EVIE SAT IN the armchair all Saturday night. It was her mother’s turn to sleep in bed as there were no shifts and no pitmen coming in or going out at all hours, needing to be fed and bathed. Evie had not slept but had waited for Jack, who had not come, and now it was morning. She knew Simon and Martin would look after him and when Simon had to return to the Hall someone else would take on the role. It was what people did round here. But she wanted Jack. She wanted to talk to him before her father took her in the cart, an hour before midday. They were to have ham butties on the way as a special treat; ham her mother had boiled from the pig they had bred in the allotment. Then there would still be time for Da to turn the cart around and head to Fordington for sea-coal scavenging.
It was the first time she would not be with them, feeling the cold wind beating against her, tearing at her skirt and lashing at her hessian apron which would be black by the time they turned for home. Would Jack go? She checked the time. Eight o’clock. Everyone was sleeping. Sunday mornings were like that, but even more so after Gala day.
She brought in buckets of water from the communal tap, just missing Mrs Grant who was entering her backyard with a bucket in either hand. She crept up as silently as possible into the box room, changing into her best clothes. She made herself porridge and ate it. She went into the yard again, her shawl pulled around her. The trunk lent by Miss Manton was packed with her uniforms and her crisp white aprons as well as her hessian ones. She sat on the bench her father had made from driftwood and which he had set against the brick wall opposite the pigeon loft so he could hear and watch the loves of his life.
The spring sun was full on her face and she didn’t care that it would darken her skin. The family rose, ate, busied themselves. No one came out to her. No one spoke of Jack. She sat alone, listening to the sounds of the street, watching the sparrows which fed on crumbs her mother put out every evening. ‘So the wee ones could have their breakfast,’ she would say. How long would it be until Evie was here again, really here, as part of her family? Could she ever resume her place if Jack hated her?
After the slowest morning of her life the grandfather clock struck eleven. Her mother had packed bait tins for her and her da, who was picking up Old Saul, the Galloway pony that they shared with Alec Preston, Simon’s da. He would hitch up their shared cart at the allotment and return here. He would line the cart with sacking to try to keep the trunk free of sleck. She paced the yard but Jack still didn’t come.
Her father came to the back door, a blanket over his arm to put on the cart seat to keep her skirt clean. ‘It’s time, hinny,’ he said. The sun was warm, the wind gentle. It should have been a lovely day.
Timmie came into the yard, snatching off his cap and running to her. He hugged her so tightly that he squeezed the breath from her. She held him, and laughed. He was the image of Jack and her da right down to the black hair and the cock-bird bearing, whereas she was the dead spit of her mam with the same deep chestnut curls. Their eyes were all dark brown, though. She leaned away, their eyes on a level. When had he grown so tall? He was barely thirteen. ‘I’ll be back in two weeks, bonny lad, on my afternoon off so I’ll be sea-coaling with you in the flick of a lamb’s tail.’
‘I don’t want you to go, our Evie,’ he said.
‘I’ve got to, Timmie, you know we have to save to buy Froggett’s house.’
He pulled away, kicking at the path. ‘I’ll be down the pit soon and earning more so there’s no need for you to leave.’
She sighed. Mr Davies the pit manager had long ago told all the miners that they’d lose their houses if their sons didn’t become Easton pitmen. It was this, as well as the freedom for Jack to press for better conditions, that had focused her on the future.
Her mother’s arms were tight around her next, her plump body as yielding as ever. ‘Do as Miss Manton said and look after Mrs Moore, pet. Don’t worry about Jack, the daft beggar knows he’s in the wrong. All will be well in that direction, you mark my words.’ All will be well was a family saying, but did it mean anything?
Her da was waiting on the cart. All the neighbours lined the street, waving as Old Saul clipped along the cobbles, jolting them this way and that. The conical slag heaps overlooking them were seething and fuming, the winding engines glinting in the sun, and over everything hung the smell of sulphur. She waved, smiled, but inside she was empty because the one person she was looking for had not come.
