‘Yer’ll do as yer told and we’ll have less lip from yer an’ all!’ Mrs Poole couldn’t believe her ears.
Sarah stood by the large scrubbed table and watched the exchange. This was something she’d not seen before and intended to await the outcome.
Dora simply shook her head slowly. Sarah grinned behind her hand at the action.
‘Whatever ’as got into you girl?’ Mrs Poole asked still feeling stunned by the maid’s audacity to refuse to carry out her orders.
‘I ain’t goin’ out in that rain to catch me death of cold and that’s final!’ Dora stamped her foot by way of emphasis.
Sarah saw the cook gasp as she waved the fish slice in the air. ‘It ain’t your place to argue with me and well you know it.’
‘As a maid, no it ain’t – but as a person, I ’ave every right!’ Dora flung back.
Sarah nodded. Now it was getting interesting – it was the only break in the boredom since she’d been at Daventry House.
‘You don’t ’ave no rights,’ the cook said as she plated up the eggs and moved the frying pan to the brownstone sink.
‘Sarah, get these breakfasts upstairs and be quick about it,’ Mrs Poole said but her eyes remained on the defiant Dora. ‘And as for you, yer fetch that water or else yer’ll find yerself out of a job.’
‘You can’t sack me, yer don’t have the authority!’
Sarah folded her arms across her chest and smiled.
Mrs Poole’s eyes darted from one to the other wondering what was going on and why she’d not seen this coming.
‘So, mutiny is it? Well we’ll see what the mistress ’as to say about it shall we?’ The cook pulled out what she thought to be the ace up her sleeve – reporting them to Mrs Daventry for insubordination.
‘You can do what you like, but until you treat me with a bit more respect, I ain’t lifting another finger!’ Dora pulled out a chair and dropped herself onto it. She folded her arms and crossed her legs adding emphasis to her words.
Sarah’s eyes shot to the cook to see her reaction to the maid’s threat of striking.
Mrs Poole moved slowly to the table and sat down opposite Dora. Still unable to believe the maid’s open refusal to obey her orders she was aghast at the sudden and drastic change in the scullion.
Sarah knew this impasse would take a while to resolve itself, so she grabbed the breakfast tray and almost ran from the kitchen.
As she suspected, when she returned there was no change. The two women were still scowling at each other across the table.
Pulling out a chair for herself she spoke quietly. ‘Mrs Poole, you can be a termagant at times I’m sure you’ll agree. That temper of yours can rise far too quickly and your words can be very cutting.’
‘I’m in charge down ’ere!’ the cook spat.
‘We know that and neither of us wish to usurp you. All we ask is to be treated with respect rather than disdain.’ Sarah gave a small smile as she nodded at Dora.
Pouring them all a hot drink she continued, ‘We know this house couldn’t run successfully without your excellent culinary skills.’
Mrs Poole puffed up her chest as she nodded her agreement.
‘So, a please or thank you would be appreciated and – Dora wishes to be addressed by her name rather than the derogatory “Dopey”.’ Sarah watched the cook consider the request.
‘I see. Well, as long as you’m both aware I’m the boss…’
‘We am – are,’ Dora corrected herself.
Screwing up her eyes, Mrs Poole stared at the young girl. Had she been given lessons in how to speak by Sarah, or had she just picked it up as she went along? Either way, the two maids had backed her into a corner.
‘Right then. Dora would you be kind enough to fetch a pail of water? And, don’t be out long in this foul weather. Thank you.’ It stuck in the craw to have to plead this way – it felt like begging, but Cook thought she might get used to it in time. Anything to get their routine back on track.
Dora stood and grabbed the bucket. ‘Certainly, Mrs Poole, I won’t be a tick.’
Sarah smiled at the cook’s surprised expression. As she went about her duties Sarah realised how much she’d changed herself.
Thirty
In Birmingham the awful sickness was finally abating, and all had been quiet in the Romany encampment. Having avoided the town, cruising the canals and wharfs instead, the gypsies had yielded good sales. Making more pots and pans, pegs and lace they were too busy to go carousing in the local pubs. Jake Harding knew however that the time was fast approaching to move on. Part of him wanted to stay where he was so he could see Rosie on the odd occasion she was out and about; but travelling was in his blood and the call was strong. As he whittled a length of wood into a dolly peg, he made his decision; they would strike camp in two weeks’ time. By then he felt it would be safe enough to travel.
