Off the Rails

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘About the same,’ the housekeeper said, ‘as you will see. We’ve moved the crib to the night nursery. This way.’

  They climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked along a corridor hung with pictures of beautifully dressed men and women until they came to a white door which opened into a wide, high-ceilinged, handsome room. Jane had an impression of a lot of white and gold, of long white curtains at the window and a long column of sunlight that looked almost solid enough to touch. Then she became aware that there was a maidservant in the room sitting on a low chair beside a small white crib and that she was weeping.

  He’s dead, she thought, looking at the cradle, and she felt sorry for the poor little thing to have lived such a short time.

  ‘He is Sir Mortimer’s only son,’ the housekeeper was saying, ‘so you will understand that he is very precious to the entire family. If you can help us, Mrs Smith we would be extremely grateful to you.’ And she pulled back the embroidered coverlet to give Jane her first glimpse of the baby. Such a small, pale, delicate, little thing he was and he seemed more dead than alive, with his eyes tight shut and his hands curled against the covers. But they were all looking at her, waiting to hear what she would say.

  ‘If someone will take my Milly for me,’ she said, looking at the servant, ‘and bring me a nursing chair, I will see what I can do. He’s very weak, mind, I can see that, but I will do what I can.’

  The servant stepped forward to take Milly, the nursing chair was moved into the sunlight, and Jane took the child out of the cradle, sat in the chair, loosened the kerchief that she wore at her neck for modesty’s sake and eased her nipple from her bodice. The baby didn’t react to it at all, but lay on her lap without moving.

  ‘Put a little milk on his lips,’ the midwife advised. ‘Give him a taste of it.’

  It was done. The baby moved his head once and slightly. It was done again with the same lack of result. He needs more than a drop, Jane thought. He’s too far gone for that to wake him. He needs a gush. And this time she gave her breast a good squeeze and released a stream of milk all over the baby’s face. He stirred, sneezed, put out the tip of a small pale tongue and licked his lips.

  ‘There then, my little man,’ Jane said to him, ‘tha liked that. Try a bit more.’ And she smeared his lips with the milk that was rolling down his face. For several long seconds he lay without moving, then he licked his lips again and pursed them as if he might be ready to suck. The silence in the room was intense. The three watching women were holding their breath and even Milly was still and quiet on the maid’s lap. Jane eased her nipple towards that little moving mouth, very, very gently, and the baby gave a sudden lurch of his pale head and latched on.

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ the housekeeper said.

  It took four days of peace and patience before Jane was satisfied that her new charge was feeding as he should and by then she’d settled into the house and her new life. On that first morning a bed was moved into the nursery for her – a proper bed, what luxury! – and that was followed by a pretty little cot for Milly, then a meal of cold meats, bread and cheese was brought up to her on a tray with a tankard of beer and, late in the afternoon, the housekeeper reappeared to introduce herself as Mrs Denman and to report that Sir Mortimer was very pleased to hear what good progress she’d made with little Felix.

  ‘I was wondering if he had a name yet,’ Jane said. ‘I didn’t like to ask.’

  ‘Oh indeed he does,’ Mrs Denman told her, looking down at him. ‘It’s a family name. It’s been given to the first son for generations. Sir Mortimer was the second son. His brother Felix died when he was four, which is another reason why Sir Mortimer is so concerned for this baby. It was remiss of me not to tell you that earlier.’

  ‘We had other things on our minds, ma’am,’ Jane excused them, and was rewarded with a wide smile.

  ‘Now as to details,’ Ms Denman said. ‘Mr Glendenning wishes me to tell you that your wages will be eight shillings and sixpence a week and all found. You will have your own maid to assist you, of course. It will be her job to wash the baby’s clothes and fetch hot water when you need it and clean the room and look after your little one when you are otherwise engaged with young Felix. You will find she will do everything you ask of her.’

  Jane’s thoughts were spinning with such amazement she didn’t know what to say. First a bed of her own and that great platter of food and now this. Eight and six was a fortune, and having a servant to wait on her was something out of a dream. She gulped and struggled and eventually managed an answer, ‘Thank ’ee kindly, ma’am.’

