On Monday morning, we were introduced to the school routine. At six o’clock we were awakened by the ringing of a big handbell and a voice calling, ‘Up you get, you sleepy heads. Time to start work.’
‘That’s Miss Crabtree,’ Joan told us. ‘Crabby for short. Watch out for her, she’s a slave-driver. Come on, I’ll show you what to do.’
Some of the girls had already gone to their jobs in the kitchens, the laundries, and the bakehouse, but because we were new, Joan Irving gave us jobs around the bedroom. First we cleaned the toilet and made the beds. Miss Crabtree strode into the room to inspect our work. She was a tall, thin woman with a vinegary face, pale blue eyes hidden behind large spectacles.
‘Those beds will never do,’ she said at once. ‘Did they teach you lot nothing in the workhouse? Straighten out and tuck in the sheets. Snap to it.’
Next we were told to scrub the floor. This was a job we knew something about, or so we thought. She stood over us as we got down on our knees. From old Crabby there issued a stream of grumbles.
‘Scrub a bit harder.’
‘Yes, Miss Crabtree.’
‘You!’ she said, pointing to me under a bed. ‘Go and
get some clean water - now!’
‘Yes, miss.’
When we’d finished the job to her satisfaction, she splashed a sloppy orange-coloured polish on the floor.
‘Spread that over all the floor and make sure you rub it in properly. Then polish it with these yellow dusters. I’ll be back shortly and I expect to see the floor gleaming.’ She stalked off.
We went to work until our arms ached. There was a mat at the door of the room.
‘What about this, Kate?’ Cissie asked. ‘Do we polish under the mat?’
‘Crabby said all the floor. Better do as she said.’
Ten minutes later, Crabby was back to check on us. As she came through the door, she stepped on the mat and went flying through the air, landing on her backside.
It took superhuman effort not to laugh. We froze the expressions on our faces.
I can’t remember what she said but it wasn’t nice. Not a good start.
At eight o’clock, it was time to wash and go down for breakfast. It was porridge but nothing like the workhouse stuff. This was rich, beautifully cooked, and what was more we had milk and sugar. To finish, the ‘dining-room girls’ brought round jugs of cocoa and half filled the twelve mugs at the end of the table.
At nine o’clock, it was time for school. Cissie went off to her junior class. She was worried about this but I wasn’t ’cos I was sure she would make friends in this wonderful place.
After we’d helped clear away the breakfast things, Joan Irving took us down to our classroom. Like Cissie, we were nervous about this since our experiences of school had not been good. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news,’ Joan said.
‘Give us the good first,’ I said.
‘You are both with me in Miss Morrell’s class. She takes us for English, arithmetic, and domestic training.’
‘So, we are to be Lucy’s Ladies,’ I said happily.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Lizzie said, ‘but what’s the bad?’
‘You’re both over twelve and so you have to attend classes in the evening after supper.’
‘What kinds of subjects?’ I asked.
‘I think you’ll enjoy them and so it’s not all bad news. We do things like hairdressing and dressmaking. Lucy thinks that if ever we become ladies’ maids, we’ll need to know about dressing and primping up the mistresses we work for.’
Both Lizzie and I thought that lessons in the evening were good news but Cissie’s nose was put out of joint.
‘Why can’t I go with you?’ she pouted.
’Cos you’re only eight, we told her. Besides she wasn’t a Lucy Lady.
At nine, we were seated in our places and waiting for the arrival of Miss Morrell. She came in and we got quickly to our feet.
‘Good morning, girls,’ she gushed.
‘Good morning, Miss Morrell,’ we chorused in the same tone of voice. Everyone was glad to see her - she had the effect of bringing an atmosphere of joy into the room. She told everyone to sit down.
‘We have two new girls today and I know you are going to make them feel at home. Remember how you felt yourselves when you first came here.’
‘Yes, Miss Morrell,’ th£ class said in unison and smiling broadly in our direction.
‘As I’ve told you many times before, my job here is not only to teach the basic subjects but to make young ladies of you. When you leave this school, the world will recognise
you as Lucy’s Ladies and you will be able to take a job as parlour maid or even a lady’s maid with the highest in the land. I wish to raise the status of domestic service with a new type of “Lady Servant” who will be better educated and worthy to serve the higher social classes. A Lady Servant must combine the patience of Job, the wisdom of Solomon, the wit of Sheridan, with the dignified bearing of a princess.’
She turned her attention to Vera Paxton.
