‘I’m sorry, it won’t happen again – my being late.’
‘What? Oh, well,’ Cook shook her head miserably. ‘I suppose you’ve got a good excuse. Eh dear, how tragic, those poor motherless children.
There must be summat I can do.’ She racked her brains, then made a beeline for the mistress’s pantry. ‘Here look, have this bit of ham for the funeral.’
Kit thanked her and took possession of it, feeling more dreadful by the minute.
‘You’ll be wanting time off to attend, I suppose? I’ll talk to the mis —’
‘Oh, don’t go to the trouble now! We’ll talk about it later.’ Eager to change the subject, Kit made keen gesticulations at the stove. ‘Can I get you some breakfast?’
‘Well, I must say you’re being very stoical about it. But then I suppose we all have to soldier on.’ Mrs Atkinson’s temper had been completely deflated. ‘And yes, thank you, dear, I’d appreciate some breakfast. Oh, deary me, how dreadful.’
‘And after that I’ll make up for all the work you had to do!’ promised Kit, launching into action. ‘I’ll do luncheon and everything.’
‘Aye well, I won’t say no.’ Mrs Atkinson slumped pensively in her chair. ‘I don’t feel as though I could do another stroke all day.’
True to her word, she remained in her seat, leaving Kit to rush round with uncharacteristic industry, getting Cook’s breakfast whilst grabbing only a quick bite for herself, clearing the master’s table, dusting and cleaning and washing.
Cook did rise briefly after lunch, but it was not to help with the work. Putting on her coat she announced that she was going for a trip to the market in Leeds, and left sufficient orders to keep the housemaid busy for the next two hours.
Kit blurted, ‘Are you going anywhere near the library? I wonder if you’d be so kind as to take my book back. It’ll be overdue otherwise.’
‘Can you ever accomplish anything on time?’ Mrs Atkinson looked sour, then remembering the girl’s bereavement, relented with a flick of her hand. ‘Go on then – but look sharp!’
Kit ran to fetch the book from her room, wiping her hands on her apron as she pounded up the stairs, great bosoms bouncing, and wishing it were she who were off into Leeds. If ever she were given time off through the week she would spend most of it in the library, not because she thought to better her position but because she loved to read and learn about other countries and peoples. Even with the aid of a dictionary some books were beyond her capabilities – as was the tome she retrieved now. Kit wished she were more learned, could understand all the text that accompanied the pictures. But there was no chance of that for one who had left school at twelve.
After delivering the book into Mrs Atkinson’s hands she bent purposefully into her work until all the tasks on Cook’s list had been completed, when she was able to relax a little and finally seek out a remedy for her indigestion brought on by the hurried meal, wondering what was keeping her superior so long in Leeds.
She was not to discover the reason for Cook’s extended outing until eight o’clock that night after the master and mistress had received their supper and the pots had been washed and everything got ready for morning.
‘Right!’ said Mrs Atkinson with a grim expression – she had been in an odd mood ever since she’d come back from Leeds, Kit had noticed. ‘You can go pack your box and make arrangements to have it carted home.’
Kit was perplexed. ‘Home?’
‘Well, you might as well be there for all the amount of work you do here.’
‘You’re giving me t’sack? Oh, that’s not fair!’ Kit felt qualified to apply for a job as a pit pony after all the work she had done today, though she was not brave enough to offer this impudent observation to Cook.
‘It wasn’t fair that I had to do your work as well as my own this morning! And it’s certainly not the first time you’ve let me down – and when you are here your mind isn’t on your work. Besides, you’ll be sadly needed at home what with all the arrangements for your sister-in-law’s funeral.’
The cryptic manner in which these words were issued caused Kit’s heart to sink.
At the look of guilt that flooded her subordinate’s cheeks, Mrs Atkinson launched into a full attack. ‘Aye, you do right hang your head! I happened to see Mrs Feather when I were in Leeds and guess what she told me? You lying toad! What a dreadful thing to say about anyone, let alone the woman who’s been a mother to you.’
