‘Right you are, lass.’ The young man, who looked to be about Connie’s age, smiled back at them both, before saying, ‘Wait a minute an’ I’ll let her know you’re here.’
‘Thank you.’
They barely had time to glance around the very comfortable reception area before the young man was back again and gesturing for them to follow him through a green baize door. ‘Mrs Alridge said she’ll see you separately.’ He pointed to a heavy oak door along the small corridor in which they were standing. ‘Miss Connie Bell first.’
‘That’s me.’ And then, as the porter nodded before stepping forwards and knocking on the door, Connie said in a quick aside to Mary, who hadn’t uttered a word, ‘Now don’t worry, lass, don’t. You’ll be all right.’
‘Oh, Connie.’ It was a whimper, but a voice had called from inside the room and the young man was opening the door, and all Connie had time for was a reassuring pat on Mary’s shoulder before she entered what was clearly an office. It was not an excessively large room, and although the two leather-topped desks at one end and the filing cabinets and other office equipment were a little intimidating, the blazing fire burning in the grate and the square of carpet on which she was standing leant an air of cheer to the official surroundings.
‘Miss Bell?’ Mrs Alridge had been sitting behind one of the desks and she now rose to her feet, indicating the upholstered straight-backed chair which had been placed in front of it. ‘Please be seated. I understand you are applying for the post of assistant housekeeper? Is that correct?’
‘Aye, yes, that’s correct.’
Mrs Alridge was not at all as she had imagined. The woman in front of her was younger than Connie had expected, probably in her early thirties, and beautifully groomed. The pale-blue dress she was wearing was very plain but cut in such a way that it fitted the manager’s wife’s slim body perfectly, and Mrs Alridge was very attractive, even beautiful, in a contained, cool way. Her wide grey eyes were now skimming over Connie, taking in every aspect of her, from her hair to her feet, and she seemed to reflect Connie’s own thoughts as she said, on a light laugh, ‘You are not quite what I expected, Miss Bell.’
‘Oh.’ Connie’s face, which had been smiling politely, now became straight. She wasn’t at all sure what the elegant creature in front of her had meant by that.
‘It was a compliment.’ Mrs Alridge answered her as though she had spoken out loud. ‘I thought. . .’ And then she flapped her hand at what she had thought as she said again, ‘Do sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ Slowly she sat down on the chair as Mrs Alridge took her own seat, and then there was a moment’s pause before the manager’s wife said, ‘The details you left with my book-keeper yesterday are quite sketchy. Perhaps it would be a good idea if, in your own words, you filled in the empty places. I understand you have no family?’
‘No, that’s right.’ Connie made herself speak quietly and calmly but her heart was thudding. ‘My mother died a week or so before I took the job as laundry checker at the workhouse, and . . . and my grandmother and my brother died in a fire the day after I started work, which also destroyed the family home.’
‘How dreadful.’ Lucy Alridge leant forward slightly but other than that barely perceptible action she didn’t betray the interest that had gripped her about this strikingly beautiful girl with the great sad eyes. ‘And your father . . . ?’
‘My father was already dead,’ Connie said evenly.
‘I see.’ Another pause and then, ‘In your own words, go through your work history and present responsibilities, would you, Miss Bell?’
Somewhat stiffly now, as she tried to remember all the details, Connie began to speak, and it was some five minutes – with just the odd interruption here and there from Mrs Alridge – before she finished. They were silent again, and once more Connie waited, but this time the pause was even longer.
‘Why have you decided to leave the workhouse at this present time, Miss Bell?’
Connie hesitated, and then she looked into the lovely expressionless face in front of her. She had been a few minutes in this woman’s company but that had been sufficient time to understand that the manager’s wife was no fool. She could prevaricate now, or tell the bare truth – that she felt it was time to move on to further her career and so on – but Mrs Alridge would know there was more to it than that. ‘I wanted to train as a nurse but my application was turned down,’ she said flatly.
‘On what grounds?’
