The Sunday Girls (17 page)

She placed her face a few inches from mine and her fury was plain to see. At first I thought she was going to prise my arm away from its hold on the banister and perhaps that was her original intention. Instead, she hissed like a deadly cobra, ‘You stick to the cleaning jobs around here, madam, and don’t try and ingratiate yourself with the mistress. Is that perfectly clear?’

Although fear made me feel queasy, I suddenly remembered Mrs Peters and how she had stood up to her. I looked right at her. ‘If Mrs Barrie wants me to do anything for her, then I will do it. She’s my employer – not you.’ Her face convulsed with anger but the unexpected sound of a voice calling from upstairs made her turn on her heel.

She gave me a backward, malevolent stare. ‘Your job here depends on me.’ She pointed a bony finger to her chest. ‘And don’t you ever forget that.’

She then climbed the stairs, calling out softly, ‘I’m coming, Eva.’ Her dulcet tones must have fallen on Mrs Barrie’s ears like honey. Who could blame her for thinking everything was sweetness and light down here?

As that dreadful day progressed without the comforting presence of Mrs Peters, my chief ally, Miss Hood had me working every minute with no respite for a cup of tea or a meal. I stood in the yard with another pile of carpets. I could hardly hold the big carpet beater because of my increasingly sore shoulder. The cold wind didn’t help either – it seemed to penetrate every muscle. The wind also whipped up the edges of the carpets, making it difficult to get any direct aim with the beater. I resorted to holding the corner with my bad arm and beating with my weaker left hand.

For a short time, I considered going upstairs and packing my small suitcase and going back home to the Overgate. Then the spectre of no money floated in front of me like a grey financial ghost and I knew I had to grit my teeth. I also had the horrible impression that Miss Hood was behind one of the dark windows, watching and gloating and rubbing her thin bony hands in glee.

After two hours, I struggled indoors with the heavy rugs and left them in neat rolls in the back lobby. One blessing, if it could be called that, was the fact that, although the wind was freezing cold, it had at least been dry – not like the other day when we, the rugs and me, had got a proper soaking.

There was no sign of the housekeeper so I put the kettle on to have a warming drink but, before it could boil, she was back in the kitchen with a huge mound of bedclothes. She marched me right out to the wash-house in the yard where she deposited the huge pile on the stone floor.

‘These have to be washed right away so get on with it,’ she snapped, like some third-rate tinpot dictator.

I spent ages lighting the fire under the copper boiler. It had a look of neglect, as if it had been years since it had last been used but, once the fire was glowing, the water soon heated up.

I sorted through the pile and separated the sheets and pillowcases from the blankets, not to mention at least ten huge bath towels. By the time I pushed the first lot into the hot soapy water, darkness had fallen and, because I didn’t know where the lamps were, I just kept working in the dark. It was so scary in the small vault-like building and I kept a wary eye out for the housekeeper – after all, she had injured me once already that day. I also kept an eye on the door in case any stray blackbirds flew in as the yard was their happy eating area.

By now, the pain had spread right up to my neck and down to my hip. Whether this was from the knock on the stairs or the manhandling of the heavy rugs and wet washing, it was difficult to say but I was grateful when the last load was done and I stumbled into the warm kitchen. I noticed with dismay that it was nine o’clock and supper was now long past.

Because the airing cupboard was still full with the wet rugs from the previous day, I had to drape the wet washing over a large clothes horse and I placed this in front of the warm Aga.

Starving with hunger because I hadn’t eaten anything all day, I decided to cook something for myself. I scouted round the pantry, finding bacon and a large bowl of eggs plus a large white loaf. Mrs Peters had told me to help myself to anything if I was hungry but I was unsure of Miss Hood. What if the tantalising smell of bacon wafted upstairs to her room? Would she descend like a Valkyrie? I thought for a moment that, if this should happen, then I would tell her to leave me alone – either that or I’d hit her with the frying pan. Having been brought up to respect my elders, this action was a mere rebellious thought but, in the end, I settled for tea and toast.

The atmosphere in the kitchen was damp from the warm steamy mist that arose from the wet washing. As I chewed my toast, I wondered idly where all the washing had come from. The pain in my shoulder was now throbbing as I made my way wearily to my room, remembering how happy I had been on Saturday night.

