The Observations (6 page)

By the time I got into the parlour, she had settled again in her chair by the fire. I give her a deep curtsey and stared at the Turkey carpet. “Marm,” says I, sick to my stomach.

There was a pause. Then she says, “How have you enjoyed your first day at Castle Haivers?”

This question was, to my mind, designed to fill me with shame for cheeking the minister. I looked appropriately humbled.

“Well, marm,” I says. “I have liked some aspects well enough.”

“Yes?” she says.

“But I do be thinking that in others it should be for the best if I tried harder.”

“Indeed?” she says. Something in her voice made me glance up, I thought I seen a twinkle in her eye but then she blinked and it disappeared or perhaps it was only my imagination.

She looked at me gravely. I thought here we go.

“On the whole,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “I am of the opinion that you have done reasonably well today.”

I said nought to that, I was waiting for the tongue lashing.

“Just a few things to note,” she says. “I think it might be as well, for example, when you speak to anyone, especially a lady or a gentleman, to make sure that you look at them straight in the face.”

“Very good, marm,” I says. “In the face.”

“And perhaps when you are being addressed it would also be advisable to stand erect and perhaps not waggle your leg around
too
much.”

“Yes marm,” I says. “Erect.”

“One other point,” she says. “Just to bear in mind, when you speak to a lady or gentleman it would generally be better if you didn’t have your finger in your mouth.”

“Oh!” I says a bit took aback, I was not aware I done that. “Very good marm.”

“Generally speaking however I think it passed off quite well,” she says. “But now—have you written anything in your little book yet?”

“Gob no, missus,” I says for she had caught me off guard. “I mean no, marm.”

“In that case,” she says, “you may go to your room for an hour. I suggest you take the opportunity to put some effort into your journal.”

I would rather have put some effort into a good long nap but I was that grateful that she hadn’t tore a strip off me I practically threw myself at her feet.

“Very good, marm,” I says and made her another little curtsey. “I’ll do that right away, right away now.”

Oh how easy it is to fall into the habit of bowing and scraping. Dear knows if you had took my likeness at that moment you would have said I was a servant girl to my toe nails.

“I look forward to reading what you have done this evening,” says the missus. “And perhaps later you can sing me your pretty song.” I thought that was me dismissed and was about to leave when of a sudden she carried on, “D’you know, Bessy, that the Reverend Pollock is one of the busiest ministers in the land?”

As if I cared the core of a cabbage what he was. But I says, “Oh? Is that right now?”

“I always think it a shame that he only manages to visit here about once a month.”

“Oh—dear,” I says.

“Sometimes he only manages every two months. Isn’t that a
great
pity?”

I think I can safely says that this was my first experience of how a lady of the missus breeding has the natural ability to tell you one thing while meaning quite another. She did not like the Old Bollix either! She was looking at me straight and there was not a whisker of an edge to her voice, but somehow I knew she wanted me to understand the
exact
opposite of what she said. He was
terrible
company and the
less
he came to visit the better. I wanted to laugh out loud and embrace her, it was like a happy secret that we had together, her and me the both of us. But that would not have been right so instead I just says, “Yes marm, it is an awful pity,” and made her another curtsey and went out, smirking.

As for the little book, that soon wiped the smile off my face. Dear gob the cornuptions I went through with it to start with I do not care to recall (though I look at it now with some fondness as it lies here beside me on the table).The trouble was I knew how to spell words but joining them together to make correct sentences had me all in a pucker. Or perhaps it was not so much correct sentences that eluded me but sentences that I thought worthy for the missus to read. I may well have shed a tear or two over those first entries, for I can see the ink is blurred in places and also the pages are covered in blots since I had the pen constantly hovering over them, willing the words to come out. At the end of an hour, a single paltry line was all I had, however in my opinion that was plenty and I was glad to get back downstairs and throw myself into the simple task of making supper.

That evening missus elected to sit in the kitchen and read her
Bathgate Monthly Visitor
except she barely glanced at it, she seemed more interested in watching me clear away. I was beginning to think she had forgot about the little book altogether when she put down her
Monthly Visitor
and tellt me to bring her what I had wrote. I did so with heavy heart and even now am ashamed to copy down my first desperate effort.

thursday

got up done a few light chores for missus nothing else strange or startling

The missus glanced at it then looked up at me. “Why did you stop there?” she says and I says to her I didn’t know for sure but perhaps it was because my hand had got tired. “After a single line?” she says and I told her that it was because I did not have the habit of writing a journal.

“Well, Bessy,” she says to me, “a journal should be more specific. You must write down what the various chores are and say something else to give colour to the account. For instance, this morning what happened?”

I looked at her. My mind was a blank.

“The first thing that happened this morning?” she says.

I shrugged. “I got up late?” I says.

“Well—yes,” she says. “That is not what I was thinking of but it will do. Why not. Now, try again.” And she made me sit down at the kitchen table and have another go. What a shambles, I think it must have took about an hour to write.

thursday

got up late porridge for breakfast burnt roof of mouth on it collected eggs emptied poe for missus sheeps head broth for dinner went for scones served tea to missus and reverend other than that nothing strange or startling

“Well,” says the missus when she looked at it. “That is better. But it still wants further elaboration and detail.”

So I says in jest Oh should I have elaborated what was in the pisspot, marm? (And then I could have kicked myself, for dear sake it was not the kind of pleasantry fit for a lady.) The missus just gives me a look and says no, but this account doesn’t
speak
to me. I tellt her that I was truly sorry but I didn’t know what else to write about. And she sighed and tellt me that the next day it would please her greatly if when I wrote in the little book I wasn’t just to write what I
did,
the chores and all, I was to write down how I
felt
about what I did and what
thoughts
went through my head as I did it.

