The Servant Girl Page 3

  The room was though, she thought, her attention wandering. It was large and high-ceilinged with the walls covered in bookcases filled with books which didn’t look as though they were there to be read; they were all bound in a dark red leather with the titles picked out in gold lettering. On the top of the desk there was more red leather, this time well-used and scuffed. By, thought Hetty, I would read the books if they were mine. They made her fingers itch to get at them and open them up and see what they said.

  ‘Now then, Miss Pearson.’

  Hetty jumped. Never in her life had she been called Miss Pearson. She looked back at Mr Fortune who was gazing at her from under bushy eyebrows which were startlingly dark though his hair was silver.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Hetty, isn’t it? How old are you, Hetty? You’re very small and thin.’

  ‘I’m fourteen, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Old enough, and perhaps it’s a good thing you don’t look older.’

  She couldn’t think why that should be. ‘I can work, sir,’ she volunteered.

  ‘Yes. Well, I expect you can. For if you don’t, you’ll be on your way home before you know it. There are plenty more where you came from,’ he said, his tone impersonal, distant almost, as though his mind was on other things.

  Hetty closed her mouth tight to stay the retort rising to her lips but she could feel the angry colour in her cheeks and there was nothing she could do about that. This man – and he was nowt but a man, her dad always said no one was better than anyone else no matter how much money or fancy houses they had – this man had learnt no manners when he was a bairn, that was for sure.

  ‘Well, that’s all I wanted to say. You can go and get on with your work. And mind you do what Mrs Peel tells you, then you’ll be all right.’ He bent his head over the book once again, appearing to forget all about Hetty.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. If he forgot his manners, she wasn’t going to. She had got as far as the door when he spoke again.

  ‘Don’t bang the door,’ he said. Resisting the impulse to fling it to as hard as she could, she closed it carefully without a sound.

  The day went by quickly enough. She scrubbed the kitchen floor while Ethel turned out the bedrooms, and she cleaned and polished the stairs while Ethel did the hall. Hetty even got to use the vacuum cleaner and marvelled at how easy it was to clean the carpets with it. It gave her something to think about. How did it work? She puzzled over it, it was better than worrying that she would meet up with Master Matt and he would be nasty again. By, she didn’t know whether she could control her tongue if that happened. And it stopped her thinking about home. It was nice that Ethel was there. Even when they weren’t working together they would pass in the hall or elsewhere and Ethel would grin at her or pull a funny face, oh yes, it made Hetty feel good.

  ‘Well, that’s the boys away again, thank goodness,’ said Mrs Peel when they sat round the kitchen table at noon and ate shepherd’s pie that was like a dream, so loaded with meat it was. And the potato was creamed with butter and crisp and brown on top, and there were carrots and cabbage, and rice pudding with nutmeg on the top to follow. Hetty was busy thinking how lovely it would be to sit down to a meal like this at home with little Cissy and the boys and Mam and Dad, they hadn’t done that for a long time even before the lockout. The thought almost took away her appetite.

  ‘Master Richard’s all right but I can’t abide the other one, I don’t mind telling you,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Well, he’s gone now, until Christmas, I hope. That lad has no idea how to look after his own horse. Why only t’other day he came home with Marshal all lathered up—’

  ‘Yes, well, best not talk about the family, Mr Jones,’ said Mrs Peel. ‘You never know who might be listening.’

  Hetty came back from her dream of home and realised they were discussing Master Matt. He’d gone and until Christmas! A wave of thankfulness swept over her. Now she didn’t have to be looking over her shoulder all the time in case the hated voice caught her unawares.

  ‘Nay, I’m saying nowt more, you’re right, Mrs Peel.’ Mr Jones shook his head and took out his pipe with his usual enquiring glance at the housekeeper.

  After Mrs Fortune’s tray had been brought down and the washing-up was finished, Ethel washed out the cloths. ‘Come on, we have time for a walk round in the fresh air,’ she said to Hetty. ‘No one’s going to miss us for ten minutes or so.’