The upper stairs and lobby were normally lit by shaded ceiling lights and the old gas lamps on the wall were just silent reminders of the house’s previous energy source. Tonight, however, everything was in darkness but, because I now knew my way around, I navigated the lobby in the dark. I was almost at my door when a figure materialised out of the gloom like a ghostly blur. To my horror, it was Miss Hood and she was waiting for me. She snapped the light switch on in my room and I saw the copy of the book in her outstretched hand.

‘You little thief,’ she snarled, her lips curling with satisfaction. ‘Right then, madam, first thing tomorrow morning, you are going to see Mrs Barrie and you’ll explain why you have one of her books in your room. Then I’ll make sure you get your marching orders.’ As she stormed off down the corridor, I wished she would trip over her feet but the footsteps receded down the narrow stairs.

I gazed unbelievingly at my bedroom. The bed had been stripped and she had moved the mattress for some reason – maybe to search for some more so-called stolen goods. I now realised where some of the washing had come from – from this room and there was no sign of any replacements either. There was also no sign of Danny’s chocolate and Maddie’s card had been torn in half and it lay on the floor. With a feeling of weariness and a very painful shoulder, I got down on the bed and lay my head on the scratchy blue-striped pillow.

My one consolation was the fact that I had permission to read the book but, just on the point of sleep, a horrible thought erupted in my dozy brain. What if Mrs Barrie couldn’t remember saying I could borrow the books? After all it had been a pretty casual permit. Ma Ryan had predicted the blackbirds but not the housekeeper. Between that thought and the cold bed, I spent another miserable and sleepless night.

The next morning, on seeing Mrs Peters’ motherly face, I almost fell into her arms.

‘For heaven’s sake, what’s been going on here?’ she asked, gazing open-mouthed at all the bedclothes drying in her kitchen.

I told her the whole sorry story. Pulling up my jumper to show her the large bruise which had now spread, in a multicoloured patch, from my shoulder almost to my waist.

She pressed her lips together. ‘Right then, we’re going to tell Mrs Barrie about this.’

I was mortified. ‘Please don’t say a word. Promise me. I need this job and what if Mrs Barrie doesn’t believe me? After all her housekeeper has been here years and I’ve only been here a few days. She’ll maybe call me a troublemaker and you did say yourself that Miss Hood puts on a different face upstairs.’

She looked dubious for a moment then nodded. ‘All right but, if this happens again, then we’re telling her.’ She pointed to the still-wet washing. ‘I mean look at this. No washing is ever done in this house. Everything gets sent to the laundry in the Ferry. The man collects it every Wednesday.’

There was one small blessing I was grateful for. ‘At least we’ll both be off on the same days after this. I’ll not be left on my own with her again.’

The cook said loudly, ‘Damn right you’ll not.’

I waited all morning for my summons about the book but, by evening, I still hadn’t heard any word – either from the housekeeper or Mrs Barrie.

The cook had her own idea about it. ‘You mark my words, you’ll not hear another cheep about it because Mrs Barrie will have put her right about the book. That old witch will be left with egg all over her face and she’ll not be happy to admit that.’

She pulled a pair of rubber galoshes over her shoes and put on her hat in readiness to go home. It had been another day of heavy rain and a miniature river swept down the drive towards the road drain where it disappeared with a loud gurgling sound. A cold wind swept in the open door and sent a smattering of raindrops over the patterned linoleum. I watched Mrs Peters as she departed into the darkness, skirting round the deep puddles.

I turned round with a deep sigh and almost fell over Miss Hood. She had obviously chosen her time to summon me upstairs. I held my breath for so long that I almost choked but she just glowered at me. She was certainly a sly one.

I waited in terror but, to my immense surprise, she crossed over to the Aga where a kettle simmered gently and filled two puggy hot water bottles. Without a word, she moved out of the kitchen as silently as she had entered, stopping briefly to place a slip of paper on the kitchen table.

It was a list of tomorrow’s chores and I was dismayed to see the list grow longer with each passing day. Still I could cope with it and I hoped this silent treatment was to be in operation all the time. How wonderful if our only communication was to be through a slip of paper.

