisting it nervously, his face solemn.
Chrissie gaped at him, startled, for a moment. Then she jumped forward, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Ronnie!’
He grinned his relief and held her a moment. ‘Hey! Steady on.’
She pushed back to hold him at arm’s length, then let go of him to wipe at her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘I’m just pleased to see you.’
Mrs Garrity appeared behind her and warned, ‘Now then, Chrissie! You’re not allowed followers, you know that. If Missus sees you wi’ this young feller you’re likely to get the sack.’
Chrissie restrained herself from laughing because the threat was real. But she explained, ‘Ronnie isn’t a “click”, Mrs Garrity. He’s from – home.’ She hoped the cook had not noticed that hesitation and went on, ‘He’s like a brother.’
Ronnie helped out then: ‘That’s right. I’ve just come to see how she’s getting on. I haven’t got any young lady yet.’
Now Ruby said from beside Mrs Garrity, ‘About time you did, then.’ She weighed up the fair-haired and good-looking Ronnie with a quick all-over glance and he blushed. She giggled.
Mrs Garrity said, ‘That’s enough of that, Ruby! And you, young man, if you’re like a brother . . . Well, it’s cold out there so you can come in by the fire for a minute.’
Chrissie said quickly, ‘No, thanks, Mrs Garrity, though it’s kind of you. But I’ll be glad of a breath of fresh air.’ She did not want those two listening to whatever Ronnie had to tell her.
And he backed her up. ‘No, thanks, ma’am. Very good o’ you I’m sure, but I’ve got to be getting on. I just want a few words.’
The cook sniffed. ‘Please yourselves.’ She waddled back into the kitchen. Ruby grinned and followed her.
When they were alone Chrissie asked Ronnie, ‘How did you find out where I am? Did Agatha tell you?’
Ronnie scowled. ‘Not at first. She said it was none o’ my business. But I said I was worried about you and if I didn’t get to see that you were all right, I’d go to the pollis.’
Chrissie sucked in a breath, hands to her mouth. ‘You never!’
‘I did. So then she told me. And here I am.’ He was looking her over as she stood straight-backed. She only wore her working clothes of black dress and white cap and apron, but these were clean. She met his gaze, smiling and he smiled back, relieved. But he still asked, wanting to hear her say it, ‘So it’s a good “place”? You’re happy here?’
‘Mm!’ She nodded vigorously to reinforce the lie. ‘Yes, I am.’ Because she was going to try to be, and she did not want him to worry. Then she asked anxiously, ‘How are things with you?’
His scowl returned. ‘She’s nice as you like because she thinks she’s ruling the roost now. But she won’t rule me. I’m getting out.’
Chrissie said, dismayed, ‘Oh, no! Not with Christmas coming on! Where will you go?’
‘Don’t you worry about that – or me.’ Ronnie grinned now and spoke with a confidence he did not feel. ‘I’m going down south. Mickey Barker’s given me some addresses, places where I might get work, and lodgings. I’ve handed in my notice at Ballantyne’s and I finish on Christmas Eve. I’ll be off on the train on Boxing Day but I haven’t said a word to her and I’m not going to. If she knew I was leaving she’d make my life miserable.’
Chrissie bit her lip, worried for him. ‘You be careful among all those strangers down there.’ Then she remembered and asked, ‘What about your dad? Have you told him?’
‘Not yet.’ Ronnie sighed, young face gloomy again now. ‘I’ll try to tell him just before I go, if she’ll let me. But I don’t know if he’ll take it in. I doubt if he can.’ He turned an agonised glance on Chrissie. ‘I don’t want to leave him but I can’t stand it in that place with her any longer. And Wilf and Arthur will still be there to keep an eye on him.’ They were his brothers still living at home.
Chrissie took his hand. ‘Don’t blame yourself. That’s no way to set out. You have a life of your own and Daniel wouldn’t deny it to you. I know he wanted you to stay in the business with him, but he thought that was for your own good. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to stand in your way now.’
Ronnie swallowed. ‘Aye. I’m sure you’re right.’ He looked up at the ivy-clad stone face of the house and said, ‘I’ve got your address written down. I’ll drop you a line now and then, once I’ve got settled in. I brought you this.’ He pulled a brown paper bag from his pocket and thrust it into Chrissie’s hands.
‘Oh, Ronnie! Thank you. Can I look?’
He nodded, grinning. ‘Aye.’
The bag held a half-dozen linen handkerchiefs. For a moment Chrissie could not speak, would
have wept if she tried.