They left Jennings Street, turned into Norton Street. Her da placed his hand over hers. She kept the smile fixed on her face. ‘Where shall we have the butties, Da?’
He didn’t answer; instead he grinned and nodded towards the road ahead. It was Jack, walking in the street, his arms outstretched, flagging down the cart. He didn’t look at her but went to her father’s side. ‘I’ll take her, Da.’ It was an order. Her da glanced at her and she nodded, her throat tight because Jack was pale and grim, and his two black eyes stood out, his nose was crooked, his lip was split. This she hadn’t noticed yesterday. Perhaps it was a later fight. He had not once looked at her.
The two men changed places. Jack tossed his father a purse. ‘From the fight.’ They nodded to one another, which was as good a rapprochement as one could wish for. Her shoulders sagged with relief. He shook the reins. ‘Walk on, you daft beggar.’ Her shoulders rose again at the coldness of his tone.
They took the high road out of the village, heading north. It was tarmacked for the convenience of the Bramptons’ cars. Alongside the road, the river Tine ran thick and sleck-flecked. The journey would take an hour at Old Saul’s leisurely pace. He was a pony not inclined to action unless given a good thwack across the rump. Jack merely held the reins and stared ahead. They’d need to come out of the valley, over the hill to the next hill on which stood Easterleigh Hall. Old Saul clopped along past the row of hawthorns which ended in the Cross Trees crossroads. There were three trees, and it was the tallest spruce, the middle one, on which highwaymen and poachers were once hung. Here, Jack flicked the reins and turned left. Evie spoke now. ‘We need to stay on the road.’
Jack stared ahead. ‘Not if we go to the beck. We need to eat.’ It was where they often went. His voice was quiet and tired now. He rolled up his sleeves and they swayed and jerked with the progress of the cart, his hands moving on the reins. His knuckles were cut and swollen, his arm too. His ear was bruised. Her heart ached for him. He shouldn’t have to do this, his job was enough, for God’s sake. He had to come out of the pit, he had to. She put her hand to her cheek where his spittle had landed. He said, ‘Forgive me.’
She said, ‘Always.’
They jerked downhill, in and out of the ruts made by previous carts. Either side there were fields in which sheep grazed, fields that she and her family would de-thistle if required. Froggett always gave them first refusal because they worked so hard. It all helped the house fund. She turned. The slag heaps loomed behind them. What had been here before the pit and the village? Fields like this. Old Saul huffed, the cartwheel slid out of the rut again. She held the side of the seat, hesitated, then murmured, ‘Forgive me.’
‘Always,’ he whispered.
The beck was only ten minutes further. At the end of the lane, by the gorse bushes, he pulled up and jumped down, tying Old Saul to the fence. Evie started to clamber from her side but his voice was sharp. ‘No, wait.’ She did. He came and lifted her, slinging her over his shoulder. ‘Hey,’ she shouted.
‘Can’t have you ankle-deep in mud for the gentry, can we?’ He reached into the cart and took the wicker basket with the bait tins, and the blanket from the front seat. He carried her as easily as he would have carried a sack of coal and just as inelegantly. She started to laugh and he joined her, and it was almost like it had always been. It was only when he’d thrown the blanket down on the bank and poked it flat with his boot that he let her down. For a moment they looked at one another. ‘I’d never hurt you deliberately, bonny lad,’ she said.
‘Nor I you. I will never drink like that again. I will never treat anyone as I treated you.’ Somewhere he’d washed. Somewhere he’d had some sleep but not a lot, probably at Martin’s house. She said, ‘You’ll drink again.’
He grinned. ‘I won’t treat anyone like that.’
‘I know you won’t. We hurt you. It’s over.’