Jesus Murphy I thought to myself what
possible
interest could that be to any man jack and I may have said as much except not in those exact words and then the missus says if you do it I will give you another shilling so I thought well gob if it made her happy.

But I am being too pert. To tell the truth I did not care a ducks beak for the extra shilling. I just wanted to please my missus.

3

Friday

got up on time i was glad not to be late fire would not take i was happy when it did porridge too salty i was disappointed fed hens with missus fed pig on my own i like the hens but not sure about pig ripped a hole in my apron on the fence i was not at all pleased about that swep and dusted rooms and got dinner potatoes burnt but i was hungry and ate every pick missus showed me how to clean silver i was pleased then she showed me the garden vegetables i was interested and where the sheep got in to eat them last year i was shocked then i carted about a ton of manure across yard i was highly delighted when that was done while working i was thinking about my mother if only she was still alive and doing her good works especially with the poor men down on their luck just a smile from her and a kind word as she passed by on her way to worship brightened their day she was truly an angel sent from heaven

4

What I Did Not Write

That was what I wrote in the book. But that wasn’t all what happened on the Friday, not by a long chalk. For instance when I went into the kitchen that morning the missus was already up, it seemed like she had been waiting on me for as I walked in she jumped to her feet.

“Ah, there you are,” she says, very excited.

Her face was pale and there was shadows under her eyes, she had the look of someone that had not slept overmuch. I give her good morning and went to light the fire but as I passed her by she reached out and gripped my arm.

“Let the fire wait,” she says. “There’s something I want to do first.”

She released my arm then stood aside and gestured to a straight-back chair in the middle of the floor, she must have moved it there before I came down.

“Sit,” she says.

When I had done as bid she started walking to and fro in front of me her hands clasped behind her. She had on a lovely charcoal coloured silk frock, the skirts whispered to me as she moved back and forth, the cut of the cloth showed off her slender frame. A real Aphrodite she was, only with arms. After a moment or two she stopped pacing and looked at me, straight in the face.

“Now Bessy,” she says very stern. “Do you trust me?”

“Marm?” I says. “In what sense?”

She hesitated, then she says, more kindly, “I mean—do you think I would do you any harm?”

“No marm,” I says and was surprised to realise I meant it.

“So you do trust me,” she says.

“Well yes,” I says.

“Good,” she says. “Now—be a good girl and close your eyes.”

“What—what for, marm?”

“Do you trust me, Bessy?”

“Yes, marm.”

“Then close your eyes.”

I closed them.

She walked about me a bit more like a big whisper and then she stopped nearby, somewhere to my left. I waited, not knowing what to expect. I
1/2
imagined that I might all of a sudden feel her touch somewhere, a stroke on the cheek maybe, her breath on my face or her fingers in my hair but she kept her distance and after a moment of silence she announced very loud in the flat voice, “Stand!”

I got to my feet then waited to be told where to go but all she says, again in the flat voice was, “Sit!” So I sat down and—thinking I had disappointed her in some way, began to open my eyes.

“Keep them shut!” she says quickly. And then she says again, “Stand!” in the flat voice. And so I did. And then she says again, “Sit!”

What she was up to I hadn’t an inkling. She just kept on in the flat voice, Stand! Sit! Stand! Sit! I was up and down like a drabs drawers until about the 5th time of asking I could not bear any more to be told what to do whereupon I opened my eyes and says a bit sharp, “Please missus I’m not going to do this any more so don’t make me please.”

She was gazing at me, her eyes glazed over, she looked for all the world like she was in a Trance but when I spoke she nodded and muttered to herself, it sounded like, “Of course. Of course she would.” Then she blinked and says out loud, “Well done, Bessy. You may light the fire.”

Then off she goes, sailing out the room without a backward glance.

About
1/2
way through the morning a letter come for her. I had my ears pricked up for the postman partly because it would have been just nice to see another face but also on account of what he might be bringing, if indeed the missus had wrote to Crown House for my character, I was worried about the possibility of a reply.

This particular postman must have been the human equivalent of a badger for you never saw hide nor hair of him, only found his droppings on the mat, and this day was no exception. He was supposed to blow his horn to let you know he was on his way but despite the fact that I had my ears and eyes peeled and could have swore that nobody come up the drive there—like magic!—was the letter on the floor one time as I was passing through the hall. The heart went sideways in me for I thought it might be from Glasgow but on closer examination I seen that it was postmarked London so all was well. I thought it might be from the missus husband.

She had been closeted away in her room all morning and I was glad of an excuse to visit her so I took the letter upstairs immediately. I knocked the door and when I entered she was sat at her desk, she had a pen in her hand but oddly I could see no writing paper anywhere.

“This came for you, marm,” I says and give her the envelope.

She glanced at the handwriting on the front.

“It’s from London,” I says.

She smiled. “Yes, I see that.”

I waited for her to open it but she just put it on the desk and turned back to me expectantly. Up until that moment I didn’t realise I had anything to say to her but then I blurted out, “Marm, about this morning,” I says. “I wanted to apologise.”

“Apologise? What for?”

“Marm for not doing what you wanted me to do. Stand up and sit down and all this. I don’t know why. I just didn’t want to do it. And I’m sorry”

She shook her head. “No matter, Bessy,” she says. “You did very well”

“Did I marm? Did I really?”

“Yes you did.”

“Do you want to try it again, missus—marm? That’s to say—I don’t mind, we could do it again now if you want. Downstairs—or here?”

“Perhaps not just this minute, Bessy,” she says. “Perhaps on some other day”

“You sure now, marm?”

“Yes, I think I’ll read my letter now.”

“Oh certainly, go right ahead.” I waited for her to open it but she just sat there and smiled hard at me until I realised that of course she was expecting me to withdraw.