Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  ***

  Polly stirred early on her last day in Bideford. Friday already. She needed to find a good reason not to return home when her father called for her in the evening. She dressed quickly and descended to the kitchen at the back of the shop, where her aunt was stirring porridge. Uncle Prance was at the counter arranging the dried goods to his satisfaction and awaiting the delivery of crabs, lobsters, and shimmering bass to lay temptingly in the window. A young lad passed the doorway, whistling shrilly and drawing a newspaper from the hessian bag that was slung across his shoulder.

  ‘Gazette’s in Mr Prance,’ he called.

  Joe Prance took the paper and set it to one side, ready for reading when he enjoyed his pipe after his mid-day meal. Polly glanced sideways at the front page, which displayed details of forthcoming auctions.

  ‘May I look at the paper please uncle?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t know why you’d want to look at that,’ he replied. ‘Go ahead if youm a mind.’

  Polly took the paper through to the back yard, where she would be undisturbed and fought the breeze as she tried to lay it flat on a broken wooden packing case. She turned the pages, heart racing, this was her last chance. She took a deep breath and drew her finger slowly down the columns. The Western Gazette wasn’t really a local paper, it covered much of the south of England, so the likelihood of a nearby post being advertised was remote but it was worth a look. Reading was a laborious process for Polly but she worked her way through requests for dairymen and gardeners until she reached those beginning “Girls wanted”. Yeovil. Bournemouth. Plenty needed in Bournemouth, wherever that was; this was hopeless. She glanced apprehensively at the back door. If she was much longer someone would come to find out what she was doing. Polly began to read countless pleas for general servants. One for a post in Barnstaple was encouraging, at least it was a place Polly had heard of. Finally, two adjacent adverts seeking servants in Bideford. One required the respondent to apply via the Miss Williams’ Library. Polly wasn’t sure where this was and it seemed unlikely that she would get a response that day, so she looked again at the other advertisement. “General Servant (good) wanted, who can do plain cooking; and a house parlourmaid. Chudleigh Villa, Bideford.” Polly felt that plain cooking might be beyond her but house parlourmaid, perhaps.

  Polly casually walked back through to the shop. Her uncle had turned the sign on the door to “open” and was busy weighing out raisins into a paper cone for the first customer of the day. Whilst he was diverted, Polly secreted a piece of brown wrapping paper and the stub of a thick pencil into the pocket of her apron. Hastening through to the back yard, she licked the end of the pencil, turning her lips purple and began to painstakingly copy out the details from the advert.

  Ten minutes later, with her apron discarded and the newspaper returned to her uncle, Polly stepped out into the warm morning sunshine, bound for the newsagents to purchase a card. On her return, she went up to the room that she was sharing with her sister and two of her cousins. Fortunately, Lydia and Minnie had left for Mrs Newman’s and Athaliah was running an errand for her mother, so Polly had the room to herself. Trying hard to keep her writing straight and neat, she wrote the address on one side of the card. On the reverse she carefully inscribed her uncle’s address and the message, “I have been a housemaid for Mrs Pine-Coffin. I culd come this pm if it wuld suit,” followed by her full name. Polly licked the rust coloured ha’penny stamp, wincing slightly at the sour taste of the gum on her tongue. Slipping back outside, pretending not to hear her aunt’s enquiry as to where she was heading, Polly went to put the card in the letter box at the Post Office. The finality of its drop made Polly shiver with excitement-tinged nervousness. It might be early afternoon before a reply reached her. Now all she could do was wait. She needed something to quell her nerves, to take her mind off the enormity of her actions; perhaps she could take Hilda to feed the swans on the river.

  Polly held tightly to Hilda’s hand, as the little girl bounced and hopped up Mill Street, not pausing to glance in the shops. Hilda, not yet old enough for school, was delighted by the prospect of the individual attention and Aunt Susan was glad of a few hours reprieve from the lively child. Polly was beginning to find her way around the town by this time and she confidently guided Hilda down Bridgeland Street, unable to suppress a smile. Life was good. The pair passed Lavington Chapel and the imposing merchants’ houses, as they headed towards the river. Polly’s basket contained stale crusts of bread and pieces of broken biscuit for Hilda to cast upon the waters of the Torridge. If the swans were absent, there should be gulls who would accept the child’s offerings. They crossed the small stream and went in search of birds for Hilda to feed.

