The Sunday Girls (16 page)

Like the rest of the house, either because of the open fires or Miss Hood’s neglect, a thick dust had settled on all the surfaces and over the numerous ornaments and bric-a-brac. The room was pretty well cluttered up so I decided to work systematically, doing one area at a time. Scores of silver-framed photographs stood everywhere and they all showed a still-recognisable Mrs Barrie, albeit in her younger days. The poses were all in different costumes and showed her as a beautiful young woman with dark curly hair and large doe-like eyes.

I dug out the tin of polish from the box and noticed with dismay that the contents were all dried up. It had obviously not been used for a long time. In spite of this, I worked as quickly as I could and was almost finished when Mrs Barrie came out of the bathroom, wafting in her flower cloud.

She saw me looking at my list and she asked, ‘I hope Miss Hood hasn’t left too many jobs for you, Ann?’

Under her kindly gaze, I almost blurted out the truth. Still, not having worked as a housemaid before, I didn’t know if the list was long or not. I thought there was a lot but perhaps other housemaids did as much – or even more – so I shook my head. ‘No, everything’s fine, Mrs Barrie. There’s just one thing. Do you want the books in the lounge dusted when I clean in there?’

She looked thoughtfully at me. ‘You love books, don’t you?’

I nodded eagerly.

‘These books belonged to my late husband but, if you promise to treat them carefully, then you can certainly dust them.’

My face lit up, an expression that didn’t go unnoticed. ‘Another thing, Ann, if you promise to look after them, then you can borrow them to read.’

I was almost singing as I finished off all my jobs in her room. As I turned to leave, she called out, ‘Oh, by the way, Ann, I was going to let you have this Sunday off but Miss Hood tells me there is a tremendous backlog of work to do and she can’t spare you. I hope this doesn’t spoil any plans you made for your sister?’

I could do nothing but shake my head. ‘No, Mrs Barrie, I did say to my granny that it might be next Sunday before I saw them.’

By the time I went downstairs, I was on the verge of tears. That old besom, I thought, acting like she was the owner of the house – queening around in her awful manner. If Mrs Barrie wanted me to have one day off, even just a few hours, what right did this crabbit housekeeper have to overthrow the plans?

Mrs Peters was at the back door and, when I saw her cheery face, all my anger evaporated like morning mist. Miss Hood created this dismal fog around her then along came the sunny-natured cook and dispersed it.

Mrs Peters was throwing a handful of crumbs into the courtyard. Within seconds, a flock of birds appeared and strutted around. Two blackbirds with their shiny black coats and bright yellow beaks pushed their way in, scattering the tiny birds in their haste to gobble up the food. I drew back in alarm when I saw them.

The cook, looking mystified by my action, reassured me. ‘They’ll not bite you so don’t be frightened.’

I wasn’t taking any chances. ‘Would these blackbirds attack you? Say if I was outside here in the courtyard?’ I asked.

She laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, lassie. You’ve been reading too many nursery rhymes.’

I was on he verge of telling her about Ma Ryan’s warning when a bell rang in the hall. ‘That’ll be Mrs Barrie. She must want something,’ said the cook, still chuckling.

Mrs Barrie was sitting in front of a mahogany dressing table and she looked at me through the mirror. ‘Ann, I’d like you to go to the post office in the village for me and post these letters.’ She held up a large pile of white envelopes. ‘Mrs Peters will give you instructions on how to get there.’

She turned round on the dressing stool. ‘I do have another favour to ask you. I enjoy reading as well but I find the print is very small and difficult to read. Can you read to me this afternoon? About three o’clock? I normally go out for the day but I don’t feel like it this week so a good book will cheer me up.’

My face lit up. ‘Of course, Mrs Barrie – I’ll enjoy that.’

The air was cold and bracing when I stepped through the gate – a fresh tangy wind that swept in from the sea with a tinge of salt in its breath. A pale winter sun shone on the sands and on the windblown patches of dune grass – grass that was almost bent double in its struggle for survival in the harsh salty conditions. Large cotton-wool clouds lay in a bunched-up mass out at sea, obscuring the horizon and bringing the promise of another storm. Since my arrival yesterday, the rain and sleet had been incessant and now another bout of bad weather was heading our way.

