Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  ***

  Daisy sat self-consciously on a hard, wooden chair at one end of the large polished table, in the summer drawing room of Aylwood House. Outside, the early spring sunlight flickered as it filtered through the newly greened foliage. She was here because Mrs Cornelius had pronounced that this afternoon would not be given over to the next stage of the spring clean but that Daisy should accompany her to Aylwood instead. Mrs Cornelius, intent on clinging to the periphery of Torquay society, had eagerly accepted an invitation to the home of her former employer. A score of ladies of Mrs Gilley’s acquaintance were gathering to roll bandages for the convalescent home that had been set up in the Grand Hotel for the duration of the hostilities. The Grand Hotel, one of the largest in Torquay, dominated the seafront at the station end of the bay. In happier times, under the proprietorship of Mrs Gilley’s brother-in-law, it had been the destination of choice for the gentry, who flocked to partake of the soft Torquay air. Now it was hoped that same balmy climate would aid the recuperation of men appallingly damaged by the war.

  Mrs Cornelius had been informed that some of the ladies would be bringing maids to add to the workforce and she had resolved to be one of that number. So, after the luncheon crockery was cleared away, Daisy obediently trotted down Newton Road, in her employer’s wake. When they arrived at Aylwood, Mrs Cornelius had hesitantly gone to the front door. Daisy knew that it was only a few years since Kate Cornelius had been required to use the servants’ entrance. Will I ever knock on the front door of a grand house, with a servant behind me? wondered Daisy. Tantalising possibilities teased the corners of her mind.

  A maid showed them into the drawing room where Mrs Cornelius greeted Mrs Gilley deferentially, before retreating to sit with another woman, who also seemed out of her depth in these opulent surroundings. The furnishings were in the latest style and Daisy had glimpsed a telephone on the wall in the hall. She gasped as Mrs Gilley flicked a bakelite switch, illuminating the central chandelier. Even the Court did not yet have electric lighting. The room was already bathed in sunlight but Daisy sensed that turning on the light unnecessarily was Mrs Gilley’s way of drawing attention to this indicator of prosperity.

  Daisy heard her employer explain to the other early arrival that she, Daisy, was her parlourmaid. Parlourmaid? thought a shocked Daisy. Yes and every other kind of maid as well and gardener for good measure. Daisy reasoned that being dubbed a parlourmaid, implied that she was one of a number of servants in the Cornelius household, thus enhancing her employer’s status. How ridiculous, she thought. One servant or one hundred, won’t change the fact that Mrs Cornelius had once been Kate Meyers, housemaid to the Gilley family.

  Upright on her designated chair, Daisy quietly watched each lady make her entrance. You could not grow up near to Clovelly Court without becoming aware of the subtleties of rank and Daisy soon realised that this was far from being a gathering of equals. At the head of the table, furthest from Daisy, sat Mrs Gilley, imperious and more intimidating here, in her own setting, than she had seemed in the parlour of Gardener’s Cottage. Their hostess was flanked by the cream of Torquay society; affluent women who had arrived by carriage from the mansions on Warberry Hill, or who lived in the large houses closer by. Mrs Cornelius might pretend that she was attending on the same footing as these grand ladies but it was clearly not the case. In the short time that Daisy had been at Upton Hill, she had come to realise that Mrs Cornelius exhibited all the snobbery of the social climber. Kate Cornelius would be horrified if these securely middle-class matrons realised that she, Kate, was formerly one of Aylwood’s servants.

  Daisy knew that it was not her place to engage these ladies in conversation. To them, she was of no more significance than the seat on which she perched. There was Mrs Cornelius, in the middle of the table, along with the other acolytes, the hangers-on, who aped their social superiors and aspired to acceptance. It was noticeable that the conversation was monopolised by those closest to Mrs Gilley. Mrs Cornelius and her ilk were permitted the odd word or two, especially if it consisted of sycophantic agreement with the comments of the real ladies but heaven forefend that they should express an opinion of their own. Daisy and the two other girls who had been brought along as essential accessories, to be paraded as badges of rank, sat in silence by the window.