  They walked through the orchard, which was at the back of the house, behind the farm buildings. The apple trees were stunted and neglected-looking and the few apples left on them were scabby. But the wind blew hard across the moor and the orchard was unprotected. The trees were all bent before the prevailing wind. A few hens picked about under them and a litter of piglets grunted and squealed over fallen apples and Hetty laughed in delight at the sight of their snouts, all black from burrowing in the sparse soil.

  ‘We’ll walk to the ridge, shall we?’ asked Ethel, and without waiting for an answer strode to the edge of the trees and on, up a narrow path between the paddock and the heather. Only five minutes later they were on top of a small ridge and there the moor was laid out before them, nothing but heather for miles save for the roofs of the village below, the little stone church, and sheep scattered about searching for fodder.

  ‘It’s lovely, Ethel,’ said Hetty.

  ‘Is it?’ Ethel gave the view a dismissive look and sat down on an outcrop of stone, patting the space beside her in invitation. ‘I don’t know. I’ve lived here all my life. Now I like a bit of life – to go into Whitby. Once I went to Harrogate with the mistress – her family lives in Harrogate. At least they did, I think they’re dead now. I liked Harrogate but I wouldn’t like to live there, not unless I was a nob. But there’s plenty to do if you have the money to do it.’ Ethel sighed and looked down at the village. ‘My dad worked in one of the Fortune mines but it closed down and now he’s out of work.’

  ‘Mine an’ all,’ said Hetty. ‘I mean, he works in the pit and now it’s closed down.’

  ‘Life’s bloody awful, isn’t it?’ said Ethel, and Hetty blinked. She’d never heard it put in such strong language but when she thought of it, yes, life was awful.

  ‘Will Master Matthew be gone a long time?’ she asked hopefully as they made their way back to the house.

  ‘Until Christmas with any luck.’

  Hetty felt as though a load had been lifted from her shoulders. Christmas, that was weeks and weeks away. Weeks when she wouldn’t have to worry about meeting up with him, just his father. Master Richard now, he was all right. Did he take after his mother? She still hadn’t met Mrs Fortune. Hetty reckoned she must be really poorly to have to stay in her room all the time, poor woman.

  A few days later Hetty got to see Mrs Fortune. It was on Ethel’s half day.

  ‘Take the mistress’s tray up, Hetty,’ a harassed Mrs Peel told her, ‘and mind you don’t trip and spill anything. The mistress can’t abide a messy tray. And don’t make a clatter neither. She’ll have a headache, I suppose, she usually has in the mornings.’

  Hetty had had to wear her best shoes until she could have the segs taken out of her comfortable ones down at the cobbler’s in the village. By, she thought as she crossed the hall and started to climb the stairs, she’d been that glad when she got her old shoes back, even if it did mean she would have to have them mended more often now.

  There was a bowl of fresh flowers on a table outside Mrs Fortune’s door and on impulse Hetty put down the tray and took a rose out of the display and laid it on the tray. There. When her gran had been badly she had really appreciated it when Hetty took her roses from her dad’s prize bushes. ‘The scent makes me feel better already, pet,’ she had said. Smiling slightly at the memory, Hetty knocked at the door and, as she had been told, opened it and took the tray inside without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Who are you? Where’s Ethel?’

  The windows were shrouded with heavy curtains and it was dark in the room and st
ifling. The voice coming from the bed was querulous. Hetty put down the tray on the bedside table, moving a bottle and glass aside to do it.

  ‘My name is Hetty, ma’am,’ she said. ‘I’m the new maid.’ There was a stale, sour smell in the room which made her gag a little. The poor woman, had she been sick? Maybe a sip of tea and a piece of toast would do her good. ‘I’ve brought your breakfast tray,’ she added. Without thinking, Hetty crossed to the window and pulled the cord and the heavy curtains swished back, flooding the room with light. She looked for the catch to open the window and was stretching towards it when a sharp cry stopped her.

