Easterleigh Hall (6 page)

She changed into the kitchen uniform of pale blue, pinning up her hair which had taken the opportunity to escape her bun during the journey. Well, she was here, and it
was
their escape, she just had to remember that. She felt Simon's hand on her arm again and Jack's around her shoulders, and smiled, pinning the cap, then smoothing her white apron and gathering up a hessian one, just in case. Before she went she looked out of the attic window. The sky was a swirling grey and in the distance she could see the raging surf at Fordington.

The waves would be surging and throwing up the sea coal for her family, who would head for the coast the moment Jack returned. The thought that she could see where they would be warmed her, for there was little else that would up in this freezing ice house of an attic. There was a fireplace, but it was devoid of coal. She was unsurprised. Why would Bastard Brampton waste his coal on servants?

She searched the beautiful landscape for a moment longer but there was no sign of Easton, no sign of Auld Maud and its glowing slag heaps, hidden as it was in the folds of the hill. But it was there. By, it was there all right.

She clattered down the stairs in her turn, and into the warmth of the kitchen. She brought her recipe bible with her. Mrs Moore looked up. ‘Good, you've had the sense to bring your recipes and I'll be familiar with those, I daresay. Our Miss Manton's a good teacher, I'll say that.' She was rubbing her eyes again and Evie hoped she'd wash her hands before she started cooking. ‘I taught her, you know. I was her mother's cook. But that bairn, Grace Manton, taught me a thing or two as well. It seems a hundred years ago.'

Evie nodded. ‘I can imagine.'

Mrs Moore stared. ‘You can imagine I'm a hundred years old?'

Evie laughed, then saw that Mrs Moore was definitely not joining in. ‘No, I didn't mean that, I just meant that it's a long time to be cooking.' She snapped her mouth shut. She was on a hiding to nothing.

Mrs Moore tapped her book. ‘I think you've dug a deep enough hole for yourself, don't you?' She peered over the top of her glasses. Evie nodded. ‘Quite deep enough, Mrs Moore. I can hardly see the sky from where I'm standing. By, I must be a pitman in disguise.'

There was a moment's silence, then Mrs Moore laughed. ‘Away with you, pet. Perhaps we'll get along. Now, we've had a change, young Evie, since you came for your interview. As you know, Charlotte the assistant cook was no better than she ought to be and had to leave, so you keep your legs together if you don't mind, and now her Ladyship has taken it upon herself to move Edith the kitchen assistant over to second under-housemaid. So, sorry but you're to do kitchen assistant as well. There's your list of duties.' She removed her spectacles and pointed with them at two pages of writing that lay next to the mixing bowl on the table, opposite the middle range. ‘Seems she feels economies must take place.' Her face was grim. ‘Not that I would think there are many of them economies going on upstairs, thank you very much.'

Evie clutched her recipe bible tightly. Kitchen assistant as well as assistant cook? She said nothing, but walked to the list. It started with lighting the furnace at 5.30 a.m. and don't forget the fender, plus scrubbing the kitchen floor, waking Mrs Moore with a cup of tea and also Mrs Green and Mr Harvey. It moved on to cleaning any copper pans left over from the night before – though they should
not
be left, if you don't mind, Mrs Moore had added. This cleaning of the copper would be done to assist Annie. Evie was to cook the servants' breakfast, and help Mrs Moore with the upstairs breakfasts, before doing every conceivable chore anyone could dream up and then some more. She would also prepare the vegetables for the upstairs meals and cook all the other meals for the servants.

‘I can't do all of this and draw breath,' she said, placing her book on the table, crossing her arms and bracing herself as she had seen Jack do so many times.

Mrs Moore looked up at her. ‘Neither can you, bonny lass, so we'll muddle along together, you and I with young Annie in the scullery until they see sense. These gentry, you know, protect their stomachs like they protect their fortunes. We'll just have to make a few economies of our own and they'll come to heel.' She winked. ‘They say we have to fade out of ourselves into them, so that we don't exist as separate beings. Well, they can say what they like but I say pooh to them, pet. We'll make sure that we come out all right, too right we will.'

Her thighs overhung the stool, her plump fingers were tapping the table, the nails spotless, her grey hair was tightly wound into a bun, her cap sat snugly, her stomach fought against her apron, her pale blue dress was smudged with flour, her sleeves were rolled up.