  Bandages were distributed and the women set to work. Pieces of lint flecked dark skirts and gradually, waiting cardboard boxes were filled with neat cylinders. Daisy, her fingers deftly rolling, relieved the boredom of the activity with thoughts of Abraham. Despite the monotony and the absence of someone to converse with, she was deriving a sense of satisfaction from the afternoon. She could not fight to avenge Abraham’s loss but here was something she could do. The fact that it was not a particularly congenial task helped. It would not seem right for her efforts to be enjoyable. Each strip of cloth she tamed, she tallied as her contribution. This was not nursing, which was her dream but she was getting closer; she was doing something more meaningful than black-leading stoves or mopping tiles.

  Daisy worked conscientiously, without pausing. Snippets of conversation eddied to her end of the room. Mrs Miller, stationed on Mrs Gilley’s left, was holding forth in the strident tones of the hard of hearing. She was talking of her daughters, whose lives seemed impossibly glamorous when compared to Daisy’s own. One, it appeared, had gone to Girton College in Cambridge. The other, Agatha, had been a VAD nurse right here in Torquay but had studied for examinations and was now working as a dispenser in the town. Torquay was certainly more exciting than Clovelly but Daisy still felt restless; there was a whole world of opportunity that was passing her by.

  Daisy’s thoughts continued to wander, as she applied herself to the repetitive task. The talk of Mrs Gilley and the other ladies turned to recent news and the fact that they had finally been granted the right to vote. Only a few weeks ago, Daisy had heard the newsboys crying out that the Representation of the People Act had been passed. It did not apply to Daisy herself of course, it would only be older women but she felt a sense of pride nonetheless. It was as if her encounter with the suffragettes in Clovelly, all those years ago, had made her part of the campaign, able to take some credit for the victory. She still had the scrap of yellow paper, with the suffragettes’ slogan emblazoned on it. It lay in the bottom of a box of treasures that she had left behind in Clovelly, together with the handbill and the precious newspaper that Vera Wentworth had given her. There wasn’t much chance to fight for women’s rights in Clovelly but Daisy secretly regarded the cause as her own, always believing that she should have the same opportunities as her brothers. Coming to Torquay was somehow part of her personal struggle to take control of her own life, to do something different, to escape. Not that she had accomplished that, Daisy thought, regretfully. Working for Mrs Cornelius wasn’t much different to working for Mr Tuke, although she was looking forward to making the vegetable garden flourish. Still, Torquay was a beginning, it was not Clovelly and that was what mattered.

  A cheerful maid entered the room, pushing a rattling trolley. She began to serve tea in dainty, gold-rimmed cups. Her starched cap and pristine apron made Daisy conscious of her own ill-fitting uniform.

  ‘Well of course,’ their hostess was saying to those closest to her, ‘our class are obligated. We should set an example by freeing our servants for war work. I am so pleased to see that some of you have done just that by bringing your maids here today.’

  Mrs Cornelius failed to disguise a triumphant smile.

  ‘I pride myself in knowing a good servant,’ Mrs Gilley went on. ‘Indeed, some of you have benefited from my recommendations.’ At this juncture she looked intently at Kate Cornelius, who reddened under the scrutiny.

  ‘Take Winnie here,’ she said, indicating the girl who was now handing round cucumber sandwiches.

  Despite the food shortages, the Gilley household had obtained both white bread and butter.

  ‘She has given the greatest satisfaction,’ Mrs Gilley went on, �
��but I know that I must spare her for patriotic tasks. She spends two afternoons a week nursing at the Town Hall infirmary. Those poor boys up there need to see a kindly smile.’

  An unfathomable look crossed Winnie’s face but Daisy’s attention was on Mrs Cornelius. If Mrs Gilley allowed her maids to nurse, might Mrs Cornelius, not wishing to be outdone, grant Daisy a similar opportunity?