Hearing a laugh, he looked up and his heart leapt. He saw Rosie and her friend Lucy chatting with the kumpania members. Not wanting to seem over eager to see her, he returned his attention to his whittling.
After a moment he raised his eyes once more as a shadow fell over him.
‘Hello, Jake.’ Rosie’s gentle voice was like music to his ears.
‘Rosie,’ was all he said in greeting.
‘It’s nice to see everyone is well,’ she said trying to draw him out.
Jake nodded.
‘I expect you’ll be moving on soon,’ Rosie tried again.
Another nod.
‘I can see you’re busy, so I’ll leave you in peace,’ Rosie said and turned away from him.
‘I’m glad to see you well too,’ Jake mumbled.
Turning back, it was her turn to nod. ‘My health is good although I was almost run out of town. The townsfolk thought I’d cursed them and brought the “plague”.’
‘Idiots!’ Jake’s voice snapped like the crack of a whip.
‘Ignorant more like,’ she ventured, ‘although it was an unhappy time for me for a while. However, compared to those who have lost loved ones, it’s barely worth a mention.’
‘You’ve a big heart, Rosie Harris,’ he said. In his thoughts he added, Pity there’s no room in it for me.
‘Where will you be going when you leave?’ she asked.
‘I thought to travel alongside the canals, we’ve done a good trade with the ‘cut-rats’ over the last few weeks,’ Jake answered.
‘Lucy will miss coming over to sketch.’ Rosie gave him a smile.
He nodded but thought, will you miss coming Rosie?
‘I should be getting back,’ Rosie said feeling a little uncomfortable under his gaze.
His answer was to begin whittling once more.
Beneath hooded lids he watched her walk away. He stared after her until she was gone from sight.
To hell with this! he thought, but yelled instead, ‘Strike camp! We’ll head for Worcester.’
*
The girls strolled back to Upper Marshall Street chatting about the quick sketches Lucy had produced while Rosie was talking with Jake.
‘I thought I might try out your idea of drawing peoples’ children now things am getting back to normal,’ Lucy said.
‘Would they sit still long enough?’
‘Unlikely, I’ll have to do them while they play,’ Lucy grimaced.
‘What? Don’t you like children?’ Rosie asked as she caught the look.
‘Not much, they’m dirty smelly little things, but if it brings in some money I’m will to try.’ Lucy gave a shudder.
Rosie laughed as she unlocked the door of number two and they stepped inside.
‘I’ll get the kettle on cos Fanny will be ’ere in a minute,’ Lucy said rolling her eyes.
Sure enough a shout heralded Fanny’s arrival.
‘I made some scones – oh good tea’s up,’ Fanny laughed. ‘Yer been over with the gypsies then?’
‘Yes, they’re moving on soon,’ Rosie answered as she brought plates, butter and jam t
o the table.
‘I’ll miss ’em, but I’m sure we’ll see ’em again,’ Lucy added.
‘Yer done any more “readings”, gel?’ Fanny asked as she accepted a cup of tea.
‘A fair few along the canal; people have been very scared lately, but things are settling back into normality again now,’ Rosie said before biting into a freshly baked scone.
‘What the…?’ Fanny said as all three heard the hammering on her own front door. Slipping out of Rosie’s door Fanny sighed loudly. The girls followed her out onto the street and exchanged a look as they saw Molly Mountford standing there.
‘I knew yer’d be back,’ Fanny said in exasperation.
‘Well then, it aint’ no surprise to yer, is it?’ Molly said scathingly.
‘What do yer want, Molly?’ Fanny asked in a tired tone.
‘Recompense!’ the red-haired woman stated lifting her chin in false bravado.
‘Ha! Recompense for what may I ask?’
‘Charlie said as I was to live in number two if anything ’appened to ’im and now he’s gone of the lung disease, God rest ‘is poor soul, I’ve come for my dues.’ Molly crossed herself as she spoke.
