House of Strangers

by Forsyth, Anne

  But then she told herself, this was nonsense. It was—she checked—the correct address, and Cousin Chris was expecting her.

  ‘I’ll bring your bags,’ said the cabbie.

  ‘There’s not much,’ said Flora apologetically, ‘just that trunk and my travelling bag.’

  She remembered Cousin Chris’s instructions to tip the cabbie if he was helpful and pressed a coin into his hand.

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ he said as he set down the bags at the front door.

  ‘Pair, young lass,’ he said to himself as he watched her climb the few steps and ring the bell. He had noticed the shabby black dress and coat, her timid expression and hesitancy as she handed him the tip. Her luggage too was poor-looking: a worn Gladstone bag and a small shabby trunk.

  He was not a man given to sentiment; a fare was a fare, wasn’t it? But he couldn’t help wondering about this young woman. Was she going to be a servant or maybe a governess? Or maybe a poor relation, down on her luck, hoping for a bit of help from whoever lived in the big house? And that house… well, they said all kinds of things, didn’t they? He glanced up at the shuttered windows on the top floor. He hoped this lass would be all right; she looked kind of poor and shabby, and a bit nervous too.

  But there, it was none of his business, he decided as he turned back towards the city.

  Chapter 4

  Flora watched him go. Her first wild optimism had vanished. At first she had looked forward eagerly to her new life; anything at all to escape from the stultifying refinement of Aunt Mina’s home. To have some independence. To see a new place, new people. She had felt buoyed up with enthusiasm.

  But now… ‘What have I done?’ she thought. ‘You always were impulsive,’ she told herself. ‘Why didn’t I say I’d think it over?’

  And those hints that the cab driver had dropped, as if there was something odd about the house. But, she reminded herself, it was too late now.

  On the step, Flora had pressed the brass bell and waited, a little anxiously. There was nothing to be seen behind the net curtains and no sign of life. Then there were footsteps, and the door was wrenched open. Flora asked timidly, ‘Is my cousin , Miss Dunbar, at home?’

  ‘There now,’ said the woman who had opened the door—she was wearing a white apron and a cap, and her round rosy face broke into a smile. ‘You’ll be the young lady who’s come to be the housekeeper.’

  Flora hesitated. She hoped very much that the cook—as she took the woman to be—was not going to take umbrage. Would she think herself supplanted by Flora?

  But the woman beamed at her. ‘I’m Mistress Young, but they call me Nelly,’ she said, ‘and we’re right glad to have you here. There’s a lot to be done, and your cousin, Miss Dunbar—’ Flora felt she was about to say something more, but had stopped in time before she said something indiscreet. ‘You’ll find her in the sitting room—off the hall.’ She pointed to a door at the end of the hall.

  Flora had only time to take in the large brass gong by the entrance, and a few pictures of Highland scenes. She was intrigued by the legend set in mosaic tiles on the floor: ‘Welcome the stranger’ on one side of the hall and ‘ Speed the parting guest’ on the other.

  ‘Thank you,‘ she said, relieved to find that this cheerful, homely woman was not going to resent her. Anyway, she thought, I’m not going to be scared. Not of anything or anyone. Pull yourself together, Flora.

  From now on she would try to be confident, no matter how she felt. And if Cousin Chris proved to be demanding and difficult… well, she could cope with that. Hadn’t Aunt Mina been highly demanding?

  But then Cousin Chris had been friendly when they had met at the wedding and Flora had not felt that working for her would be at all alarming. She reminded herself of this as she knocked at the sitting room door.

  ‘I’m here,’ she called. ‘Cousin Chris, it’s Flora.’

  Cousin Chris looked up from her game of Patience and rose, scattering the cards on the floor.

  ‘My dear!’ Her face lit up. ‘I didn’t hear the bell; I am getting a little deaf. How good it is to see you!’

  Flora felt warmed by this reception. ‘I hope I haven’t arrived too early,’ she said, hesitating.

  ‘Indeed no,’ said Cousin Chris. ‘We will have tea now. You must be ready for a cup after your journey.’ She pressed a bell by the chimney piece as Flora glanced round the room. She had seldom seen a room more full of objects.

