The Servant Girl Page 8

  ‘Hey! Where are you going? Oh, come on, Hetty, get back in, don’t be a fool. It was all right, nothing was going to happen. It was just a bit of fun. Do you know, I could have been a racing driver?’ He grinned at her, his expression saying it all. She was a silly girl, frightened by nothing, he knew what he was doing.

  ‘I’ll walk from here.’ She glared at him.

  Matthew lost his grin. ‘Get back in here when you’re told,’ he snapped. ‘Now stop messing me around and do as I say, or I’ll get out and make you. Who the hell—’

  It was Hetty’s turn to grin before she banged the door shut and headed along the promenade, crossing when she got to the cliff and going up on the other side of the road, taking the footpath behind the red-painted bathing huts, shuttered and all forlorn-looking. For she had seen the van driver make a move towards Matthew, a burly man not much taller than his prey but twice his weight. Judging by his expression his rage was mounting the more as Matthew ignored him. He stamped up to the MG and wrenched open the door. She heard his first words as he grabbed hold of Matthew by the throat, pulling him out of his seat as though he were a child, bending him over the sea wall.

  ‘You bloody maniac!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve a good mind to—’

  What he was going to do was lost to Hetty as she made for the footpath up the cliff. She looked back once as she passed the bathing huts and the two men were still there, struggling, and even as she watched a particularly strong wave flung spray into the air high over them and dropped on them with a force which made them stagger so that one of them fell. She hesitated. Were they all right? Oh, but of course they were, it wasn’t a real fight, the van driver was just venting his feelings after the shock he’d got from the near crash. She turned back to the steep path, the wind at her back, pushing her on.

  She stood at the top at last and looked back as she caught her breath. There was no sign of Matthew, the car was still askew on the promenade. Was Matthew all right? She hesitated for a moment. Oh, of course he was, he must have got back into his car, out of the rain.

  Hetty changed her box to the other hand and crossed the road to Milton Street. She walked along it, not knowing what she was going to do or even where she was going. She came to a newsagent’s and paused. There were notices in the window, advertisements, handwritten. For jobs perhaps, she thought, hope stirring in her, or maybe rooms to let.

  The smell of fish and chips wafted to her and her stomach rumbled. It had been ages since the breakfast she had been unable to eat and she’d had no dinner. Before she did anything else she would have to have something to eat. But she couldn’t afford to spend her money on fish and chips, no matter how hungry she was, she told herself. Even so, the fish shop was there, just a few doors away, and she couldn’t stop herself from walking towards it and peering into the window. There were a couple of tables near the door covered with shiny red-checked oilcloth. A man was sitting at one of them, a plate in front of him with a huge battered fish on it, so huge the tail hung over the side of the plate. The chips, which covered what was left of the plate, stood in a golden crispy mound and Hetty was lost.

  There was a notice on the wall she saw as she opened the door, and the bell clanged and the woman behind the counter looked up and smiled.

  ‘Good afternoon, love,’ she said, ‘what weather, eh?’ in the time-honoured way of starting a conversation. ‘Come away in and shut the door, the draught’s summat awful. Now then, what’ll you be having? You look as though you could do with something hot inside you.’

  ‘I’ll … just have a pennorth of chips, thank you,’ said Hetty. A pennorth of chips, and maybe tuppence for a cup of tea and bread, she could afford. But the notice said it was threepence for a piece of cod and fourpence for haddock. She put her box down by the empty table nearest the door and walked up to the counter. ‘An’ maybe a cup of tea and some bread and butter?’

  The woman nodded understandingly. ‘You sit down, pet, take off your coat and hang it up on a peg there. I’ll bring it to you.’

  There were more notices on a board by the row of pegs and Hetty studied them as she hung up her dripping coat. They were things for sale mostly – a wardrobe, a wedding dress, ‘worn once only’ – but no jobs, and no rooms to let either. She sat down at the table, facing the window where she could keep an eye out for Matthew, just in case he should be following her. The man at the next table looked up from his meal only for the space of time it took him to nod a greeting.

