‘Just along the road.’
‘On our drive?’ He was on his feet now.
‘Yes; the carriage had broken down. It must have been outside the gates at the bottom. She went for Millie, but the master was nice. He straightened her cap and patted her face.’
Rose was quickly on her feet, saying, ‘He straightened Millie’s cap? Why?’
‘Well, we had been dancing through the wood and the jigging must have loosened the hairpins and it had fallen to the side and he straightened it and patted her cheek. And he talked to her.’
William again exchanged a quick glance with his wife; then looking down on his family, he said, ‘You’re all getting too big for jigging and dancing through the wood, especially you, Betty, and you, Daisy. And Paddy, I’m going to burn that whistle of yours. And what’s more, Millie should have more sense.’
Patrick now said, ‘If you did, Dada, I’d just make another. Taggard showed me how to whittle one.’
William spread his arms now, saying dramatically, ‘What kind of a family am I rearing?’ Then looking at his wife, he said, ‘What kind of a family are you bringing up, woman, when my son defies me and my daughters act like abandoned females, dancing in a woodland?…Robert! You take that grin off your face before it is wiped off.’
When Robert rubbed his hand all over his face, leaving his expression tight-lipped, the children all burst out laughing, bringing the immediate command from their father, ‘Get yourselves away, every one of you! Out of my sight!’ And they scampered from the room, leaving their parents looking at each other. And then William said a strange thing: ‘I don’t want to believe it,’ he said, and his wife answered just as enigmatically, ‘Perhaps it’s because she’s a dreadful woman.’
Aggie and Ben stood back and looked silently at the slim young creature standing before them in a blue brocade dress with its tiny stand-up collar and a sash waist, and at the skirt flowing down to the top of her black leather shoes. The sleeves were wide, and when Millie lifted her arms and swung round, it was evident that right down to the cuffs they were attached to the dress itself.
‘Did you ever see anything so lovely as that frock in all your days?’
‘Well, all I can say is, Charlie’s wife’s made a good job of it.’
‘My! She has that. I knew it was a piece of good stuff when I first got the dress, but I never thought it would make up like that.’
‘But look who’s wearin’ it, Aggie. Look who’s wearin’ it.’
‘Oh’—Aggie tossed her head—‘that kind of frock would make anybody look good.’ But her words were accompanied by a grin; and then she added, ‘But you’ll have to do something with your hair, lass. You can’t leave it loose like that.’
‘Oh, Mrs Quinton said she will gather it for me into a special kind of bun at the back.’
‘She seems a nice woman, that Mrs Quinton.’
‘She is nice, Mrs Aggie. Oh, yes, she is nice. And she’s young…well, I mean she’s had six children but she’s still young somehow, in spite of being twenty-nine.’
‘Twenty-nine?’ Aggie and Ben looked at each other, and Ben repeated solemnly, ‘Twenty-nine. She’s practically ready for the grave.’
‘Oh, you, Ben! You know what I mean. But isn’t it lovely?’ She stroked her hands down the skirt. ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Oh, thank you, Mrs Aggie. Thank you.’
When she threw herself on Aggie, Aggie pushed her away, crying, ‘Look! It’s…it’s been steamed and pressed and cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you; half a dollar from beginning to end. So don’t muck it up.’
‘Oh.’ Millie now gently caught at the two hands that were half extended towards her as she said, ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you. You know, you’re wonderful, and you can’t stop me saying thank you. And you know what? I told the children a story about you the other day. I keep them quiet at night telling them stories. Anyway, I was in the middle of this one and there wasn’t a sound, and I think that’s why Mrs Quinton came upstairs. She sat on the side of Betty’s bed and listened, and afterwards, when we had gone downstairs, she said to me, “That was a lovely story. It was about Mrs Winkowski, wasn’t it?”’
‘Oh, God in heaven!’ Aggie went into her flouncing attitude, and as she turned away she glanced at Ben, saying, ‘Did you ever! What’ll we hear next? She’ll be in one of those ranters’ chapels telling the tale, and praisin’ God while she bangs the bairns’ heads together.’
