With Susie gone, things went flat. The only event worth mentioning was my promotion. One morning about a week after Susie’s departure, Madam called me into the drawing room.
‘Kate, you’ve been working here five years and on the whole I have found your work quite good.’
I took note of the ‘quite’. Madam never used expressions like excellent or very good in case we got ideas above our station. No, it was fairly good or reasonably good. The highest praise one could get out of her was ‘not bad’. If she said my work was quite good, I must have been doing well.
‘I’ve decided that you will take the place of Susie as full parlour maid and your wage will be raised to eighteen pounds a year.’
Eighteen pounds a year! Rich at last! Why, that was thirty shillings a month. I could send a bit more home and save half of it each month. My dream of getting the family together was that much nearer.
‘I have also engaged a junior girl to help you,’ Madam continued. ‘I hope you will train her in our ways.’
That afternoon, the new girl came to the back door. She was about fourteen and she reminded me of myself when I’d first come to Macclesfield. She was poorly dressed and obviously nervous as it was her first job. I did my best
to make her feel at home by introducing her to the other staff and sitting her down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.
She was originally from Greengate in Salford and had come on the recommendation of Mr Birkby at Swinton Industrial School. When she told us her name was Charlotte, Mrs Armstrong and I exchanged knowing glances. Charlotte? Another Queen! As expected, when she returned from her pep talk with Madam, not only had she had the sermon about cleanliness and not encouraging followers, she had also been given a new handle - Lottie.
In the first few weeks, Lottie had difficulty in adapting to the routine and made a few blunders. On her second day, she was ironing bed sheets and when she was told to answer the back door, forgot to remove the iron. The smell of burned cloth filled the scullery for the rest of the day. The breaking of two plates - not the best porcelain, I hasten to add - and her habit of leaving taps running we could forgive but her slip-up over the storage jars was harder to take.
At dinnertime, we sat down to enjoy Mrs Armstrong’s delicious chicken soup. She ladled out our portions and was about to join us herself when Old Ned piped up.
‘You’ll forgive me, Mrs Armstrong, if I say that this soup of yours has a distinctly funny flavour.’
‘Funny! How do you mean “funny”?’ Mrs Armstrong snapped. She was touchy about her cooking, was Mrs Armstrong.
She sampled a little on a spoon. ‘What in God’s name is that bloody awful sickening taste?’ she spluttered.
‘Tastes like sugar,’ I remarked.
Mrs Armstrong ran to the storage jars on the shelf and in particular to the one marked ‘Salt’. One look was enough.
‘Lottie, you silly girl, you’ve put sugar in the salt jar!’
‘Sorry, Mrs Armstrong,’ Lottie wept. ‘There’s so much work to do, I can’t think straight.’
That was Lottie’s baptism of fire in the Lamport- Smythe household. As the weeks went by, she fell into the routine as I’d done all those years ago. At least she didn’t have to take morning tea to Harold. I wondered if he had a batman in Aldershot and if he gave him a quick flash every morning. They’d soon be court-martialling him if he did.
The one break I had in the parlour maid’s round of household duties was provided by Miss Emma when she persuaded Madam to release me every Tuesday afternoon to help in the charity shop in the town centre. How I loved this work, for it not only got me out of the house but gave me the chance to meet other people. The things we had to sell were truly amazing; many of Emma’s rich friends were generous in their donations and there was a mountain of clothes of every description. Dresses and costumes which must have cost a fortune were up for sale at a quarter of their value. As for hats! All were of the highest quality with original costs of several guineas and they were being offered for ridiculous prices like half-a-crown or five shillings.
On my first morning at the shop, Emma saw me admiring the merchandise.
‘It’s the best quality, Kate,’ she said.
‘It certainly is, Miss Emma. We should have no difficulty selling it.’
I was like a child in a toy shop at Christmas. I couldn’t resist the temptation. Surely a few items from all that stuff would never be missed. I felt they owed me a few things because I was expected to make up the loss of my afternoon’s work in the big house. And for no extra pay. The shop involved sorting out the clothes, selling them
and entering them up in the ledger. As I was going through the various garments, one or two items took my fancy. I picked out a coat with a beautiful fur collar, a black velvet skirt and a superb silk blouse to go with it. Then I thought, may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. To complete the outfit, I helped myself to a pair of cream kid gloves with imitation pearl fasteners, a pair of drop earrings, and an evening bag.
As usual, Emma went off early, leaving me to tidy everything and to lock up. As I closed the shop for the day, I put the things in a canvas bag and took them home to the big house where I sneaked them up to my room and hid them under the bed.
