No Moon (4 page)

I feel Kathleen tremble beside me. She’s going to say something that will make Father angrier than he is already, I just know it.

“Father,” I say, “I found out only a short while ago, when Kathleen said she was going to tell you her good news. She meant to surprise you, Father, because of all your worries. And Kathleen told me that Miss Jenny wanted to employ her niece. Relatives have to come first. It’s like you and Uncle Alf, isn’t it, Father? And didn’t Kathleen mention how much she’ll get paid? Twelve pounds a year!”

Father stirs his tea. “There’s no need to stand up for your sister. Kathleen has a tongue in her head.”

“I should have asked you first, Father. I do see that now,” Kathleen says. “I wasn’t planning anything. It was an…an opportunity. It’s ever such a respectable place. Please don’t be angry, I’ve always wanted to work in a milliner’s.”

“That’s true, Jack. She sews and trims better than I can. She did wrong not to tell us, but she’s sorry,
aren’t you, Kathleen?” Mother coaxes them both.

Kathleen’s eyes are pleading. “I’m really sorry I upset you, Father. It won’t happen again.”

Father takes a sip of his tea and pushes the mug away. “I should hope not. Our daughter’s got a mind of her own. Takes after you, Flo! Well, all things considered–pour me a fresh cup of tea, Lou, this one’s cold–you’ve done very well. Mind now, I don’t hold with not talking it over with us first, but it sounds a decent place, a step up. So we’ll say no more about it, Kathleen.”

“Good night, Father, Mother, and thank you both,” my sister says.

I’m just about to follow her upstairs, but Father calls me back.
Is he still upset with me?

“I’ve never heard you speak your mind like that before, Louisa. You’re growing up. Now that doesn’t mean I want you getting ideas, too!”

“No, Father, I won’t.”

Later in bed, with Emily fast asleep across the room, Kathleen whispers, “Thanks, Lou. You were ever so brave. Your turn will come. Father’s old-fashioned, but it is 1911 and things are changing.”

I think if I was truly brave, I’d have told Father right then that my turn is next. I do not want to wait forever!

I
’ve been helping out at Sunday school for two years now, since I was twelve. I bring the twins and Emily to give Mother a bit of peace on a Sunday afternoon.

Miss Pringle, our Sunday school teacher, is tall and thin. She always wears high-necked white blouses, with a bit of lace at the wrist. In summer, her long skirt is blue; in winter, black; and then she adds a shawl. Today the heat has made her nose shine, and I see beads of perspiration on her upper lip.

Miss Pringle is the third daughter of the vicar. She teaches reading, writing, and piano to a few little girls from the shopkeepers’ families during the week. At the end of this year, she’s going to live in another rectory, in Hampstead, as a governess. Kathleen thinks Miss Pringle is quite old, as much as thirty
or more! “Love must have passed her by,” she says.

Today, Miss Pringle announces a service of dedication, on the Sunday after next, in honor of the coronation of the new king and queen.

“I hope you will all attend, and bring your parents. Tea and cake will be served afterwards.” At this, the children
ooh
and
ah
, and Miss Pringle puts her finger to her lips.

Little Joyce, from the end of the street, sits next to our Emily. The poor mite is the youngest of nine and never looks quite clean. Who knows when she last saw a piece of cake, if ever!

Miss Pringle talks about the meaning of dedication and about service and duty. A bee buzzes loudly at the back of the room; doors and windows are shut to keep out the heat. Heads turn–it doesn’t take much to distract the children this afternoon. Suddenly, I have a dreadful suspicion. I look for my brothers–they are sitting in the last row of chairs, hoping to be first out the door the moment Sunday school’s over! They gaze at Miss Pringle angelically, a look with which Mother and I are familiar. I catch one twin’s eyes, signal my
you’ll be in trouble
look, and the buzzing stops.

“Who can tell me the meaning of the word ‘duty’? Arthur?”