  ‘Her name is Polly,’ Mrs Denman said, ‘but of course she might have told you that already.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘You will dine in this room for the time being,’ Mrs Denman said. ‘But when little Felix is settled, I trust you will join us in the servants’ hall.’

  How polite she is, Jane thought. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she said. ‘I shall be happy to.’

  The next day the baby was waking every two or three hours and she fed him whenever he woke, feeling that the more milk she got inside him the better he would be. By the afternoon of the third day, he was sleeping for several hours between feeds and Jane was beginning to feel she’d made rather a good job of mothering him. And on the morning of the fifth day, he filled his stomach so full it was as tight as a drum, fell asleep as soon as he’d finished feeding and slept soundly. It was blissfully quiet and after a little while, since she had nothing else to do, Jane picked Milly up, settled her on her lap and sang her some of her favourite nursery rhymes. She’d just nibbled at ‘this little finger on the right’, to Milly’s chortling delight, when she heard someone howling.

  ‘Now what’s that, Milly?’ she said. It sounded as though it was coming from the next room and, as there was a communicating door between them, she set Milly on the floor and the two of them went to see if they could find out what was happening – not that there was much doubt what it was, given that there’d been a death in the house. The door opened easily and beyond it was another white and gold room, carpeted, curtained and full of delicate furniture. There was a small pale girl in a crumpled white dress, lying on the carpet crying bitterly, and another one, slightly older but equally pale, kneeling beside her, weeping silently with tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘It ain’t fair,’ the little one wept. ‘Why did she have to go away, Sarah? They could have kept her. It ain’t fair.’

  ‘Try not to cry, Emma,’ the older one said. ‘You’ll make your eyes red.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ the little one said and howled again. ‘I won’t eat here. It ain’t fair!’

  Then the one called Sarah became aware that they had company and gave her sister’s arm a shake. ‘Hush, Emma,’ she said, in a commanding voice. ‘Sit up.’ And the child sat up and stopped crying.

  Jane didn’t know what to say. She’d never had to cope with any grieving children before and especially two who had just lost their mother. The little girls stood and looked at her for what seemed an uncomfortably long time.

  Then the older one spoke. ‘There’s nobody here,’ she said. ‘They’re all at the funeral.’ She was quite calm now and spoke sensibly.

  Of course, Jane thought. That’s why the house is so quiet. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Why should you be sorry?’ the child asked. ‘It ain’t your fault. You didn’t tell them to go.’

  ‘No,’ Jane said, thinking what an odd conversation this was to be having with a child.

  ‘They sent her away,’ the little one told her in an aggrieved voice. ‘I don’t think that’s fair. We didn’t ask them to.’ Her lip was trembling as if she was going to cry again.

  ‘No. I’m sure you didn’t,’ Jane said.

  ‘They don’t ask us when they send people away,’ the older girl told her. ‘You know that, Emma.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said sadly. Then she leant forward towards Jane. ‘It was because she married that
horrid man,’ she confided. ‘I didn’t like him.’

  She’s not talking about her father, surely to goodness? Jane thought.

  ‘He frightened the horses,’ Emma went on, ‘didn’t he, Sarah?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah confirmed. ‘It was because he was so ugly. Papa said so.’

  Jane was completely lost now. If they weren’t talking about their father and mother, then who was the lady who’d been sent away? ‘Would you like to come and see your baby brother?’ she offered. At least she’d be on safe ground there.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Sarah said. ‘Babies ain’t very interesting. I’ve seen one. They don’t talk or anything. They just lie there. I’d rather have a dog.’

  Milly had been following the conversation, turning her head from speaker to speaker and smiling at them all. Now she caught at the last word and joined in. ‘Dogga-dogga-dogga,’ she said.

  ‘Heavens!’ Sarah said. ‘Is she talking to me?’

  ‘She talks to everybody,’ Jane explained. ‘It’s her new trick.’

  ‘Um-mum-mum,’ Milly said, clapping her hands.

  ‘Heavens!’ Sarah said again.

  It’s about time I started looking after them, Jane thought. ‘Are you on your own in here?’ she asked.