As Aggie disappeared through the doorway and Ben, his body shaking with controlled laughter, was about to say something, Millie put in sadly, ‘You can’t thank her, can you? She won’t take thanks.’
‘Aw, me dear.’ Ben went over to her and put his arm around her shoulder, only to withdraw it quickly, saying, ‘Eeh my! I mustn’t touch you, not with that on. But that’s her way. If she had stayed a minute longer she would have been blubbing her eyes out. Don’t you realise, me dear, that for her you’re the sun that rises an’ the moon that sets an’ all that goes on in between.’
Millie was smiling at him now: ‘That was nice,’ she said. ‘Who’s it by? Did you read it somewhere?’
‘No! No! I didn’t. It came out of me own thinkin’.’
‘Really? The sun that rises and the moon that sets and all that goes on in between…That says it all, Ben.’ And now she added, ‘You’re still liking the night classes?’
‘Aye. Yes, I’m still liking them and still havin’ me say. Most of them are scared to death to open their mouths in case they’ll be stopped coming to the classes. I’ve told them that wouldn’t happen. And anyway there are other teaching places round about now. It’s catchin’ on. In my mind, though, they’re going wrong in one direction: they’re not making us write enough. They read to us and get us to read bits back; but it’s all snatches, if you know what I mean. This week he’s gone back to ’47, dealing with the Corn Laws, you know, and how some of the big blokes were scuppered when the corn dropped from a hundred and twenty-four shillings a quarter to forty-nine and six within a few months. Poor people benefited, but sympathy seemed to go to the corn dealers and the bill brokers because they were ruined. And not afore time, I said. From then, apparently, the trade began to boom. But here we are at the end of the ’fifties, and are we much better off? There were all those who scarpered to the gold diggin’s in California and Australia. Have we heard of any of them making their fortunes? A lot of them died, that’s known. Bill Watson’s brother, for instance. And, you know, Bill didn’t even know until nine months later. All this talk of prosperity gets up my bloody nose, ’cos while there’s a lot gettin’ on in the world there’s a lot more dying of poverty and muck. And a sevenpenny loaf! That’s certainly not saving them in Ireland dropping dead by the hundred. Eeh, there’s a place for you!
‘One teacher said a golden era has dawned on all the Northern Counties, and right up to Scotland, and even into Wales. You know, Millie’—he sat down heavily on the settle—‘I’m in another world when I’m in that room listening to that fella. Sometimes there’s a woman teacher. Oh aye, there’re women teachers an’ all. But they get me a bit mesmerised, and I think, yes, things are gettin’ better, aye, they must be; and then I walk half a mile back here to The Courts and I say to meself, what’s up with you, Ben Smith, Jones or Robinson? They haven’t skimmed the skin off the top of the watery milk yet. And you know what I think, Millie, I mean, who’s the cause of most of this muck and filth in The Courts? It’s the Irish. The teacher said their poverty over there was caused by religion and ignorance and she said we might think there were some bad slums here, but they were nothing compared to those in Belfast and such places. Well, I said to her after, you want to come down to Belling Court, not five minutes down the road from where I live. That’s what I said to her. They’ve brought over their pigs and muck; the place’s full of ’em. There’s fourteen living in one of the cellars there and they’ve got pigs in with them an’ all, I believe. And of course, what d’they do? They wo
rk for practically nowt, and if the bosses can get cheap labour like that they’re not going to pay an Englishman a decent wage, are they? Oh, Millie’—he shook his head from side to side now—‘I wish I was learned.’
‘Well’—she laughed at him—‘you’re going the right way about it. And you’re telling me things I never knew. I’d like to go to those classes.’
‘Oh, you’d have to grow up first.’
‘I am grown up.’ She was indignant. ‘I’m coming on fourteen.’
‘Aye, coming.’ He rose from the seat, saying, ‘Well, I’m off for a dander.’
‘May I come with you?’
‘No, you can’t, not where I dander. And anyway, you’d better get out of that frock if you want it to be fresh for the party.’
‘You always go for a dander on Sunday. Where do you go?’
