London Pride (13 page)

‘Thought she was out,' Cook said, looking up at the bellboard.

‘So did I,' Joan said, wiping her hands and removing her kitchen apron. Miss Quinn was still with Mrs Bromwich so she would have to answer it. ‘Better see what she wants. Perhaps she's come back for something.'

But when she opened the servants' door into her mistress' bedroom there was no one there.

‘Yes, Miss Amelia?' she said.

‘In here,' a muffled voice said from the dressing room.

Oh surely she wasn't having an attack, Joan thought, running towards the voice and wondering whether she ought to take the spare spray with her just in case. She
did
sound odd.

And she opened the interconnecting door and ran straight into Master Toby's grabbing arms. The impact took her breath away.

‘Oh!' she said, trying to disengage herself. ‘Master Toby. What is it?'

‘You are,' he said thickly. ‘You are, my booful Joanie.' He was still in his evening dress, and his face was covered in dark pink blotches, like the measles. Oh dear. Whatever was she going to do now? He oughtn't to be grabbing hold of her like that.

‘Please don't!' she said stepping backwards as well as she could. ‘Mrs Bromwich'ud be ever so cross.'

‘My mumsy,' he said, speaking deliberately and following her step by step, ‘my mumsy won't be ever so cross, as you put it, my booful Joansy-Woansy, because she won't know anything about it. Will she? She's in her own dressing room on the other side of the house with old Quinn. That's where Mumsy is. That's where she'll be for simply aeons. And I'm here with my booful.'

Perhaps he's drunk, she thought. That would account for the blotches. And she wondered how you were supposed to deal with a drunk when the drunk was one of your masters. Would she have the strength to extricate herself if she pushed against his chest? And was a servant allowed to do such a thing?

It was a great mistake, for the moment her fingers touched his flesh he grabbed them and held them so hard he crushed them bone to bone.

‘Please, Master Toby,' she begged. ‘You're hurting.'

‘You drive me wild, you booful thing,' he said, pulling her towards him. And he certainly looked very wild. ‘Can't you see what a state I'm in? Or have I got to show you? Oh it's all your fault, can't you see?'

She didn't know what to say without sounding impolite and running the risk of being dismissed for insubordination, because it wasn't her fault. She hadn't done anything. But his next words changed the situation entirely.

‘I love you,' he said, panting as though he'd been running for a bus. ‘That's how it is. I love you, Joany-Woany.'

What an amazing marvellous thing! Joan thought, staring at him. He loves me! The young master of this house loves me. Me! Joan Furnivall, lady's maid. ‘Do you?' she said. ‘Really?'

He recognized his advantage and wasted no time in following it through. ‘Oh yes,' he said. ‘Passionately. Course. Give us a kiss.'

She put up her face obediently. As he loved her it was the least she could do. What an amazing thing, she thought again as he pressed his hot moist lips all over her mouth. It wasn't a very nice sensation because he was dribbling so much, but as he loved her …

‘Spiffing!' he said, when he finally stopped. ‘Top hole! You are a brick! Let's do it again, eh?'

So she allowed him to do it again. And again and again, until she began to fear he would mark her collar with all that spit.

But there were footsteps approaching along the corridor. He stopped, instantly very alert, and moved away from her, putting one podgy finger to his lips to show that she wasn't to make a sound. The footsteps passed, walked on, faded in the distance.

‘Phew!' he said. ‘That was a close call. Not a word to anyone, mind. Promise me.'

‘Yes,' she said, still stunned by the speed and improbability of it all.

‘That's all right then,' he said. ‘It'll be our secret, eh? A
lovers' secret. We won't let anyone else know. I'll be back.' And he shot off through the interconnecting door, blundered through his sister's bedroom and was gone.