As it turned out, this was to last till Sunday lunchtime when another confrontation loomed out of the blue. I was eagerly getting ready to go home and was packing a bag of the cook’s scones into my suitcase. They were a present for my grandparents. One niggling worry was the non-appearance of my wages so I went in search of Miss Hood.

Her pale eyes opened in surprise when she saw me. ‘I would have thought a girl of your class would be out the door like a shot instead of hanging around her job.’ She sounded so sarcastic.

I was determined to be polite. ‘I’ve come for my wages, Miss Hood – my ten shillings.’

A sudden but triumphant expression flitted over her wrinkled face. ‘Your what?’

I repeated it. ‘My ten shillings.’

‘Well you’re out of luck madam. You get paid monthly here and I haven’t forgotten about the burnt bread. It had to be thrown in the bin and that costs money. I’ll be deducting that plus the beanfeast you had here on that first morning.’ She smirked and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

I couldn’t believe that anyone could get so much pleasure from cruelty but this woman could. I did a mental count of my finances which were nil and apart from having to walk all the way home to the Overgate because I didn’t have the bus fare, this all paled into insignificance against the thought of Granny’s face. She was depending on this money.

There was no way I was going to throw myself on the housekeeper’s mercy but, on the other hand, I needed my wages desperately. I was really angry with this old dragon because I had worked so hard and had done all the chores she set before me.

Her cold unblinking eyes stared at me and I realised where I had seen a look like that before – on a dead cod on the marble slab of Horatio Leslie’s fishmonger shop.

With tears pricking the back of my eyes, I picked up my suitcase and headed for the kitchen. Mrs Peters was still busy. She normally left a hot Sunday lunch for the two women plus a cold supper for later. She tossed some diced carrots into a large pot of soup on the stove. She turned brightly when I entered. ‘Well this is your first day off, young Ann, and you’ll be looking forward …’ She stopped when she saw my face. ‘Don’t tell me she’s not letting you off?’

By now, because of the sympathy, tears began to trickle down my cheeks and I brushed them away with an embarrassed hand. ‘It’s just that Miss Hood tells me that I’m on a monthly wage but I can honestly swear that Mrs Barrie mentioned ten shillings every week and there was no mention of getting it every month.’

The cook pursed her lips, an expression she constantly used every time Miss Hood’s name was mentioned. She went over to her coat which hung from a peg on the back door.

Taking her purse from her pocket, she said, ‘I can let you have five bob, Ann. I know your granny is depending on it.’ She took out two half crowns and handed them to me.

I was mortified and wished I had kept quiet. I put my hands behind my back. ‘Oh, no, Mrs Peters, you need your money as much as I do. Don’t worry, we’ll manage somehow and Granny is aye short of money so another three weeks won’t take too long to pass.’ Although the words sounded brave, I was almost on the point of despair. Lily was growing bigger every week and she now needed to be fed on something more substantial than milk. She was also growing out of her clothes and, although Granny bought most of these from a small, second-hand shop in the Westport, they still cost money.

The cook looked doubtful. ‘I wish you would take it, Ann. We’ve a few bob saved up and I hate the thought of you not having any money for three weeks. It’s a bloody disgrace, that’s what it is. After all, I get my wages every week and it’s been like that since I started here.’

I tried to smile at her. ‘It’s really good of you offering but we’ll manage somehow.’

I waited till she hung up her dishcloth and collected her coat and message bag. As we opened the back door, Miss Hood appeared with a smirk as she headed for the soup pot. No one said a word but I was secretly pleased that I managed to hold my head up high.

Outside in the yard, the cook exploded. ‘You know there’s times when I could cheerfully throttle that old besom. I bet you a tanner, Ann, that Mrs Barrie doesn’t know a thing about your wages. She seems to leave everything to her precious Lottie.’

She stopped to tie her scarf over her head. ‘You mark my words, that Miss Hood has been feathering her nest since she came here. She’s bought a wee cottage in Monifieth on the strength of living here and saving all her wages.’

‘Oh, if only she would go and live there,’ I said, with little charity.

We went down the path that skirted the front garden. Someone was sitting on the edge of the wall and I was delighted to see it was Danny. Although it was a pleasure to see him, I wasn’t unduly surprised because I had an idea he would be here – our personal telepathy again. He turned round when he heard our voices, his delightful smile washing over his face like a summer sun.