‘Yesterday at dinner I saw you sniff and wipe your nose on your sleeve. Now, Vera, that was not the way a young lady should behave. What should you do if your nose is a little runny?’
‘Please, miss, use my ’andkerchief. But miss, I didn’t ’ave no ’anky.’
‘Vera, a lady is never without a clean handkerchief. Remember that. Dignity and gracefulness in all things. And do try to sound your aitches and avoid those double negatives. Say, “I didn’t have a handkerchief” if indeed that was the case, but I hope you are never without.’
‘Yes, Miss Morrell.’
After this little exchange, there followed the strangest set of speech lessons I’d ever had. Everything was connected to being a servant girl.
‘Now’, said Miss Morrell, ‘what are the six things you must never do if you are to behave as ladies?’
The class began reciting.
‘Never eat in the street. Never dye your hair. Never wear shoes that need heeling. Never pluck your eyebrows. Never shave your legs. Never point to people.’
‘Excellent, girls. If you are to take jobs as domestic servants, one day you may mix with the aristocracy and you must know how to comport yourselves. The way you speak, the way you carry yourself, the way you dress -
everything about you - will make you instantly recognisable as Lucy Morrell Ladies. Let us begin today by tackling some of the hideous speech patterns that many of you have developed. For example, many of you said “Eh?” or “Wha’?” when you really mean . . . ?’ She indicated a tall girl at the back of the class. ‘Tell us, Elsie.’
‘Please, miss,’ she answered, ‘pardon or I beg your pardon.’
‘Good. And instead of “Shift you!”?’
‘Please move,’ the same girl answered.
‘And “Scram!” ’ she said, nodding to Peggy Turner.
‘Please leave,’ Peggy replied.
‘And now we come to the glottal stop,’ Miss Morrell said. ‘Who can tell me what it is?’
‘Please, Miss Morrell,’ said Joan Irving, ‘it’s when we miss offTs and slide letters together. Like “lorra” for “lot of” or “darll” for “that’ll”.’
‘Good answer, Joan. Yesterday, I heard some boys on the farm say, “I seen a dir-ee big lurry”. What did he mean to say? Anybody?’
To my surprise, Lizzie answered. ‘He meant to say “I saw a very big lorry”.’
‘Good answer, Lizzie!’ Miss Morrell rhapsodised. ‘Let us say together ten times, “Yellow lorry. Yellow lorry”.’
We did as we were instructed and we sounded like Geisha girls learning English. There followed a half-hour reciting tongue-twisters like ‘Round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran’ and ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper’.
We finished with the tongue-twisters and switched to ‘spelling’. Ah, I thought, here’s a subject I know something about. How wrong I was!
‘One day some of you will work with lords and ladies and it’s most important that you know how to pronounce
some of the historic names you may encounter in your work. Learn them, as there will be a test on them tomorrow.’
She wrote a list of strange names on the board which we had to copy into our notebooks with the correct pronunciation in brackets.
Cholmondeley (Chumley); Marjoribanks (Marshbanks); Mainwairing (Mannering); Meux (Mews); Cockburn (Coburn); Blyth (Bly); Waldegrave (Walgrave); Strachan (Strawn); Gower (Gor);Tollemache (Tollmash); Bethune (Beeton); Glamis (Glams); Home (Hume); and Bicester (Bister).
I couldn’t imagine ever working with such high-up people but I learned the list just the same.
After the morning break, we had arithmetic, and domestic training entered even into these lessons. Instead of tables, we learned about cutting up things and what weight they would be. Miss Morrell started off by testing us on fractions.
‘I cut up a pound of meat into two parts,’ she began. ‘What fraction do I have and what weight in each part?’
‘Two halves and each weighs eight ounces,’ answered Joan.
‘I cut again. Now what do I have?’
‘Quarters and each weighs four ounces,’ replied Elsie.
‘And again I cut - what then?’
‘Eighths and each weighs two ounces,’ said Lizzie.
‘And again - what do I have now?’
‘Mincemeat, miss,’ I answered which made everyone laugh, including Miss Morrell.
The lessons that morning ended when each one of us had to go out to the front and, holding the edges of our dress, curtsy and say, ‘Good morning, madam’ or ‘Thank you, madam’ while Miss Morrell corrected our posture
with comments like, ‘Hold your head up, girl’ and ‘Keep your back straight, Peggy’.