‘Christ a’mighty Molly, if you ain’t got some nerve! Yer come here all sanctimonious, crossing yerself like a good Catholic an’ all. How will yer be received at them Pearly Gates when you tell St. Peter you coveted yer neighbour’s ’usband?’ Fanny’s voice rose a pitch.
‘That’s blasphemy!’ Molly screeched.
‘No it ain’t, it’s telling the truth! You run off with my old man and now he’s gone yer come to me. I don’t believe the cheek of it!’ Fanny turned to look at her two young friends and realised half the street were out gawking. She sighed. So now they know the truth of it.
‘Well if yer won’t carry out Charlie’s last wish regarding number two, I think yer should pay me some money as recompense.’ Molly stood firm giving no indication of backing down.
Fanny turned to Rosie. ‘Yer was right when yer said as how she’d come looking for money.’
Molly glanced from one to the other a look of unease crossing her face. ‘How would ’er know that?’
‘Cos her’s a gypsy and ’er ain’t been wrong yet!’ Fanny gloated.
‘Oh right, well am you goin’ to pay me or not?’ Molly forced the issue yet again.
‘Not! I’m givin’ yer nuthin’, Molly Mountford, unless yer want a black eye.’ Fanny raised her fists in a boxing stance.
Rosie cast a glance up and down the street where the neighbours had congregated into small groups to watch the action.
‘Fanny, come away otherwise we’ll have the police down on us.’ Rosie tried to coax the women to part company.
‘No, Rosie, this ‘as been coming for a long time and now is as good a time as any to settle it once and for all.’ Fanny’s eyes remained on her opponent the whole time she was speaking.
Rosie saw Molly shrink back glancing at the gathering crowd; clearly she was unwilling to participate in a brawl in the street.
The movement was all it took for Fanny to launch herself forward and grab the woman’s flaming red hair.
A shout went up quickly turning into a chant from the watching crowd.
‘Cat fight! Cat fight!’
Rosie closed her eyes for a moment wondering what to do to break up the fight, for that’s what it was now as Molly tried to defend herself. As she opened her eyes and stepped forward, she felt Lucy grasp her arm.
‘Leave it, Rosie, they need to do this,’ the girl said.
Rosie watched helplessly as the noise of the crowd reached fever pitch. She saw Molly kick out at Fanny’s shin and receive a sharp slap in retaliation. Hair was being pulled by both women and they ended up rolling around on the ground. Grunts and yells sounded as blows landed until both began to show signs of exhaustion at last. Eventually Fanny dragged herself to her feet puffing and panting.
Rosie heaved a sigh of relief hoping the whole episode was finished and done.
As Molly began to rise, Fanny slapped her face in a wicked parting shot knocking her back to a sitting position.
‘Now,’ Fanny breathed heavily, ‘get yerself off and don’t come back.’
To everyone’s surprise Molly burst into tears and sobbed her woes into the hem of her dirty skirt. The crowd slowly dispersed gossiping about the unexpected action being the highlight of their day.
Rosie and Lucy exchanged a glance as Fanny hauled the crying woman to her feet. Tilting her head to the two girls to join her, she dragged Molly into her house.
‘We all need a strong cuppa tea,’ she said quietly.
Sitting in Fanny’s snug kitchen the two girls listened to the conversation between the women who had, just moments before, been fighting in the street.
‘I’m sorry, Fanny,’ Molly said rubbing her sore head.
‘I should think so,’ Fanny replied.
‘I shouldn’t ’ave come ‘ere upsetting you.’
‘No you shouldn’t, but as you’m ’ere now, you best tell me what’s afoot.’ Fanny poured boiling water over the tea leaves in the pot and placed it on the table.
Molly sighed heavily to summon the courage to tell her tale. ‘We – I was living in Stafford cos Charlie was in jail there,’ Molly began as Fanny poured tea for them all.
‘That don’t surprise me, what was ’e in for?’
‘Thieving. ’E robbed a big ’ouse there then ’e got drunk in the boozer and blabbed about it. The next day the coppers came calling and carted ’im off to prison.’ Molly was distinctly uncomfortable talking about the man she’d stolen from this other woman.
‘He allus was a daft bugger,’ Fanny remarked almost fondly.
‘Well the prison informed me he’d died of the lung disease in the ’ospital part; he’d been poorly for a long time,’ Molly said.