They sat side by side, his arm around her shoulder. The beck was clear and clean and trickled over the dam they had built years ago, so it was deep enough to swim. Across on the other bank willows draped their fronds into water and sparrows sang. She said, ‘Miss Manton said that she could get me into Easterleigh Hall and her old cook would teach me all she knew. I have to go there because I have promised to protect Mrs Moore, whose hands are sore with the rheumatics, for as long as possible in return for Miss Manton’s goodness. I want to go there too because I need to see you all as often as I can. I have to go there because I would have to wait for much longer to get a post like this without Miss Manton’s influence. I need to go because I want you all out of the pit, Jack. You know I want us to get a hotel. I want us to be safe. I can do it. I can cook . . .’
Jack put his hand over her mouth. ‘Enough. Enough.’ He was laughing. Then he became more serious than she had ever known him. ‘I was wrong. It’s your life. I hate you working for the Bramptons but you know I don’t hate you. I was just angry and I’ve had my punishment from Mam.’ He rubbed his ear. ‘By, she’d win any damn fist fight with one hand tied behind her back. The thing is, Evie, I want to stay in the pit. It’s what I am, a pitman. My marras are pitmen. I belong. It’s my family as much as you are.’
He removed his hand from her mouth and she tried to interrupt but he drove on. ‘What’s more, it’s my duty. Thanks to Mam and Da and Jeb I can talk the talk when I need to, to try and make sure the men have the best that they deserve and that the pit is as safe as it can be, and that we all earn what we should. There’s so much to do and I can’t, don’t, want to walk away from that but neither do I want Timmie in it, so you’re right. We have to get the house.’
He was picking at the blanket. The sparrows flew above the willows. The sky was blue and clouds skidded along in the breeze. She wanted to speak but knew he had more to say. ‘I know why Da did it and if he can change the way management behave that’s great, but I can’t see it. What’s more, he’s putting himself in danger. He’ll have to knock those damned props out of worked-out seams to be reused and as much as he tests the roof, it can come down. You know that. I know that. I don’t want him hurt. Christ, his chest’s bad enough without that worry.’
She said, ‘He knows that too so he’ll be careful or he’ll have Mam to deal with, and you know which he’d rather face.’ They were laughing, but not inside. This was all too serious, and this was also their goodbye. This was the talk they would not have again because it was a parting of the ways. She was no longer a child and their lives would be lived separately. She said just once more, ‘I want you out of the pit.’
He shook his head. ‘One day maybe but it’s funny really, we’re both in the lion’s den, now, pet. You as well as me.’
She stared at him. Yes, she was, and another idea came to her. She gripped his arm. ‘Listen Jack, I can pick up any gossip to do with the pit. I can use them in that way too.’
Jack turned from the beck and looked down at her, then nodded thoughtfully. ‘Aye, there’s that. But you just remember to be careful, bonny lass. I want nothing and no one to take your dream from you.’
They watched a kingfisher swoop down and tear along the beck towards the source. She had swum in it more times than she could count, with Jack, with Simon and with Timmie. Well, life could take away a dream, but not the past, and she started to cry and so did Jack. Against his shoulder she murmured her plans. ‘In five years I want to be in the Vermont in Newcastle, learning that side of it so I get it right for ours.’
She looked about for the kingfisher while he told her that Ireland was preparing battle lines between Protestants and Catholics, that Germany was building battleships to challenge the British world domination, and that was not all: the British workers were realising they had power, ‘By, we’ve a political party now. Can you believe it, the Independent Labour Party, and one day soon there’s going to be trouble. Hell, there could even be revolution. You must enjoy every day for itself, Evie, for who can tell what’s going to happen in the future.’
She read the papers too but wouldn’t believe the rhetoric. ‘War can’t happen, we wouldn’t be that daft, and anyway, if it does it will be between the Catholics and Protestants in Ireland, or if Germany quarrels with us it will be a fight between armies, not people. There won’t be a revolution. I don’t think enough workers are angry. My concern is that you, Da and Timmie stay safe at Auld Maud.’ She gripped his arm. ‘You continue your union work, but more importantly you must stay safe.’