I didn’t know when I’d ever wear such finery but who knows? Perhaps one day. . .
The charity shop was never short of customers and they came from all walks of life. I thought I’d found my niche working in this shop and not only in the selling line either. When I checked Miss Emma’s book-keeping, I found it had as many mistakes as a Christmas cake had currants. She may have gone to a college and a finishing school but she hadn’t had the grounding in arithmetic that I’d had in St Michael’s Elementary School under the strict teaching of Gerty Houlihan. I spent much of my time correcting Miss Emma’s errors.
I often wondered why I went to the shop only on Tuesdays because Miss Emma never failed to go on four weekdays. It was some time in September before I found out.
‘Kate,’ Emma said, ‘I’m expecting some important visitors this afternoon and I want you to take over the serving whilst I’m in the back entertaining my guests.’
The visitors turned out to be none other than Christabel Pankhurst, Annie Kenney, Teresa Billington, and Bernard
Sheridan. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him again. I must be mad, I said to myself; he belongs to a different world. They assembled round the big table in the back room and I was not left in doubt very long as to why they were there. A meeting of the WSPU. Madam would have had a fit if she’d known what was going on. She was very much against movements like this. I’d once heard her describe members as crazy wild female agitators with nothing to do with their time but cause trouble.
Emma called for tea and biscuits and as I went into the kitchen to prepare them, I was joined by Bernard.
‘Here, let me help you with those things, Kate’, he said. ‘We’re always going on about social equality and that kind of thing, it’s about time we put our principles into action.’
‘Thank you, sir. Much appreciated,’ I said, turning red. Why was it that I behaved like a stupid schoolgirl in his presence?
‘And you can cut that “sir” stuff out,’ he added, taking the tray from me.
I returned to the front of the shop to deal with any customers but I could hear distinctly what was being said in the meeting at the back.
‘The first item on the agenda is a discussion of progress and the actions we must take next,’ Christabel was saying. ‘I’ve read a report this week about the upholstery trade where women are being paid fifty per cent of what men are getting for the same work.’
‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Teresa Billington, ‘and the trade unions which are run' by men encourage this sex discrimination.’
‘It was the same in the Oldham mill where I used to work,’ said Annie Kenney. ‘There’ll be no justice till women get the vote and can have a say in the making of the laws.’
‘The first thing we have to do,’ Bernard said, ‘is to break
down this barmy notion that women are in some way inferior beings and cannot be trusted to make intelligent decisions.’
‘The root of that notion,’ said Christabel, ‘can be found in the Bible with its mistranslation of the way woman was created. The word “rib” should have been rendered “side” or “half”. The expression “Adam’s rib” is sheer nonsense! Woman was created as the other half of mankind, with distinct functions, and she is absolutely equal to the male.’
‘And from that mistranslation,’Teresa added, ‘has come the notion that in some way woman has a different mind - politicians talk of the “female mind”. What’s that about? The brain is not an organ of sex. We might as well talk of the female liver or the female kidneys.’
From the sound of things, I gathered that they had finished their tea and I went in to collect the tray and the crockery. Whilst they were having their high-falutin’ discussion, someone had to wash and dry the cups and saucers. And that someone was me.
As I collected the tea things, Christabel turned to me. ‘What about you, Kate? Won’t you join our cause?’
Not a chance, I said to myself. This rebelling lark was fine if you had an independent income but if you had to work for a living, you couldn’t afford the luxury of revolting. They didn’t seem to realise that us working-class women were too busy trying to keep body and soul together to bother with such things.
‘I’m much in favour of the cause,’ I said, being tactful, ‘but I can’t take the risk of losing my job and my livelihood. I’d be happy to sign any petition that you organise. Most domestic servants would do the same.’
‘Well said, Kate!’ Bernard said. ‘You’re right about the suffrage movement being run by middle-class women who can afford to take risks.’
Christabel now moved the debate forward. ‘I propose we attend the rally of the Liberal Party to be held next week at the Free Trade Hall. Sir Edward Grey will be there. Friday, October the thirteenth. We must make sure it’s a date the world will never forget.’
Everyone agreed and Emma, who was acting as secretary, recorded the resolution.
I went to pick up the tray but Bernard had beaten me to it.
‘Allow me, Kate,’ he said and carried it into the little scullery.
‘You made some good contributions to our discussion, Kate, and we’re grateful. It’s so refreshing to get the view of a working girl.’
He turned me round, took my face in his hands, and looked into my eyes. I melted. His hands were soft and warm and I could smell soap - Pears, I’d say at a guess.
‘You know, Kate, you are a pretty young girl. How old are you?’