‘Tuberculosis?’ Rosie asked, unable to stop herself from intervening.
Molly shook her head. ‘I don’t know, it was summat to do with ’is breathing though. He coughed all the time and, in the end, he was spitting blood. I think ’is lungs just rotted away.’
Lucy gagged. ‘Blimey Molly, that’s disgusting!’
‘Ar but imagine what it was like for poor Charlie. So, ’e allus told me to come ’ere to claim number two; said ’e was giving me the ’ouse so I’d ’ave somewhere to live after he’d gone.’ Molly’s smile looked more like a grimace.
‘It’s like I said Molly, these three ’ouses belong to me so ’e ’ad no right to tell you that. All three am taken up with tenants anyway.’ Fanny shook her head trying to dislodge the thoughts that continued to push their way forward.
‘I ain’t ‘alf sorry, Fanny – for everything.’ Molly stood to leave.
‘Where am you going now?’ Fanny asked.
The plump red-haired woman shrugged her shoulders. Turning to the girls she said, ‘Nice to meet you two.’
‘Molly, sit yerself down and ’ave a bite. I’ve got some meat and tater pie for tea and you’m welcome to share,’ Fanny bustled around the kitchen.
Rosie nodded to Lucy and said, ‘We’re off, Fanny, we’ll see you later.’
In their own kitchen a couple of minutes later Lucy said, ‘Well I never!’
Rosie grinned. ‘It’s my guess Fanny will ask Molly to stay, after all it’s evident she has nowhere else to go.’
‘I were thinkin’ the self-same thing. Oooh, maybe I’m catching the “sight” from you!’ Lucy giggled at her own humorous quip.
‘I await with bated breath the events of next door unfolding and enlightening us,’ Rosie said.
‘Well I’m just gonna wait and see what ’appens,’ Lucy said.
Rosie turned away to hide the smile that sprang to her lips.
Thirty-one
The small bell in the kitchen sounded and Sarah Mitchell sighed loudly. What did the mistress want now? Making her way to the parlour Sarah tapped on the door and walked in.
Eileen Daventry looked up
from scanning the morning post.
‘Sarah there is a letter here for you. In future please check before bringing in the post.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Sarah said taking the letter held out to her. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’
‘All right you may go.’ Eileen dismissed the maid with a flick of her fingers.
Back in the kitchen Sarah tore open the envelope. She knew its contents even before she read the paper tucked neatly inside. She was now a divorcee and the document in her hand proved it. She wondered where the time had gone since receiving the first notification. The weeks had slipped by unnoticed as her attention was drawn to the sickness in the town, then to the domestic dispute below stairs.
She had thought to endeavour to win her husband back but somehow these other things had taken precedence. Now it was too late. The court had agreed to granting Bill a divorce and she hadn’t even been asked to attend.
‘Bad news?’ Mrs Poole asked, unable to keep her nose out of other people’s business.
‘Divorce papers,’ Sarah said sadly.
‘Oh that’s a shame,’ Dora said placing an arm around Sarah’s shoulders.
‘What’s done is done,’ Sarah said shoving the paper into her apron pocket.
‘Sensible attitude,’ the cook said firmly.
‘It don’t stop the hurtin’ though does it, Sarah?’ Dora asked, a frown creasing her brow.
A paroxysm of weeping suddenly overtook Sarah and her great heaving sobs sounded loud in the quiet of the kitchen. Too consumed by her sadness she didn’t notice the cook nod towards the kettle, or Dora step quietly to the range.
Slowly Sarah’s tears abated, and she accepted the hot sweet tea from Dora. Before she realised, she was pouring out her heart and soul to the only two people in the world she could call her friends.
When she’d finished speaking, Dora who was not known for her tact said, ‘It sounds to me like yer brought it all on yerself.’
‘Dora!’ Mrs Poole snapped.
‘She’s right I did, and now I’ve lost everything. My husband has divorced me and taken up with another woman would be my guess, my sons probably don’t want to know me, and I no longer have a house of my own—’
‘No, but you’ve got us,’ Dora cut in.
The Girl on the Doorstep: from the bestselling author of The Workhouse Children (A Black Country Novel) Page 22