‘I didn’t actually say our Sarah was dead!’ Kit remained flushed.
‘No, but you let me think it!’
‘You didn’t give me a chan—’
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Anyway, it’s no good wasting time arguing!’ Cook smote the air dismissively and turned away. ‘I’ve got someone else starting in the morning. The mistress knows all about it. She says you’re to come back tomorrow when she’ll pay you what’s owed.’
That wouldn’t be much, thought Kit dismally, imagining Sarah’s volatile reaction to the news of yet another dismissal, though her concern was mostly for herself.
Cook brought the shameful affair to a conclusion. ‘Mrs Larder says she’ll consider overnight whether or not to give you a reference – which is a damned sight more consideration than you deserve. And I’ll have that lump of ham back, thank you!’
And so at nine o’clock that night Kit found herself making hurried arrangements with a local carrier to have her large box of belongings transported to the village the next morning, whilst she had to plod home on foot through the country lanes. When she arrived, weary and despondent, the kitchen was in darkness and swathed with pristine linen that smelled of fresh air. The household was abed, yet it was no comfort, for now the confession would have to wait until morning and Sarah would be in an even worse mood to receive it. After plaiting her hair, Kit gazed forlornly into the banked-up fire, before creeping aloft, using the very edge of the staircase to avoid creaks. For one awful moment whilst inching her way through her brother’s and sister-in-law’s room she feared she was about to be discovered as baby Probyn stirred in his crib, grunting and snuffling like a piglet. But all remained still as she grasped the knob of the inner door, twisted it gingerly and finally reached her goal.
Gently rousing Beata, she whispered for her to move over. Unquestioning, the semi-conscious girl in turn nudged Ethel, and their grateful aunt rolled into the warm space provided, murmuring apologies for robbing them of elbow room.
She had just made herself comfortable when one of the little girls in the other bed piped up. ‘Beata, there’s a fly.’
‘Ssh! Don’t disturb everyone.’ Kit groaned and snuggled down. After sampling the luxury of her own room, it would be hard to cope with being thrust back into this sardine tin.
‘Is that you, Aunty Kit?’ came the anxious voice in the dark.
‘Yes – now shush, there can’t be a fly. You’re just dreaming.’
‘I can hear it! It keeps coming round me ’ead. Please, dear Aunt Kit …’
With an inward groan, Kit dragged her body from the bed and groped for a candle and matches on the dresser, for she knew from past experience that there would be no peace until she reassured Alice. ‘All right, all right, don’t wake the pizzocking house.’
‘Aw, you swore!’ giggled another child.
‘It’s not swearing.’ There came the abrasive zip of a match against sandpaper, then the tang of sulphur. After a frustrated search Kit finally glimpsed, in the light from the candle, a gnat hovering right before her face, attempting to settle on her nose. With a deft swipe she grasped the insect in her free fist, then examined it closely. ‘You can hardly see the blessed thing it’s so small!’
‘It were buzzing in me lug ’oile.’
‘You must have good ears, that’s all I can say,’ hissed Kit.
Demanding that the pest be exterminated, eight-year-old Alice could only be satisfied by the presentation of its corpse on Kit’s palm before settling down to sleep, thus allowing her aunt
to squeeze back into bed. Imagining the scene that would greet her tomorrow, Kit lay awake for ages.
* * *
In the morning, at Mrs Allen’s knock, she allowed Beata to rise before her, explaining that she had been dismissed and whispering, ‘Don’t tell your dad!’
‘He already knows.’ Beata looked woeful.
Kit groaned and shoved her head under the sheets. She continued to lay in bed until she heard the clatter of miners’ clogs fade into the distance and knew that her brother would have set off for work. Ethel and Rhoda were stirring. Kit rose then to dress, with the intention of creeping past Sarah and preparing breakfast in bed for her and so perhaps reduce the vilification.
However, when she peeped round the doorway there was no one in the other room apart from the red-headed baby. Heart sinking, Kit went downstairs to meet her fate.