Jack shrugged. ‘That’s down to luck.’
She gave up on the kingfisher and instead stared into the beck, hearing the water gurgling through the dam boulders, and murmured, ‘It’s down to listening to the roof and getting out before it falls, it’s about taking no risks. And yes, it’s about luck. So stay lucky.’ They ate everything in the bait tins.
They arrived at Easterleigh Hall in good time. The Hall had been built in the era of George III, a monarch much maligned according to Miss Manton, who said he had not really been potty but had some sort of a condition. Easterleigh Hall had been designed by a young Italian architect who ran away to Florence with the lady of the manor, which had led to the lord selling it to his cousin and upping sticks to London. That line had died out, and the Bramptons had bought it five years ago.
Whatever the young architect’s naughtiness, his sense of style was perfect, Evie had thought on the day of her interview, and thought it again as Jack drove the cart up the tradesmen’s track. It was a track hidden from the gravelled driveway by yew hedges because, presumably, the sight of it offended Lady Brampton, much as the sight of Evie’s rear would have done had she not backed out of her presence. The gravelled drive, visible through gaps in the hedge, ran alongside the huge lawn, in the centre of which grew a cedar tree. ‘It was planted by the Italian architect and you’d have thought the cuckolded husband would chop it to the ground and use it for kindling. I would have done,’ she murmured to Jack. He laughed quietly.
At the end of the track they arrived at the stable yard where lads darted from here to there paying them no mind, and then they clopped through to the cobbled kitchen yard at the rear of the big house. Simon was waiting to heave the tin trunk from the cart, which he did quickly, so that Jack, his cap pulled well down, could turn Old Saul around and head off again before anyone saw him and recognised him as the Forbes agitator. Jack leaned down and whispered, ‘If you hear anything that can be helpful to the union, tell Simon.’ Then he straightened and called loudly, ‘Goodbye, Evie Anston.’
Simon nodded towards the steps that ran down to a door she had thought was a cellar when she came for her interview. ‘You know the way, bonny lass. You’ve made up with Jack, I see.’ Evie nodded, too edgy to speak. She was here at last, and her courage failed her. It seemed her feet wouldn’t move.
To the right through the archway the stable lads were still darting, criss-crossing. One had a great sack of hay on his back, another a bridle over his shoulder which clinked over the sound of his hobnails as he strode forward. Behind her, garages edged the whole of the kitchen yard and cast shadows which just caught the tail end of Jack’s cart as it passed into the stable yard.
Simon jerked his head towards the steps again, the strain of carrying the trunk clear on his face. ‘This isn’t quite the feather that you might think. Can we get into your new place of work so I can put it down?’ He had put on a posh voice, and grinned.
She cast a last look at Jack as he disappeared along the track and followed Simon down the stone steps, opening the door for him, stepping back as he struggled into the corridor with the trunk, dropping it as soon as he could. It should be returned to Miss Manton within the week, her mother had insisted. ‘Borrowers mustn’t become keepers,’ she had said. Simon had promised he would see to it. Then it was Evie’s turn to step from the fresh air into the darkness.
There were banks of bells on the left, with room names printed beneath. The floor was of stone slabs. It was spotless. There was some sort of a cross-stitch text on the wall. Evie didn’t read texts, they were either biblical or improving, and a load of rubbish when the nobs were up there and she was down here.
The first person she saw was a girl of her own age, who wore a dark blue uniform and white pinafore and a neat little white cap. ‘Hello Simon,’ the girl called as she lounged in the kitchen doorway with a broom in her hand. ‘She’s not from here, she’s Lancashire-born,’ Simon whispered, then louder, ‘Lil, this is Evie . . . Anston.’ The hesitation had been slight and the girl noticed nothing. Simon added, ‘Evie’s come as assistant cook.’
Lil laughed. ‘That’s what she thinks, is it? Her Ladyship has decided to economise, taxes being what they are after the Liberals got in.’ Lil’s mouth was grim, her eyebrows arched in mock pity.