‘I’m nineteen, er, Bernard.’
‘A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be doing menial work. You should be enjoying life. I can see you in a punt, lounging back with your parasol whilst some young handsome man rows you along the Thames at Kingston.’
His attention was brought back to the meeting by Christabel calling to him.
‘Bernard, we’re about to discuss the second item on the agenda - the charity work in Manchester. Emma tells us that Kate is from Ancoats and might have some suggestions.’
They told me that they were proposing to set up a charitable visit to one of the poorer districts at Christmas. The visit would include gifts for the children, parcels of food and a soup kitchen. When I suggested St Michael’s
Parish, they were all for it. I was sure Father Muldoon there would be only too happy to make the church hall available. Miss Emma promised to ask Madam to release me for the day.
The following week, James read out an account of the WSPU activities from the Manchester Guardian .The paper reported that at the meeting of the Liberal Party, Christabel and Annie had been ejected when they heckled Sir Edward Grey and demanded votes for women.
Outside, the two suffragists addressed the crowd which had gathered. The police grabbed them and they kicked and lashed out but the burly coppers were too strong for them. The two ladies, determined to go to prison, spat at them, though not too skilfully - some of our Ancoats women could have given them lessons. Anyroad, that spittle was enough. Christabel and Annie were bundled into a Black Maria and driven off.
Next day, our two militants refused to pay fines and Christabel was sentenced to seven days and Annie to three for assaulting the police. They’d got the martyrdom they’d desired and their publicity. The newspaper banner headline read: FIRST SUFFRAGETTES GO TO PRISON.
As for me, I had great sympathy for the movement and I would have loved to support them. But if I’d gone to prison as they had, that would have been the end of my job and I’d never have got another.
There was a good old Manchester drizzle in the air when we made our charity visit to St Michael’s in Ancoats before Christmas. When word got out that there was to be soup and free handouts at the church hall, a queue of women and children soon formed. They were carrying jugs of every size, colour and style. The people looked damp and bedraggled but they were a good-natured crowd and there
was a lot of laughing and joking as we ladled hot chicken broth into their receptacles. It didn’t seem that long ago that I’d been queuing up in the same way. Each child also received a present of a toy and each woman a gift of food. Whichever apostle said it was more blessed to give than to receive was surely right, for it certainly made us feel good.
Then I saw them! My own mam with her new baby and young Eddie in tow. Eddie was now a young lad of eight - a nice-looking kid though I couldn’t help noticing the holes in his jersey and his stockings. Close behind them were Aunt Sarah and Uncle Barney. Oh, I was so glad to see them after all this time. I ran forward to greet them, we hugged each other tightly and soon we were in earnest conversation, catching up on each other’s news.
‘How’s everything going?’ I asked cheerfully.
‘Time’s have been hard, Kate,’ Mam said. ‘We’ve been on short time at the factory. If it hadn’t been for that few bob you sent us each month, I don’t know what we’d have done. We came to rely on it. You’ve got on so well and we’re right proud of you. Why, you’ve even learned to talk posh.’
‘If I have, Mam, it was purely unintentional.’ I turned to Aunt Sarah. ‘And what about you, Auntie? How’s life been treating you and Uncle Barney?’
‘About as bad as it could be, Kate. Barney hasn’t worked for the last two years on account of his bad chest. Bronchitis, the doctor said it is, but I think he might have what your poor dad died of.’ She lowered her voice and looked around furtively before she said, ‘You know, consumption. It’s been a struggle to keep our heads above water, I can tell you.’
Barney confirmed Sarah’s diagnosis with a long bout of coughing.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I said. I was feeling
guilty because of the comparatively easy life I’d been leading in Macclesfield. Good food, a comfortable bed, a roof over my head and a decent wage. Hard work, but that never killed anyone. My thoughts prompted me to take out my purse and offer Aunt Sarah a few bob to tide her over. Her reaction was not what I expected.
‘Wait a minute, Kate. I hope you don’t think I’m pleading poverty and asking you for charity. What do you think I am? A bloody Gypsy woman begging for a crust?’
‘I’m sorry, Auntie. I didn’t mean to insult you. I was only trying to help.’
‘You come here to Ancoats with your flash friends handing out food parcels. Like Lady Bountiful throwing a few crumbs to the deserving poor. We’ve managed without you lot up to now and so you can bloody well get back to your leafy lanes and your stuck-up Cheshire set.’
Mam tried to defend me but there was no pacifying Aunt Sarah once her dander was up. Again, I said I was sorry if I’d offended her and I left it at that.