Mrs Feather had obviously wasted no time in conveying the report of Sarah’s death to the corpse herself. ‘Dead, is it? Funny, that – I feel as right as rain!’
‘It wasn’t me that told her!’ blurted Kit as Beata tried to make her willowy frame unobtrusive by crouching over her sandwich-making. ‘She just assumed—’
‘What a lovely excuse to give for your being late. Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you should.’
‘It were a misunderstanding! She thought I were late because—’
‘Because you told her I’d inconveniently died and made you late!’ The nightgowned figure was furious. ‘Dozy, wretched creature! Messing around with your stupid hats—’
Kit had an awful premonition. ‘You haven’t thrown me wings away have you?’
‘What do you think that is, the archangel Gabriel?’ Sarah stabbed a finger at the sideboard where the bantam’s plumage was displayed in all its glory. ‘But if you don’t get it shifted you’ll be seeing angels, my girl.’
Kit hurried to protect her prize. ‘Oh, thanks! I’m really sorry, I didn’t know it was going to take that long and once I got started on it I couldn’t leave it.’
‘So you sacrificed your job to vanity!’
Kit looked chastened, stroking the white feathers. ‘I didn’t mean for her to think owt had happened to you, she just got wrong end o’ t’stick. Does our Monty know?’
‘You think I want to tell my husband about his sister’s wicked lies? He’s taken it hard enough that you lost your job.’
‘What did he say?’ Kit glanced at a watery-eyed Beata who was creeping around the kitchen as best she could, not even daring to clear her throat for fear of attracting a stream of Welsh invective.
‘You don’t want to know! Well, you can get yourself right out and find yourself another job this morning. Did you get a reference?’
Shamefaced, Kit shook her head. ‘I have to go back today to see if she’s going to give me one.’
‘Kit, you really are the limit! Useless, you are!’
Kit lifted her head at a frail cry from upstairs. ‘Probyn’s crying. Shall I fetch him down for you?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Carrying a laundered napkin, Sarah half marched, half limped for the stairs. ‘I’m quite capable – strange, that, for someone who’s meant to be dead!’
* * *
After breakfast, Kit left the house saying she would go and collect her reference early so as to be better equipped in her consequent search for employment, but in reality spurred by an eagerness to keep out of her sister-in-law’s way.
Alas, there was further admonishment in store that day, not the least of it from Mrs Larder, her former mistress.
After tramping six miles, Kit was made to stand in the hall for a full hour in retaliation for making her employer wait for breakfast. Swaying in her boots, calves and feet throbbing, she was further tormented by the sight of her successor flitting back and forth with a tea tray until Mrs Larder deemed herself ready for an audience.
‘Well, Katherine, and what have you to say for yourself?’ The middle-aged woman in the lace cap and fichu, and silver-grey dress with voluminous skirts, rested her hands in her lap, her hooded eyes projecting anything but welcome.
Kit hated grovelling to one who hardly registered on the social scale, but had no choice. ‘I do apologize for being late yesterday, ma’am.’
The response bore a hint of sadness. ‘Ah, if that were only the extent of your trespasses upon my good nature, Katherine. I understand that you told Mrs Atkinson your sister-in-law had died?’
‘No, I said we’d—’
‘It is quite unacceptable behaviour.’ Pathos gave way to stricture. ‘Your laxity toward your work has been hard enough to tolerate, but I will not countenance downright lies. I think your master and I have been most patient with you, wouldn’t you agree? And I’m certain Mrs Atkinson deserves more support than you are willing to give her.’
‘Yes’m. Sorry, ma’am.’
‘Well, that is all I have to say. Here are your wages.’ At Kit’s show of gratitude Mrs Larder inclined her head. ‘However, after great consideration I regret that I am unable to grant you a recommendation.’
Kit was genuinely shocked. Who would employ her without a reference? There was no position lower than domestic service, which had been her last resort after being sacked from various factories and local shops.
