The Sunday Girls (15 page)

The cook called over, ‘Stop what you’re doing, Ann, and come and get a cup of tea.’

Without further ado, I hurried over to the square wooden table which held a plate piled high with toast. Butter and marmalade in small earthenware pots lay beside this plate. I sat down and quickly munched a piece of toast, trying to ensure the hot butter didn’t run down my chin.

The cook looked at me with a questioning eye. ‘You’ll have had some breakfast since you arrived?’

I shook my head. ‘No, not even a cup of tea,’ I replied, trying to mind my manners and not talk with my mouth full.

She looked annoyed, an angry glint appearing in her eyes. ‘Well, that’s typical, I can tell you. That miserly old besom – in fact, she’s an old witch. Imagine having a young lassie arriving at the crack of dawn and not offering her something to eat.’ She shook her head slowly and took a large frying pan down from the shelf. She laid strips of bacon in it, followed by one of the brownest eggs I had ever seen.

I thought this was for Mrs Barrie but, when it was cooked, she placed it in front of me with a terse, ‘Eat that.’ She then laughed and patted her ample waistline. ‘I’ll soon have you as big as myself!’

She gave me an exaggerated wink and when she saw my hesitation, she waved her hand over the plate like a conjurer. ‘Eat it up before it gets cold.’

I was dipping a piece of toast in the runny yellow egg yolk, prior to popping it into my mouth when Miss Hood appeared. I heard her step on the lino-covered passage but there was nothing I could do apart from maybe shoving the plate under my jumper.

Like an avenging angel full of anger and outrage, she stood on the threshold, quivering with rage. ‘What is the meaning of this? You are allowed a cup of tea in the middle of the morning and not this …’ Her mouth moved convulsively as she searched for the words. ‘This, this beanfeast!’ She shouted so loudly that little drops of spittle shot from her mouth. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

She put her hand out to yank the plate away but Mrs Peters sprang forward and pushed her hand away. ‘Excuse me but I gave the lassie something to eat which was a damn sight more than you did. When she’s finished and not before, then she’ll return to her chores.’

The housekeeper glared at both of us before turning on her heel and marching out, twin spots of red on her cheeks.

Needless to say, this confrontation took away any remaining appetite but the cook was unrepentant. ‘I don’t take my orders from her and fine she knows it. Heavens, she runs this house as if every penny was a prisoner and coming out of her own pocket.’ She gave another snort of derision and then joined me at the table where she calmly finished her cup of tea.

I dutifully ate the rest of the egg, which was now cold, but my heart wasn’t in it. Once again I had been the victim of Miss Hood’s malevolent stare and I just knew from now on my life at Whitegate Lodge would be difficult. At least I had an ally in the cook but she didn’t live in and I knew I would be at the mercy of the housekeeper.

As if reading my thoughts, Mrs Peters leaned over and patted my hand. ‘Now don’t you worry about her. She gets the whole day Saturday and a Sunday morning off every week while you and I get a Sunday afternoon and Monday off so she’ll only be around for part of the week.’

Relief flooded over me. ‘So we get the same days off every week?’ I was puzzled by this arrangement.

‘Aye, we do.’ She refilled our cups and leant back in her chair. ‘Mrs Barrie aye goes to visit friends on a Monday. She gets a taxi at ten o’clock and the taxi then brings her back in the early evening. She has her lunch with friends, usually in Draffen’s restaurant, and she goes to one of the friends’ houses to play bridge in the afternoon. Miss Hood aye does the breakfast anyway and she makes a snack for their supper so we’re not needed.’

‘I don’t think I’ll get my days off this week with me just starting on a Friday but it would be great if I did,’ I said, more in hope than anything.

‘Well, make sure you ask Mrs Barrie before her ladyship gets to her first,’ she advised.

As it turned out, I didn’t get the chance. Miss Hood, incensed by my so-called earlier insubordination, kept me so busy that, by supper-time, I was almost asleep on my feet.

She had placed three very heavy rugs over the washing line and she sent me out in the cold wind, a wind that held slivers of ice in its breath like sharp needles. ‘You can beat these rugs till all the dust is gone,’ she said, rubbing her hands while standing in the sanctuary of the back door.