“Is it like soldiers going off to war to serve their country, miss?”

“Very good, Arthur, you shall have a picture to place in your album.” The children receive a religious picture from Miss Pringle for good behavior. At the end of the year, she awards a prize to the child with the most pictures.

Miss Pringle goes to the piano and begins to play a hymn:
Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war…

We join in, singing the familiar words. When it is over, Miss Pringle takes the older children for Bible study, and I read to the little ones. This Sunday, it is one of my favorites from the “Book of Mark.”

Jesus blesses seven loaves of bread and a few fish, and, miraculously, there is enough to feed a hungry multitude of people, who have come from afar to hear him speak.

Miss Pringle dismisses the class punctually at three o’clock. She nods to me to open the doors. Heat and sunshine pour into the stifling hall. I’d been hoping we could leave a bit early today. Kathleen and I had promised Emily we’d take her to the park. She’s often fast asleep before Kath comes home from work. I tidy up the chairs, and Emily helps me to put the hymn books in a neat pile.

Miss Pringle covers the piano with a dustcover. “Louisa,” she says, “I would like to speak to you for a few minutes. Emily, sit down please and wait for your sister, like a good girl.

“I have been asked by a Mrs. Ransom, housekeeper
to Lady Rupert Milton of Chesham Place, if I know of a reliable girl to recommend as a nursery maid.”

I hope she gets to the point soon–our afternoon will be over if she doesn’t hurry up!

“I should like to suggest your name, Louisa.”

I glance over my shoulder at Emily, who is swinging her arms and legs to create a breeze. Any second now, she’s going to stop being good.

“Well, Louisa?” Miss Pringle gives the dustcover an impatient tweak.

“I don’t know, Miss Pringle,” I answer.

She sighs. “I thought you would be pleased. You are quite good and organized with the children. And as you are at home and not at work yet, this would be an excellent beginning for you. Would you like me to speak with your mother? Perhaps you feel that you cannot be spared, is that it?”

I come to my senses.
Isn’t this what I’ve been waiting for?

“It is very good of you to think of me, Miss Pringle. Thank you–I would like you to recommend me for the position.”

“Very well, Louisa, I will tell Mrs. Ransom that I have found a possible candidate. I will notify you when an interview has been arranged. That is all, Louisa. Good afternoon.”

Emily talks, nonstop, all the way home. I scarcely listen.

“Was I good, Lou? Can we see Kath now?”

“Yes.”

What have I done? What will Mother say? How am I going to tell Father that I’ve agreed to apply for a position without asking him first?
It might never happen… Lady Milton may not want to see me…someone else might have been found….

Kathleen’s waiting for us. How grown-up she looks–longer skirts, a new hat! I am not going to tell even her. I’ll wait until I have something to tell.

The note arrives after lunch on Tuesday, delivered by the vicarage maid. It is addressed to Miss Louisa Gardener. I have never received a letter before.

“Who was at the door?” Mother comes out of the larder, where she’s been wiping shelves. She holds the long yellow flypaper, black with flies.
Ugh!
I shudder and look away from the sticky, writhing mess. Miss Pringle would say we are all God’s creatures, no doubt.

“Throw it on the waste heap, Lou, please.” Mother looks at my face and sighs. “Never mind–I’ll take it. And you want to work in a factory? You’d not last two minutes, my girl. Where you pick up your finicky ways, I don’t know.”

When she comes back, wiping her hands, I haven’t moved. I am almost afraid to open my letter.

“You haven’t said who was at the door.” Mother
looks over my shoulder. “Whoever can be writing to you?” she says, drying her hands on her apron.

“Miss Pringle sent it.”

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

I take a knife from the table and slit the top of the envelope.

“As long as it’s not another bill, I don’t mind what it is, or who it’s from. Do read it, Lou. It can’t be that big a secret if it’s from the vicarage.”

I read the letter aloud.