Still it was pleasant to stroll in the calm, cold sunshine I could hardly believe that I had been there just a little over twenty-four hours and, during that time, I had come to know how kind Mrs Barrie was. I had also discovered that Mrs Peters had originally come from Dallfield Walk in Dundee and Miss Hood, for some unknown reason, hated me intensely. I’d also come to know that the house seemed to be surrounded by blackbirds.

The post office was busy and I joined a queue of women who all looked comfortable with one another due, no doubt, to an intimacy born from long acquaintance and neighbourly friendship.

I pushed the money for the stamps through the slit of the mesh screen and the middle-aged assistant commented on the weather, giving me the cosy impression that I was already part of this small community. It was like being at home. I was almost out of the shop when I spotted the wire stand full of postcards. Not sure how much money I had in my purse, I did a quick calculation. I had enough to buy three cards and three stamps. I bought a humorous one of a small kilted girl playing the piano for Maddie while Danny got a picture of an old Highlander with a crooked stick. This stick looked similar to the one carried by Harry Lauder and the man looked as bow-legged as Jeemy from the Overgate emporium. Granny got a nice one of Gray Street and, as for Dad, well, I didn’t buy one for him because I could see it in my mind’s eye, lying behind the door in the cold, neglected flat, unread.

Back at the counter once more, the woman, who wore spectacles similar to the ones worn by Rosie, smiled. ‘Are you on holiday, dear?’

‘No, I’ve started work with Mrs Barrie at Whitegate Lodge,’ I replied, handing over the correct money. It included quite a few halfpennies and was all the money I had.

She looked surprised. ‘Has Miss Hood retired?’

I shook my head and explained that I was an extra pair of hands around the house. As I left, I overheard the woman standing behind me whisper to her companion. ‘I didn’t think yon old battle-axe had retired. She likes to give the impression she’s the owner of the house and does she not like to rule the roost?’ In a curious way, this statement cheered me up and I was glad the housekeeper wasn’t generally liked. I thought it was just me that didn’t get on with her.

Later that afternoon, when the storm clouds moved overhead and thin streaks of sleet splattered against the windowpanes, Mrs Barrie settled back in her large armchair while I sat on a low stool, not quite at her feet but close enough for her to hear.

After the trip to the post office, I had spent a lovely two hours dusting all the books in the lounge. I noted all the authors – wonderful writers like Dickens, Walter Scott and Jane Austen – as I went.

That was why I almost fell of my stool in surprise when Mrs Barrie pointed to a bookcase in the corner of the dark morning room. ‘You’ll find the latest novel by Agatha Christie over there, Ann. I just adore mystery novels.’

After an hour and a half of reading, she stopped me. ‘You will be getting tired, Ann, but I’m dying to know the ending. Maybe you can read to me tonight?’ She hastily added, ‘At least if you don’t mind?’

‘Oh, no, Mrs Barrie,’ I assured her, almost adding that I was also keen to know how the story ended.

She smiled. ‘It’s easy to see you love books, Ann, because you have the talent to bring the story alive when you read the words.’ She shook her head and added, ‘Not like poor Lottie who hates the written word. Listening to her is such a trial as every word comes out with no expression. To be honest, I resort to using my magnifying glass to read the book myself but that is our little secret. Perhaps you don’t realise it but, when you read the text, your voice takes on a different tone for each character. If you got your voice trained, you would make a good actress.’

I went pink with pleasure at this compliment and, although I had no inclination to be on the stage, I relayed it to Mrs Peters when we sat down for our tea.

‘Well, that is praise indeed, Ann, coming from Mrs Barrie. She was a famous actress in her younger days – even acted in films,’ said the cook, spreading a floury scone with a huge dollop of jam. This was news to me but it explained all the photographs in the house.

The cook wiped a floury smear from the front of her ample bosom. ‘Aye, she was on the stage in the West End of London for years and she even appeared in some silent films in Hollywood. She was called Evaline Bay in those days. That was her stage name because she was married to Mr Barrie by then.’

I couldn’t understand why she had given up such a glamorous and exciting life to come and live so far from the scenes of her triumph. Especially with someone so sour-faced as Miss Hood. I said so.