The afternoons were devoted to practical aspects of domestic service and home maintenance. We learned how to paint and decorate as preparation for the time when we might have our own homes, though that day seemed a long way off. We got to know about other useful parts of the domestic servant’s job like cooking, baking, laundry work, cleaning, ironing, black-leading, fire-making, needlework, crochet, and darning. In this last subject, I came top of the class and won a prize of a Bible which was presented to me by the Lady Mayoress of Manchester when she visited us the week before Christmas. As the term went on, I learned a lot from Lucy Morrell and I longed to be one of her ladies and to have grace, dignity and charm.
But we learned more than domestic servant things. Miss Morrell showed me a whole world of literature with books like Susan Coolidge’s What Katy Did , Anne Sewell’s Black Beauty and Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and his quaint creatures like the ‘Dong with the luminous nose’ who ‘lost his jumbly girl’. But my favourite work was a poem called ‘I Remember, I Remember’ by Thomas Hood:
I remember, I remember ,
The house where I was born ,
The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn;
(He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!’)
On Saturdays, we had a break from the classroom. In the mornings, we three Lally girls attended to our garden. We
planted all kinds of bulbs and seeds for flowers and vegetables. We could hardly wait to see the results but for that we had to wait until spring.
In the afternoon, we were allowed to walk to the nearby Moorfield Park. There was a large area of flagstones where we played all kinds of games. For skipping, we tied a long rope to a tree and one of the girls turned it so that anyone who wanted to could skip in. Sometimes there were five or six skipping together and singing to rhymes, ‘I like coffee, I like tea, I like sitting on a black man’s knee’ or ‘Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick’.
Sometimes we played our old game, hopscotch chalked on the flags, using an old tin as the marker. We three were good at this ’cos we’d had such a lot of practice in those far-off days in Butler Court.
We played hide and seek ’cos in the park there were hundreds of bushes and trees to hide behind. The girls from our bedroom got up a game of rounders and there was tremendous fun and excitement as we hit our homemade ball with our homemade bat. I felt as if I was recapturing the childhood I’d lost in Ancoats about the time my dad had died.
The only cloud on the horizon, the only thing that spoiled our afternoon, was a bunch of snooty nannies who sat on the park benches supervising their snooty kids. I hit the ball near to them and Vera Paxton had to go and get it. One of the posh kids picked it up and was about to throw it to Vera.
‘Come away from those charity children, Matilda,’ a nanny called. ‘You don’t know what you might pick up from them.’
I wish you could have seen Vera’s face. Serves her right, I thought. She’s getting a taste of her own medicine.
I overheard one of the nurses say to the other, ‘Those wretched pauper children, you know, have all kinds of diseases and nits in their hair.’ But the parks were public and they couldn’t stop us going there.
For the first few Saturdays, Mam came to visit with Eddie and it was wonderful to see them. It was always a tearful reunion. Mam had settled into her job at the bagging factory with Aunt Sarah, and Eddie was now a toddler. And beginning to look like a regular human being instead of a puking baby. After a few months, we no longer clung to each other as desperately as we had in the workhouse. Even Cissie had grown up since those days. Same with Danny. They’d both found new friends in Swinton, and they’d both become that little bit independent. It was all right for us having visits from Mam but we felt for our friend Lizzie for she had no one.
After those first few visits when Mam knew we were all right, she stopped coming regularly. ‘It’s a long way to come, Kate, all the way from Ancoats,’ she said. ‘And I’m not sure we can afford it every week. The fares cost as much as our rent ’cos we have to catch three trams followed by a three-mile walk from Irlams o’Th’Height.’
‘I understand. Mam,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’re settled here at Swinton.’
Despite saying this, at the back of my mind I still had that vision of getting the family together again. We were separated for the time being, but Swinton had given me new hope and prospects. I* could see that my dream was not entirely beyond possibility. Many girls left the school for good jobs in domestic service and were able to save money. One day it would be my turn.
At Christmas, the school organised the most wonderful party. After a great Christmas dinner of turkey, roast
potatoes, and plum duff, Mr Maguire disguised as Santa Claus and carrying a large sack ho-hoed his way into the hall. On the Christmas tree, there was a present for every child. Lizzie got a nurse’s uniform outfit, Cissie a big doll which said Mama when turned over, and I got a copy of Silas Marner by George Eliot. If the day of my eleventh birthday had been my happiest day, this was my second.
A week later, the master of Swinton, Mr Birkby, called the senior girls and boys into the hall. It was New Year’s Day 1900.