Evie studied her closely. ‘What do you mean?’
Lil was turning back, beckoning her into the kitchen where Evie had had her first interview just a few days ago. ‘Come on, Mrs Moore is expecting you. Hurry up. She said to keep an eye out. See you later, Simon.’ She disappeared.
Simon touched Evie’s arm. ‘It’ll be fine. Remember it’s a training and I’m not far away – in the cottage down by the lake with the other under-gardeners. One of us comes in daily with the house flowers and sometimes the vegetables. I’ll try and make it my job as often as possible. Lil’s not too bad really, and you’ll find Annie in the scullery.’
Lil reappeared and leant on her broom. Her fair hair had come adrift from her cap and framed her face. ‘Are you coming or not? You’ll have to look sharper than this with the housekeeper, Mrs Green, on the lookout. Did you meet her when you came before?’
‘For a moment.’ Evie took a step forward. Lil added, ‘And Mrs Moore is in a right glucky mood. She wants you to do the clear soup straight after tea.’
Evie hesitated. She’d only done clear soup a few times. She’d thought she’d be setting up the utensils and chopping the vegetables until she found her feet.
Simon gripped her arm. ‘It’s just a training,’ he repeated close to her ear. ‘Train, learn.’ She felt his breath, felt his hand and relaxed. Yes, of course. She was here to learn. It wasn’t for ever. He smiled at her. She loved his eyes, such a deep blue. Loved all of him, always had. He had been in Jack’s class, Jack’s gang. At least, he was after he fought them because of his red hair. After that, they stopped going on about it. What was it about red hair? What was it about the bluest eyes she had ever seen? It was everything, that was what it was.
Once in the kitchen, she felt again the awe she had experienced on the day of her interview. It was enormous, with large ranges down the left-hand side radiating warmth, and internal windows on the right looking out on to the central corridor. On the other side of the basement was the huge servants’ hall with similar windows looking on to the same corridor. Well, of course, she grimaced, what else when there was no expectation of privacy for servants?
One long deal table took up the centre of the kitchen. Pots and pans hung from hooks above it. They were copper, the kitchenmaid’s responsibility, or the scullery maid’s, but whosever it was, it wasn’t hers and she was thankful for small mercies. Small mercies made her think of Jack, and home. She fastened instead on the plates that festooned the dresser on the wall behind which was the scullery. There were cups too, pristine in their whiteness. In the cupboards which ran around the room were, she suspected, many more utensils and endless crockery, and staff cutlery. The silver, though, and the good glasses and dinner services, would be in the butler’s pantry.
She had been shown the knife cleaner and the knife sharpener in the far corner last time. The sharpener looked more like one of Old Dan’s milk churns. Over everything hung the aroma of a bubbling stockpot.
Sitting on a stool at the table, her back to the ranges, rubbing her eyes while her glasses rested on her recipe book, was Mrs Moore. Standing just inside the doorway, Evie could see the swollen joints and the pain etched on the cook’s face. ‘At last.’ It was more of a growl, and Evie didn’t blame her. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, you daft dollop. Lil, you help Evie take her trunk to her room. She’s sharing with Annie. Evie, you get into uniform, then come straight back down. You can meet the other servants at tea, which you will prepare. We’ve more to do than I thought. Her Ladyship has returned early. We must be grateful that his Lordship has not, yet. We will be cooking for three upstairs, four when his Lordship returns. Mr Auberon is back from university, it seems for good. Lady Veronica is a fixture. Her Ladyship comes and goes, but you know that, if you’ve remembered our interview.’ Her plump face was red, her eyes watery.
Lil hurried out with Evie in her wake. They each took hold of a trunk handle, Lil leading the way along the bell corridor to the back stairs. They climbed first one flight, and then the next, turning on each landing. To begin with the stairs were stone, but became wooden when they reached the first floor. Lil said nothing at all until they reached the third floor, then she muttered. ‘Annie should have done this, not me. I’m house, not kitchen.’