‘I wasn’t given an explanation.’
‘Did you ask for one?’
Connie raised her head a little higher and now her tone was not at all how one should address a prospective employer as she said, ‘No, I didn’t, because I had already overheard that I would be unsuccessful and made up my mind to leave.’
Curiouser and curiouser. There was more here than met the eye, and perhaps more tragedy in those incredible violet eyes than even the loss of her family eight years ago could engender? ‘I understand, if you should be offered the post, that you have no wish to live in, Miss Bell?’ the manager’s wife asked quietly.
Connie nodded. ‘I’m renting a house in Walworth Way,’ she said quickly. ‘After all the years of being confined to the workhouse I would like to be independent.’
‘Independent.’ Lucy Alridge repeated the word. ‘Yes, I can appreciate that. It must have been a very constricting lifestyle. I was born in the south of England and my father was the headmaster of a private boarding school. We lived, my mother and father and I, in an apartment at the top of the institution, and my timetable, like that of the students, was a very rigid one. Yes, I can understand your desire for independence, Miss Bell.’ And then, with a mercurial change of conversation that Connie was to learn was habitual, the other woman said, ‘Are you confident you could undertake the post of assistant housekeeper if it was offered to you? Mrs Pegg, the housekeeper, is often tied up with office administration or liaising with guests; it would be your job to oversee the staff – the waiters, porters, cook and seven kitchen maids, the two tea maids and the housemaids. Do you think you could do that? You have to be in three, four places at once a lot of the time, have eyes in the back of your head, and be arbitrator, dictator, friend or mentor depending on the situation and person involved. It is quite possible you will not be liked if you do your job properly, but you should be respected. Can you handle all that, Miss Bell?’
Connie stared at her. She didn’t have the faintest idea if she was up to this but she was prepared to die in the attempt. ‘Yes I can,’ she said firmly. ‘And I am not interested in being popular, Mrs Alridge.’
What an unusual young woman. Lucy Alridge made one of the lightning decisions that her instinct had prompted her to in the past and which had always served her well. ‘Then how would it be if we agreed to a trial period of say . . . six weeks? And then if we are both satisfied we can draw up a permanent contract. How would that suit, Miss Bell?’
‘You’re offering me the job?’ Connie’s eyebrows shot upwards as her eyes opened wide, and now Lucy Alridge allowed herself a small smile as she said, ‘You find that surprising?’
If Connie had answered truthfully she would have said she found it absolutely amazing, but what she did say was, ‘I’ll endeavour to do my best at all times, Mrs Alridge, I can promise you that.’
‘If I thought anything else I would not have offered you the post.’ And then her future employer further surprised Connie when she stood up and leant across the desk, her hands flat on the leather surface as she said quietly, ‘I like ambition, Miss Bell, especially in a woman. My father considered boys more intelligent than girls, but I have not found that to be the case. It is just that most girls do not get the same opportunities, would you not agree? Now, I understand your friend, who also resides at the workhouse at present, is applying for the post of housemaid. Is that right? If she is successful in her application are you sure you could treat her in the same way as the rest of the staff under your jurisdiction?’
‘Definitely, Mrs Alridge. Mary . . . well, Mary relies on me you see, but she would never do anything to make things awkward and she would be happy just to do her job and keep out of any internal politics.’
Internal politics. Yes, this was a very unusual young woman all right, and she would be interested to learn more about her, Lucy Alridge told herself silently. But for now there was the other girl to see and then she had to have a word with Cook about the menu for the function the Bowling Club were having on Thursday, before Harold came back from his club no doubt ravenous for his supper. ‘Good.’ She straightened, her tone dismissive as she said, ‘Shall we say a week on Monday, Miss Bell? Will that give you sufficient time to get your affairs in order? And of course this is subject to your references being satisfactory.’
‘A week on Monday will be fine, and thank you. Thank you, Mrs Alridge.’ Connie was trying hard not to let her bemusement show, but inside she was singing, shouting, laughing! Assistant housekeeper at the Grand! They hadn’t thought her good enough to train as a nurse and now she was going to be assistant housekeeper at the Grand. This was going to be a new beginning, a new life. If she could do this she could do anything.