‘You might think me harsh, that your misdemeanour was not serious enough to warrant this decision, but consider it from my point of view. Any prospective employer would need to know that you are trustworthy and in telling them that you are I would have to resort to untruth. That I cannot do.’
Feeling bilious, Kit acceded to Mrs Larder’s smile of dismissal, and trudged the six miles back to her village.
* * *
Averse to another tongue-lashing from her sister-in-law, Kit stopped short of going all the way home and instead spent the afternoon lolling in the sun on farmland that overlooked the colliery, wading through the bag of buns she had purchased from her wages and afterwards making daisy chains whilst contemplating her future. If she were to receive condemnation from both Monty and his wife she might as well wait until they were in the house together and have it over in one go, hence she delayed going home until a trickle of colliers from the shaft indicated that their working day was at an end.
Her journey coinciding with that of the miners, she greeted each in cheery and unselfconscious fashion, whilst keeping an eye out for her brother. Once, she had been unable to decipher the clean men who went into the colliery in the morning from the grimy ones who emerged on an afternoon, but over the last decade she had come to tell who was who under the coal dust from their individual mannerisms. All returned her greeting with a laconic but warm acknowledgement, some having known Kit from their schooldays before following their fathers down the pit.
Undecided whether to enter by the front door and face Sarah’s wrath first, or sneak through the back way and hide upstairs for a while until her brother came home, Kit chose the latter.
But when, with gritted teeth, she gingerly lifted the sneck on the gate to the yard and peeped around the splintery timber, she found that Monty had somehow beaten her to it. Fortunately he had his back to her, and was stooped over an enamel bowl on an old table. In the act of sluicing water upon his blackened face, head and neck, he was unaware of her arrival and she put a finger over her lips to Ethel who stood by with a jug of fresh water and a towel, waiting to scrub her father’s back. Unlike others in the village, Monty never entered the house before ridding himself of coal dust, despising those who not only sat in their muck until bedtime but crowded the public saloon before tea. His fastidiousness was treated as eccentricity by some of his ilk, but Monty shrugged off their jibes.
This was a well-worn ritual which Kit now observed cautiously, waiting for the chance to sneak past and in the meantime listening to the trill of the canary who was evidently enjoying the benefit of this spell of fresh air whilst his master bathed. In colder weather strict concessions were made, her brother would unhook his braces, leaving them to dangle whilst t
aking off his shirt to wash the upper half first, and at the last minute whipping off his trousers and stockings to stand in the bowl and wash his legs, only a piece of sacking to guard the soles of his feet from the icy yard. Today though was warm and he had stripped off to his shorts immediately, lathering soap into his skin until the black layer was removed, save for that embedded deep in scar tissue. His hands plunged again and again into the water that was fast assuming a layer of black scum. This leisurely pace gave Kit time to sidle past, taking the opportunity whilst his face was buried in the towel and Ethel had started to scrub his back.
Inside, tea bubbled on the hob, ready and waiting for the master’s arrival. Normally this meal would be the focus of attention whilst the hungry children awaited their father, but today there was a more interesting topic to hold them. Kit slipped into the scullery unnoticed to find them all crowded goggle-eyed around the table where baby Probyn was having his napkin changed by his mother. Even the older ones wore looks of intense curiosity over the unfamiliar appendage on the youngest member of the family. Whilst it was hard in this overcrowded house for a maiden to be kept innocent from activity between the sexes, their parents’ room being in such close proximity to their own, few of the girls equated those animal grunts with the tiny protuberance before them.
‘What exactly is that?’ asked Wyn, pointing.
‘I told you yesterday,’ returned her mother brusquely. ‘It’s what a boy has and a girl doesn’t.’ At hearing the creak of a boot upon the stair, she glanced up sharply, foiling Kit’s evasion. Attempting a conciliatory smile, Kit abandoned her plan and came into the living room, ducking under the sleeves of laundered linen that hung from the pulley over the fireplace, and put her wages on the mantelpiece.
A Sense of Duty Page 9