  Her plate came piled high with chips and they were covered with scrapings, the bits of batter which dropped from the fish in the pan. There was even a small piece of fish and two slices of bread and butter. Well, no, Hetty reasoned to herself, not real butter, it was margarine, but all the same … ‘Emm … I can’t afford fish,’ she said, looking up at the woman when she came back with her tea.

  ‘No, well, you see, there won’t be anyone else in to eat it now and I can’t abide warmed-up fish meself so I’m not serving it up tonight. Besides, it’ll do you good, lass, you look as though you could do with it.’ She eyed Hetty’s box. ‘Lost your place, have you?’

  The woman’s question was so unexpected and so accurate that it took Hetty off guard and she almost lost her composure. She stared at her plate and nodded.

  ‘I thought as much. Blooming bosses, who do they think they are? Fancy turning a lass out in this weather!’ She stood aside as the customer at the next table finished his meal and rose to his feet.

  ‘Afternoon, Alice,’ he said and rushed to the door, snatching a gabardine raincoat from a peg and pulling it on even as he went.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Hutchins,’ the woman said and turned back to Hetty. ‘You look like a decent lass,’ she observed, ‘go on, eat up your dinner. You’ll feel better after that.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Hetty, and bent her head to her plate. A woman came in and Alice, as the man had called her, put fresh fish in the fryer, and the fat sizzled and smoked and the fug in the cafe thickened but Hetty didn’t care. She cleared her plate and drank the strong sweet tea and the customer departed with a newspaper-wrapped parcel. Hetty sat on, making the tea last as long as she could, watching the raindrops run down the window and join into a tiny rivulet at the base.

  ‘You don’t know of any rooms to let, do you?’ she asked at last, for Alice was leaning over the counter watching her.

  She frowned in thought and shook her head. ‘I don’t, love,’ she admitted. ‘Here, I’ll fetch you another cup of tea.’ She picked up the large brown teapot and carried it to the table.

  ‘No, no …’ stammered Hetty.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s on the house,’ she said comfortably, and she paused before continuing. ‘How old are you, love? If you don’t mind me asking, that is?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Are you really? You don’t look it.’

  ‘Well, I am. I’ve been working at the place I am now for nearly five years. Well, the place I was,’ she added, remembering.

  ‘If you were there for that long you can’t have been a bad worker,’ remarked Alice, looking thoughtful. Hetty knew Alice was curious to know why she had been dismissed, and also why she didn’t go home to her folks, but she didn’t comment. After a minute Alice went back behind her counter.

  Hetty rose to her feet reluctantly and pulled on her coat. Picking up her box, she thanked the woman and went out into the street. The newsagent’s window was full of cards, a few of them for rooms though most were articles for sale.

  She began to feel more hopeful. Oh, surely she would get a room by the end of the afternoon, maybe even a job? A sports car turned into the street and she slipped inside the shop just in case it was Matthew and stood peering anxiously out between the cards. The car was green, a stranger sitting at the wheel, and she let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘You want something?’ asked the man behind the counter.

  ‘Well … I was looking at the cards, I’m after a room.’

  He looked her up and do
wn. ‘Plenty there. You read them from the outside, though,’ he said, but his smile robbed his words of any ill will.

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  Hurriedly she went out, the bell tinkling as she closed the door behind her. The rain had stopped and, miraculously, the sun was coming out. She memorised a few addresses, at least she had a fair memory, she thought, and set off round the corner into Pearl Street. The road descended gently to the top of the cliff which bordered the beach and beyond she could see the sea sparkling, white waves rushing in towards the shore. Idly she wondered how the world could be round if she could see them when the cliff was so much higher than the sea, then she forgot about it as she turned into the narrow garden path which led to the front door of the first of her addresses.