It took me two hours before she was satisfied that no more dust remained. By this time, the rugs were as wet as I was and I struggled to carry them indoors. She wanted them put in a roomy airing cupboard that had slatted shelves all round the walls and a huge pulley with a rope so thick it would have held a ship tight-fast. Still, I was fortified by Mrs Peters’ cooking and home-made baking and the thought of my lovely little room under the eaves of the tower kept me going.

By nine o’clock, I was stretched out on my bed with its comfy mattress and pretty eiderdown. I gazed at the fresh bluebell-printed wallpaper and I had a strong notion that this pretty bedroom had been Mrs Barrie’s idea. If it had been left to Miss Hood, then I would surely be reclining in the cellar or maybe even the outside wash-house.

I propped Maddie’s card up against the small lamp on the bedside cabinet and placed Danny’s bar of chocolate beside it. Strangely enough, I found it difficult to get to sleep in spite of my tiredness. The silence was unnerving. Apart from the sleet hitting the window and the ominous roar of the sea, no voices carried up from the road. It was so unlike the Hilltown and the Overgate, with their teeming masses – people who regularly shouted, sang, shrieked or even fought in the street, sometimes even until the early hours of the morning. It was a street lullaby that over the years had become so normal that I had simply stopped hearing it – until now, when faced with these unusual night noises.

The alarm clock that Rosie had unearthed from the depths of a cupboard ticked merrily away. She had brought it in before I left, offering it almost apologetically. ‘It’s a wee bit bashed but maybe it’ll come in handy.’ She looked dubiously at the face. ‘Heavens, the two hands have broken off. I wonder how that happened?’

The hour and the minute hands had indeed both broken off at precisely the same spot and they now lay at the base of the dial, entrapped forever in the glass cover. This left two stumps about half an inch long with gave the clock a comical appearance. Still it was functional and I had accepted it gracefully.

Now that I had met the housekeeper, the last thing I wanted was to be late. I thought about the library downstairs and I wished I had been allowed to borrow one of the books to read – not that I would take one without permission. Miss Hood was also an uncomfortable thought. Although her room was next door to Mrs Barrie’s, I was still afraid her ever-watchful fishy eyes would be wakeful – even during the night.

I lay and let the crashing sound of the waves wash over me, hypnotising my brain with their soothing sound. I didn’t know I had fallen asleep until an ear-splitting racket awoke me.

It was five a.m. and the alarm clock was clanging furiously, accompanied by a series of whirring noises and metallic scrapings. For a brief moment, I couldn’t think where I was but my main concern was to halt this deafening clatter. I was certain that this noise must surely have echoed into every corner of the house. The stop button wouldn’t work so, with fumbling fingers, I jammed the still-protesting clock under the blankets and threw the pillow over it. It made a sound like a caged bear before finally stopping. By now, I was fully awake and I stumbled in the darkness to switch the light on. This in itself was a delight – so unlike the gas lamps that I was familiar with.

Another pleasure was the small bathroom at the end of the lobby. The lino felt cold against my bare feet but the water, much to my surprise and joy, was piping hot. Perhaps to the occupants of this house who were used to such modern facilities, this bathroom would seem quite basic. The deep, not quite white bath stood on heavy claw feet while the ornate wash basin had lovely scallop-shaped soap dishes. The toilet, with its heavy wooden seat, had a brightly pattered ceramic handle at the end of the cistern chain. To me it was pure, unashamed luxury.

Miss Hood was waiting for me in the kitchen. She was wearing the same bottle-green apron but this time it was over a sludgy-green, long-sleeved dress. The unfortunate colour cast a greeny tinge on to her face, making her look slightly seasick.

Her tongue was still as sharp as ever. ‘Now, today and tomorrow are my days off and on these days your first duty will be to make the mistress’s breakfast.’ She placed a dainty traycloth on the large tray and set it with very fine, exquisitely made china that looked expensive.

I was making the tea and toast when she called me over. ‘The mistress has a half of a grapefruit every morning and this is how you prepare it.’ She took a small, sharp knife and proceeded to jab it into the fruit in a line of V-shaped cuts. When she pulled it apart it certainly looked pretty and much nicer than a straight cut.

‘Now put the sugar sifter on the tray, girl,’ she demanded.

I gazed around the kitchen in dismay. I had never even heard of a sugar sifter before and had no idea what one looked like. She saw my dismay and she marched over with a large silver container that resembled an overgrown, albeit luxurious, salt cellar. She placed it triumphantly by the side of the grapefruit like a victorious general placing the winning flag. She said loudly, ‘Imagine not knowing what a sugar sifter looks like! What kind of upbringing have you had, madam?’