  The morning passed by surprisingly quickly and it was soon time for Polly to return an eagerly chattering Hilda to the shop for dinner. It was as Polly was helping Aunt Susan to clear the plates after their mid-day meal, that the postman called for the third time that day. Uncle Prance took the small pile of mail and Polly held her breath. A neat, white card, with an address embossed in blue, was at the bottom. Polly hadn’t really thought about this part of the proceedings. Of course, any reply would be by card and cards would be read by whoever took in the post.

  ‘What’s all this then young Polly?’ asked Uncle Prance.

  Polly held her breath, awaiting the storm but her uncle was smiling genially.

  ‘Seems a Mrs Powell wants to see you up at Chudleigh Villa. Have you been looking for a new place?’

  Lydia, home from the dressmakers for her meal, looked up sharply and then glowered at Polly. Polly tried not to sound defensive.

  ‘Mrs Pine-Coffin’s away for the summer. I felt in need of a change,’ she said.

  ‘What’s all this about the range?’ asked Aunt Susan, who had missed most of the conversation.

  ‘Change, mother,’ bellowed her husband. ‘Change. Young Polly here is going for a position over East-the-Water.’

  Susan still looked blank.

  ‘Is it live-in?’ asked Lydia. ‘Only I really don’t think I can possibly share my bed if she’s going to come back stinking of grease from doing dishes.’

  ‘It didn’t say,’ replied Polly.

  Her spirits plummeted, she knew full well that, if no scullery maid was kept, the duties of a house parlourmaid might extend to washing-up. She hadn’t considered that the job might not come with accommodation.

  ‘Typical,’ barked Lydia. ‘Why couldn’t you just wait for the Pine-Coffins to come back? They are such a well-to-do family. Has anyone even heard of the Powells? Are they anybody? She doesn’t come to Mrs Newman’s for her gowns.’

  Clearly, for Lydia, having a sister who was in service was only made bearable if the employers were the Lords of the Manor.

  ‘Well, she wants you at 4.30pm,’ said Uncle Prance, handing Polly the card. ‘Should you send word to say you’ll be going do you think? A card might just get there before you do.’

  ***

  The heatwave of the last few weeks showed no sign of abating and as Polly made her way down Mill Street, she was shocked by the strength of the sun. It was hard to believe that it was only a few months since the area had been gripped by storms and snow. Polly knew that she would need to walk slowly if she was to arrive looking cool and neat. Lydia had, grudgingly, offered to lend Polly her second-best gown, which was an enviable shade of blue. Aunt Susan had vetoed this, saying it made Polly look as if she was trying to get above her station, so she was wearing her own serviceable poplin. Even though the hottest part of the day was over, its practical dark colour added to Polly’s discomfort. Unusually, there was not a gasp of a breeze coming from the river as Polly turned to walk across Bideford bridge, narrowly avoiding the brewer’s dray that was heavily laden with barrels for the inns on the quay.

  The sight of the red-sailed boats on the river reminded Polly once again of Albert, whose day’s fishing would now be over. Perhaps he would be mending pots or showing young Eadie how to gut fish. Po
lly smiled to herself. It was a strange relationship, that between the reserved young fisherman and the little girl who had been adopted into the family. It was reassuring to see that he was so good with young children. Polly shook herself. This was not the time for romantic notions. She was off to start a new and wonderful town life. The days of dreaming of courting humble fishermen were, if not abandoned, then at least put aside. She did wonder though if Albert would miss her if she secured this position and she was not in chapel on Sunday. That at least would be one thing that would please her mother. If Polly was to be working in Bideford, it would be difficult to nurture her burgeoning relationship with Albert.