  By five o’clock her main worry was over; at least she had a room, a tiny attic room in Diamond Street, the third one she had tried. There was space only for a narrow bed, a chair and chest of drawers, but there was a curtained-off space in the corner where she could hang her best dress and coat. But, best of all, it overlooked the sea: she could see the pier and Huntcliff and even some of the fishing boats pulled up on the beach outside the Ship Inn.

  Hetty finished unpacking her box and took out the notepaper and envelopes which were at the bottom. The letter to her gran too, she still hadn’t posted it. Now she would have to write home and give Mam her new address. Not that she would care, Hetty thought sadly. The forlorn feeling rose in her, the one which always lay just below the surface of her thoughts ever since Cissy … No good thinking like that, no good at all. The best thing to do was go out and look for work. It was teatime already but places would still be open.

  Perhaps it was because she was hungry again that she was drawn towards the kitchens of hotels and restaurants. She hadn’t much hope of finding work in them but perhaps if she left her name and address now she had one, they would think of her should anyone be needed. Sixteen shillings she had paid her landlady, a month in advance, and a large chunk from her meagre store of money. In fact, one of her two pounds had gone already. She had to earn some money.

  It was sheer luck that she approached the kitchen door of the George Hotel on Marine Parade just as a small figure dashed out, almost bumping into her.

  ‘An’ don’t come back ’ere if you know what’s good for you!’ a loud angry voice shouted. ‘Get the hell away from Saltburn before I have the law on you!’ A man stood in the doorway dressed in a white apron and floppy chef’s hat, his face red with fury.

  The girl turned and shook her fist at him, though Hetty could see she took care to keep well out of his reach and was ready to dart away should she need to. ‘Have the law on me? On me? Just because I ate a leftover chop which wasn’t fit to eat anyroad? It’s you that robs the customers blind, you thieving …’

  He stepped out of the door and she retreated a few steps. ‘Fit to eat or not, it’s the last food you’ll pinch from my kitchen! Now be off wi’ you, or I’ll give you a thrashing you won’t forget. Bloody dishwasher! Not content wi’ your supper, you have to pinch enough food for the whole day.’

  ‘Did you hear that? Did you? Did you?’ the girl appealed to Hetty. ‘By, I’ll fetch the polis I will. I will! I’ll—’ But the man was coming after her, raising his hand, and she fled round the corner of the hotel to the front and raced along Marine Parade, Hetty could hear her screeching fading away into the distance.

  ‘An’ what do you want, standing there gawping?’ demanded the chef.

  ‘I was looking for work, casual work’ll do … washing-up, anything,’ stammered Hetty, standing well back from him just in case his anger should spill over on to her.

  ‘Aye, well, it just so happens I could do wi’ some help, now that cheeky young monkey’s gone. Good riddance too. She’s been eating us out of house an’ home. Mind, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the lass has a tapeworm, but whatever, I can’t afford to keep it for her. Well, come inside, let’s have a proper look at you. I haven’t got all night, you know, there’s customers in the dining room.’

  So within ten minutes Hetty was standing beside an enormous sink washing pots and pans and in between running to fetch and carry for the chef. It was only three hours’ work, casual, no guarantee it would be every night, but it paid sixpence an hour and would keep her until something better turned up, especially now her lodging was paid for.

  Mr Jordan, for that was the chef’s name, wasn’t a bad boss in spite of first impressions, Hetty realised. In fact, the rest of the kitchen staff and the waiters joked and laughed with him all evening.

  She walked back to Diamond Street and her new home along the promenade after the washing-up was done and the dishcloths washed and hung out to dry, the floor swept and mopped. The rain had blown away; down below the cliff she could hear the sea, quieter now. The only other people about seemed to be young couples, hand in hand or with their arms around each other, on their way home from the dance at the Alexandra Hotel, she fancied. Briefly she wondered what it would be like to be courting a lad, loving a lad who loved her too, someone like Richard.