‘My dear children, this is a special day indeed,’ he told us. ‘Today marks the start of a new century and we should be proud to be British and citizens of the greatest empire the world has ever known. It is an empire on which the sun never sets, an empire which stretches round the globe, has one heart, one head, one policy. And how blessed we are to have the greatest Queen the world has ever seen. At present we are at war and in December we had many setbacks but no one is in any doubt that the fight with those stubborn Dutch peasants who are revolting against Her Majesty Queen Victoria will soon end in victory. General Roberts has gone over there with his army and the relief of Ladysmith is only days away.
‘But let us forget the war for a moment. The air is full of promise and we are on the brink of a new, exciting age, with new medical discoveries by Lord Lister and Ronald Ross; we have the telephone, the wireless of Signor Marconi, the motor car and, who knows, one day the motor bus may replace the horse and carriage; we have airships which may fly across seas and oceans; we have the camera and even the possibility of moving pictures. And if we are to believe the writer H.G. Wells, at some time in the future we may have the first men on the moon, though I
find that hard to believe. But take it from me, boys and girls, strange things are coming.’
And so Mr Birkby continued. We listened to him fascinated but no one believed a word he said. Airships flying across the oceans indeed! From what we’d heard, the German Zeppelins hadn’t even got off the ground for more than a few seconds. And as for them carrying people over the seas - ridiculous. I wouldn’t have fancied a ride in one of them. What if the balloon popped!
After Mr Birkby we were given a magic lantern talk on the relief of Mafeking by a councillor from Salford. There was a terrible smell of paraffin from the oil lamp projector. He gave us a blow by blow description of the war. We understood why it had been called the Boer War. The lads in the audience seemed to enjoy it though. The councillor told us how the country had gone mad about it. There were Boer War jigsaw puzzles, Boer War chocolate boxes, and some babies had even been named after the victories. How many kids had been named Mafeking? we wondered. But talk about relief! We were the ones who were relieved when he’d finished going on about it. Luckily, when he had no more to say about the war, he showed us colour slides illustrating the story of Cinderella. How I wished I had a magic lantern to tell my stories in the bedroom.
It’s said that when you’re happy, time flies by like an arrow, but when you’re miserable, time drags like a millstone. That explains why our time in the workhouse seemed like for ever while our stay at Swinton simply shot by. Before we knew where we were, it was September and my time there had come to an end. Danny was twelve and doing well as a junior bandsman in the army cadets, Cissie was nine and happily settled at Swinton with lots of friends,
Lizzie had gone thirteen and a half, and I was over fourteen and of school-leaving age.
Most of the girls in our set were looking for jobs. Peggy Turner, who’d also turned fourteen, was the first to start the ball rolling by attending a hiring fair in Preston, her home town. That night in the dormitory, she gave an account of how she’d got a six-month contract as maidservant with a rich farmer. We lay there spellbound and also horror-struck.
‘The men and boys went to one side of the square and the women and girls to the other. The bosses - you can tell who they are by their glossy leggings - walked around you, looking you up and down. “Are you for hire?” they barked. If you said yes, they fired a lot of questions at you.’
‘What sort of questions?’ I asked.
‘Can you cook? Can you bake? Can you wash? Can you sew? If you said you could, they demanded, “What are you asking?” I asked for six pounds. “Six pounds!” the boss shouted. “We don’t even pay a lad that for six months. Will you take four?” I said no and in the end we settled on five. When it was agreed, he lifted up his hand, spat on it, slapped my hand and gave me a shilling.’
‘What’s that for?’ a fascinated Joan Irving asked.
‘That sealed the bargain and I was tied. It’s a legal contract and I couldn’t change my mind even if someone offered me more money.’
‘I don’t think I’d fancy it,’ Lizzie said. ‘It sounds like slavery.’
‘I didn’t have any choice,’ Peggy replied. ‘My mother can’t afford to keep me at home and at least this job gives me a little wage and free board and lodging.’
Peggy’s story had us worried and we lay there wondering about our own fate.
★ ★ ★
At the end of September, Mr Birkby called Lizzie and me to his office. He told us to sit down while he consulted his files. At last, he looked up, smiled and said, ‘Miss Morrell has nothing but praise for you two - she describes you as her star pupils. You’re under our overall care until you’re eighteen but now you’ve both reached the age when you must leave us and go out into the world to seek employment. I am in no doubt that you will soon find positions with respectable families but we here at Swinton will be sad to see you go. As you’re both Catholics, I’m arranging for you to visit the Sisters of Charity who will be able to help you find suitable jobs.’