‘Oh, different places. Talk to different people. It’s amazing how on a Sunday places change from their weekday look, and people an’ all. They talk differently; they come out with things differently. Oh, you learn a lot on a dander on a Sunday.’
He now gave her a form of salute with his fingers to his forehead, then went out. But the door had hardly closed on him when Aggie came back into the room, saying, ‘I would get out of that if you don’t want it crushed to bits and the hem soiled. As you’ve likely noticed, miss, this floor isn’t as clean as it used to be when you were here.’
‘Well, I can clean it.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. It suits me. So get out of that frock. And where’s his lordship gone? Oh, need I ask? His Sunday dander. And he’s gettin’ too big for his boots by half.’
‘He’s a good man, Mrs Aggie, and you know that.’
‘Look, am I to take that frock off you?’
Millie now hurried from the room and upstairs, where she changed into her Sunday dress; then she folded the beautiful garment and laid it in between two sheets of paper ready for its journey back to her happy place of work.
When she again returned to the kitchen Aggie said, ‘Come and sit down a minute and tell me about the gentry you ran into yesterday. What’s this I hear about the big master straightenin’ your cap?’
‘Ben told you?’
‘Well, use that napper that’s supposed to be bright; how otherwise would I be speaking about it now?’
‘Well, if he told you word for word, and that’s what he likely would do, there’s nothing more I can say. That’s what happened: he straightened my cap, patted my cheek and smiled.’
‘What kind of a man was he?’
‘He was tall and had a nice face and seemed kind. But his wife sounded a bit of a terror. I understand she drinks.’
‘So do I, in moderation.’
‘Well, I think she doesn’t know about moderation. From what I can gather from Jane and from what she picks up with her big ears from the kitchen jabber, there’s skull and hair flying in that house at times.’
‘And that’s where you’re goin’ on Tuesday night?’
‘Yes, Mrs Winkowski, that’s where I’m going on Tuesday night, and I’m looking forward to it.’
Aggie turned to gaze into the fire, saying softly, ‘You’ll move away from us and this quarter, like he’s doin’.’
‘What do you mean, move away? Look here.’ She pulled at Aggie’s arm. ‘I’ll never grow away from you. You know that. As for Ben, to say that about him, that’s unfair.’
Aggie sighed, then said, ‘I know the secret that’s between you. I found out some time ago. I made it me business to find out, anyway. He’s goin’ to school, isn’t he? At his age, goin’ to school!’
‘Well, I thought you would have been proud of him.’
‘Education, lass, is all right in its place for them that needs it, if you’re goin’ to do something with it, if it means your livelihood or some such, but otherwise what does it do? It just stirs the mind and never brings pleasure, because the more you know the more you realise you don’t know, an’ so you go on probin’. Change doesn’t do anybody any good. As I see it, God sets you in a space, and He gives you work to do, an’ you do it the best you can. But you don’t say to Him, I don’t like this job You’ve given me, I’m made for better things, when deep in your mind it tells you that you couldn’t do better things, any better than you are doin’, if you follow what I mean.’
Millie followed what she meant, and it saddened her. She said, ‘Then you don’t like people getting on in the world, getting out of the rut?’
‘Not if they’re made for the rut, lass, not if they’re made for the rut. Take Constable Fenwick. He was on this beat for years; then he goes and becomes a sergeant. I ask him how he feels about it and he answers truthfully, he doesn’t know. He’s missin’ something ’cos his work now is different and he has to write a lot of things which keeps him indoors, whereas before, he knew almost all the people on his beat; and him bein’ Irish and a Catholic, he helped those he could, especially the bairns. He’s had a lot of them rehoused in his time. But now, with his rise, he’s lost touch. There’s hardly a day went by when he didn’t pass that gate, and if he didn’t look in he’d give me a nod, as he always did if I was on the road with the cart. And I know that he did things that no ordinary policeman would do. But now he’s a sergeant he’ll have to watch his p’s and q’s. And he told me he was doin’ what you call studying. Studying what? I said to him. And when he said bits of the law, I remember I made him laugh when I said, if he carried the bits out he’d better not show his face in The Courts round about or they would pinch his bits, and more than his bits. No, I’m not for education, not really.’