  What a fool she was! He wouldn’t want her, especially after the events of last night. Last night? It was only twenty-four hours since it happened, she could hardly believe it. How miserable she had been this morning, how frightened of setting out on her own with nowhere to go and no job. Why, she had almost gone with Matthew Fortune. If it hadn’t been for that near-accident with the car she might have done. On impulse, Hetty walked over the grass to a vantage point where she could see the coast road, the place where the car had crashed into the sea wall. There was nothing to see, the van had gone. For a moment she wondered whether Matthew was all right, that van driver had been so angry … But of course he would be, she would have heard else.

  ‘Hey, little lass, what’s a nice girl like you doing out on your own? Want to get in here with us and we’ll show you a good time?’

  Hetty jumped. A car was crawling along the kerb, three young lads sitting there, grinning at her. She could smell the beer on their breath even though she was yards away.

  ‘Howay, lovey, you want nowt on your own. Come for a ride, you can take your pick. Jack now, he’s the handsome one, but don’t be taken in by—’

  ‘Leave me alone! Go on, or I’ll call the polis!’ Hetty found her voice and yelled at them. But she wasn’t frightened, rather she’d been startled, she hadn’t heard the car’s approach. They were just a gang of boys from Middlesbrough on a night out.

  ‘Aw, come on—’

  Hetty ran across the road behind them to the entrance to Diamond Street. She was almost home now anyway. Inserting her key in the front door, she heard the car revving as they gave up and went in search of someone more willing. She was grinning to herself as she went upstairs, happier than she had been all day.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Did you see how there was a fellow washed up on the beach along by Hazel Grove?’ Mr Jordan was asking one of the waiters. ‘A right battering he’d had an’ all. His head bashed in and his clothes in rags on him. They don’t know whether he was washed off the deck of a boat or what. It was in the Evening Gazette, did you not see it?’

  Bob the waiter said something in reply but Hetty couldn’t hear him. Her hands stilled in the soapy water, still grasping a burnt-on oven dish. Her over-fertile imagination brought vivid pictures to mind. Could it be Matthew? If he had been stunned yesterday morning and then the sea had carried him out, he could have been washed back further along the beach towards Marske. She should have made sure he was all right, she thought. That van driver …

  ‘Come on, lass, get on with it, there’s another lot ready to do and nowhere to put them,’ grumbled Mr Jordan. ‘No time for day dreaming here.’

  ‘Yes, sorry.’

  Hetty began scrubbing away at the dish, her head bent. No, of course it couldn’t have been Matthew, she told herself. If it had been, the car would still have been there. Unless … unless the van driver shifted it, got rid of the eviden
ce. She put the dish on the wooden draining board and picked up another. She had wondered why Matthew hadn’t come after her. After all, it wasn’t like him to give up just like that. All day yesterday she had been looking out for him, ready to dodge out of sight. And that van driver had been so enraged he’d looked capable of anything. Surely not murder, though? But he might have killed Matthew by accident, not really meant to go that far … Hetty’s imagination was running riot now and her imaginings could so easily be the truth. She carried on with the dishes, dipping them in the water, scrubbing away at burnt-on bits, rinsing them clean, and yet hardly knowing what she was doing. She felt that everything she touched turned into a disaster, why should this be any different?

  Later on, when the work was finished and the staff were sitting round the newly scrubbed table eating the spaghetti Bolognese which the chef had made in an effort to extend his menu but which none of the customers had ordered, she casually picked up his copy of the Gazette. There on the front page was a picture of the beach by Hazel Grove and an article about the man who had been washed up there. There was nothing additional to what Mr Jordan had said; the police had no idea who the man was.

  ‘Do you mind if I have my paper?’ asked Mr Jordan, and Hetty handed it over. He gave her a keen glance. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’re very solemn. Lost a shilling and found a penny?’

  Hetty summoned a smile. ‘Just a bit tired. I think I’ll be on my way. Goodnight.’ She abandoned the spaghetti and got to her feet.

  ‘Goodnight. By the way, I won’t be needing you until Friday. Not many in the hotel and only a few bookings for the evenings. Everybody’s broke this time of year, I reckon.’