A fortnight later, Lizzie and I took the tram from Irlams o’Th’Height to Salford Cathedral. We stood in front of the big door of the nunnery and wondered how to get attention since there was no knocker. We noticed a long chain with a handle like the one on a new water closet back at school. We wondered if we pulled whether it would flush a lavatory somewhere inside the bowels of the building. We took a chance and were relieved to hear the sound of a bell somewhere within. The great door was opened by an old withered nun and when we announced our names, she ushered us into the front parlour where there were thousands of leatherbound books, all religious, which went right up to the ceiling: The Life of the Little Flower , Lives of the Saints by Butler, Summa Theologica by Thomas Aquinas.
‘Reverend Mother Victorine is expecting you. She’ll be with you shortly,’ the nun croaked and ambled off.
The Reverend Mother t;urned out to be a tall, stately woman with a massive headdress which looked as if a
yacht in full sail had somehow landed on her head.
\
‘Mr Birkby speaks highly of you,’ she said, ‘and I am going to try and place you with good Catholic families. To give you some idea of how the land lies, as it were, I have
brought copies of the Servants’ Magazine for you to study. Look at the Wanted ads at the back and you will see the kinds of jobs that are available, the conditions of service, and how much they usually pay. We shall proceed from there once we know the kind of job that interests you. I should tell you that trained girls, especially from Swinton, are much in demand.’ Promising to return within half an hour, Mother Superior left us with the journals.
Eagerly we scanned the magazine - our first glimpse of the world which awaited us.
‘Oh, Lizzie,’ I said, ‘there are lots and lots of jobs. Look at these.’We read the first vacancies we came to.
SITUATIONS VACANT
A GENERAL MAID FOR A BUSINESS LADY, LIVE WITH FAMILY,
9 SHILLINGS A WEEK. GlRL (15), WOULD BE TRAINED, 4 shillings. Protestants only. Withington area.
Kitchen maid (14), local not Salford. 2 shillings a week. Methodists only. Wilmslow Road, Didsbury.
General maid, immediately to sleep in, Protestant,
FOND OF CHILDREN. 9 SHILLINGS. 3 IN FAMILY.
Scullery maid. Strong girl. Wages 7s. 6d per week. Chorlton on Medlock.
Wanted in a quiet, small family a respectable
YOUNG WOMAN AS HOUSEMAID WHO WILL BE WILLING TO ASSIST THE MISTRESS OCCASIONALLY IN THE MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN. WAGES £12 PER YEAR. NO
IRISH NEED APPLY.’
‘I can’t see many chances here,’ Lizzie said. ‘And what about when it says “No Irish Need Apply”? Do we count as Irish?’
‘We’re not Irish,’ I said, ‘but with names like Brennan and Lally, they’ll take it that we are.’
We continued to read. The only possibility was for a ‘young girl to help a lady in Didsbury with her dogs. Catholic’ - the lady presumably, not the dogs.
‘It’s no use,’ Lizzie said when she’d read through all the vacancies. ‘I can’t see any place where I’d like to work.’ Then she saw an article about jobs abroad.
‘ “Australia,” ’ she read, ‘ “offers the young woman of the working class high wages, a splendid climate, and greater liberty than she could enjoy at home, either in service or in a workshop, and these high wages can be earned without further qualification other than strong health, strong arms, a willing mind and good character.” Look,’ Lizzie said, ‘here’s a letter from a servant girl writing home to her brother from Port Adelaide, South Australia: “I have accepted a situation at £36 per year so you can tell the servants in your neighbourhood not to stay in England for such wages as £8 a year, but come here.” I think I like the idea of a job abroad,’ Lizzie said enthusiastically.
I was amazed to hear this as Lizzie was so quiet and shy. I couldn’t imagine her wanting to go to Australia.
‘Why, Lizzie?’ I asked.
‘Now I’ve lost both parents, I fancy making a fresh start
with a new life in a new country.’
\ *
‘But think of the journey to Australia,’ I said. ‘It takes three or four months and there are storms and terrible hardships to put up with. Even when you get there, you may find yourself living in a rough wooden shack.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
The Reverend Mother returned to ask if we’d seen anything to our liking.
‘Not really, Mother,’ I answered, ‘but Lizzie was wondering about jobs abroad, in Australia for example.’
The nun looked at us for a long time then slowly said, ‘From time to time we do get requests from abroad but I wouldn’t recommend Australia, we’ve had a few bad reports about conditions being rough and ready there. If you’re serious, though, we may be able to place you both with a wealthy American family. The O’Hagans are good Catholics and they’re over here seeking two young English nannies. If you like, I can arrange an interview for you early next week.’