  Sheets of music were piled any which way on the top of a grand piano; a bureau that stood wide open disgorged files and letters in no seeming order; and there were books everywhere, Flora was glad to see—books on shelves and books perched in precarious piles on small tables.

  There was a large sofa in the centre of the room and various small chairs dotted around. Despite the fact that it was a warm September day, a fire blazed in the grate. The grate itself was edged with Delft tiles showing people at work: carrying milk pails, toiling in the fields, leading oxen.

  Flora gazed in astonishment, and she hastily apologised as she heard Cousin Chris speak again.

  ‘I‘m so sorry…’ she began.

  ‘You are looking at my treasures,’ said Cousin Chris. ‘I have lots of things, as you have already noticed. I like Things,’ she went on, investing the word with capital letters. ‘I know the fashion is for spare rooms with the minimum of furniture, but that is not my style. Every object here has a story,’ she said proudly. ‘Oh, where has that woman got to? You must be starving...’ She broke off, as the door opened and the cook put her head round the door. Flora was beginning to feel embarrassed. ‘Oh, please don’t worry for me. Tea will be quite enough.’

  ‘I’ve made scones,’ said the cook, ‘and there’s fruit cake. You’ll be hungry after your journey.’

  ‘A good cook,‘ said Cousin Chris, with satisfaction, a little later, ‘and an excellent baker. She has been with me a long time. The housekeeper—the one who left—was idle, and I think she was dishonest, so you can see why I am pleased to have you here. I don’t expect,’ she went on, ‘that the house should be orderly—I wouldn’t know where to find anything—but I do like appetising meals, served promptly and with a good grace. It is not a great deal to ask. Apart from Nelly, I have a little maid of all work, Betsy, who comes in every day to do the rooms, sweep and dust. She is a very silent child, but hard working.’

  Flora took a deep breath. ‘I hope you won’t be disappointed in me,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been a housekeeper. Oh, I looked after the home when my mother was ill, and after that I just did whatever Aunt Mina wanted, but I’m not used to ordering staff, or keeping books, or organising a household.’

  Cousin Chris laughed. ‘This is not a well organised household. I just want the house to be comfortable with good meals and happy boarders.’ She smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry. I took to you right away when I met you at the wedding. And I knew you were my answer to prayer. That wedding—’ she began to laugh. ‘Tell me, how are things with your aunt—and the bride?’

  ‘Aunt Mina is in her element,’ said Flora solemnly. ‘She spends most days at Nancy’s new home, ordering the cupboards, making sure that the kitchen is in order—no crusts in the bread bins and that sort of thing. She is as happy as the day is long. Whether Nancy is quite as happy, I don’t know.’

  Cousin Chris began to laugh, and patted Flora’s hand. ‘I can see you and I will get along famously,’ she said. ‘And soon,’ she said, rising a little stiffly, ‘you will meet my boarders—I mean guests—at dinner. I hope you will find your room comfortable. Nelly will show you where it is.’

  Flora looked round her new bedroom with satisfaction: the crisp white bedspread, the wallpaper with its small pattern of yellow rosebuds, the well-polished dressing table, and freshly laundered net curtains. She had drawn aside the curtains to look out on the quiet tree-lined road. There were few passers-by; only the baker’s boy on his bicycle, the occasional nursemaid with her charges, a child skipping along the pa
vement.

  What a change from Aunt Mina’s house! She remembered the dull little room, with cast-off furniture and a brass bedstead with dreary black and white prints on the walls.

  ‘The dinner’s early, six o’clock.’ Nelly’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack your things. You’ll ask if there’s anything you’re needing?’

  Nelly closed the door behind her. So this is my new home, thought Flora, and liked the idea. She began to feel more cheerful.

  Flora, her hair brushed and braided, made her way downstairs to the dining room, wondering what the lodgers would be like. On the first landing, she could hear from behind a door someone singing. The voice swooped up and down, ending in a trill.