Evie eased her shoulders and kept going, saying nothing beyond, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you damn well should be.’
They toiled up the next flight. One of the stairs creaked. Lil was panting as she said, ‘This is the one to catch us out if we come back late. Step over it. A former head housemaid marked it when she was under-housemaid.’ She nodded towards a mark low on the wall. ‘Hope you’re good at baking. Mrs Green’s right partial to ginger cake, and Mr Harvey is too. It’s quite his favourite.’ Evie could hear the Lancashire in her voice.
As Mr Harvey was the butler he needed pleasing. Ginger it would be then, but the housekeeper usually baked the cakes for upstairs and downstairs tea, so why was it her job?
They reached the fourth floor. Lil nodded towards the door which led off the small landing. ‘Toilet and the bathroom where you empty the tin bath, and make sure you clean it and the proper bath properly afterwards.’
‘Bath?’ Evie queried.
Lil’s back bent lower to yank the trunk higher as she changed the position of her shoulders. Evie’s arms and neck burned with strain as she took the weight. ‘Tin bath, weekly, in your room. You’ll have to bring up your own water from the kitchen. Only the head housemaid and Lady Brampton’s maid can use the proper bath.’
At last they reached the final landing which had two doors and was dark as pitch, lacking even the small round windows of the lower floors. Lil dropped her end down on to the bare boards. ‘Good God Almighty, you owe me, so you do, Evie Anston, so be grateful to me.’ Then she eased past the trunk and started back down the stairs. Evie called, ‘Wait, where now?’
‘Well, what about through the door with the picture of a woman on it. The one with a man is for the lads. Are you stupid?’ She continued on down.
Evie called, ‘Then where?’ adding, ‘Snotty little madam,’ under her breath.
‘Your room’s second left.’ Lil’s voice grew faint as she clattered down at high speed but Evie could still hear her as she said, ‘It’s my rest time. I shouldn’t have had to do this, I want a smoke. You can’t have anything personal on display. We’re invisible, us lot. We’re not people, we’re things. Mrs Green will check.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Evie shouted, dragging the trunk to her room. Annie’s bed was clearly on the left. Her nightgown was folded neatly on the pillow. There were some pegs for hanging clothes and a chest of drawers to share. The bottom two were empty. There was one blanket per bed, and the mattress felt as though it was stuffed with rocks. She prodded it. ‘Bloody hell, lumpy horsehair.’ Her heart sank way past her feet.
She changed into the kitchen uniform of pale blue, pinning up her hair which had taken the opportunity to escape her bun during the journey. Well, she was here, and it was their escape, she just had to remember that. She felt Simon’s hand on her arm again and Jack’s around her shoulders, and smiled, pinning the cap, then smoothing her white apron and gathering up a hessian one, just in case. Before she went she looked out of the attic window. The sky was a swirling grey and in the distance she could see the raging surf at Fordington.
The waves would be surging and throwing up the sea coal for her family, who would head for the coast the moment Jack returned. The thought that she could see where they would be warmed her, for there was little else that would up in this freezing ice house of an attic. There was a fireplace, but it was devoid of coal. She was unsurprised. Why would Bastard Brampton waste his coal on servants?
She searched the beautiful landscape for a moment longer but there was no sign of Easton, no sign of Auld Maud and its glowing slag heaps, hidden as it was in the folds of the hill. But it was there. By, it was there all right.
She clattered down the stairs in her turn, and into the warmth of the kitchen. She brought her recipe bible with her. Mrs Moore looked up. ‘Good, you’ve had the sense to bring your recipes and I’ll be familiar with those, I daresay. Our Miss Manton’s a good teacher, I’ll say that.’ She was rubbing her eyes again and Evie hoped she’d wash her hands before she started cooking. ‘I taught her, you know. I was her mother’s cook. But that bairn, Grace Manton, taught me a thing or two as well. It seems a hundred years ago.’