‘Well, she never had good health, even as a lassie, and, about ten years ago, they came here to help her recuperate after a bad dose of influenza. Then, just a month later after moving in, Mr Barrie collapsed and died. It was so sudden and so sad. I remember it well because I had just started working here.’ She looked sadly at the half-eaten scone in her hand, almost as if reliving that sad time.

‘Then that old besom Miss Hood wrote to her to commiserate on her bereavement and giving Mrs B. some hard luck story about some man she’d met but he had buggered off. And who can blame him, being shut up with her? She had been Mrs B’s wardrobe mistress in the days of the theatre and the upshot was she was invited to come here as companion-stroke-housekeeper.’ The cook stopped, a hard look in her merry eyes. ‘Within a week of arriving, she was throwing her weight around like she was the owner of the house.’

‘Does Mrs Barrie know what a horrible person she is?’

The cook almost choked on her scone. ‘Not on your nelly. She makes sure she puts on her charming side upstairs but, down here, it is another matter. Still we don’t have her company today or tomorrow although you will have her this week on your own.’

When she saw my worried look, she patted my hand. ‘Never mind. It’s just for this week and then we’ll have our time off together.’

Later that night, after a companionable evening with Mrs Barrie and Agatha Christie, I had a lovely bath in my own private chamber. Then I went off to bed with a book from the lounge.

The small bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the quilt and a warm feeling of happiness spread through me as I snuggled into my pillows. On many occasions in later years, I was able to recall that happy night – that brief hiatus of pleasure. As a child, I had read somewhere that happiness is nearly always followed by sorrow as surely as night follows day. One thing was for sure – whoever wrote that certainly knew what they were talking about.

Trouble descended on me on the Monday like a thunderclap. Actually the blue touchpaper was lit on the Sunday afternoon with the return of Miss Hood.

Mrs Barrie and I were closeted in the morning room. Our reading session with Mrs Christie having finally come to a denouement, we were now engrossed with Dorothy L. Sayers – so engrossed, in fact, that Miss Hood’s arrival had gone unnoticed until she swept towards us in a cold cloud of hate. I thought she was about to have a seizure. Her cold eyes like grey slate swept over me with such loathing that I could almost swear the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees.

Mrs Barrie, being short-sighted, missed this terrible look but she heard the footsteps. She turned in her chair, a bright smile on her face. ‘Oh, you’re back, Lottie. Did you enjoy your time off?’

Miss Hood tried to smile gaily at her but it only emphasised her fury. The bottom half of her face held a shark-like grimace – a so-called smile which, as usual, didn’t reach her eyes and stopped at a point midway across her nose.

She pulled off her long woollen coat that was neither beige nor brown and was another unfortunate colour for her to wear. She had such a strange complexion, I thought. Just as it had done when she was wearing her green dress, her skin seemed to echo the colour of whatever she was wearing. On this particularly cold Sunday evening, she looked as if she was suffering from a bad dose of jaundice. She snatched the detective novel from my hand and, if I had been standing instead of sitting on the low stool, I just knew she would have pushed me towards the blazing fire.

‘That’s fine,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll take over the reading and you can go back to your chores.’ As if to emphasise any laziness, she drew her gloved finger along the edge of the side table and looked at it in disdain.

If I hadn’t been so alarmed, I would have laughed at her comical image. In her haste to oust me, she sat down on the stool still completely dressed in her hat, boots and gloves.

Mrs Barrie was taken aback by this display of brusqueness and, for a brief second, she looked angry. Suddenly she shrugged her slim shoulders and said softly, ‘I think I’ve had enough reading for one day, Lottie.’ Then she turned to me. ‘Ann, will you bring in the tea tray please?’

I spent the rest of the evening dreading meeting Miss Hood but, for some reason, she stayed with Mrs Barrie for most of the time.

After a rotten, sleepless night, I crept downstairs and began my morning chores. I was kneeling on the stairs, dusting the banisters when she suddenly appeared from nowhere and swooped down on me. She gave me such a hefty shove that I almost toppled backwards. In fact, if I hadn’t had a good hold of the banister, I would have landed in an untidy heap on the hall floor. With her mission unaccomplished, she walked back up the stairs, giving me another hefty shove that was so hard that I banged my shoulder and arm on the carved wood. A sharp pain surged through my arm and I cried out in agony.