  Flora, intrigued, assumed this was one of the lodgers, but didn’t like to seem inquisitive. Then suddenly the door burst open, and Flora gazed at the impressive figure that appeared: a very large lady in a vivid red costume that had a vaguely Eastern look about it. The jacket, trimmed with lace, was hung with several floating scarves in vivid peacock blues and oranges. Her two long necklaces were looped around her slightly puffy neck and she wore several diamante brooches pinned to her bodice

  When she saw Flora staring at her, she was not at all put out.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Flora stammered. ‘ I didn’t mean to...’ her voice trailed away.

  ‘You have heard me practising,’ said this person, with every appearance of satisfaction. ‘One must keep in practice, in trim, must one not? For one never knows when the call will come.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Flora was even more confused. What call? A call from above? She felt inclined to giggle.

  ‘You, my dear, must be Miss Dunbar’s young relative, I think.’

  Flora admitted that she was.

  ‘I knew it! I knew it instantly! And I feel drawn to you; perhaps we shall be soul mates.’

  Flora had never met anyone like this before, so she said, hesitating, ‘You are a singer?’

  ‘A singer!’ The woman flung out her arms dramatically as if she was acknowledging applause from an audience.

  ‘I expect you have heard of me,’ she said, ‘Arabella Murgatroyd,.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Flora, ‘that I don’t know very much about music.’

  ‘So you won’t have heard me sing. I have sung leading roles in all the great works, I have sung at Covent Garden, and… elsewhere. I have toured through Britain—’ she broke off. ‘But perhaps you have not been in the metropolis.’

  ‘I belong to Ayrshire.’

  ‘Ah, the land of Burns. And your name?’

  ‘It’s Flora—’

  ‘Flora!’ Miss Murgatroyd gave a little shriek. ‘I knew it. I knew it at once. Flora. It is exactly right for you, my dear.’

  Flora was beginning to feel a little out of her depth. ‘I would like to hear you sing in opera,’ she ventured.

  ‘And so you shall, my dear. Just as soon as the call comes. I keep up my practising, though there are some,’ she added darkly, ‘who have no soul for music. Italian Grand Opera means nothing to them. You will know of whom I speak .’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Flora was quite bemused by now.

  ‘Some who live not a hundred yards, not ten yards from here,’ said the woman dramatically, pointing upwards.

  ‘I’ll be going down for dinner shortly,’ said Flora.

  ‘Then so must I,’ said Miss Murgatroyd. ‘One must keep body and soul together. Besides which,’ she added, ‘Nelly is a good cook, and we are well fed.’

  Flora was pleased to hear this and also glad to find that the conversation had taken a more prosaic turn.

  ‘You will find us a very different group,’ the soprano confided. ‘But I like to think I can add a little colour to the conversation.’

  Flora, looking at the dramatic appearance of her new friend, had no doubt of it.

  ‘Miss Craig,’ the woman confided, ‘is a New Woman. I hope,’ she said, ‘you are not one of them.’ She leant towards Flora and said in a low voice, ‘A suffragette.’

  ‘Really?’ said Flora. She was fascinated. She had heard of the suffragettes but had never met one. Of course, she reasoned, Aunt Mina did not believe in votes for women, so it was unlikely there would be any suffragettes among her friends.

  ‘They had a march, the Edinburgh suffragettes,’ said Arabella. ‘Right along Princes Street. Of course I didn’t go to watch, but I believe Miss Craig took part. It was all very proper,’ she allowed, ‘but not quite the thing for ladies. There were huge crowds, so I’m told, lining Princes Street, people hanging out of upstairs windows.’ She shuddered. ‘Well, you will no doubt meet Miss Craig, aand Mr Turnbull,’ the soprano went on, ‘is a dark horse. What is he doing here?’ She nodded so that the bracelets and necklaces jangled.

  ‘But you must judge for yourself, my dear,’ she said. ‘I will see you at dinner.’

  By now Flora began to feel distinctly anxious but she tried to talk to herself very firmly.

  ‘You have no need to be afraid,’ she decided. ‘Just be confident—be yourself.’

  But it wasn’t a very confident self who opened the dining room door. ‘Good evening,’ she said, her voice quavering a little.

  Chapter 5

  Flora hesitated in the doorway ‘Come along, my dear,’ said Arabella, ‘we have already met.’

