Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  It was expected she would finish up at the Pogues’ tonight and move into a room above the carriage house tomorrow. This suited Mallory very well. She had hated being so cash poor. At last she had money in her pocket. Today she could shop for those toiletries she had been so desperately missing. She needed under-clothes, too. She would look for men’s and good socks. Eventually, there would be a need for sanitary pads. I’ll have to pretend I’m buying for my sister and hope to get away with it. With more wages she could look for warmer under garments for winter and a suit: Can’t stay in uniform all day.

  The prospect of her own space was reassuring. Not only would it make her masquerade that much easier, but living above the carriage house would truly give her peace. She had not realised until it was denied, how her emotional self required solitude and ‘quiet’ time. In the past her down-times had come at regular intervals, rarely needing to be engineered. In this new reality it seemed she was always at someone’s beck and call, as though she had no individual or idiosyncratic demands. Now my little home all to myself! Beaute. She hoped this new advance would help ease some of the pain of her loss.

  Back at the stable she filled Mr. Beeson in. He was sorry to lose the lad full-time, but was thankful for any extra help that could come his way. He had lost too many of the young ones to the factories. However this chauffeuring, he could see was an opportunity not to be missed.

  “The drawback, as I see it …” he expounded, removing his pipe for a relight, “… is this. They expect ya’ t’ be there at the crack of a whip. Wilkins had very little time t’’iself so I don’t know if I’ll see much of ya’.”

  “What all the time?” So much for my rosy dream of personal space! “I guess I’ll get used to it,” she rejoined without enthusiasm. “It’s not like I have any private life as it is,” she continued dejectedly. Suddenly she remembered her new commitment to the school. What could she do about that? Why do there always have to be bugaboos to spoil things?

  She would finish up her morning chores then would be off to see Mrs. Aldred. If she were quick she could get her shopping done and be back for feeds by five o’clock. Wilkins had been told he had one more night then he was to pack his bags.

  It’s fortunate work-place agreements don’t operate here. Poor Wilkins … but then I suppose the same could happen to me one day. She sighed in long-suffering resignation. No-one has job security.

  The housekeeper had been advised of the new developments and would arrange to have one of the maids clean the room and make up a fresh bed. She remembered this young man. He was the one who had rescued Miss Nigella. As chauffeur to the family he had certainly risen in station. However, checking him over once more, she decided she would not change her stance. She would continue to address him as an underling. “Your uniforms must be kept clean and well pressed at all times,” she informed him critically. “The laundry maids will look to the washing, but you must keep the motor jacket, knickers and leggings clean and shining.”

  “How will I do that, Mrs. Aldred?” Was she expected to use the scullery sink?

  “Mr. Baldwin will give you an ample supply of dubbin and brown and black polish. You will keep them with the brushes in the boot box provided.”

  “Oh. Are the clothes leather?”

  “Of course.” She regarded this minion as if stupid then shrugged. Her responsibilities only went as far as his person, not to his mind. “Your other liveries and the motor coat will be of dark green cloth which you must keep hanging in the wardrobe, unless in use. Do not throw them in a heap. His Lordship hates to see crumpled garments and I agree with him. It smacks of slovenliness.” At this she drew her eyebrows together and gave him a sharp look, to be sure the message was getting through.

  “There is a shelf for your cap and gloves. His Lordship likes to see you well shod. You will be issued one pair, patent, enamelled colt button boots and one pair tan willow Balmorals.”

  Mallory had no idea what these were like, but figured she would find out soon enough.

  “Wilkins is still in residence so I will take you over tomorrow when everything is ready. That will be all Mason.” Already she was thinking of the extra work this development would entail on top of everything else. Dear Lord why now? Then she remembered: “Come to my rooms at two o’clock. Lord Patchford will issue you with your duties and whatever instructions he deems necessary. You may go.”

  Mallory set off with dispatch to see Mrs. Pogue and tell her the good news. Thora was not as delighted as she had expected. For her this meant loss of money and the lad had been no trouble.