  Daisy was not hungry, so she shook her head as the maid reached her with a near empty plate of sandwiches. One of the girls next to her had also refused, so it seemed that it was not considered rude to decline. Refreshments distributed, Winnie was now required to be a living example of Mrs Gilley’s beneficence. She drew up a dining chair next to Daisy and pulled a bundle of unrolled bandages towards her. The two girls smiled at each other, shyly. The other maids, sat on Daisy’s right, were whispering to each other. It appeared that it was acceptable for those exiled to the bottom of the room to speak, if only amongst themselves.

  As the resident servant, it was fitting that Winnie should open the conversation and the girls exchanged conventional introductions. For the first time, Daisy allowed her pace to slacken and she snatched stealthy looks at her neighbour. Daisy judged that Winnie was the younger by several years, probably not much older than Violet. Although not a hair was out of place, there was a light dusting of freckles across Winnie’s pert nose, which somehow made her seem more approachable. They continued with their task and chatted inconsequentially, making the time pass quickly.

  After half an hour, emboldened by Winnie’s friendliness, Daisy found the courage to ask the question that had been burning in her mind since Winnie had arrived, ‘Do you really work at the hospital? Oh, I do so wish I could do that. It must be wonderful. Do tell me all about it.’

  Winnie looked at her inquisitor appraisingly, as if weighing up whether her response should be a mere platitude or the unvarnished truth. She decided on the latter.

  ‘I hate it,’ she said. ‘Oh, it’s all very well, folk think all it involves is holding the hands of handsome soldiers and giving them tea and reading to them but it’s not like that at all.’

  Daisy looked incredulous but Winnie, having unleashed her confession, resolved not to hold back. ‘There’s some of that of course but the men, they’re so, so, oh, I don’t know, so dreadfully hurt. You must have seen them coming off the troop trains, awfully injured. And then there’s the ones that look fine but aren’t right in the head. They’re the worst. They rant and shout and jabber all manner of nonsense.’

  Daisy could see unshed tears gleaming in Winnie’s eyes. She didn’t know what to say. Winnie blinked several times and reached for another bandage.

  ‘Just hope your mistress doesn’t get ideas about sending you up there,’ warned Winnie. ‘Do you think she’s likely to?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Daisy, thoughtfully. ‘I hoped she would let me go. I thought that’s what I’d do when I came here. I’d heard about the big hospital and all. I suppose I somehow felt that, if I were closer, I could get to work there. I’m not sure if Mrs Cornelius can spare me, there’s only me to tend to the family.’

  Daisy cast a guilty look in her employer’s direction, wondering if she should have been so forthright. Had she now revealed Mrs Cornelius as a pretender to the rank of gentry?

  ‘If you really want to help,’ continued Winnie, ‘see if you can get in at one of the convalescent homes, like the one at the Clarence Hotel, or even the Grand, though that would be further away for you. The men there are in some state but it’s not like down at the hospital,’ Winnie shuddered.

  ‘What’s so bad at the hospital?’ asked Daisy. ‘I mean, I know that the men are fearfully wounded and that …. and that some of them … well, some of them don’t get better. But surely it is wonderful to be part of it all? I feel so useless. There’s all the men risking their lives, off to war and all I can do is polish the brass and empty chamber pots.’

  Winnie continued to unburden herself, ‘It’s the operations that are the worst,’ she said, her voice trembling as she articulated her innermost traumas. ‘If they can’t save a leg or an arm, well, then they amputate it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Daisy, hoping to give comfort but wondering why Winnie was stating the obvious. ‘Sometimes that’s the best they can do.’

  ‘No,’ said Winnie. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not the operations, or even bandaging the stumps, I can do that,’ her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘It’s, it’s what happens to the, to the, err, to the bits they cut off.’

  Daisy looked at her, mesmerised. Here was something that she had not considered. She had thought about men with arms and legs missing, of course. She’d seen plenty of them, especially since she had come to Torquay and they no longer aroused her morbid curiosity; she accepted them as part of her surroundings, her war-torn world. It had never once occurred to her to wonder what happened to the mangled limbs that the surgeons severed.

  ‘They make us take them to the furnace,’ Winnie went on. ‘It’s awful. Last Saturday there was a little maid helping out, she can’t have been more than about eleven, she just broke down when they said that’s what she’d to do and I, I couldn’t help her.’

