Someone Special (13 page)

So why shouldn’t I let Sammy pin me in corners and put his tongue in my mouth and squeeze my breasts and fumble with my directoire knickers? Constance asked herself defiantly. It’s only his way of saying he admires me – thank God someone does! I just hope I put old Ella off the scent. Not that I
want
Sammy, he’s a bore; it’s JJ I want, but if I can’t have him, oh, to hell with them all.

Mrs Bellis arrived at the castle when Hester, Dewi and Willi were sat round the kitchen table having their mid-mornings: tea in a big brown pot and slices of Mrs Cledwen’s homemade currant loaf, spread thinly with margarine. On a rag rug inside her playpen, Helen lay asleep with her toys scattered around her, worn out by her unusually active morning.

The door opened and the three at the table looked round, chewing momentarily suspended.

Mrs Bellis was a plain woman of indeterminate age, with thin grey hair scraped back from a long purplish
face, a bulging body shapeless as a cottage loaf, and very large feet. She waddled into the room, told Matthew, following with her case, to ‘put it in the ’ousekeeper’s room, wherever that may be’, and subsided into Mrs Cledwen’s chair at the table without being asked.

‘I’m Mrs Bellis, the actin’ ’ousekeeper; cut me some cake,’ she said without preamble, nodding at Hester. ‘And pour me a cuppa; I’m gaspin’ for a cuppa.’

‘Milk, Mrs Bellis? Sugar?’ Hester asked. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Mrs Bellis removed her shoes and examined her feet. Even through the flesh-coloured cotton stockings she could see the other woman’s gnarled, misshapen toes and throbbing bunions. I wonder what causes bunions, Hester mused, putting both milk and sugar into Mrs Bellis’s cup as commanded. I hope I don’t get them when I’m old, they look painful as well as ugly.

Mrs Bellis had started to eat; she dunked the cake in the tea, an action which would have had the nuns’ palms itching to slap her head had she been a child of the Sister Servina Convent. But Mrs Bellis sucked at the soggy cake and ignored the crumbs floating in the cup, though they made her choke when she began to drink her tea. Gasping, she fought to control herself as tea ran down her chin and marked the already stained collar of her blouse. It had clearly been worn for a while and had sopped up several spilt drinks already. All Hester could do was look away and try not to catch anyone’s eye – what on earth had Mrs Cledwen been thinking of, to get this woman in to replace her during her absence?

‘Well, miss?’ Mrs Bellis had finished the cake and drunk the tea; now she turned to Hester. ‘And who might you be? And these gentlemen?’

‘These gentlemen are Dewi and Willi Evans, they work on the land with Matthew, he’s the one who
fetched you from the station. And I’m Hester Coburn, I’m the charwoman.’

Mrs Bellis leaned her elbows on the table and stared hard at Hester. She had very small pale eyes in her narrow face and Hester could not help wondering, when Mrs Bellis smiled, whether her false teeth had been originally made for a larger woman. They filled her mouth, making her look like an overcrowded graveyard.

‘Hester, eh? You’re a bit young for a char, ain’t you?’

‘I’m almost eighteen. I don’t think age matters when you’re scrubbing floors and lighting fires, do you?’

‘No, I wouldn’t say it mattered,’ Mrs Bellis agreed after a moment’s thought. ‘I’ll be glad of your young legs, I dessay. Many stairs, is there?’

‘The usual number,’ Hester said solemnly. ‘But your room’s on the ground floor.’

‘Aye, so I were led to believe. But what about cleanin’, eh? Will they ‘spec’ me to climb them stairs?’

‘Only to make Mr Geraint’s bed I imagine,’ Hester said. Willi and Dewi were staring stolidly before them, but God alone knew what they were thinking. ‘I don’t think Mrs Cledwen uses the stairs much – oh, I quite forgot, there’s a letter for you here.’

She handed the letter over. Mrs Bellis slit the envelope, squinted at the page for a moment, then gave a martyred sigh and handed it to Hester.

‘I can’t see a word without me glasses; read it out, there’s a good girl. What’s that Matthew doin’ wi’ me traps, be the way? He’s bin gone a longish while.’

Hester, who had been thinking the same thing herself, was about to embark on a mythical explanation when the kitchen door opened and Matthew came into the room.

‘Pour me a cup, love,’ he said, sitting down in the chair by Mrs Bellis and addressing his wife. ‘Mr Geraint popped out of the drawing-room as I was crossing the hall; wanted a word. It held me up.’

‘Wanted to know what I was like, I dessay,’ Mrs Bellis said knowledgeably, reaching across and tapping the side of the teapot with the back of her fingers. ‘Is there another cup in there? I’m fair parched. Well, he’ll see soon enough … am I to go through?’