And her face reflected her exhilaration as she stepped into the corridor again and said to Mary, whose hands were clenched nervously against her stomach, ‘Go on in, she’s waiting for you, Mary, and she’s nice. She’s really nice. Don’t worry. We’re on our way, lass. We’re on our way.’
Chapter Eleven
It was the third Saturday in December, exactly one year to the day that the British Medical Association had voted against providing a service under new National Insurance laws, and only four days after a report had been published stating that 500,000 children in the United Kingdom were ill-fed and diseased. The working classes could have told anyone that that was only the tip of the iceberg.
But for Connie and Mary the year had been a good one. Exhausting and frequently challenging – there were times when Connie fell into bed too tired to even wash or clean her teeth, but it was her bed in her house and she was happy. Happy as she hadn’t been for a long, long time.
She and Mary had taken up residence in number fourteen, Walworth Way, three days before they had started work at the Grand, and for the first four weeks they had had the house to themselves. After fumigating the bedrooms, which had been hopping with fleas, and getting rid of the old mattresses and tattered curtains, Connie had bought new mattresses for the two single iron beds in each room, along with new curtains for the windows and fresh bedspreads for each bed. It had eaten into the resources of the sweet jar but she had bought frugally and was satisfied the outlay had made the two rooms pretty and habitable, especially after she and Mary had added a small table – bought from the pawn shop – and two of the hard-backed chairs from the sitting room to each room to supplement the aged wardrobes.
Connie’s advertisement in several shop windows, and for two evenings in the Sunderland Echo, for ‘rooms for respectable gentlewomen, clean and with use of kitchen’ saw the upstairs occupied by the middle of April, one room being let to an elderly widow and her middle-aged working daughter, and the other to two spinster sisters who worked at the Corn Mill off Queer Street. All four women were quiet and pleasant and paid their rent on the dot every Friday evening, and with the additions and alterations Connie had made to the two bedrooms she had had no compunction in asking half as much again to what she had originally planned.
The front room, which had become Connie and Mary’s living space, had been a cheerless place when they had first looked at the house. But with the window cleaned and fresh thick red velvet curtains replacing the previous moth-eaten remains, the floorboards scrubbed and polished and a big bright clippie mat placed in front of the deep-set fireplace, it had begun to look better. The four straight-backed chairs out of the way upstairs, Connie and Mary had carried the table into the kitchen. This had given them more room for their new beds, Connie’s being situated under the window which overlooked the street, and Mary’s on the opposite side of the room against the wall adjoining the kitchen. The only other furniture the room had boasted had been a five-foot wooden saddle complete with mangy old flock-stuffed cushions and a wooden rocking chair with a broken arm.
Connie had re-covered the flock-stuffed cushions with the same material as the curtains, as well as making two huge cushions – again covered in the curtain material – for the rocking chair, whilst Mary had mended the broken arm on the chair before re-papering the walls in a flower-patterned design that was bright and pretty.
By the time the room had been completely finished at the end of May it had thrilled the two girls every time they entered it, and with the rent for the house more than provided for by the four lodgers upstairs, the sweet jar was soon making a rapid recovery.
Workwise, Connie had struggled at first, not least because the housekeeper, Mrs Pegg, appeared to have taken an immediate dislike to her and had proved uncooperative at best, and at worst downright obstructive. It had been some weeks before one of the other housemaids had revealed on the quiet to Mary that Mrs Pegg had had her daughter lined up for the job as assistant housekeeper, but that Mrs Alridge had had other ideas, and although that hadn’t made the difficult situation any easier it had helped Connie to understand the reason for the older woman’s animosity.