Evie felt every muscle in her body relaxing as she looked at the set of Mrs Moore's jaw. The woman was a hero, and Evie knew she would worship at her feet and they could cross-stitch that thought and stick it where their economies took them. Had Miss Manton influenced Mrs Moore, or was it the other way round? There would be plenty of time to find out.

Mrs Moore was patting the stool next to her. ‘Sit down, pet, and tell me what cakes you'll make for the servants' tea and then I'll show you round the servants' hall which you must lay up for four o'clock. Now, don't you go getting irate or upset when the staff come trooping in saying nothing, but looking plenty. Just remember who you are. You're my assistant cook and without us the whole pumped-up ship would founder. So put them shoulders back and let's do some baking. Annie is getting herbs for the dinner from the gardeners but she'll be back for her cake, you mark my words.'

Evie smiled, knowing that though she could smell the booze on Mrs Moore's breath it would be a privilege to protect her.

She asked where the ginger was kept. Mrs Moore heaved herself to her feet, wincing. ‘Whatever for?'

‘The cakes. Lil said . . .'

Mrs Moore shook her head. ‘Spiteful girl, that one. Mrs Green and Mr Harvey have a particular disliking for ginger.' She nodded at Evie's book. ‘I daresay you've a nice jam sponge in there. Miss Manton's father was one of the best bakers in Newcastle and he taught her a thing or two. Her mother was long gone when I arrived, French she was, pretty little thing, but she left our Grace with a thing about others speaking another language. Probably quite right. Her brother, Edward, was always destined for the Church and wouldn't know a good sponge cake if it came and hit him on the nose. Good sort but not of this world. Not quite sure how he manages to cross the street on his own.'

Evie was torn between amusement and intrigue. Miss Manton did not talk of such familiar things, only of the life to which women should aspire. Mrs Moore was watching her. ‘She's a good woman. She particularly wants you to do well and that's why she asked me to take you under my wing. She wants to do well herself. Is she still going to them women's meetings?'

Evie was searching for flour and sugar in the earthenware containers lined up on a series of shelves at the end of the kitchen, and nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘So, are you going to them meetings too?' Mrs Moore asked.

Evie headed for the scullery to wash her hands and pretended she hadn't heard. She didn't know how much to trust people and bosses didn't like their servants talking of anyone's rights, let alone joining groups that did. Mrs Moore laughed gently as she returned, her finger tracing down her own recipe book. ‘That was answer enough. I'll let you know the window that you can unlatch so you can get in if you're ever likely to be late. The doors are locked at 9 p.m. There's a creaky step that'll alert the new head housemaid who's a stickler for that sort of thing. Now, get on with the tea, we have just enough time. Them upstairs don't start their dinner till eight, and downstairs have theirs at seven. I've a couple of nice ham and chicken pies planned for the servants which you can make. It'll include upstairs' lunch leavings. I need you to make the clear soup for their dinner. Can you do that?' Her glance was keen. The glass-fronted cupboards reflected her movements.

Evie nodded. ‘Yes, of course I can, Mrs Moore.' She felt sure now.

The cakes smelt good as the range did its job. She carried through a tray piled with the plates and cutlery into the servants' hall. Her back argued with the weight, but though there were several people sitting around in armchairs and sofas, some reading magazines, some sewing, some snoring, no one helped. Stuffing oozed out of splits in the old sofas. Some maids sat on benches at the table, sewing their lisle stockings even though the light was bad. What could you expect if you were underground? Two footmen sprawled at the other end of the table, playing cards. No one said hello.

By four o'clock the gas lights had been lit and the staff settled themselves at the table. Upstairs was electrified, but attic and basement were not. Still no one spoke, even when Evie came in with the tray of cakes. Mr Harvey presided at the far end, Mrs Green at the other. Mrs Moore sat adjacent to Mrs Green. Lil was smiling at Evie, patting her blonde hair and adjusting her cap. Evie placed a large jam sponge in front of Mr Harvey and another down Mrs Green's end. She placed another three along the rectangular table. She placed a small ginger cake in front of Lil. Lil looked at it, and pursed her lips.

