My Father, My Son

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Rachel examined them closely. ‘Yes, they do look clean, I must say, but I would prefer it when you come to work for me if you wash them immediately before handling food.’ At Biddy’s apology she gave a kind smile. ‘That’s all right. Now, the cups you will find in that cupboard.’ She pointed – then felt her heart lurch as the big mitts clamped on two pieces of china. But Biddy got the cups to the table without mishap and shortly poured tea into them. ‘Not a bad effort, Biddy.’ She gave a commending nod then, over tea, went on to ask where Biddy lived.

  ‘Bedern, ma’am.’ The cup had totally disappeared as the great hands lifted it to her face.

  Rachel pictured it: an impoverished area with overcrowded accommodation. ‘And have you a mother and father, brothers, sisters?’

  ‘I got a mother, a father, three brothers an’ one sister, ma’am.’ She was asked if she was the eldest. ‘No, ma’am, my brother Paddy – well he’s really called Seamus but we know him as Paddy ’cause me father’s called Seamus an’ we’d get mixed up, d’ye see – he’s the eldest. Then there’s me brother Peter who’s known as Sean ’cause Peter is me grandad’s name but he’s dead now o’ course, then Mary who we call Molly ’cause me mammy’s name is Mary, then me, then me brother Thomas.’

  ‘And what is Thomas called?’ asked Rachel politely.

  There was a puzzled frown. ‘He’s called Thomas, ma’am.’

  Rachel said, ‘Oh,’ and took another drink. Then she enquired as to Biddy’s previous employment.

  Biddy looked down at the table. ‘Rowntrees’ factory, ma’am.’

  Rachel showed surprise. ‘And you left?’

  ‘Not exactly, ma’am.’ The minute blue eyes were lost beneath a Neanderthal brow.

  Rachel downed the cup. ‘You were dismissed!’

  ‘I didn’t do anything really wrong! ’Twas just… well, ’tis me hands ye see, ma’am, they weren’t fitted to handling chocolate.’

  ‘Ah,’ Rachel nodded understandingly at the great paws, ‘they kept melting it, I suppose?’

  ‘No, ma’am… they kept putting it in me mouth.’

  ‘In other words, you were sacked for stealing!’

  ‘Oh, ma’am, please gimme a chance!’ Biddy’s face beseeched her. ‘I promise I ain’t never done anything like that before, it were just that I’d never tasted chocolate an’ I kinda got the cravin’ for it – couldn’t stop. I swear by the Holy Virgin I won’t ever lick so much as the smell o’ cookin’ in your house.’

  After a stern examination Rachel asked how much the girl had earned and on being provided with the answer said, ‘Well, you won’t earn anything like that here. I don’t suppose there would be many willing to employ you at all with those credentials. Still… you’ve been open with me and I do have some sympathy for your social background. I was never one for shirking my responsibility to those worse off than myself. I’ll take you on a month’s trial.’

  Biddy was overwhelmed. ‘Oh, God bless ye, ma’am! You’re a saint!’

  ‘But I’m warning you I will not countenance any form of dishonesty.’

  ‘I swear I’ll be on immaculate behaviour, ma’am.’

  ‘Your wage will be three shillings a week.’

  Biddy nodded, though less exuberantly. However, she could hardly complain after the lady had displayed such compassion. This was the sixth interview she had been to and she had almost resigned herself to joining the queue at the soup kitchen, for her mother swore she would get nothing under her roof if she didn’t bring a wage in. When Rachel asked when she could start she gave the eager reply of, ‘Right away, ma’am!’

  Rachel agreed, then passed a short spell in thought before asking, ‘How do you feel about living in?’ None of her other maids had been resident, but Rachel was now seized with the idea of how welcome it would be to have someone to cook breakfast instead of arriving halfway through the morning. She wouldn’t have to waste the spare bedroom; that would be needed for future children. The girl could have the attic once a space had been cleared among the junk for a bed. This she told Biddy. The Irish girl was delighted at the prospect of having a room to herself after sharing with her brothers and sister.

  ‘Naturally I shall have to deduct a sum from your wage for your board,’ Rachel told her.

  ‘Oh… naturally, ma’am.’

  ‘Then if you’re agreeable you can start by helping me with lunch. There’s only myself; Mr Hazelwood has gone out for the day. He’s on leave from the Army at present. Oh, one more thing, Biddy. I really feel that your outfit is unsuitable for a respectable household. This afternoon we’ll go to the Stuff Warehouse and buy a dress-length.’