  ‘Polly’s gone to get our breakfast,’ Sarah told her. ‘She’ll bring it up in a minute. Emma won’t eat it. She wants to go to the breakfast room.’

  ‘I always go to the breakfast room,’ Emma said stubbornly.

  ‘No you don’t,’ Sarah said. ‘Not now.’

  ‘I do too. Miss Timmons takes me.’

  ‘Who’s Miss Timmons?’ Jane asked her.

  ‘She takes me.’

  ‘We told you,’ Sarah said. ‘They sent her away.’

  Light shone. ‘She was your nurse.’

  The door was opening. Someone was pushing a trolley into the room. Polly had arrived with the breakfast. But before she could say anything, Emma threw herself face downwards on the carpet and began to howl again. ‘I won’t!’ she cried. ‘It’s not fair. I won’t. Oh! Oh! Oh! It’s not fair. I don’t want you! I want Miss Timmons. It’s not fair.’

  Polly’s face grew more anguished with every shriek. Milly was intensely interested. Sarah tried to pat her sister’s arm and was flung violently aside.

  I can’t let this go on, Jane thought, she’ll wake the baby. ‘How would it be if we all had our breakfast together in the nursery?’ she said. ‘We could set the table in there, couldn’t we, Polly, and I could tell you stories while you ate.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said firmly. ‘That is a very good idea. Get up, Emma. We’re going to have breakfast in the nursery.’

  So the table was set and chairs were carried in for the sisters and a pretty little highchair was found for Milly and they all sat round the table in the sunshine and breakfasted together and Jane told them all the story of Goldilocks and the three bears, which Emma pretended she wasn’t the least bit interested in – but enjoyed very much, especially when Milly echoed ‘Bear, bear, bear’ and clapped her hands.

  From then on they breakfasted together every day and Jane told them every fairy story she could remember, and after that they spent their time gossiping. She found out more about her fellow servants from her two outspoken guests than she would ever have done simply from her own observation – that Mrs Denman was firm but fair, that the house steward was called Mr Glendenning, that their governess was horrid, ‘the sooner they get rid of her, the better,’ that grooms were always larking about and gardeners touched their forelocks. ‘That’s how you know they’re gardeners.’

  Now and then, they mentioned their parents but they seemed to know far less about them than they did about the servants. They said they rode to hounds and had lots of parties, that their mother had had a good seat and had worn beautiful dresses and their father went to parliament and rode a white stallion, but that was all. They showed no sadness at their mother’s death, which Jane found most peculiar. But they were entertaining company and Milly loved them, clapping her hands and shouting ‘Umma, dumma dumma dumma’ when they appeared.

  Towards the end of August, when Felix was three months old, had learnt to smile and chuckle and to recognize that Jane’s arrival by his crib meant food and cuddles, she had a sudden visit from her employer, the great Sir Mortimer himself. He arrived like royalty, with Mr Glendenning attendant at a discreet distance from his elbow and Mrs Denman three paces behind him. Jane was so overawed by the sight of him that she dropped an instinctive curtsey.

  He was the tallest man she’d ever seen and handsome in a foreign sort of way, with the same thick fair hair as his daughters, dark, shrewd eyes, a long nose, a protruding chin and a decidedly haughty manner, polite but distant, as if he were looking at her from a long way away. He wore the most beautiful clothes, his coat and waistcoat all-over embroidery, and his boots were a wonder to behold. But it was his voice that made her aware of what a great man he was, for the English he spoke was nothing like the Yorkshire accent she heard all around her and spoke herself. It was quiet, firm, and very definitely superior. She noticed that he seemed to drawl, that he dropped the Gs on the end of his words as if he was swallowing them, that he used words she’d never heard before.

  ‘I trust you are settlin’,’ he said, ‘Mrs …’ And he looked at Mr Glendenning to supply him with her name.

  ‘Smith.’

  She curtseyed and thanked him kindly at which he inclined his head towards her. Then he walked over to the cradle and looked at the baby.

  ‘He is a deal less pale than he was the last time I saw him, Mrs Denman,’ he observed. ‘Looks strong enough. Feedin’ well, is he?’