  ‘Leave that window alone! If I want it open, I’ll say so. Who did you say you were?’

  ‘Hetty, ma’am. I’m the new maid. I’ve brought up your breakfast tray.’ She moved back to the bed. ‘Will I help you sit up, ma’am?’ She bent over the bed and took hold of the dishevelled bedclothes to pull them straight. The thick satin-covered quilt had slid to the floor, and she picked it up and replaced it on the bed. Meanwhile the woman lay there watching her through narrowed eyes. Hetty had grown accustomed to the half-light and saw Mrs Fortune was a woman perhaps a little older than Mrs Peel, though she had an abundance of dark hair which was spread over the pillow and down her shoulders. Impatiently she pushed the hair back from her forehead.

  ‘I don’t want any breakfast, I don’t feel well,’ she said. ‘Take it away.’

  Hetty gazed at her. Poor woman, she thought. She remembered the time she’d had diphtheria when she was ten and how awful she had felt. She’d wanted to be left alone then, but when the nurses in the fever hospital had washed her and brushed her hair and changed her sheets, how much better she had felt. And surely Mrs Fortune would feel better if she ate a little breakfast?

  ‘Do you have a headache?’ Hetty asked, quite forgetting to call the lady ‘ma’am’. ‘I can fetch some fresh water and bathe your forehead, if you like? And if you have a clean nightie …’

  ‘Go away, I said!’

  ‘Oh. Yes, ma’am.’ But still Hetty hesitated. Mrs Fortune opened her eyes properly and stared at her balefully but after a moment her gaze softened as she saw the genuine concern in Hetty’s expression. Oh well, she might as well let the girl do what she wanted, then perhaps she’d be left in peace. Besides, the thought of having a wash without having to make the effort herself began to seem appealing.

  ‘Go on, then. There are nightgowns in the top drawer of the dressing table. But don’t chatter, I can’t stand anyone chattering in the mornings.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Hetty fairly skipped to the adjacent bathroom where luckily there was a bowl she could use and lovely fluffy towels and fancy soap. She held the soap to her nose and it smelled lovely. She almost remarked to Mrs Fortune how lovely it was but stopped herself just in time, remembering about the chattering.

  Shortly she had coaxed the invalid into having what Hetty’s gran called a proper wash and Mrs Fortune was sitting up in bed with the pillows propped up behind her and her hair tied back with a blue ribbon, the bed freshly made up.

  ‘Now, wouldn’t you like a nice cup of tea and mebbe a bit of toast?’ Hetty coaxed. ‘I know when you don’t feel well you don’t want to eat but my gran always says if you’re badly you need good food to be able to fight it. An’ there’s a nice coddled egg and it’s still hot. See, it’s under this cover. Doesn’t it look nice?’

  Elizabeth Fortune looked at the tray which Hetty had brought to her side and hesitated. Maybe she could drink a cup of coffee. ‘I hope that is coffee, not tea?’ she said, frowning slightly.

  ‘Oh, yes, I forgot, it’s coffee. If it’s cold I can bring some fresh?’

  ‘Just pour me half a cup, it will do.’

  Somehow, when Hetty took the tray back down into the kitchen most of the egg had been eaten and two pieces of toast. In the bedroom, Elizabeth lay back on the pillow, her headache faded to insignificance. The curtains were drawn back to let in the light and she had a wrap over her shoulders to save her from the draught from the window.

  ‘I’ll just open it a little bit,’ the girl had said. She had a gentle touch that one, and a way with her. There was no denying Elizabeth felt better. Perhaps she would get out of bed in an hour or two and sit by the window. She looked up as the door opened without a preliminary knock. Havelock, of course, bringing in the stink of the farmyard no doubt. She picked up the bottle of cologne which Hetty had placed conveniently on her bedside table and dabbed a little on her temples.