  “How much do I owe, Mrs. Pogue? I very much appreciate your looking after my washing and lending me Arnold’s clothes.”

  She rummaged in a drawer to find a stubby bit of pencil and crossed to a bureau for paper. At the kitchen table they sat together and worked out what was owed. Mallory was glad agreements were not as tight as in her time. There had been no commitment to ‘a week in advance’ or ‘key money’ and now she would be moving on to accommodation that was rent free. “There you are.” Mallory counted out the coins.

  “You can still borrow what you need until you’ve got yourself set up.” Thora thought ahead. “At least this way you won’t have to worry about moving out over the Christmas holiday.”

  “That’s right too,” she agreed then continued: “But I’m still only on probation with his Lordship. I have to hope he’ll find me to his liking all the same.” Worry lines creased her brow. The thought of giving this job up was disturbing. It really appealed to her and she badly wanted to keep it. She would be getting out and about. She liked variety. Her improved status could do nothing but help, more money too. Now the only stumbling block – could she do the work? There must be manuals lying about. If she could put in reading time, then she knew she would be able to look after the cars.

  “You’ll have no trouble I’m sure.” Thora had found him to have a good head on his shoulders. “Will you tell Mr. Higgins?”

  “Mr. Crosby will let him know so I’m going to the shops. I have change in my pocket and there are things I need,” she smiled broadly. “The Big House is very keen on the ‘spit and polish’ I think.”

  Thora laughed, too. “Oh they are that. Though I reckon a bit o’ dirt never hurt anybody. Still, to each his own I guess.” She sighed: “but then …”

  “I’ll be off Mrs. Pogue,” Mallory interjected briskly, conscious of so little time. “I have to do the feeds at five o’clock then I’ll be back for supper. I shouldn’t be late.”

  “Good lad. I’ve got a nice shepherd’s pie for tonight.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Punctually, at two o’clock Mallory arrived, leather suitcase in hand, purchased at the country branch of the Home and Colonial Stores in the High Street. Leather was a treat, although in her time she would not buy it, just on principle. She liked the detail on the brass clasps and was already beginning to cherish her few, new possessions.

  Mrs. Aldred led her immediately over to the carriage house. She remembered this imposing building and the cobbled forecourt. It consisted of a large, lower area, divided into three separate spaces to house the automobiles and the carriages. She spotted the dogcart she had ridden in that first day. The double doors were open and off to one side stood the Patchford carriage. She saw the ornate Guilfoyle coat of arms blazoned on the door. The remaining doors were shut so she would have to wait for her first glimpse of the ‘Silver Ghost’.

  Mrs. Aldred stopped at an outside staircase, wooden and painted white. They went up to a side door then she followed her along a narrow walkway rather like an extended balcony open on one side, to the last room but one. Here the house keeper took out her keys and with the door unlocked, ushered her in.

  The room was a good size, reminiscent of the one she had just left. Shafts of light through the window outlined the modest furnishings. They were similar, except minus the hand-stitched sampler and flowers on the counterpane. There was no duchess set on the dresser either, but
now she had her own brushes and combs, a handsome set in silver-backed tortoiseshell.

  Mallory had hoped to purchase her own wardrobe, but this week’s money had not stretched that far. With what remained she had headed for the pawn-broker’s to look for a fob watch. Even second hand, this had been too expensive. Instead, she had been assured that a chiming carriage clock was ‘very reliable’. It had better be, she had thought: to be late for these people will cost me my post. Whilst leaning on the counter waiting for the item to be wrapped, a glass cabinet set to one side had attracted her notice. Many kinds of scissors were on offer. Of course, she would need some since she could not risk going to a barber. A small, silver pair with delicate filigree work on the handle was what she chose. This pawnbroker actually had many beautiful things which to her, looked to be valuable antiques. She would like to find time to return to ‘McQueen’s Emporium’.