  ‘Er, that’d come out of me first week’s wages, ma’am?’ surmised Biddy.

  ‘Oh, gracious no,’ replied Rachel, then doused Biddy’s relief by adding, ‘I should imagine we’ll have to break into your second week’s money – but never mind, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the improvement in your appearance.’

  Russ, having been on a bird-spotting expedition for the best part of the day, did not meet his new servant until shortly before teatime.

  ‘I’m back!’ he called the minute he was through the front door and, unhooking his haversack, laid it to one side and shouted, ‘Which room are we in?’

  ‘The front – but don’t…’ Rachel’s warning came too late.

  ‘Oh bl— I’m sorry!’ Russ stared aghast at the strapping Irish girl who was trying vainly to cover her private portions with her hands – vainly, because her private portions were even more impressive than her hands. She tugged the hem of her grubby chemise over her drawers, then pulled the neckline up under her chin, not knowing which bit to pull where.

  ‘Russell, get out!’ Rachel came at him and slapped him from the room. ‘I told you not to come in!’

  ‘Sorry, I never heard you,’ he bumbled, craning his neck to catch another glimpse of the disrobed figure who was now crouching over to defend her modesty and weeping openly. ‘Who is she, anyway?’

  ‘She’s our new maid – now will you kindly give her some privacy?’ She slammed the door on him and went back to comfort the distraught girl. ‘There, there, don’t be silly, it’s only Mr Hazelwood.’

  ‘Oh, ma’am!’ keened Biddy. ‘What’s the mammy going to say? An’ worse still what’s Father Boyle going to say? He’ll throw me out o’ the church!’ Rachel asked why on earth this should happen. ‘I’ve committed a deadly sin! I’m going to have a baby!’

  Rachel blenched, then demanded, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that this morning?’

  ‘I wasn’t having one this morning!’

  ‘Then how… do you know who the father is?’

  ‘’Tis himself!’ Biddy pointed at the door… Rachel almost collapsed. ‘Ma’am, ye saw it wasn’t my fault!’ Biddy tugged at her arm. ‘Maybe if you should tell the mammy I never meant for it to happen…’

  ‘Biddy! I demand to know what substance there is to your allegation. When did you meet my husband?’

  ‘Why… just now, ma’am,’ sniffed the girl.

  ‘Then how can you possibly claim that he is the perpetrator of this disgusting mess?’ Biddy didn’t understand the long words. ‘How can you say he’s the father of your child?’ shouted Rachel.

  ‘’Cause he’s seen me knickers!’ wailed Biddy. ‘Didn’t me mammy say I must never let a man see me knickers or I’d fall for a baby.’

  Rachel heaved an exasperated sigh and flopped into a chair. ‘You addlebrained idiot!’ She stood up again. ‘Just put your dress on! I’ve taken all your measurements. I’ll cut the pattern out now and you can put it together in your spare time.’

  ‘But…’ Biddy clutched her abdomen.

  ‘Biddy Kelly, you are not having a child! And if I hear you telling anyone – and more importantly that my husband is the father – then you will be in very serious trouble. Do you understand?’

  Biddy ran an arm over her eyes. ‘Yes’m.’

  ‘Good! Now get dressed, we’ve the tea to
attend to. By the way, I forgot to ask, can you read and write?’ Rachel supposed it was too much to expect for an outlay of three shillings per week, but was surprised when Biddy said she could in a fashion. ‘What sort of fashion?’

  ‘I can read little words – an’ me name, o’ course.’

  ‘Well, we’re not likely to find your name in a receipt book, which is what I’m proposing as your reading matter. But it’s written in simple sentences so you should be able to comprehend. How is your cooking?’

  ‘Oh, ’tis fine, ma’am,’ vouched Biddy as the other buttoned her up the back. ‘Haven’t I cooked enough chitterlings to go round the globe an’ tie in a bow.’

  ‘Chitterlings are not something we eat in this house, Biddy.’ Rachel patted the row of buttons and took the girl to the kitchen. Opening the recipe book at the relevant page, she said, ‘As I’ve been good enough to spend time on your dress you can bake me some bread. I thought I’d done enough to last but I forgot my husband was home. While you’re waiting for the dough to rise there’s a pile of ironing needs doing. Now, will you be all right with that while I finish cutting out your dress?’ At Biddy’s confident nod she returned to the front parlour.