  As the question seemed to be addressed to her, Jane answered it. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No sickness or incapacity of any kind, I trust?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The great man walked to the window and gazed out at his estate. ‘You have been carin’ for my daughters too, I believe,’ he said, without turning his head.

  The question was courteous and seemed kindly but she was suddenly afraid he was going to tell her she shouldn’t do it. ‘Yes, sir. I hope that was in order, sir.’

  ‘They speak of you warmly,’ he told her, still looking out of the window. ‘Uncommon warmly for gels so young.’ Then he turned away from the view and began his stately walk towards the door, signalling to his two attendants that they should make way for him, which they did. But as he passed the rocking horse he suddenly stopped. ‘What’s this?’

  Milly was standing very still beside the horse, holding on to its mane and sucking her thumb.

  ‘If you please, sir,’ Jane confessed. ’She’s my little girl, sir.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes. Of course. Is she healthy?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir.’

  ‘Um,’ the great man said and turned to Mrs Denman, ‘should there be any sickness in her whatsoever,’ he instructed, ‘you will remove her from the nursery forthwith. I trust that is understood.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The progress towards the door continued. It was opened for him. He paused. He looked back at Jane. ‘Pray tell Mrs Denman should there be anythin’ that you require for any of the children,’ he said. ‘She will attend to it, will you not, Mrs Denman? This is all quite satisfactory, Mr Glendenning. I leave my family in your capable hands, Mrs Smith.’ Then he nodded at Jane as if he were giving her permission to continue.

  She curtseyed without speaking. It seemed the proper thing to do. Then he was gone.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she said to Milly when the door had closed behind him. ‘What do ’ee think of that, Pumpkin?’

  Milly gave her rapturous smile. ‘Pum, pum, pum,’ she said.

  6

  ‘FAMILIES ARE THE very devil,’ George Hudson said to Mrs Norridge as they sat over their dinner one cold Friday afternoon in late October. ‘They throw you out soon as look at you. They’re forever standing in your way. They choose the wrong man
to be a partner when the best one’s staring ’em in their damned stupid faces. Blamed fools the lot of ’em. Don’t talk to me about families.’ He was more than a little drunk and hideously annoyed.

  ‘Never thought much to ’em mesself,’ Mrs Norridge confided, filling her tankard from the beer jug. ‘Not if my ol’ man was anything to go by. All sweetness an’ light an’ heart a’ my heart an’ give us a kiss when he was sober. But when he was tight, you should ha’ heard him. Hollerin’ an’ roarin’.’

  ‘What does that fool know about running a shop?’ George said. ‘I could run it wi’ one hand tied behind my back.’ His speech was slurred but what did he care? ‘One hand tied behind my back. And what do I get? We’re keeping it in t’family. In t’family! I ask you. That won’t get ’em any trade.’

  ‘Gives you a headache summat chronic does hollerin’,’ Mrs Norridge complained. ‘No good tellin’ ’im. Cos why? Cos ’e never listened to a word I said. Not one blamed word.’

  ‘They needn’t think they’re going to keep me down,’ George said. ‘I’ll be their equal one of these days, if it takes forever.’ And he slid slowly off his chair. ‘I’ll show ’em,’ he said to the table leg. Then he fell asleep.

  Mrs Norridge left him where he was. She was used to drunks and he was much too solid to be hauled into another position. ‘I’ll jest finish off that beer,’ she said to his boots. ‘Be a shame to let it go to waste.’

  Although he regretted his drunkenness, because he had such a thick head the following morning, George was not going to be put down. Mrs Bell was a fool to have given her stupid brother a partnership, but a fool can be outwitted and, once his head was cleared, he knew how he was going to do it. If she’d made up her mind that she’d only take a partner if he were a member of the family, he would have to become a member of the family. And the obvious way to do that was to marry Lizzie. She was the most unattractive woman he’d ever seen and almost as stupid as her sister but she was the means by which he could get what he wanted. And of course, her stupidity could be used to his advantage. He would start courting her that very afternoon, as soon as he got back from visiting the local tailors to see the new pattern books.