  At the dispensing chemist’s she had found a bottle of Macassar Oil. To plaster down her flyaway hair would require liberal applications. Having everything under control seemed to be the way of it here. Nothing was too insignificant not to be awarded close attention.

  Mrs. Aldred threw open the wardrobe doors to reveal the neatly pressed liveries: one brown the other dark green. At the back hung a black leather motor coat, double breasted and buttoned up to the wide, flat collar. It would extend to just past her hips. The ‘knickers’ as Mrs. Aldred called them, looked more like jodhpurs, baggy, then tight below the knee. Her legs would be wrapped in black leggings. The tan willow Balmorals she discovered were a highly polished, light brown, lace-up boot with a very big tongue and the Colts were a black, high boot with a set of buttons to one side on the outside. They did indeed look very smart, each with its own shoe-tree to maintain the correct shape and she could see she would be spending a lot of time polishing.

  “We’re in the army now, we can’t afford a cow …” she hummed under her breath. She had to laugh. Oh Mal, look upon it as an adventure! You never in your wildest, wildest dreams expected this.

  Mrs. Aldred caught the smile that twitched at her lips. “You find this uniform amusing Mason,” she enquired witheringly, not liking his attitude one bit. She would have a word with Mr. Baldwin. This one would need keeping an eye on.

  “Certainly not, I’m very impressed Mrs. Aldred.” Now, having spent more time with this woman Mallory noticed the absence of a wedding band which did seem odd. They were such sticklers for ‘correct’ form. The woman crossed to a door located on the far side which she opened to reveal an ablutions alcove; her very own ensuite. Small it might be, with only a Hayward and Tyler washdown pedestal closet and hand basin, but she could get by with this just fine.

  “You will be issued one towel every four days and the servants’ bath is off the scullery. Each week there’s a roster and you initial the day and time that’s left available to you.” Having covered everything in her area, the housekeeper had Mallory sign for the keys then gave instructions to change into the brown livery. “Starched white shirts are in the top draw of the tallboy. You are responsible for all other personal attire, including socks.” This was delivered in a prim, tight-lipped voice. As became her station Mallory supposed.

  “Do not appear before his Lordship without your jacket and it must be buttoned to the neck, winter and summer.” Again this injunction was accompanied by the most severe expression of disapproval. Mallory allowed herself a wan smile. What did she think she was, some kind of scum-bag?

  “Of course Mrs. Aldred, otherwise what is the point of a uniform?” She nodded accommodatingly, but Mrs. Aldred was even more put out by these words than she had been by his previous manner. She just did not know what to make of the fellow and judged it best to finish here. All being well, she would have little more to do with him. Best leave any disciplinary action to Mr. Baldwin or Mr. Crosby. As she left she felt certain there would be trouble about, following this young man, for all his smart ways.

  Mallory unpacked her few possessions and enjoyed seeing them on display. This would be her personal nest. She freshened up and tried out the new scissors and then the hair oil. Her hair had definitely been too wild for a chauffeur. Parting it in the centre and slicking it down had given her quite the current look. Lucky for her the clean shaven face was coming into vogue leaving that ponderous, Victorian appearance to the older Gents. Even so, she had noticed quite a number of them were adopting the handlebar moustache alone. Wow! In the full rig she did look the part. “This is perfect,” she breathed exultantly, more positive than ever that she could pull off this masquerade.

  Lord Patchford too, liked what he saw when once again she entered the library to await his Lordship’s pleasure. He was obviously spending the day ‘at home’, having donned a lightweight cameline cloth dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. It was woven in a maroon, paisley pattern and although buttoned, was also tied at the waist with a braided silk cord. Mallory could see how this would be a more pleasant way to pass his private hours, not to be all the time in those starched, formal suits.