  The only other person at the table was a middle-aged man with a bristling moustache and a florid complexion. He folded the newspaper he had been reading and glared at Flora. ‘Humph…’

  Flora did wish that Cousin Chris had been there, but she had her meals in her own room, ‘I like the privacy,’ she had said, ‘and so do my guests. They can say what they like about me with perfect freedom.’ She had given her rich deep laugh.

  Flora looked round her with interest. There was a huge sideboard with gleaming silver. On the walls were pictures of ocean-going ships and several of bloodied game birds. Flora gave a shudder and decided she would sit with her back to these.

  The heavy mahogany table in the centre was laid with four places and snowy white napkins at each place. However shabby Cousin Chris’s own rooms might be, thought Flora, this dining room was definitely grand.

  The cook, Nelly, was carrying in a large tureen of soup. Flora immediately went to help her. ‘You sit down, my dear,’ said Nelly in her warm Borders accent. ‘It’s your first night—you’re not to start helping yet.’

  Flora sank into a chair and looked round her. ‘This is Mr Turnbull.’ Arabella had taken it on herself to make the introductions. ‘Our new housekeeper, Miss Flora, distant cousin of our hostess, Miss Dunbar.’

  She makes it sound like something from a theatre cast list, thought Flora, suppressing a smile.

  ‘So you’ve come to keep us in order,’ he said, unsmiling.

  ‘I hope that won’t be necessary.’ Flora was not going to be intimidated.

  He suddenly looked less formidable. ‘There now, miss, I’m only joking.’

  Arabella sniffed disapprovingly. Flora felt a little embarrassed ‘I don’t know how to talk to men,’ she thought. Not surprisingly, she had met very few in Aunt Mina’s home.

  Now she simply said politely. ‘I’m glad to meet you.’

  She turned to Arabella, noticing that the table was laid for four. ‘Are there other guests?’

  ‘You may well ask,’ said Arabella disapprovingly. ‘Our Miss Craig has better things to do than sit and sup with the likes of us.’

  At that moment, the dining room door burst open. ‘I’m not late, am I?’ The newcomer was a woman in a long brown coat and had springy red hair escaping from beneath her plain no-nonsense hat. She flung off her coat and hat, revealing a white blouse with collar and tie and a long brown skirt. ‘I’ll just hang these up.’

  ‘You’re no later than usual,’ said Arabella with a sniff, when the woman returned.

  ‘I suppose you’ve been to one of your suffragette meetings.’

  ‘And if I have? Is
it any business of yours?’

  Arabella ignored her.

  ‘Hallo. You’re new, aren’t you?’ She turned to Flora. ‘I’m Margery Craig.’ She came round the table and shook Flora’s hand in a firm grip.

  Flora explained—it seemed for the hundredth time—that she was the new housekeeper.

  Miss Craig planted herself firmly in her place at the table. ‘Good to meet you,’ she said a little gruffly. ‘Is there any food left?’

  The cook appeared with a tray, carrying a plate of soup. ‘You’re lucky there’s any left,’ she said mock sternly.

  ‘Oh bless you, Cookie,’ said the woman, beaming. ‘I’m starving.’

  Flora couldn’t help noticing that she spoke with a distinctly upper-class accent. She had heard similar accents at the occasional charity events when she had unwillingly accompanied Aunt Mina.

  They ate mainly in silence. Mr Turnbull disposed briskly of the plateful before him, wiping his mouth with his napkin, and then tapped the newspaper that lay by his plate. ‘Looks like there’s trouble looming in Europe,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘Now then,’ said Arabella. ‘We don’t want any of that sort of talk. Not at mealtimes.’ She regarded him with disapproval. He took no notice, but said gloomily, ‘We may be racing towards Armageddon, and the lot of you will only think about your mutton and greens.’

  Getting no response, he changed tack. ‘Well, now,’ he said to Flora, ‘and where do you come from?’

  Flora explained. ‘I was born in Ayrshire, but I have been living with my aunt in the Borders.’

  ‘I knew a chap from Ayrshire once,’ he said. ‘Played the trombone. Not well, mind you.’ He lapsed into a gloomy silence, brightening only when Nelly brought in the next course.

  ‘Fish pie,’ he said with an air of satisfaction.

  Arabella ignored him and Miss Craig and turned to Flora. ‘And what will your duties be here?’