A Dream of her Own (2 page)
Outside fog swirled from the shipyards on the River Tyne, up through the grimy terraces of Elswick and Scotswood, and on to settle like a shroud round the grand dwellings of the prosperous citizens who could afford to live in the sweeter air of Rye Hill.
In the upper windows of Dr Sowerby’s tall town house, curtains were drawn against the chill of the November evening but down through the area railings, light spilled from the half-barred window into the yard at the foot of the worn stone steps.
Inside the basement room, Constance raised a hand to pull off her mobcap. Her long golden hair tumbled about her shoulders, the bright curls contrasting oddly with the faded uniform dress, the very drabness of which only emphasized her beauty. Unexpectedly she felt the threat of tears pricking her eyes and she pushed the cap into the pocket of her pinafore angrily. But it wasn’t because she was leaving this hateful place that she felt like crying.
Often, when she was alone, disturbing memories came to haunt her. Just now, as she had looked round the empty room, another kitchen had come to mind: larger than this one, brighter and full of the comforting smells of recent baking. Whenever she had gone down the back stairs to look for the kittens, the cook and the kitchen maids had always welcomed her. They had petted and spoiled her, taken her into the kitchen and given her milk and raisin cake.
Sometimes Robert would follow her, pretending that his only motive was to keep an eye on the younger child, and he would be fussed over and petted too. But she had been the favourite with the servants ...
‘So you’re finished then?’
Mrs Mortimer observed her from the doorway. She was holding a candle and the light threw shadows upwards. Her eyes had disappeared into circles of blackness, making her podgy features resemble the grotesque mask of a pantomime clown. But she wasn’t smiling.
Constance remained where she was, forcing the cook to step into the room. Mrs Mortimer glared at her. ‘I’m glad you’re leaving us, Constance, and it’s just as well that you did not ask for a reference, for I would not have been able to recommend you to any respectable household.’
‘Why not?’ Against her better judgement, Constance was stung into responding. ‘I’ve always worked hard. I’m sure you’ve never been able to fault me!’
‘Not your work, no. It’s your attitude I deplore.’
‘I don’t understand. I’ve never complained, never spoken out of turn.’
‘Not to my face.’ Suddenly the woman abandoned the air of refinement that she tried so hard to cultivate, and her voice rose harshly. ‘Do you think I’m stupid, girl? Do you think I didn’t realize from the moment you set foot in this house six years ago that, even when you were twelve years old, you thought you were better than the rest of us?’
‘That’s not true! I couldn’t help it if ...’
‘If what? Go on, finish what you were going to say.’ Mrs Mortimer scowled.
‘No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. May I go upstairs, now? I’m tired and I still have to pack my belongings.’
The woman stared at her for a moment and then tossed the wage packet on to the table between them. ‘Very well.’
As she reached the doorway she turned to face Constance for the last time. ‘And mind you don’t pack anything that doesn’t belong to you. You haven’t finished paying for the uniform dresses and the pinafores so they will remain Mrs Sowerby’s property.’
As if I should want them, Constance thought, even though they have kept back payment from my pitiful wages for them. But she refrained from saying anything. In fact she didn’t even move until she heard the cook open the door that led to the back staircase and mount the bare wooden stairs.
She must be going to bed now, Constance thought, and she let out a long sigh of relief. She loosened the ties of her pinafore and, for a moment, she was at a loss. Should she wash it and hang it on the pulley near the range? It would be dry enough to iron in the morning before she left.
No! Why should I?
Angry with herself for even thinking such thoughts, she pulled it over her head and folded it roughly. Then she tossed it on to the kitchen table that she had only shortly before scrubbed with strong soap and soda for the very last time. Let somebody else sort it out. Tomorrow she would no longer be answerable to any of them, she would be at nobody’s beck and call. She would be Mrs John Edington.
But tonight there was one more thing she had to do. Taking a brass holder from the mantelpiece, she lit a candle and threw the spent match in the dying fire. She picked up the packet containing her hard-earned wages and then she stepped up on to a chair and pulled down the chain that turned off the gaslamp. Then she hurried along the draughty passage to the back stairs.
On the ground floor, the entrance hall was long and narrow, and the dark colours of the walls and furnishings made it a sombre place, especially with the gaslamps turned down low. But Constance welcomed the shadows. She moved quietly; she had no wish to be discovered here. There was no reason for her to be ‘above stairs’ once her duties were over. Indeed, it was forbidden. Mrs Sowerby was convinced that all servants were unprincipled and deceitful, and ready to steal from her, given the slightest opportunity. Even the cutlery that they used in the kitchen was stamped with the words Stolen from Sowerby, Rye Hill’.
Suddenly a door opened on the first floor and the sound of Dr Sowerby’s voice, raised in anger, spilled down the stairs. Constance froze and shrank back against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. Someone laughed mockingly, and the door closed abruptly. She heard footsteps in the upper passage and she was ready to dart back towards the door at the end of the hallway, but the footsteps echoed away from the direction of the stairhead and another door opened and slammed shut. Then there was silence.
She let out her breath in a ragged sigh and found that her heart was racing. I feel like a thief, she thought. She was aware of the bitter taste of anger - having to sneak about when her intention was quite honest. Even the matron of the workhouse was not so harsh as Mrs Sowerby! Constance’s surge of resentment induced a feeling of recklessness and she no longer moved so furtively as she crossed towards the study.