Ronnie said quickly, ‘I hope you have a nice Christmas.’
She got out, ‘I’m sure I will.’ Though she doubted it.
Chrissie kissed him again before he left, walking to the corner of the house with him and watching as he strode down the drive, boot heels crunching on the gravel. He stopped at the gate to wave, then turned out of it and was gone. Chrissie wiped her eyes again as another good piece of her life disappeared, and went back to her work.
She had another visitor two weeks later in the New Year. This time she opened the door to find Frank Ward grinning at her. ‘Hello, Chrissie.’
‘Frank! How did you know I was here?’
‘I went round to your old place, asking after you. That young chap, Ronnie Milburn, he was just off to the station with his case – going down to London, he said – but he gave me your address first.’ He looked her over, again in her uniform of black dress and white apron and hat. He asked, eyes shrewd, ‘How are you getting on?’
‘It’s fine here.’ She met his stare, brazening out the lie. She went on, knowing Mrs Garrity was waddling up behind her, ‘We’ve got a really good cook and the food is lovely.’
The cook said now, ‘Hum! is this another relation o’ yours, Chrissie? You know what I told you about fellers.’
Chrissie explained, ‘Frank was a neighbour. He lived in the house next door.’ That was tantamount to the truth.
Mrs Garrity wheezed and grumbled, ‘Well, no hanky-panky, mind.’
Chrissie answered, ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’ She closed the door behind her and tucked her arm through Frank’s. She realised it was a muscular arm now and he was growing into a tall and strong youth. She said, ‘I like your suit.’ It was blue and he wore a high, stiff collar and a red and white striped tie. Chrissie thought that the suit was not as good as Ronnie Milburn’s. It was shiny with age and made for a man of Frank’s height but bigger by far in the belly and behind. He had taken up the slack with a brass-buckled belt.
He strutted a little and tried to tug it into shape. ‘Not bad, eh?’ Then he added bitterly, ‘Secondhand. Ten bob from the pawnshop. I wanted a new one but I have to give me mam most o’ me wages or we’d get damn all to eat and the rent wouldn’t be paid. Me da only gives her a few shillings now and then. I was lucky to get this.’
Chrissie remembered that Ronnie Milburn was a grown man and a tradesman, earning far more than Frank, only fifteen years old and just a labourer. She said loyally, ‘I think you look a real man in it,’ and that was almost true. She changed the subject. ‘How is Ted?’
Frank stopped smoothing and pulling at his jacket. ‘He signed on in the Durhams and he’s in the depot at Newcastle. He gets home for a weekend now and then. He just comes in for an hour or two to see me mam, then me and him go for a walk. I expect he’ll be up to see you next time he comes through.’ Now he probed again: ‘And you’re happy here?’
Chrissie decided it would be safer not to depart too much from the truth. She replied, ‘It’s all right. I have a bigger room here. I work with a lass called Ruby. She’s nice. She swapped duties with me so I could keep on with my night classes.’
Frank grinned. ‘I do a bit o’ that.’ He pulled away from her and stepped around her, ducking and weaving, jabbing rapidly so his fist flicked within an inch of her face. Chrissie laughed and tried to grab his hand but failed. He stopped then and walked at her side again.
She squeezed his arm. ‘What kind of night school is that?’
‘Boxing club. I go two or three nights a week. Here—’ He stopped and faced her. ‘Do you go on your own?’
‘That’s right.’
Frank cast his mind back to times they had talked before. ‘That Ronnie Milburn used to go with you but he’s in London.’ He frowned, not liking the sound of it. ‘When do you go?’
‘Wednesday – seven o’clock till nine. Why?’
‘What time do you leave here?’
‘About half-past six.’ And she asked again: ‘Why’?
‘I’ll walk you there and back.’
Chrissie protested, ‘You don’t need to. I’ve not had any trouble.’
But the roads were lonely when she returned to the house at night. So she did not resist when Frank insisted, ‘I don’t go to the club that night so I’ll see you to your class and back again.’
His kindness brought tears to her eyes. She kissed his cheek and he stepped back, startled. ‘Here! What’re you doin’?’
But from then on he met her at the corner of the road every Wednesday night at six-thirty and escorted her to and from her evening classes at the Technical College.
Sylvia Forthrop knew nothing of this. She said over dinner, waiting until the maids were out of the room, ‘I seem to have chosen wisely. The new girl is a good worker.’
‘Hm?’ Forthrop’s answer was an uncaring enquiry. ‘Haven’t noticed her. Little mouse.’