‘He didn’t say,’ Matthew said uneasily. ‘Better not. He’ll be up in the gate-’ouse soon enough, working. Leave it till later, Mrs Bellis, when you take him his dinner.’ He turned to the two men, stolidly sitting. ‘Better get back to work fellers, or we won’t get finished be dinnertime.’

The brothers finished their tea, pushed back their chairs and left the kitchen while Mrs Bellis poured herself another cup and then, after a moment’s thought, cut a second slice of fruit loaf as well, and addressed Matthew through a full mouth.

‘So you think I should meet this Mr Geraint later, eh? Well, per’aps you know best … wait on, the girl hasn’t read me letter, yet. Come on, whatsyername, read it out.’

Hester, blushing, read the letter. It consisted mainly of menus, meal times and suggestions for shopping. Mrs Cledwen had said that she, Hester, knew her job as did the men, so Mrs Bellis would mainly have to look after Mr Geraint and see that his washing and ironing were done and his meals prepared and served on time.

‘I’m a plain cook and I can’t do no laundry,’ Mrs Bellis announced defiantly when Hester’s voice trailed into silence. ‘I told that uppity woman when we met at the agency … a plain cook, that’s me. She said it’ud do, now I’m beginnin’ to wonder.’

Hester cast an anguished look at Matthew; she knew he was grinning inside. His face looked solemn enough, but Hester hadn’t been married to him for two years without being able to recognise a well-buried grin.

‘Matt? What should Mrs Bellis do?’

‘See the old man at dinnertime, I reckon,’ Matthew said. His voice was serious but the grin was still there,
underneath. ‘You could probably manage the laundry for a week or so, Hester, but not all the rest of the work.’ He turned to Mrs Bellis. ‘Mrs Cledwen does most things about the house you see, apart from the heavy scrubbing.’

‘You mean his shirts and that?’ Hester asked, horrified. That meant using starch, getting the iron heated just right, all the things which Mrs Cled took for granted, things Hester had never had to think about. ‘Matt, I’m not sure I could. Does Mrs Cledwen make his bed, do his room? Because I’ve never been in there, and I don’t know that I can manage that as well as all the scrubbing and the fires … but if Mrs Bellis can’t climb the stairs …’

‘I’ll peel me own spuds and bring in the water,’ Mrs Bellis offered. ‘An’ I’ll see to cleanin’ in the kitchen an’ the scullery. I’ll keep an eye on the kid whiles you go upstairs, too. Only me knees won’t take stairs.’ She eyed Hester with a mixture of pleading and calculation. ‘I’ll put you in for overtime. She said I were to count up the hours and let ’im know at the end of each week who’d worked what time, like. She said there wouldn’t be no argy-bargy about it.’

‘We’ll manage,’ Hester said. She felt suddenly sorry for Mrs Bellis, who had undoubtedly been chosen as the person most unlikely to catch Mr Geraint’s eye, and she felt cross with Mrs Cledwen, who had given her the job with no thought for the difficulties she would make for others, such as Hester. ‘Tell you what, Mrs Bellis, if Matthew’s agreeable I’ll come up at eight tomorrow, see how things are going for you.’

‘Would you? That’s kind,’ Mrs Bellis said. ‘She didn’t oughter ’ave told me it were just plain cookin’, I’d not ‘ave come if I’d known. Still, if we all works together …’

Helen, snoozing in one corner of the playpen, suddenly woke up and began to heave herself to her feet by grabbing the bars.

‘Feed lambs,’ she said, her voice still heavy with sleep. ‘Nell feed lambs, Mummy!’

Hester sighed and plucked her daughter from the playpen, cuddling her comfortingly against her breast.

‘Nell go back to sleep,’ she said soothingly. ‘Cuddle down, sweetheart; we’ll feed the lambs on our way home – remember me telling you?’

Helen, her eyelids drooping once more, stuck her thumb back in her mouth. Hester lowered her back on to the rag rug and shooed Matthew out of the back door. She tiptoed into the hall and beckoned Mrs Bellis to follow her.

‘She’ll probably sleep until dinnertime,’ she whispered. ‘So until she wakes I’ll get on with my work, but first I’ll take you along to the housekeeper’s room.’

‘It ain’t much,’ Mrs Bellis remarked when she stood in the small, bare room, with the unwelcoming single bed, the treadle sewing machine and the gaping wardrobe, empty now of Mrs Cledwen’s possessions, if it had ever contained them, of course. ‘What do she do, of an evening?’