Mrs Green poured the tea as slices of cake were passed around. Simon came in with the other five under-gardeners. The men moved up the bench to make room. That made twenty-four staff in total around the table. Simon smiled at her. She sat between Annie and Mrs Moore. Mrs Moore nudged her and smiled. No one spoke until the first bites were taken, and all the time everyone watched Mr Harvey as he savoured his. Evie almost expected him to spit it out as the wine experts did. Simon was grinning at her. Could he read her mind? She hardly breathed as Mr Harvey patted his mouth with his serviette. ‘Splendid,' he said. ‘How is your ginger cake, Lil?'

All the staff laughed, except Lil. Mrs Moore patted Evie's leg. ‘Quick, eat up now. We have a dinner to prepare.'

ON MONDAY MORNING,
5th April, Jack slung his bait bag over his shoulder, grasped his pick and shovel and walked out of the backyard into the alley along with his da. It was the eight-to-eight shift and the spring morning was more like winter. There had been heavy snow from December to the middle of March and they'd had to dig their way through to the pit, and the cold was with them yet except for the odd good day. The east wind came across from the Russian steppes and it ruddy well felt like it, aye that it did.

He could feel not just the weight of his tools but the tension. The Gala had been a celebration, but would the men turn on his da now that they were streaming to the pit on a cold Monday morning?

As they passed down the back alley, pitman after pitman grumbled their way out with their tools and bait bags and joined them for the walk to Auld Maud, merely tipping their caps, just as always. Jack's tension eased, but looking at his da who walked at his side he could see that he had other concerns. ‘I've got to check the pumps. They're old and struggling, lad.'

‘Is that yourself you're talking about, you old bugger you?' called George who'd just joined them, dragging his feet as always. He was such a devil to walk behind in the pit, kicking up the dust as he did. His da laughed and the tension ebbed further in Jack.

Jack's marra, Martin, came out of his uncle's backyard, 6 Trelawney Way, letting the gate slam shut behind him, and slapping Jack on the shoulder before bowing low to Jack's da. His own had died of black lung the year before. ‘Well Bob, our deputy, our God, you take care of us and the pumps, old man, and we'll take right good care of you.'

Bob Forbes laughed. ‘Always, Martin. Always.'

Jack grinned. So far, so good, and only now did he take notice of the throbbing of his nose which his mother had pulled to straighten last night, but which still leaked blood. His eyes had almost closed up but he could see well enough, and in the pit it was almost by feel anyway. They were joined by Ben, his da's old marra, who'd paired up with his younger brother Sam. ‘Been painting any more pretty pictures, our Ben?' Bob Forbes asked. Ben's slap on Bob's back was the same as ever, and so was the walk to the pit during which they heard about the problems of sketching when the wind was howling across the beach. They all knew about that wind because they went so often for sea coal, but they let him ramble on as no one felt much like talking on the way to Auld Maud on a Monday, except Ben. His words lulled them with their familiarity.

Jack, Alec Preston and Bob had done well at the beach yesterday, and Timmie had stacked the cart, wanting instead to be with his father at the surf's edge, but someone had to manage the loading. They had sold the lot to the wholesaler who turned up most Sundays with several carts. It was better than lugging it home and selling it on from there.

‘Alec just had time to stable Old Saul before he went straight off on the backshift. Where were you, man?' Jack asked Martin.

‘It was me da's birthday so Mam wanted to put some flowers on the grave.' They all fell silent, even Ben, as they toiled up to the colliery, the wind moaning through the winding gear. At the shaft head they waited, as ten by ten they prepared to enter the cages. Soon it was their turn to take a lamp from the cabin, and a token from the board to be returned after the shift, indicating they were up safely. Then it was time for the cage. After the banksman had rapped three times, they squeezed in.

Jammed among nine others like sardines in the cage, Jack always felt his chest constrict. At two raps they were almost ready to fall through the air, for that was what it was, just a falling. He swallowed.

One day he might not mind. One day his breath might not catch in his throat, but he wouldn't place a bet on it. Martin was humming next to him. He always did. At first it had set Jack's teeth on edge but now he'd miss it. Everyone coped in their own way. He waited for the last single rap. It came. He braced, and down they went, rattling and heaving. Ben eased his bait, knocking against Jack. ‘Sorry, lad,' he said, but his words were almost drowned by the creaking and clashing.