  Some time later, after fitting in her son’s feeding time, Rachel went back to the kitchen to see how the new maid was coping. Her husband was just on his way down and paused on the stair to survey her sheepishly. ‘Is it safe to come down? I thought it might be about teatime.’

  The skin around her brown eyes creased. ‘It is, unless Biddy’s got herself into a tangle with the dough. Honestly, that silly girl, you’ll never guess what she thought when…’ She changed her mind. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter! I can’t see her being any worse than the last one once I get her trained.’ She opened the door of the kitchen but got no further, her face clothed in wonderment. Russ peered over her shoulder.

  The maid was standing in the hearth – right inside the fender, holding a bowl of dough, a look of intense boredom on her face. Rachel descended on her and, seeing the pile of ironing still waiting for attention, became even angrier.

  ‘What’re you idling there for? I expected to see all this done and put away – it won’t do itself!’

  ‘Sure, how can I do the ironing, ma’am, when the table’s over there an’ I’m over here?’

  ‘Biddy,’ said Rachel tiredly, ‘for what reason are you standing in the hearth?’

  ‘Didn’t that receipt book have it written down?’ At her mistress’s questioning face Biddy stepped out of the fireplace, still cradling the bowl of dough, and pointed to the words, ‘Cover with a cloth and stand on hearth or in a warm place for one hour until dough rises…’

  Russ sniggered as his wife snatched the bowl from the perfectly serious maid and planted it on the hearth in an exaggerated manner. ‘There! That’s what it means, girl. It doesn’t need to be nursed, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Sure now, why doesn’t it say that in the book?’ said a scornful Biddy. ‘Ye’d think the person that writ it could tell it in proper English, wouldn’t ye? Will I do that ironin’ now, ma’am?’

  Rachel was about to say yes, when a thin grizzling wail percolated from the nursery. ‘Oh, heaven help us! He’s so colicky today. I seem to have done nothing but rub his back – Biddy, you go see to him. It’s tiring me out, all this running about after people.’ She prepared to do the ironing herself.

  Biddy shambled off in the direction of the noise, then turned back. ‘Oh, what about the bread, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ll see to it!’ The gas iron was already in operation. ‘Here! Take this spoon with you. There’s some Croskell’s in the medicine chest; give Robert a spoonful of that and throw him over your shoulder – I mean,’ she elucidated, foreseeing disaster from this apparently harmless command, ‘put his chin on your shoulder and pat his back – gently.’

  ‘Sure, I know how to do it, ma’am. Haven’t I squeezed out great trumps of wind.’ Biddy went off to the nursery, telling the screaming babe, ‘I’ll not be a minute, Your Highness. I’ll just get the stuff to soothe your wee belly.’ There were several bottles in the chest. Biddy ran her thick digit along the shelf, squinting and muttering, ‘Iodine, quinine and iron tonic, cal… can’t read that bugger, ah, that’s it! Croskell’s Yellow Mixture.’ Turning the key in the cabinet, she took the bottle over to the cot and sniffed the contents before pouring a little onto a spoon. ‘I’d just better taste it to make sure ’tis not poison or the missus’ll kill me.’ The baby waved clenched fists, his face mottled with rage and discomfort. ‘God, that’s not a bad drop o’ stuff,’ she told him, wrapping a long tongue almost down to her chin and pouring another measure. ‘Too good for the likes o’ you, ye raucous wee son of a lobster.’ She extended the spoonful towards the gaping orifice and tipped it in. He was forced to close his mouth or choke.

  ‘Good, is it not? Now you sit on Biddy’s lap an’ get rid o’ that there bellyache.’ She settled back into a rocking chair and, with the aid of one expansive palm, managed to support the baby and pat his back at the same time, whilst her other hand transferred the contents of the bottle to her mouth. She rocked contentedly back and forth. ‘Oh, God that’s great – ’tis heaven.’ She continued to praise the liquid and sip happily until ten minutes later she found, with a guilty start, that she had consumed half the bottle. ‘Oh Jesus, your mammy’ll rip the skin off me back!’ she told the baby, who had now grown sleepy from the rocking. ‘What am I to do?’

  With a spark of inspiration she topped the bottle up from the water jug… after taking ‘Just one last sip’.