For a brief moment I almost retaliated. I thought about all the poor people I knew – folk like my grandparents, the Ryan family and Rita and Nellie – plus the thousands like them who struggled daily to get enough to eat without worrying about special containers for the bloody sugar. These were people who, in spite of their dire poverty, were still charitable enough to offer a visitor a cup of tea and not act like this genteel dragon’s welcome to me yesterday. But I remained silent.

The thought of my ten shillings at the end of the week acted as a silencer on my tongue so I concentrated on carrying the tray upstairs, gingerly feeling for each tread in case I tripped.

Miss Hood had gone ahead and my cautious attitude annoyed her. She called from the top of the stairs, ‘Will you hurry up, girl? Everything will be stone cold by the time we reach the bedroom. Anyway this is my day off and I’m staying behind to show you your duties.’

She made it sound as if she was doling out a knighthood and I made a rude face at her retreating back. And she was also a liar, I thought, as Mrs Peters had told me that Miss Hood’s day off began after Mrs Barrie’s breakfast.

Mrs Barrie lay in a huge and highly decorative bed. I realised her room lay above the lounge because it had the same large bay window.

Miss Hood marched over and opened the thick velvet curtains. ‘Good morning, Eva,’ she said, helping the old woman into a pale blue bedjacket. She also plumped up a pile of fluffy pillows. There must have been ten pillows at least and I wondered anew at this world of wealth and plenty.

I took the tray over and looked around for somewhere to put it. Miss Hood saw this and I knew from the angry glint in her eyes that I was in for another telling off.

Before she could reach the bed, however, Mrs Barrie gave me a kindly look. ‘The tray has little legs on it, Ann, she explained, helping me pull the hidden part down. This was another revelation – a tray that turned into a miniature table. I wondered how many more secret and wonderful gadgets lay in store for me in this grand house. I made a mental note to ask Mrs Peters.

Mrs Barrie gave me another kindly look. ‘Are you settling in all right, Ann?’ When I nodded, she continued, ‘I know that Lottie will show the ropes and, as it’s her day off, perhaps I’ll see more of you.’

Judging from Lottie’s expression, this wasn’t what she was expecting and I was positive that she was on the point of forsaking her time off in order to keep me well hidden and doing all the menial tasks.

She opened her mouth but Mrs Barrie turned to her. ‘Now do have a rest, Lottie. After all, we’re both getting on in years and I’m sure young Ann will be a boon to you.’

Later, as we stood in the kitchen, Miss Hood handed me a list of chores. It almost filled two sides of the paper and she looked so satisfied with herself as she scrutinised the list before placing it in my hand.

‘Apart from running the mistress’s bath and taking in her meals, you will have no more dealings with her,’ she almost spat at me. ‘That is my job. Do you understand?’

I had been toying with the idea of asking for a few hours off – either on the Sunday or the Monday – just to check on Lily. As she swept through the door, she turned with a malicious look and said, ‘Oh, by the way, you won’t be getting a day off this week. Mrs Barrie said you’ll have to wait till next Sunday.’

On that final note, she went out of the kitchen and I heard her moving around for a short time, then silence. There was no sign of her as I went upstairs to start my jobs.

Mrs Barrie was on her feet and was getting into a thickly quilted dressing gown. When she saw me, she said, ‘You can maybe run the bath for me, Ann. That would be a big help.’

Compared to my tiny bathroom upstairs, this one was enormous and, like the rest of the house, it was luxurious. A large selection of glass bottles lined one of the glass shelves and, when she came in, she chose one. ‘Put this in the water. It’s one of my favourite bath oils.’

I did as I was told and the most wonderful perfume filled the air. It was a mixture of flower scents, just like a summer garden, and such a contrast to the bar of carbolic soap that lay in my bathroom upstairs.

Miss Hood had left stiffly starched sheets to change the bed. It was such a struggle to tuck them under the giant-sized mattress. Unlike our beds at home, which were a doddle to change, this was more of a marathon task. Running around it, I tucked the sheets under each corner and followed them with a mound of soft blankets. The fat pillows were another problem because of their plumpness. As it turned out, my earlier assumption of ten pillows was wrong. I counted eight. Like a contender in a boxing match, I resorted to punching them into their soft fine covers. By the time the bed was made, I felt I had run a ten-mile race.