  Daisy looked around but the other women were lost in their own conversations and Winnie’s distress went unremarked.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Daisy responded, horrified. ‘That must have been terrible and that poor little girl. Try not to think about it.’

  Winnie swallowed, surreptitiously wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stood up to take the full box of bandages to the small table by the door. When she returned, she seemed keen to change the subject and began to tell Daisy of the delights of Torquay. By the end of the afternoon, the two young women had resolved to meet up when their half days next coincided. Despite Winnie’s revelations about her work at the hospital, Daisy left Aylwood feeling more content than she had for months. She had made a friend, she was being useful and spring was on its way.

  ***

  Daisy and Winnie’s friendship thrived. Although Winnie was barely seventeen, her air of sophistication, borne from an upbringing in the town, eroded the disparity in their ages. As the weather grew warmer, they abandoned the shopping streets in favour of listening to bands in the park, or strolling along the pier. As they rested on the wrought iron seats, they caught glimpses of eager visitors taking to the water from the bathing huts on the promenade. Men in striped woollen swimsuits, hauled the straps over their shoulders and struck out from the shore. Young women shrieked in their frilly, knee-length costumes and mob caps. Although her brothers swam naked in the sea at home and Daisy loved to wet her feet in the Clovelly waves, she knew that she would never dare to don such an outfit and immerse herself totally in the sea. Sometimes, Daisy and Winnie would linger by the Punch and Judy show, pretending that they were too old for the puppets’ antics but secretly enjoying Mr Punch’s foibles. Or they would watch the donkeys giving bouncing children rides across the sand. The uncomplaining animals reminded Daisy of home but she had no regrets.

  The holiday season reached its height and visitors outnumbered the soldiers on the streets of Torquay. The girls walked down to the busy town, dodging hurtling trams and struggling through thronging tourists, who were intent on enjoying the Devon sunshine. An animated group, heading in the opposite direction, strung across the street. Like bookends, two men in white trousers, striped blazers and straw boaters, flanked their parasol-twirling female companions. Winnie and Daisy had to side-step into the road to avoid them. Daisy was used to Clovelly’s tourist hum but here, even in wartime, the atmosphere was more intense; everything was on a much larger scale.

  Winnie had suggested a visit to the recently opened picture palace at the Pavilion. The cinema had been a revelation for Daisy and she eagerly awaited the announcement of the new programme each week. On this particular day, Winnie was impatient to see her idol, Eugene O’Brien, in the next episode of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. She hurried Daisy alo
ng, anxious that the crowds had made them late. Daisy was daydreaming of having wonderful curls, like the film’s heroine, Mary Pickford. She patted her own straight hair that was caught in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She still hadn’t plucked up the courage to have it cut short. Daisy had bravely taken Winnie’s advice when buying her new summer dress though and she was proudly wearing it for the first time. She was pleased with the effect, even though it showed rather more calf than she was accustomed to.

  The girls rushed along Fleet Street, keen to catch the two o’clock screening. When they reached the Pavilion, they were breathless and uncomfortably warm from their exertions. A young lad, in a brass buttoned jacket, his pill box hat set at the approved angle, stood on guard by the door. The girls hastened into the gold-painted entrance hall and paid for their tickets. The uniformed usherette showed them to a pair of plush seats on the end of a row. The lights dimmed in anticipation. Daisy never tired of the unworldliness of a visit to a picture palace. The organ gradually rose from the floor and the fulsome notes echoed around the auditorium, drowning the whirr of the projector. The pictures flickered and crackled into life and the opening feature began. Within minutes Charlie Chaplin was waddling across the screen and Daisy was mesmerised. The laughter died down as A Dog’s Life came to an end and the crowing rooster announced a Pathé Newsreel. Winnie’s attention was distracted but Daisy, keen to savour every moment of the outing, even the news, was looking intently in front of her. She was astonished to see that the film depicted an elegantly dressed woman in a wedding gown climbing into a carriage.