  When she got downstairs the bread had been put into the oven and the ironing was nearly done. Her mistress told her to take over, asking if she had given Robert any Croskell’s. ‘Oh yes, ma’am – he seemed to like it.’

  ‘He does. He’d drink the whole bottle if you let him. But don’t be tempted by his angelic charm; one teaspoon only, it’s very potent stuff.’

  Biddy hoped the mistress would not notice that the mixture was a slightly paler yellow than before. Keeping her guilty face hidden, she smoothed the iron over a pillowslip.

  ‘Well, Biddy,’ said Russ in a friendly tone, trying to make up for the earlier embarrassment he had caused her. ‘Are you going to like working for Mrs Hazelwood?’

  ‘Oh, she’s a wonderful lady, sir! I’ll give her my utmost ability.’

  Rachel smiled at her husband. The Irish girl, though more than a little dilatory, had a very accommodating nature and would soon learn. ‘We’ll be very pleased to have you, Biddy, though we’ll have to make you a bed in the nursery until the attic is cleared. Still, you’ll be able to hear Robert more clearly if he should cry in the night – oh, did I forget to say? He does sometimes wake up for a cuddle, but I’m sure you won’t mind getting up with him, will you?’

  Chapter Five

  After his leave expired, Russ set sail for Limerick to spend his last few months with the Army. His first act was to pen a hasty letter to the priest in South Africa apologizing for being unable to send any money to pay for Charlie’s upkeep at the moment, but promising that as soon as he set up in business this would be rectified. He had decided it was impossible to put any aside from his Army pay, for Rachel would spot the discrepancy at once. At first, he continued to feel unease over his adultery – especially when Sergeant Daw brought it flashing back with a well-timed jibe – but as, in time, Daw grew bored with the subject, the fear began to recede and was completely forgotten by the month of May when a letter arrived from his wife to say she was pregnant again.

  In July he was discharged from the Colours and entered the Reserve, which would last for a period of six years. God willing, no one would pick a fight with the British Empire in that period. Russ had his future neatly planned. By the year following his discharge, Russell Hazelwood and Wife had acquired a small property in Nunnery Lane. With his previous experience in drapery this was the chosen commodity, enjoined with Rachel’s millinery skills.

  It trans
pired that Russ had more flair for business than he had previously dared to hope. Examination of the accounts showed that each week’s takings always exceeded those of the previous week, a fact which Russ took great delight in pointing out to his wife. There was, however, one item of book-keeping about which he was not so ready to brag, and it was as well that Rachel was totally inept at figurework. A name appeared in the accounts, that of a Mr Cranley, a wholesaler who supplied various items of haberdashery. Mr Cranley did not exist. Russ had seen this fictitious client as the ideal way to cover his former sins – the money paid to Mr Cranley was in fact sent to a Father Albert Guillaume in South Africa for the upkeep of an illegitimate son. Unless Rachel had reason to get in touch with Mr Cranley – highly improbable unless Russ expired suddenly overnight – the boy was assured a decent life and Russ could forget all about him.

  By 1906 the combined business was doing well enough for the Hazelwoods to move to a more commercial position in Micklegate and for Russ to take on a young male assistant. Naturally Rachel continued to churn out her creations at home; with four infants to bring up now she had no time for the shop. Her body seemed to be making up for all the time it had wasted in their early years of marriage, dealing her a child almost every year. However, the children were not allowed to impinge too frequently on her time and Biddy attended to most of their needs.

  At this moment, Biddy was attempting to get the children ready for their constitutional. The youngest, Rebecca, was spread face down on the maid’s lap, having her arms thrust into her flannel. Two rough red hands turned the child over and pinned the ends of the flannel up over Rebecca’s kicking legs. The baby roared her protest at Biddy’s harsh ministrations. ‘Away with your noise,’ scolded Biddy, reaching for a petticoat to put over the flannel. ‘Didn’t I sample enough o’ that last night.’ Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, her mouth drooping at the corners. ‘Miss Rosalyn, I’d ask ye not to do that!’ The two-year-old had tripped her elder sister Rowena as she had trotted past. Poor Rowena was now in tears. ‘God! Haven’t I enough to listen to with this skinful o’ bad humours?’ An embroidered dress was tugged over the crimson face. ‘Master Bertie, would ye be so kind as to pass me that there cardigan?’