Evie nodded. ‘I can imagine.’
Mrs Moore stared. ‘You can imagine I’m a hundred years old?’
Evie laughed, then saw that Mrs Moore was definitely not joining in. ‘No, I didn’t mean that, I just meant that it’s a long time to be cooking.’ She snapped her mouth shut. She was on a hiding to nothing.
Mrs Moore tapped her book. ‘I think you’ve dug a deep enough hole for yourself, don’t you?’ She peered over the top of her glasses. Evie nodded. ‘Quite deep enough, Mrs Moore. I can hardly see the sky from where I’m standing. By, I must be a pitman in disguise.’
There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs Moore laughed. ‘Away with you, pet. Perhaps we’ll get along. Now, we’ve had a change, young Evie, since you came for your interview. As you know, Charlotte the assistant cook was no better than she ought to be and had to leave, so you keep your legs together if you don’t mind, and now her Ladyship has taken it upon herself to move Edith the kitchen assistant over to second under-housemaid. So, sorry but you’re to do kitchen assistant as well. There’s your list of duties.’ She removed her spectacles and pointed with them at two pages of writing that lay next to the mixing bowl on the table, opposite the middle range. ‘Seems she feels economies must take place.’ Her face was grim. ‘Not that I would think there are many of them economies going on upstairs, thank you very much.’
Evie clutched her recipe bible tightly. Kitchen assistant as well as assistant cook? She said nothing, but walked to the list. It started with lighting the furnace at 5.30 a.m. and don’t forget the fender, plus scrubbing the kitchen floor, waking Mrs Moore with a cup of tea and also Mrs Green and Mr Harvey. It moved on to cleaning any copper pans left over from the night before – though they should not be left, if you don’t mind, Mrs Moore had added. This cleaning of the copper would be done to assist Annie. Evie was to cook the servants’ breakfast, and help Mrs Moore with the upstairs breakfasts, before doing every conceivable chore anyone could dream up and then some more. She would also prepare the vegetables for the upstairs meals and cook all the other meals for the servants.
‘I can’t do all of this and draw breath,’ she said, placing her book on the table, crossing her arms and bracing herself as she had seen Jack do so many times.
Mrs Moore looked up at her. ‘Neither can you, bonny lass, so we’ll muddle along together, you and I with young Annie in the scullery until they see sense. These gentry, you know, protect their stomachs like they protect their fortunes. We’ll just have to make a few economies of our own and they’ll come to heel.’ She winked. ‘They say we have to fade out of ourselves into them, so that we don’t exist as separate beings. Well, they can say what they like but I say pooh to them, pet. We’ll make sure that we come out all right, too right we will.’
Her thighs overhung the stool, her plump fingers were tapping the table, the nails spotless, her grey hair was tightly wound into a bun, her cap sat snugly, her stomach fought against her apron, her pale blue dress was smudged with flour, her sleeves were rolled up.
Evie felt every muscle in her body relaxing as she looked at the set of Mrs Moore’s jaw. The woman was a hero, and Evie knew she would worship at her feet and they could cross-stitch that thought and stick it where their economies took them. Had Miss Manton influenced Mrs Moore, or was it the other way round? There would be plenty of time to find out.
Mrs Moore was patting the stool next to her. ‘Sit down, pet, and tell me what cakes you’ll make for the servants’ tea and then I’ll show you round the servants’ hall which you must lay up for four o’clock. Now, don’t you go getting irate or upset when the staff come trooping in saying nothing, but looking plenty. Just remember who you are. You’re my assistant cook and without us the whole pumped-up ship would founder. So put them shoulders back and let’s do some baking. Annie is getting herbs for the dinner from the gardeners but she’ll be back for her cake, you mark my words.’
Evie smiled, knowing that though she could smell the booze on Mrs Moore’s breath it would be a privilege to protect her.