But if she was held in disfavour by Mrs Pegg, Mrs Alridge was one hundred per cent behind her, and following several incidents when this was made crystal clear by the manager’s wife, the housekeeper’s attitude was moderated and an uneasy peace ensued. Connie made sure the housekeeper couldn’t find fault with her work, often putting in twenty or so hours of unpaid overtime a week, which left her little time to indulge her love of reading, or anything else for that matter. But she didn’t care. She was happy, happy and fulfilled, and as time went on and Mary told her that the staff – who had been somewhat chary at first – now held her in high regard, a heightened sense of self-worth and contentment made the heavy responsibility and strenuous days enjoyable.
Now it was just five days before Christmas and the hotel had never been busier, most of the fifty rooms occupied and the restaurant full each night, both with guests and Sunderland inhabitants who were enjoying festive outings. And, wouldn’t you know it, as she’d said herself to Mary the night before, half the staff were down with influenza, which necessitated the other half running round like chickens with their heads cut off.
By rights she and Mary should both have had this Saturday off, but they had worked all day before popping home for their tea – they could have eaten all their meals at the hotel but preferred the cosiness of Walworth Way, as well as the break from the frantic pace – and now the two girls were slipping and sliding along High Street West, which was frozen solid, replete after toasted muffins oozing with butter and jam.
It had been snowing heavily for days, and although the main roads were being kept clear the icy conditions made walking treacherous, but Connie and Mary giggled as they held on to each other, first one, then the other, nearly falling headlong on the glassy pavements.
‘Oh, Mary . . .’ Connie suddenly stopped dead, gazing up into the black velvet sky from which the first desultory snowflakes of the evening were beginning to whirl and dance. ‘I can’t believe how I feel right at this moment. I feel . . . I feel like a bairn on Christmas morning, like the whole world is mine and nothing can go wrong. I’d forgotten you can feel like this.’
‘Aye, lass, we both had a short childhood.’ And then, on a less sober note, ‘But as for nothin’ goin’ wrong! By, that’s temptin’ fate, that is, with the bedlam that’s goin’ to hit us when we walk through the door. Old Ma Pegg was all for me an’ Flo makin’ the beds with a broom stuck up our backsides so’s we could sweep up as we went this mornin’, I’m not funnin’.’
They were giggling unrestrainedly again now, their breath forming white clouds in the icy air, but they were both to remember the conversation before the night was ou
t and wonder what quirk of fate had been at work.
Lucy Alridge practically jumped on Connie as the two girls walked into the hotel a minute or two later, drawing her to one side as she whispered urgently, ‘I’m so glad you’re back, it’s chaos, Connie, absolute chaos. Poor Harold is beside himself.’
Any formality between the two women had long since fallen by the wayside; Lucy Alridge held Connie in high regard, and more than that, as a close friend, and it was in that capacity that she addressed her now saying, ‘Mrs Pegg has virtually collapsed and another of the waiters is ill. This dreadful flu just won’t let up, Connie. Would you, could you, wait on tables tonight? We’ve already got two of the housemaids coming in for two of the kitchen maids who are ill as you know, because Cook can’t cope. I wouldn’t dream of asking you normally –’
‘It’s all right.’ Connie put her hand on Lucy’s arm as she said soothingly, ‘Of course I’ll help out, that’s what I’ve come back for, isn’t it.’
‘You’re an angel. And, Connie’ – Lucy now leant closer and whispered softly – ‘your efforts over the last months have not gone unnoticed by Harold and your Christmas box will reflect this, but keep it to yourself, will you?’ By this Connie rightly assumed Mrs Pegg was not going to be treated as generously and she nodded quickly. Since her daughter had been refused the position of assistant housekeeper Mrs Pegg had become something of a thorn in Lucy’s side, often declining to work any overtime and keeping rigidly to her allotted hours, as well as causing the odd spot of mischief now and again. It was unfortunate, because the woman knew her job inside out and was a very good housekeeper, but it did make Connie wonder now if Mrs Pegg’s ‘collapse’ was totally genuine. It would be just like the housekeeper to flee a sinking ship and then stand back and criticise everyone else’s efforts.
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