Does he mean me to stay here and wait for him? Joan wondered, standing alone in the drenching silence he'd left behind. It was really amazing to think how much her life had changed in the last few minutes. When she'd run up the back stairs she'd been just another servant answering a bell, now she was loved, chosen, special. It was like a romantic novel. During the last two years she and Sally had spent their rare spare moments reading lots and lots of romantic novels, where the doctor fell in love with his nurse, or the boss with his secretary or the master with his servant, but neither of them had ever imagined they would actually see such a thing happening in real life. I'll write to her tonight, she thought, thrilling with pride and pleasure because she really did have something to write about now. I shall say, ‘I've got a sweetheart. What do you think of that?' Oh what a marvellous thing!

Sally's answer, which arrived nearly a week later, was rather a disappointment. ‘Can't say I'd fancy him myself,' she wrote. ‘He always looked a proper slob to me. But there you are, it takes all sorts. If you're happy I suppose it's alright. Only don't you let him take advantage, that's all.'

Her advice was too late. Advantage had been well and truly taken.

Fired by a combination of masculine pride, fear of discovery and perpetual lustfulness, Master Toby Bromwich had pressed on with his seduction as fast as he could. Every evening as soon as his sister was safely out of the house he stole along to her bedroom and rang the bell. And every evening as soon as Joan appeared in the dressing room he began to make love to her. On the second evening he persuaded her to let him feel her nipples, which did rather less for him that he'd expected but was pleasant enough. On the third she wouldn't undo her clothes, because she said it wasn't right, stupid girl, but he got as far as rocking against her belly for several most enjoyable seconds. On the fourth, in a sudden blaze of inspiration he brought her a present.

It was a box of Turkish Delight he'd bought in Dorking that afternoon because he rather fancied it himself.

‘For me?' she said, when he produced it from his pocket. ‘Oh Master Toby, how kind!'

‘Told you I loved you, didn't I?' he said, much gratified by her response. And he slid two fingers down inside her blouse to see what would happen. She didn't stop him or say he shouldn't, so after a suitable interval he slid the other hand up her skirt and began to stroke the top of her leg. She didn't stop that either, although she looked sort of puzzled.

‘Why don't we lie down?' he said. ‘We'd be ever so much more comfortable.' If she didn't give in soon he'd be back at school, and he
did
want to do it before he went back to school.

‘D'you think we ought?' she said doubtfully.

‘Course,' he told her. ‘We love each other, don't we?'

She agreed that they did, although she wasn't at all sure of her own feelings towards him. But she could hardly say she didn't know, could she? It would upset him too much.

‘Well then,' he said, pushing her towards the edge of the bed.

She lay down reluctantly.

‘Lift your skirt up,' he instructed, pushing the cheap black cotton up and out of his way. ‘Then you won't get it creased.'

‘Well…' she said. ‘I don't know …'

‘I do,' he said, rolling on top of her, fumbling with the buttons on his flies. Be masterful, that was the way. What had she got on? Some sort of knickers, damn things. He pulled them to one side, brushing bare flesh with his fingers. ‘I do. See!' And with that one triumphant word he was inside.

I know we're not supposed to do this, Joan thought, but she couldn't think how to stop him. I know we're not supposed to. But it was as if her mind had got stuck in a groove like a gramophone needle and she couldn't think any further. She was still anxiously repeating the same opinion to herself when he gave a long groaning sigh and fell off her onto his back, with his eyes shut and a really stupid expression on his face.

She waited for a very long time feeling rather sore ‘down there' and wondering what would happen next.

Finally he opened his eyes and smiled. ‘I'm off to bed,' he said. ‘We'll do it again tomorrow. Don't tell anyone.'

So they did. And she didn't. Not even Sally, because in the light of clear-thinking morning she felt ashamed of what they'd done and she didn't want to talk about it ever.

Nevertheless despite her shame she had established a pattern and she couldn't think of any way to stop it or change it. Master Toby came to her room every night until he left the Manor to go back to school, and after that he came home every other weekend on one pretext or another and always when Miss Amelia was at home too and she was sleeping in the dressing room. In April the entire family stayed at the Manor for Easter, so she hoped he'd keep away in case his mother found out. But he didn't. He came to the dressing room whenever he felt like it, even in the middle of the night when his sister was asleep in the room next door. And although he was always quick, she was always anxious in case someone walked in and found them or they woke Miss Amelia.