  ‘Good morning, my dear,’ he said, striding into the room and across to the window. ‘What’s this? Feeling better this morning or did that fool of a girl Ethel do this without your permission?’

  ‘No, no, Havelock, of course she didn’t. In any case, it wasn’t her, it was the new girl, Hetty.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that one, she’s nobbut a child herself. She can’t be much use, little and thin she is, there’s nothing to her. I don’t doubt she’ll have to go at the end of the month.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ Elizabeth said with some heat. ‘I like her and you’re not going to get rid of her like you did Jenny.’

  Havelock looked impatient. ‘The lass should have kept her legs crossed, then she wouldn’t have been in trouble,’ he snapped. ‘What did you want me to do, keep her on and look after the brat?’

  ‘Why not? After all—’ his wife began, but he was striding to the door.

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, I have better things to do. I’ll see you later on if I have time but I’m late, I have a meeting in Thirsk.’

  ‘Good morning to you, Havelock,’ said Elizabeth wearily as the door banged to behind him. She sank back on to her pillows and stared out of the window at the clouds chasing across the sky. There would be a storm, she thought dully. Slipping down the bed she turned her face into the pillow and closed her eyes. Her headache was returning.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Hetty! Hetty! Eeh, lass, I’m that glad to see you,’ cried Thomas Pearson as he strode down the station platform at Bishop Auckland. Hetty gazed at him, too full to speak for a minute, her heart in her eyes. He wore no cap like most of the other men, he could always be picked out of a crowd by his bare head with its mop of dark hair. No matter what the weather, Thomas didn’t wear a cap. He wore no overcoat either, though the snow was falling fast now and settling on Hetty’s shoes as she stood there, her basket by her side. He did wear a white scarf, tied at the front and tucked into the vee of his waistcoat, and his pit boots with steel toecaps shining through the snow which encrusted them for his pit boots were weatherproof – which was more than could be said for his shoes.

  All this passed through his daughter’s mind in the few seconds it took him to reach her and peck her on the cheek. Her arms went up and she hugged him and felt his cold cheek against hers, freshly shaved and smooth. She smelled the clean smell of him, Sunlight soap mingled with Woodbine cigarettes. She felt the thin cloth of his suit, damp now with the snow.

  Thomas put an arm around her shoulders. ‘There now, pet,’ he said awkwardly and glanced around in case anyone was watching this display of emotion. ‘Howay now, we’ll get the bus home if we hurry.’ He picked up her basket box and put it on his shoulder and they walked side by side out of the station and down Newgate Street to the bus stop for Morton Main. They didn’t speak again until they were sitting side by side on the bus, except to answer the conductor who limped up to them and handed out tickets in exchange for tuppence.

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ said Thomas. Jack, who had been wounded in the war and had one leg shorter than the other, leaned on the back of the seat and smiled at Hetty.

  ‘Back for the New Year, are you?’ he asked. ‘What’s it like in Yorkshire, then?’

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  ‘Aye. Well, I must say, you’re looking well on it. Growing into a young lady she is, Thomas, you’ll have to keep an eye on her in a year or two.’ Jack grinned at him man to man but Thomas frowned.

  ‘No
wt of the sort,’ he growled. ‘My Hetty’s been brought up right, a good lass she is.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I never meant owt, I didn’t,’ Jack hastened to say, and stood up straight and went off down the bus in search of more fares.

  Hetty was staring out of the window, trying to see through the falling snow. There were few people about on the road, this was the day after Boxing Day and any Christmas festivities were over with, folk saving their strength for the first footing on New Year’s Eve. The snow was laying thickly now. The bus began to slip and lurch from one side to the other until they came to an open stretch of road where the wind had blown up a drift against the hedgerow and spread it out whitely across the black road. The bus stopped, stuck hard.

  ‘I don’t doubt we’ll have to dig her out, Jack,’ shouted the driver, getting out of his seat. He had come prepared for there were a couple of shovels in the luggage rack and he took them down.