However, she sensed she was safe enough; at this time of night she had no fear that anyone would seek her out deliberately. Her notice had been given weeks ago and she doubted if any of the family would want to say goodbye or wish her well.
Dr and Mrs Sowerby would be upstairs in the first-floor drawing room, their daughter, twelve-year-old Annabel, would be in bed, and their son, Gerald, she guessed, had just stormed off to his room in order to get ready to go out with friends. The friends that his parents so disapproved of.
The fire in the study was burning low and the room was dark, but Constance did not waste time lighting the mantle. She went straight over to the wall opposite the door and raised her candle. There was something she wanted to see for the last time - an image she wanted to commit to memory.
‘Why do you always look at that photograph?’
She spun round, her heart beating painfully against her ribs. Her hand shook and the candle sputtered and flared as melted wax fell back into the flame. Mrs Sowerby was in the act of rising from a wing-backed chair placed near the hearth. Constance steadied the candle and gazed through the smoky light at her interrogator. The dark fabric of the narrow choker collar that covered nearly all of her neck accentuated the paleness of Mrs Sowerby’s face.
‘Don’t just stand there dumbly, girl. I asked you a question. Why do you look at the photograph? Answer me. What possible interest can it hold for a workhouse brat like you?’
The doctor’s wife moved towards her, the silk taffeta of her skirts rustling across the floor with fluid menace; the sweet lily of the valley perfume that she favoured preceding her. Violet Sowerby was plump and matronly but her soft little hands could grip like a vice and her ladylike voice sound as shrill as any harpy’s. She raised her hand and Constance flinched, but Mrs Sowerby simply took the candle from her and held it high to examine the photograph in question.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied the group of men in formal clothes. The caption written in copperplate on the mount at the foot of the picture read, ‘The Infirmary Committee, Formed on the Occasion of the Royal Jubilee Exhibition in Newcastle 1887.’
‘I’ve seen you linger and glance up when you are dusting.’ She frowned. ‘But I cannot imagine why. This photograph must have been taken before you were born. Dr Sowerby is in the front row, of course ...’
So he was, along with some of the most influential men in the city, and that obviously gave his wife much satisfaction. When the Royal Victoria Infirmary was finally officially opened by King Edward and Queen Alexandra in July of this very year, 1906, Mrs Sowerby had bought a dozen each of the postcards in the series that Valentines had issued to commemorate the event.
She sent one to every single person in her address book, telling them all about the royal visit to Newcastle and being sure to add that she and Dr Sowerby had been guests at the civic banquet given for Their Majesties in the Assembly Rooms.
Vexation hardened Violet Sowerby’s features even further. ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’
‘No.’ Constance was composed now, and she stared back steadily. She had no intention of telling this woman, now or ever, that the tall handsome man standing in the back row of the photograph - at that time, one of the richest manufacturers on Tyneside - was Richard Bannerman, her father.
‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ Violet Sowerby exclaimed, and, for a moment, Constance thought she was going to strike her. But they were interrupted.
‘Let the girl alone, Mother. She’s leaving us in the morning to marry the little shopkeeper and you don’t want to be the subject of malignant gossip amongst the tradespeople, now, do you?’ Gerald’s amused tones came from the doorway.
Violet Sowerby turned towards him but he moved aside into the hall. All else forgotten, his mother swept out of the room. Constance followed her. While they were talking, she would slip away.
‘Gerald, I’ve been waiting to see you on your own. Are you going out?’ Mrs Sowerby’s voice had softened; she was almost pleading.
He was standing in front of a gilt-framed mirror and he concentrated on adjusting his wing collar and his white evening tie. ‘Would I be dressed like this if I were going to endure another interminable evening at home with you and Father?’
‘But, Gerald, you spend so little time with us these days ...’
‘Do you blame me? In this house I meet with nothing but disapproval.’
‘Not disapproval - your father and I have been worried that you may be neglecting your studies - and perhaps that is because of the influence of some of your friends who have no need to earn a living ...’
‘I’ve already had to suffer one lecture from Father on that subject tonight. You both seem to forget that I am a grown man and that, thanks to Grandmother, I am financially independent. Save your breath, Mother. I’m going out.’
All the time he had been speaking he never once looked round. Now, he stared into the mirror with self-absorbed concentration as he smoothed his thickly waving red-gold hair. When he was satisfied, he looked to one side and spoke to Constance’s retreating reflection. ‘Pass me my overcoat, there’s a good girl.’
She had almost reached the door at the end of the passage and she stopped and cursed herself silently for not having been quicker. Gerald raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you hear me?’
Constance hurried back and reached for the overcoat, from where he had tossed it over the carved wooden post at the bottom of the stairs. After handing Gerald the coat she tried to slip away again, only to earn a rebuke from his mother.
‘I do not remember saying you could go.’
She turned once more and waited, keeping her eyes down. She thought it best not to betray her impatience or Mrs Sowerby would only harangue her the longer.
‘Oh, let her go to bed now, Mother.’ Gerald had put on his coat and was adjusting the ends of his silk scarf. ‘No doubt she’ll want to be as refreshed as possible for her wedding to Prince Charming.’
Constance felt her anger rising when he looked up and continued mockingly. ‘I must say I was surprised when I saw him. Such a dapper little chap, sitting there telling you of his honourable intentions just as if he were a gentleman. I’m sure he could have the pick of the daughters of the more prosperous commercial families and yet he is content to marry a servant.’
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