While Miss Emma and her ladies were busy handing out Aunt Sarah’s ‘crumbs’ to the grateful poor, I grabbed the chance to go back with Mam to have a cup of tea in her furnished room. Perhaps it was the drizzle, but the district depressed me. As we walked down George Leigh Street, I noticed anew how soot-blackened the factories and the houses were. I’d forgotten how many chimneys there were, belching their smoke into the damp air; I’d forgotten, too, about the gutters running with dirty rainwater down the middle of each poky little court.
We reached Portugal Close where Aunt Sarah lived and it was there I got the shock of my life. Mam had the front parlour and was living in the vilest conditions imaginable. Perhaps it was because of my experiences of seeing how the richer half lived but I couldn’t think how anyone, least
of all my own mother, could live with her young sons in such a filthy place. Maybe my standards had changed and maybe Aunt Sarah was right. Without realising it, I’d become la-di-da but I didn’t think so because I couldn’t remember our early home in Butler Court ever being as bad as this. In the old days, Mam used to be so houseproud. As we approached the house, I saw that the steps had not been cleaned or donkey-stoned for a long time, and as we walked down the lobby, there was a smell of sweat and unwashed bodies. The parlour itself was such a mess, it looked as if a gale had blown through it. In one corner was an unmade bed, in the other a horsehair sofa with the stuffing sticking through, and the empty grate, which hadn’t been black-leaded since heaven knows when, was surrounded by a fire guard that was draped with damp clothes. The table was covered with a stained newspaper and the slop-stone contained the pots from the morning’s breakfast. I noticed, too, the collection of empty Guinness bottles under the sink. I felt like rolling up my sleeves and getting down to it.
I couldn’t spend more than half an hour with Mam as I had to get back to the church hall to catch my ride back to Macclesfield. I took a peek at the new baby - he was a Lally all right, with Mam’s nose - but my feelings were confused because of the circumstances. I slipped Eddie a bob and Mam a ten shilling note, hoping it would be spent on something for the baby and wouldn’t go to the Guinness family fortune.
I was so upset at what I’d seen, I was more determined than ever to build a decent life for my family. I had saved twenty-two pounds during my time in service. Was it enough to rent a house and buy furniture? Should I try to bring Cissie and Danny out of Swinton and back into the family or was it best to leave them where they were? My
mind was in turmoil and I spent the following week in a daze. Unwittingly Miss Emma helped me come to a decision.
I took her morning tea into her and as usual left it on her bedside cabinet.
‘Good morning, Miss Emma,’ I said cheerily
I was about to depart when she called me back.
‘Kate, something wonderful has happened and I’ve got to tell someone. You’re going to be the first. Can you guess what it is?’
‘No, Miss Emma. I haven’t a clue,’ I said happily. I felt flattered that she had chosen me to hear her good news. Perhaps it was something to do with the suffragette movement.
‘Bernard Sheridan has asked me to marry him. And I’ve decided to accept.’
The news was like a slap in the face. My mouth went dry and I felt the bile rise in my throat.
‘I’m so glad, Miss Emma,’ I mumbled. I hoped she couldn’t detect the bitter disappointment in my voice. My heart was beating wildly. ‘I’m sure you and Bernard will be very happy.’
I left the bedroom but I couldn’t go back downstairs. The others were bound to notice the utter misery on my face. Instead I went to my room and sobbed my heart out. What a fool I’d been to think that someone like Bernard Sheridan would even take a second look at a servant girl like me. I had completely misunderstood his kindness and his courteous manners. He’d held my face in his hands and told me I was beautiful. And me like an idiot had picked up the wrong message! But enough of this weeping. I got off the bed and went to wash my face. I squared my shoulders and held my head high. Mustn’t let the others see I’d been crying. Come on, Kate Lally, I told myself.
Pull yourself together. At least the news has helped you to make up your mind.
The next day, I went in to see Madam and to hand in my notice. She was shocked that I could even think of leaving. I explained that I wanted to go home to help my own family but she was more concerned about the effect my going would have on her domestic arrangements. Why was I unhappy? Was it something that one of the family had done? Did I want higher pay or more time off? How could she possibly get a replacement, and as for Lottie, she had a lot to learn. Madam begged me to stay but my mind was made up. Eventually she accepted the situation and agreed to give me a good character, telling me that if ever I wanted to go back, there would be a place for me in Macclesfield.
At the end of January 1906 I packed my box and after a sorrowful goodbye to Old Ned, James, Lottie and, most of all, to my good friend and teacher, Mrs Armstrong, I hired a cab to the station and took the train to Manchester. Now all I needed to do was find some decent digs - and also a job.