She asked where the ginger was kept. Mrs Moore heaved herself to her feet, wincing. ‘Whatever for?’
‘The cakes. Lil said . . .’
Mrs Moore shook her head. ‘Spiteful girl, that one. Mrs Green and Mr Harvey have a particular disliking for ginger.’ She nodded at Evie’s book. ‘I daresay you’ve a nice jam sponge in there. Miss Manton’s father was one of the best bakers in Newcastle and he taught her a thing or two. Her mother was long gone when I arrived, French she was, pretty little thing, but she left our Grace with a thing about others speaking another language. Probably quite right. Her brother, Edward, was always destined for the Church and wouldn’t know a good sponge cake if it came and hit him on the nose. Good sort but not of this world. Not quite sure how he manages to cross the street on his own.’
Evie was torn between amusement and intrigue. Miss Manton did not talk of such familiar things, only of the life to which women should aspire. Mrs Moore was watching her. ‘She’s a good woman. She particularly wants you to do well and that’s why she asked me to take you under my wing. She wants to do well herself. Is she still going to them women’s meetings?’
Evie was searching for flour and sugar in the earthenware containers lined up on a series of shelves at the end of the kitchen, and nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So, are you going to them meetings too?’ Mrs Moore asked.
Evie headed for the scullery to wash her hands and pretended she hadn’t heard. She didn’t know how much to trust people and bosses didn’t like their servants talking of anyone’s rights, let alone joining groups that did. Mrs Moore laughed gently as she returned, her finger tracing down her own recipe book. ‘That was answer enough. I’ll let you know the window that you can unlatch so you can get in if you’re ever likely to be late. The doors are locked at 9 p.m. There’s a creaky step that’ll alert the new head housemaid who’s a stickler for that sort of thing. Now, get on with the tea, we have just enough time. Them upstairs don’t start their dinner till eight, and downstairs have theirs at seven. I’ve a couple of nice ham and chicken pies planned for the servants which you can make. It’ll include upstairs’ lunch leavings. I need you to make the clear soup for their dinner. Can you do that?’ Her glance was keen. The glass-fronted cupboards reflected her movements.
Evie nodded. ‘Yes, of course I can, Mrs Moore.’ She felt sure now.
The cakes smelt good as the range did its job. She carried through a tray piled with the plates and cutlery into the servants’ hall. Her back argued with the weight, but though there were several people sitting around in armchairs and sofas, some reading magazines, some sewing, some snoring, no one helped. Stuffing oozed out of splits in the old sofas. Some maids sat on benches at the table, sewing their lisle stockings even though the light was bad. What could you expect if you were underground? Two footmen sprawled at the other end of the table, playing cards. No one said hello.
By four o’clock the gas lights had been lit and the staff settled themselves at the table. Upstairs was electrified, but attic and basement were not. Still no one spoke, even when Evie came in with the tray of cakes. Mr Harvey presided at the far end, Mrs Green at the other. Mrs Moore sat adjacent to Mrs Green. Lil was smiling at Evie, patting her blonde hair and adjusting her cap. Evie placed a large jam sponge in front of Mr Harvey and another down Mrs Green’s end. She placed another three along the rectangular table. She placed a small ginger cake in front of Lil. Lil looked at it, and pursed her lips.
Mrs Green poured the tea as slices of cake were passed around. Simon came in with the other five under-gardeners. The men moved up the bench to make room. That made twenty-four staff in total around the table. Simon smiled at her. She sat between Annie and Mrs Moore. Mrs Moore nudged her and smiled. No one spoke until the first bites were taken, and all the time everyone watched Mr Harvey as he savoured his. Evie almost expected him to spit it out as the wine experts did. Simon was grinning at her. Could he read her mind? She hardly breathed as Mr Harvey patted his mouth with his serviette. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘How is your ginger cake, Lil?’
All the staff laughed, except Lil. Mrs Moore patted Evie’s leg. ‘Quick, eat up now. We have a dinner to prepare.’