‘She’s quite young.’
‘See that she earns her money.’ The conversation lapsed then. Little ever passed between them. Forthrop was interested only in his own affairs. When, as now, he sometimes looked at Sylvia, pale and vacuous, living in a world of idleness, he did not wonder why he had married her. He knew very well. She had inherited a fortune from her father, who had dominated her all her life and made every decision for her. When Forthrop met her she had no relatives other than distant cousins, geographically distant at that – they lived in Canada. He married her for her money. She took him as a successor to her father and he was all of that. He dominated her in his turn and made the decisions for her.
After dinner they took coffee in the drawing-room and Forthrop read The Times while Sylvia toyed with a piece of embroidery she had toyed with for the past year, until Forthrop tossed the paper aside and told her, ‘I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be up later.’
‘Don’t work too hard, dear.’
He ignored that as a typically stupid remark. What did she know about work? He retired to his study and immersed himself in his files. He scarcely turned his head when she opened the door of the study to call, ‘Goodnight, dear!’ He muttered an answer and returned to his papers.
He and his wife had not slept together after the first year of their marriage – and little during it. She had submitted to his sexual demands dutifully and frigidly, but only until her miscarriage. Then her doctor, with some surreptitious prompting from a shuddering Sylvia, had declared that she would be in some danger if she attempted to bear a child again. Since then they had slept apart. That was no loss to him.
On this evening it was close to midnight when he put away his papers and books. He stood up and stretched, smiling now in anticipation, turned off the gas lamp and climbed the stairs. He paused on the landing outside his wife’s room but could see no band of light under her door. Her room, like the rest of the house, was silent. He went on.
Sylvia Forthrop was often confined to her bed with one of her many minor ailments – cough, cold or headache. On the evening of one such day, when Chrissie had been in service in the Forthrop house only a month or so, the girl entered the drawing-room and saw Max Forthrop standing behind Ruby. Chrissie halted as the big man slid his arms around Ruby to grip her breasts. Ruby did not resist but giggled and laid her head back on Forthrop’s shoulder, reached behind her to fondle him. Both had their backs to Chrissie. She tiptoed away without being seen or heard.
She was startled but neither shocked nor surprised. Chrissie, just turned fifteen, was not an innocent. She had assisted Bessie at a score or more confinements and done her share of washing and laying out the dead. And she had sat on the fringe of the circle and listened when the older women talked of men, birth and conception. So she had been under no illusions when she had heard the creaking of the stairs and the floorboards outside her room late at night.
She studied then, the only time when she could, curled up in the coarse blankets against the cold, with her nose in the book and close to the flickering candl
e that was her light – she was not allowed to burn the gas after ten. When she heard the footsteps on the stairs she would check her breathing and shade the candle flame with her hand so its light would not show under the door. She would lie thus until the steps had creaked past and gone.
Now this incident in the drawing-room only confirmed a suspicion that had been almost a certainty anyway. She told herself this as she lay in her bed that night and listened to the creak of the stairs, the soft squeak and click of a door opened and closed. Also that it was none of her business how Ruby behaved.
But then she thought that there were other considerations and she had to keep them in mind.
Day succeeded day of drudgery, through the long winter and into the spring. Then came summer – and the Ballantynes.
Chapter 11
August 1909
‘I’ll take a glass of wine if I may, sir.’ Jack Ballantyne sat straight as the back of the chair he occupied. He looked across the gleaming table to his grandfather sitting opposite. George Ballantyne inclined his grizzled head with a smile. Worthington, the butler, lean and cadaverous, black-coated and efficient, poured the wine into Jack’s glass and moved on.
They sat in the dining-room of the Forthrops’ house. It was only a quarter the size of that long room of George Ballantyne, but big enough. A snowy white cloth covered the table, and glasses and cutlery shone. That had meant hard work for Ruby and Chrissie. The two maids were frequently lent out to other houses for special occasions like dinner parties. In a reciprocal fashion, Sylvia borrowed extra staff when she needed them. This night she had borrowed Worthington for the dinner she and Max Forthrop were giving George Ballantyne.
The occasion was overtly social, covertly business. Overtly, this was to celebrate Sylvia Forthrop’s birthday. Max Forthrop wanted his care of his wife to be known. But at the same time, the firm of Arkenstall, Eddrington, Halliwell & Forthrop handled a lot of legal work for Ballantyne’s yard. George Ballantyne had been an occasional guest at the tables of the other partners and Max Forthrop did not want to be left out, to be seen too much as the junior partner.