Mother fans herself with the envelope. “Louisa Gardener, you have quite taken my breath away. An interview for a domestic position with titled folk, that’s very good indeed. I’ve been thinking about looking around for something for you, maybe in a household with just two or three servants. Your father agreed. But a housekeeper! That means a cook and maids and even a butler.” She sits down at the table. “Chesham Place? Father would know it–I believe it is near Grosvenor Road, by Belgravia Square. Father’s old delivery route is near there. A very good address, my girl. For a start, we’ll have to get you new boots. Your Sunday frock will do for the interview, but a lady will notice the state of your shoes.

“You’ll have your bath on Thursday night instead of Friday, and no need to share the water with Kathleen. Pass me the jar on the mantel, please.”

I hand it to her, and Mother takes out some coins.

“Two shillings should be enough. We’ll go to the market stalls tomorrow and pick you up a pair of boots. I am pleased for you, Lou! We won’t say anything to your father until after the interview–it can be a surprise.” Mother kisses my cheek–she doesn’t do that often now that Kathleen and I are growing up.

“What else does Miss Pringle say, Lou?”

I read again.

“Now don’t get your hopes set too high, Lou,” Mother says. “There’ll be other girls interviewed, though you’re as good as any, if I say so myself! Mind you, it will be hard work, and there’ll be strange rules to learn. They have different ways of doing things in a big household. You’ll answer to the nanny for most everything…do all the tasks she’s too grand to do!

“There are those who do the hiring and those who get hired. Once you’re there, you’ll find as many differences between the servants as there are between the lords and ladies and those who work for them. Downstairs is like upstairs: there have to be rules for those at the top and those at the bottom of the heap. Housekeeper and butler are at the top; the cook rules the kitchen; the nanny’s the queen of the nursery. Maids all have different duties: the kitchen maid answers to the cook, the scullery maid does the rough work. Then there are downstairs, upstairs, and parlor maids, and footmen, too.

“For the interview, you’ll bob a curtsy to the housekeeper and a deeper one to her ladyship. Answer when you’re spoken to, and things will turn out just fine. I want what’s best for you, Lou.

“Now we’ll have a cup of tea…. I’ll miss you, Louisa, more than you know, but you’ve earned your chance. You’re a good girl, and you’re old enough to leave home–it’s time.”

“I’ll give you half my wages, Mother. I’ve been longing to help out, like Kathleen.”

O
n Friday morning, the sixteenth of June, at ten minutes to ten, I walk around to the back entrance of Number 4, Chesham Place.
What a big grand house this is!
I count five stories and I’m feeling over warm and scared. It’s taken me an hour to walk here. I’ve time to catch my breath–I don’t want to look as flustered as I’m feeling inside.
Why can’t I be more like Kath?

The toes of my next-to-new boots are covered with a layer of dust. That won’t do–going into a fine house like this one unkempt. They’ll think I’m slovenly! Mother made me wear the new boots all of yesterday to soften them, so I won’t get blisters. I give the leather a quick dust with my handkerchief and wipe my hands, clammy with heat and nerves. I take a deep breath. Now, I’m ready to go down the
wrought-iron steps and knock at the door.

A maid, dressed in a pretty striped dress and wearing an apron and cap, answers the door. “Good morning. May I help you?” she asks.

“I’m here for the interview; I’m to see Mrs. Ransom.”

“You’re expected. Come in. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

She leads the way through a flagstone back kitchen, bigger than the whole of our downstairs. In the main kitchen, a girl kneels, polishing brass on a stove that takes up most of one wall.

“The girl’s here about the position, Mrs. Porter.”

A woman looks up from the pastry she’s rolling out at a table, which is scrubbed white and seems long enough to seat half our street. I bob a curtsy and bid her good day.

“You look as if you’ve had a bit of a walk. Dean, hand the girl a glass of water, if you please.”

“Thank you very much, ma’am.” I drink, grateful for the kindness. Dean whisks the glass away from me the moment I’ve emptied it and goes out.