Hester shrugged. It was scarcely her place to tell Mrs Bellis that Mr Geraint and his housekeeper had been on sufficiently good terms to share the drawing-room.

‘That bed looks damp,’ Mrs Bellis continued. ‘She did sleep in it, I suppose? I mean, where’s ’er stuff, ’er personal things?’

Hester had often wondered about Mrs Cledwen, and now she realised that Mrs Bellis had put her finger on it. If Mrs Cled had really lived and worked in this little room, where were all her personal possessions, for they could scarcely have been crammed into one small gladstone bag. She did not intend to say any of this to her companion.

‘Put away to give you room, I suppose,’ she said. ‘If that’s all, Mrs Bellis, I’d better get on. It’s my day for
the hall and stairs and if I’ve got to do the washing as well …’

‘I don’t understand it, Matthew,’ Hester said that evening, as they sat over a beef stew with the fluffy dumplings Mrs Cled had taught Hester to make. ‘Mrs Bellis was right, that room’s practically empty. I mean Mrs Cled couldn’t live there like that, she must have things, everyone’s got
things
, even I had bits and pieces, but that room’s empty.’

‘So you said,’ Matthew agreed. ‘Perhaps Mrs Cled’s the sort o’ woman who doesn’t need things.’

‘Yes, but what about clothes? Everyone’s got clothes and Mrs Cled’s got more than most; she can’t have crammed them all into that little bag, she just can’t have.’

Matthew glanced at her, then quickly down at his stew. He cut a dumpling in half and put it in his mouth. He looked awkward, and it wasn’t just because his cheek was bulging with dumpling.

‘None of our business, love,’ he said thickly, through his mouthful. ‘Mrs Cled will be back soon enough.’

‘Yes, I know, but it made me think, and I couldn’t help wondering …’

‘Don’t wonder,’ Matthew said, his voice almost sharp. ‘It’s none of our business, love. What Mrs Cled does shouldn’t concern us.’

‘Then she …’ A withering glare from Matthew killed the words in her throat. Sighing, Hester finished her stew and picked up the empty plate. ‘All right, all right, I can take a hint! There’s an apple duff for afters; want some?’

Next morning was a rush. Hester set the alarm for six, got up, made breakfast, woke the baby half an hour later and fed, washed and dressed her. By eight she was pushing the big old pram in under the small archway, parking it by the back door and untying Helen, who was cross at this change
in her routine. With the child on her hip, she went into the kitchen to find the doors of the range shut and the fire still damped down, last night’s dishes piled in the sink and an air of neglect much in evidence.

Tutting to herself, Hester put the baby into the playpen and began tidying up. She riddled the fire through, filled the buckets at the pump, enjoying the vigorous exercise in the bright early morning, then pulled the kettle over the flame and got out the heavy black frying-pan. She got eggs and bacon from the pantry and set them out on the scrubbed wooden table ready for Mrs Bellis, sliced the loaf, fetched the butter off the cold slab, found a jar of marmalade and another of honey, and all the while she sang softly under her breath because she was happy, and busy, and because it was nice to be doing something different.

At twenty past eight, when Mrs Bellis still hadn’t appeared, she wondered whether she ought to go along and wake the older woman, but hesitated until twenty to nine, when she was beginning to get seriously worried. Mrs Bellis was old, she might have had a heart-attack or a stroke or something, it would be downright wicked not at least to go along to her room and tap on the door, make sure she was all right.

Halfway across the kitchen, it occurred to her that she could take Mrs Bellis a cup of tea; that would be a nice gesture. She turned back and suddenly realised she had no idea at what hour Mr Geraint breakfasted, or where for that matter. He might eat in his study, his bedroom or in the room over the arch, the only thing she was sure of was that he didn’t eat breakfast in the dining-room since it was miles away from the kitchen and was used only when he had guests. So she ought to have a word with Mrs Bellis anyway, otherwise they would all be in trouble.

She made the tea and poured it into a large white
china cup. In the playpen Helen sat foursquare on the rug, feeding pieces of a large wooden jigsaw through the bars on to the floor, then reclaiming them. She looked as though she would play happily for a while yet, so Hester carried the cup out into the corridor, and along to the housekeeper’s room.

She knocked on the door. Silence answered her. Timidly, she tried the handle, wondering what on earth she would do if the door was locked, but it opened beneath her hand and she peered into the small, musty-smelling room. Mrs Bellis was a big lump beneath the covers; she was also snoring, faintly but definitely. So she’s not dead, Hester thought, she’s just a lazy old woman who doesn’t like getting up in the mornings. She stood the cup of tea on the bedside table, clattered across the floor and swished back the curtains, letting in the sunlight.