  She stood before his desk, cap under a bent elbow her other hand by her side, holding a pair of wool driving gloves, each with a leather patch sewn into the palm. She thought to adopt a slightly stiff stance as appropriate to receive orders. Lord Patchford set down his spectacles and sat back. “There are no appointments today Mason, but tomorrow the ladies plan a trip to town for shopping and a spot of lunch.”

  “Yes Your Lordship.” She felt she was getting the hang of this servant lingo. Subservience seemed to trip off her tongue, no problem.

  “Be at the front entrance at nine o’clock. On your return, come and see me and I’ll have a better idea of my schedule.”

  “Yes Your Lordship … Sir, may I ask a question?”

  His head popped up, sharply: “Yes?”

  “Are there any manuals which go with the vehicles my Lord? I would like to spend the rest of the day looking them over.”

  “Most certainly,” he rose and crossed to a side credenza and returned with a cardboard box. “Everything you need, will be in there I think.”

  “Thank you my Lord.”

  * * *

  Having carefully hung her new liveries in the wardrobe, Mallory changed into the stable clothes Thora had let her keep and took the manuals down to the carriage halls. She opened up the first set of double doors and there stood the most beautiful automobile she had ever beheld. It was obvious that luxury cars of the pre-war years were made with the best technology and craftsmanship of the day. Its folding cape-cart hood at the moment was in the ‘down’ position allowing her to admire the splendour of the interior, furnished with red velvet and brocade; two seats in back and one next to the driver. Fine leather covered the wood surfaces and thick pile carpet was underfoot. The bonnet was long running in a smooth line back from the radiator, with headlights mounted either side. There was no mistaking the Rolls-Royce grille, but there was no mascot. She remembered now the ‘Spirit of Ecstasy’ would not come on the scene for another two years.

  Unhooking the clips on the right hand side, she folded the bonnet back to inspect the engine. She could see it was large and powerful, enough to provide a smooth run, but not nearly as compact as the engines she was used to. She looked for the log books, but there did not seem to be any. Time to check the manuals.

  Henry Royce and Charles Rolls made their prototypes in 1906, following the first appearance of their automobile in the 1905 Tourist Trophy and that year, coming in fastest in the Isle of Man road race. Royce was a man of little education, but had made his money in electrical machinery which carried a high reputation. The Honourable Charles Rolls was a sporting gentleman in the lucrative business of selling French cars to English aristocracy. By now this duo was claiming their product to be the best in the world.

  Looking at this beauty she could believe it. Its shiny, aluminium body and the silence of the motor had earned it the name ‘Silver Ghost’. The manual boasted that the Rolls’ six cylinders and seven l
itre engine enabled it to whisper along at 50 miles per hour. Mallory quickly made the conversion to kilometers: 80ks. Not bad. Copper cooling pipes ran along the outside of the engine. Nothing obstructed her view of all the components. Good.

  This ‘Silver Ghost’ was pale cream with wooden spoke wheels painted red. On the same side, between the bonnet and the body a spare tire was mounted, no wheel she realised. It was the new Dunlop design that had just come out that year; slim-lined, distinctive grooved tread and featuring the innovative inner tube which helped keep the tire in place on the rim. Mallory was relieved. She would not have difficulty stopping and would be able to accelerate with a reasonable amount of control. However, looking at the spare she wondered, in the event of a puncture, would she have to jack up the car to pry the old tire off? Jemmy on the spare and pump it up?

  Hells teeth; might be an idea to have a dry run.

  The tool box was set into the running board between the tire and the passenger door which was only a half, and swung forward. A quick glance showed there was everything she would need. To her surprise the Rolls was fitted with two windscreens. The one in the front of course, but no wipers, plus a folding one for the rear seat passengers. How quaint! But how would she see through hers if driving conditions became difficult? Check in the good book. It said for her to keep a supply of raw apples or potatoes available. When required she was to slice the fruit or vegetable in half and smear it over the glass then the juice would help the water to run off. “Can you believe it,” she grimaced. However, this windscreen could also be folded down. In her opinion this would probably provide the better option.