‘Oh yes, please, Mother,’ Lizzie answered. ‘It sounds like the answer to our prayers.’
For her maybe but I wasn’t too sure about leaving England and my family.
The following week, we returned to the convent to meet the O’Hagans. Mother Victorine made the introductions.
Mr and Mrs Elmer O’Hagan were a good-looking, middle-aged couple and, judging from their dress, wealthy.
‘MotherVictorine has told us your story,’ Mrs O’Hagan began. ‘You have the highest references and it seems to Elmer and me that you are the ideal pair for our nursery back at Long Island.’
‘Thank you, madam,’ Lizzie and I answered.
‘What cute English accents,’ Elmer exclaimed. ‘That’s another thing that recommends you - your English speech. We’d love our two kids Zoe and Dorothy to pick up that accent. It’s kinda refined.’
Refined! Us? I laughed to myself. We’d soon get their kids to stop saying ‘gee whiz’. Instead we’d have them saying ‘eeh-bah-gum’ and ‘get sat down and shurrup’.
The O’Hagans went on to describe the job, their home in Locust Valley, the working conditions, the pay of 96 dollars which at four dollars to the pound amounted to £24 a year - £2 a month. A salary beyond our wildest dreams! The O’Hagans sounded like a gentle, kind couple who would care for us.The perfect job! They gave us a few days to think it over and if we decided to take it, they would arrange for us to travel with them by ocean liner.
When we returned to Swinton, everyone around us told us we must, must take it. It was being presented to us on a silver platter and we’d be idiots to turn it down. Lucy Morrell joined the chorus of approval and at night in the dormitory there was nothing but talk of the marvellous chance fate had put in our laps. Joan Irving, who had landed a job with a well-to-do stockbroker family in Macclesfield, urged us to say yes. She’d be only too willing to take our place if we decided not to go.
Lizzie had no difficulty in deciding. She was going.
But I went through the dark night of the soul. Going to America would mean leaving my family. What about Mam, Cissie, Danny, Eddie? Deep down a voice reminded me. What about your dream of making a home for them like it was in Butler Court before Dad died? After several sleepless nights, I made up my mind. I wasn’t going. I couldn’t. My family in England needed me.
It all happened so quickly. A week later, my dear friend and cousin Lizzie packed up her belongings and joined the O’Hagans aboard the Cunard liner. We promised to write every week but somehow it didn’t seem the same. Joan Irving took my job. After they’d gone, life seemed sad and empty. The only thing for it was to apply for that job with the Catholic dogs in Didsbury.
Mr and Mrs Pratt lived with their animals in a house called ‘The Laurels’ which was at the bottom end of
Lapwing Lane. To reach it I had to take three trams followed by a long walk. It was a big house and I was scared out of my wits as I rang the bell. The door was opened by the housekeeper, a large woman in a blue uniform. I was put off immediately by the cold reception.
‘You must be the new maid,’ she said, looking down her nose to inspect me. ‘The first thing you must learn is never to come by the front door.That’s for important people. You must use the tradesman’s entrance round the side.’
She took me down into the kitchen where the rest of the staff was waiting and she announced in a loud voice, ‘Here’s the charity kid.’
They looked at me as if I was a cockroach.
That’s enough, I thought. I can’t work here. I didn’t say anything, however, and ‘Cheerful Charlotte’ took me upstairs to meet the mistress and her husband. She was an obese woman and she was lounging on a sofa with a fat, overfed poodle on her ample belly and two more at her feet. Mr Pratt sat opposite. I thought she must have smeared fish paste or something on her feet because the two dogs were licking her toes.
‘Do you like reading?’ she asked
‘Oh, yes, madam.’
‘In that case I’m not sure you’ll suit. I find that maids who read are easily distracted from the job. Our last maid forgot to feed and groom my little darlings.’
I could hardly wait to get out of that dreadful house. As I left, one of the scullery maids had a quiet word with me.
‘You may as well take a job with Old Nick as come here. They’ve had four girls in five weeks. You’d be best to steer clear. I’m going to hand in my notice at the end of the week.’
With a great sense of relief, I caught the tram back to Swinton. I was feeling lost. No job, no friends. Then I had
a stroke of luck. About time, I thought. The job in Macclesfield - the one that Joan Irving had decided not to take - was still vacant. The family wasn’t Catholic but who cared? Mr Birkby arranged an interview for me.
My life was about to take another turn.