‘Then why have you pushed it into me? Why have you sent me to school? Why did you put me under the nuns? Why did you insist that I go to Mrs Quinton’s?’
‘Oh, that’s a different kettle of fish. There was a reason behind that. It was a lesser of two evils. Oh aye, by God, the great lesser, and you know what I’m talkin’ about.’
Millie sat back from her, laid her head against the end of the couch, surveyed the fat bulk for a moment, and then said, ‘Mrs Agnes Winkowski, you are a complex creature.’
‘Is that what I am?’
‘Yes, and more, and I love you. Oh, oh, I know you will term that slaver, but I will say again, I love you, Mrs Agnes Winkowski.’ And quickly now she leant forward and placed her lips against the sagging cheek, then ended, ‘And if I didn’t love you for anything else I would love you for giving me that beautiful dress.’ She now struck a pose. ‘By! It’s going to startle the staff and their betters when I make my appearance in The Grange on Tuesday night.’
Aggie didn’t smile, she didn’t laugh, in fact, she said nothing, for if she had voiced her thoughts she would have startled and troubled Millie, for she would have said, ‘I wish to God you weren’t goin’ to that party, love. I do. I do.’
Eight
William Quinton had taken her to the back door, smiled at her and said, ‘Enjoy yourself.’ Then he had pushed the door open and said, ‘Go on, or else they’ll have started.’
She had passed through the boot-room, lit by two candle-lanterns hanging one each side of the door leading into the pan scullery, which was illuminated in the same way. She walked slowly, taking in first the enormity of the room, and then the amazing number of iron pans arrayed along a bench and the tubs of water standing to the side. Now she was in the kitchen. And here she stopped to gaze about her in amazement. She had never imagined such a place. There were two ovens flanking a large fire and, over it, a spit from which was hanging a huge piece of meat; and turning it with a twist of the handle was Ken Atkins. He looked washed and scrubbed and, glancing over his shoulder, he said, ‘I’ve just slipped out to turn it. They’re all in the dining room. Come on.’ He held a hand out towards her; then stopped and looked at her. She was wearing the brown cloak over the dress, but it was open at the front; and glimpsing the material, he said, ‘That looks pretty stuff. Look, you’d better leave your cloak in the hallway here.’ He led her up the l
ong kitchen and into a short passage that opened out into a small hall and, pointing, he said, ‘Leave it on that chair there.’
After she had done so and stood before him, his mouth fell into a gape as he looked her up and down, then said, ‘Eeh! My! Well!’ and as if reluctant to take his eyes from her he stood gaping for seconds before he said, ‘Come on.’
She followed him along another passage, from the far end of which came a high buzz of voices and laughter, which continued for a moment or so after they had entered the room; then one face after another was turned towards her.
Millie stared at these faces. She was shaking inside, for she knew she had made a mistake, or at least that the dress was a mistake. Nobody in the room was dressed in ordinary clothes; they were all in their household uniforms.
Someone started to laugh, but this was quickly squashed by a voice saying, ‘Be quiet, Carter!’ and the owner of the voice stood up and pointed towards the end of the room, to a plank table with a form alongside it on which Amy Carter the kitchen maid and Jane Fathers were already seated. Ken Atkins made his way quickly to the form and sat down; but when Millie did not follow him, Mrs Roper, the housekeeper, cleared her throat before saying, ‘Take a seat.’ Millie did not immediately obey the order, but in a clear voice she said, ‘I’m very sorry. I understood it was a party.’
‘Of course it’s a party! But we know how to dress for a party. Take a seat!’
As she walked across the room to sit down next to Ken, her mind was crying at her: Mrs Quinton should have known, and she was given the answer. Perhaps she did, and she was going to tell me, but Mr Quinton stopped her, for it was he who had said: It’s a party, Rose, and that dress is a picture. Let it be. And then he had said something that she couldn’t understand: They want startling, that lot; and if it wasn’t for one thing I’d be enjoying the effect.
The Rag Nymph (aka The Forester Girl) Page 14