‘Part of the fun,' he said, when she worried aloud. ‘Don't you worry your pretty little head. Lie down. I've only got ten minutes.'

It occurred to her as he climbed laboriously on top of her that he never said he loved her nowadays. In fact he rarely said anything much and he was off out of the room the minute he'd finished. It made her feel used and dirty as well as ashamed, and that gave her a decidedly bad conscience.. After all, he'd persuaded her to do it the first time by saying he loved her, so if he
didn't
love her any more, perhaps they oughtn't go on doing it. Perhaps she ought to ask him.

‘Do you still love me?' she said, when he moved his face so as to dig his chin into her shoulder. He always dug his chin into her shoulder and it was really very uncomfortable.

‘What?' he said vaguely, not pausing in his rhythm.

She phrased the question differently, in case she'd been too abrupt the first time. ‘You do still love me, don't you?'

‘Yes,' he said shortly, fitting the word to his next thrust.
‘Course. Wouldn't be – doing – this – if I – didn't.

Her conscience was still grumbling away like an appendix underneath his incessant activity, but what else could she say? If he still loved her it had to be all right, didn't it? It was only if he didn't love her it would be wrong.

This time he spoke to her afterwards, standing beside the bed and looking down at her as he tied the belt of his dressing gown. ‘You're a lucky gel to have a sweetheart like me,' he said. ‘You know that, don't you? A jolly lucky gel.'

‘Yes, Mr Toby,' she said, hoping it was true.

‘I'll bring you a pair of stockings next time,' he offered, smoothing his hair and watching himself in the mirror. ‘How would that be?'

They were the most unsuitable stockings, white silk with embroidered clocks at the heels, and a good deal too small to fit her broad feet, the sort of thing Miss Amelia would wear to a ball and that a servant could never dream of. She thanked him of course and said how pretty they were, which was true, but inwardly she was sighing at the waste, because she knew she would never be able to wear them. At Tillingbourne Manor they would proclaim the fact that she had a rich sweetheart and then sooner or later their secret would be out, at home they would be a source of derision.

‘Back to the old Alma Mater tomorrow,' he said, when she'd hidden her useless present in the chest of drawers. ‘
Tempus fugit
, you know.'

‘Yes,' she said. They were all going away the next day, Miss Amelia and her parents to London to see the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley and then to the Continent for the summer. ‘I shall be back in the attic tomorrow night with the others.'

‘Worse luck,' he said. ‘Never mind. There's always another time, eh?'

But she wasn't sure she wanted any more ‘times'. It was still pleasant to know that she was loved, if she
was
loved, but as she packed her possessions in her carpet bag ready for the move, folding his stockings in their tissue paper and hiding them under her clean aprons, she knew for certain that she didn't love him at all. In fact if the truth
were told, his visitations had been so frequent and so exhausting she'd be glad to be rid of them and him.

Like her sister before her she was sending up a vague prayer for assistance, for something to happen that would sort it all out for her. She couldn't think of anything particular, but something.

The letter arrived at breakfast time, after Grandpa had left for work. It was for Flossie and she scowled so much as she read it that both her daughters watched her with anxiety in case it was something that would bring on an attack of nerves. She read it right to the bottom of the page, paused for a second or two, breathing heavily, and then read it all over again, the fine blue paper trembling in her hand.

Then she began to shriek. ‘Oh! Oh! How could she? The wicked wicked girl!'

‘What's up?' Aunt Maud said, buttering bread with her usual calm.

‘Look at that!' Mum said, hurling the letter across the table into the butter. ‘How could she do such a thing? I don't understand it.'

Aunt Maud retrieved the letter from the butter dish, cleaned it on her apron and read it slowly, screwing up her eyes and mouth with effort. ‘Oh my lor'!' she said. ‘Shall you go?'

‘Not got much option, have I?' Mum said. ‘Whatever are we going to do?'

‘Pray it's not true,' Aunt Maud said. ‘That's what I shall do.'