  Beginning the climb up past the station, Polly could hear the whistle of the approaching train and she caught a whiff of acrid steam on the still air. She passed under the railway bridge, glad of the momentary shade. Pigeons cooed from the metal girders above her head and Polly took care not to get their droppings on her boots. Aunt Susan knew Bideford well; Prance’s handcarts and cycles could be seen all over the town, delivering to customers. Over the years, Aunt Susan had been responsible for ensuring that a succession of slightly scruffy delivery boys took a selection of dried goods to the correct destinations. Her aunt’s instructions had been clear, Polly was to go across the bridge, walk past the Royal Hotel and the station, heading towards the old fort, then take a sharp left-hand turn to approach the large villas on the Chudleigh estate. Polly repeated the directions over and over in her head as she walked along. Although she had wandered around the main town of Bideford during the week, this side of the river, East-the-Water as the townsfolk called it, was new to her. The exertion of her walk on the hot afternoon, coupled with rising trepidation, set Polly’s heart racing. She was beginning to appreciate the significance of what she had done and to wonder how she would pacify her father, who was expecting to collect her for the return journey to Peppercombe later that day.

  The imposing villas at Chudleigh could be seen from the far side of the river. Polly had noticed them as they stood sentinel over the white-washed town below. As she drew nearer, they seemed even more intimidating. Polly was wondering which of the pair of cream-bricked houses in front of her was the Powells’ when a telegraph boy emerged from the right-hand house and retrieved his bicycle from where it lay in the hedge.

  ‘Are you lost miss?’ he asked, seeing Polly’s confusion.

  ‘I’m to see Mrs Powell,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know which house it is.’

  ‘That’s easy’, said the boy. ‘I’ve just delivered to the Reverend Roberts here, so the Powell’s must be that one.’ The boy pushed back his round cap to wipe his hand across his sweaty forehead, winked cheekily at Polly and pointed to the house to their left.

  ‘Thank you,’ responded Polly.

  She was grateful but even aspiring house parlourmaids didn’t engage telegraph boys in conversation. Her lips set primly, she walked towards the house with a purposeful step. She could hear the shrill whistling of the telegraph boy fading as she descended the area steps and knocked tentatively on the door to the lower ground floor. There was a long pause and Polly was wondering if she was, after all, in the wrong place, when the door opened. Much to Polly’s surprise, the slightly faded woman in her forties who bade her come in, introduced herself as Mrs Powell. Mrs Powell was tall and thin with swept back, wispy, fair hair, and a harassed expression. She was dressed in the deep lilac of half-mourning. Polly knew, from having spent a week listening to Lydia’s raptures about the latest fashions, that Mrs Powell’s gown, although elegant, was not new. She followed Mrs Powell’s erect back and tapping footsteps up the stairs and into an airy drawing room. Polly was invited to sit on a high-backed wooden chair with a hard, stuffed seat, covered in rough material. Wringing her hands nervously, Polly cleared her throat and glanced around the sparsely furnished room. There were faded patches on the brocade wallpaper, as if pictures had recently been removed. On the piano in the corner was a large bowl of roses and a photograph of a young girl, in a heavy silver frame. Mrs Pine-Coffin would be horrified, thought Polly, one of her earliest lessons at Portledge had been that, on no account, should anything be set upon the piano. Faint echoes of children’s voices could be heard from the upper floors and Polly wished that she weren’t so hot. She fidgeted in her chair as she waited anxiously for Mrs Powell to begin. Polly did not know what to expect. She hadn’t been interviewed for her post at Portledge, it had been enough that her mother was known because she helped out when the Pine-Coffins had guests and needed additional staff.

  ‘We have no servants at present,’ Mrs Powell said. ‘We were to have employed two, as the advertisement stated but errr, ummm, circumstances’, Mrs Powell spoke the word “circumstances” as if it were in capital letters, ‘have dictated that there will be only one.’

  Polly was too naïve to find it odd that a family who were clearly gentry should currently have no servants but her heart sank, if there was only to be a cook, then she would not be taken on.

  ‘We are looking for a house parlourmaid, who might perhaps manage cooking nursery teas,’ Mrs Powell was saying. ‘Mr Powell often eats at his club and when he does not, I will prepare the food for the dining room. A daily will come in to do the rough and we hire a cook to help out when we entertain.’

  Polly felt that some form of response was required.

  ‘How many children are there in the nursery ma’am?’ she asked, for want of anything else to say.

  A shadow passed across Mrs Powell’s face, as if recalling some sadness. She glanced at the piano. ‘Just the two younger girls, Rosamund and Margaret, now that Frances eats with us,’ she said. ‘William is away at school in term time. You will find the girls very quiet and biddable. They go to the Misses Ley’s School in Bridgeland Street, although Frances will leave in a few weeks.’

  Polly stood up hastily as a gentleman breezed into the room. His red face and bulbous nose reminded Polly of Mr Punch in half-remembered childhood puppet shows. She sketched a bob as Mrs Powell introduced her husband. Captain Powell was affable but old, as old as Polly’s father. He studied her appraisingly then walked to the sideboard and poured himself a generous glass of wine, before returning to his own affairs elsewhere in the house.

  Polly accepted that she knew very little about how servants might be interviewed but the conversation that followed over the next twenty minutes was curious. It was almost as if Mrs Powell was trying to persuade Polly to take the post, rather than assessing her suitability. Surely, thought Polly, there should be questions about her previous experience and explanations of exactly what the post entailed. She hadn’t even been asked for a character. Polly had been worried about her lack of a written reference from her time at Portledge. The need to keep her impending departure a secret meant that Polly had not dared to ask the Pine-Coffins to recommend her. It was all too likely that, had she done so, her mother would have got to hear. Mrs Powell’s apparent lack of interest in Polly’s former employment, averted this potential difficulty. Polly nodded and yes ma’amed in what she hoped were the right places. The post was live-in, Mrs Powell explained. Polly tried to hide the relief from her face. That will please Lydia, she thought, with a wry smile.

  ‘I will show you the room’, Mrs Powell said and led Polly up the narrow servants’ staircase to a room under the eaves.

  It was stiflingly hot and a fly buzzed incessantly as it banged against the dusty window. A narrow brass bedstead, with a flowered chamber pot peeping out from under the worn but clean counterpane, took up most of the space. There was a wooden chair and a small chest, that did duty as a wash-stand. A strip of rag rug covered the worn floorboards. Mrs Powell was apologising for the size of the room, as if Polly was a prospective tenant, not a servant. The room was at the back of the house and as Polly glanced through the grimy glass, she caught a glimpse of the river, with the town rising up beyond. Surely, Polly thought, Mrs Powell would not have shown her the room if she was not to be taken on. The room was wonderful
and it would be all her own. Polly had never had a bed to herself before, a whole room was beyond imagination.

  ‘When would you be able to start?’ Mrs Powell asked.

  ‘I would need to go home to collect my things’, said Polly, thinking quickly. ‘I could walk back with my father on Sunday evening if that would suit.’

  ‘Indeed, you could commence your duties on Monday.’

  ***

  The area door shut behind Polly as she left the house. She took a deep breath and rested back against the peeling paintwork for a few seconds, pausing to savour the moment. Had she really managed to find a job? She wanted to sing, to run, as she had when she was a child, to call out her good news to the unsuspecting passers-by. She struggled to walk sedately up the drive, to assume the decorum that befitted a newly employed parlourmaid. Turning, Polly looked back at what was to become her home, the arched windows gave the façade a benign air. Polly smiled. Those who had taunted her at school had claimed that the Wakelys could tell fortunes, had the sight, passed down from their gypsy ancestors. It was all nonsense of course but just this once, as she was about to begin a new life, Polly wished that she could see what awaited her.

  3

  1892-1893

  Polly felt a child’s chilly hand slip into her own; the thin silk gloves were no protection from the wind blowing up from the river. Margaret, sombrely clad and fighting back tears, gripped Polly’s fingers tightly. She watched as her mother placed a bunch of rusty chrysanthemums on the long, wet grass in front of a forlorn gravestone. The name, Florence Louisa Powell, was deeply incised in the slate; a short life marked by the stark dates 1877-1890. The family was paying homage at this tangible reminder of a daughter, of a sister, who was forever frozen in time.