CHAPTER 6

In the Kitchen

 

MERTY OPENED ANOTHER door in another cream wall. “Home. In you come.”

Inside, the three of them passed quickly through a scullery. Irvana had an impression of gleaming crockery above enormous sinks and then found herself in a large kitchen. How different it was to the open fire in the middle of the floor in the driftwood shack which she’d been used to. Here, pots bubbled on a series of charcoal burners and an empty spit hung motionless in a fireplace big enough for a man to stand in. Servants, dressed in navy and white, were busily chopping or stirring or kneading at the workbenches.

Merty took charge immediately. “Tiffan!” she barked. “Smoked fish pie for supper!”

A youth with orange hair and freckles snatched the parcel of fish from Irvana and threw it onto an empty bench.

“Janil! Meet Alexia, our new pastry cook. She’ll be sharing a room with you. Take her things along, sort her out a uniform, and show her where her station is because I’d like a tart of bitter apples tonight and it’ll give her a chance to live up to my expectations. Rosann, here!”

The girl who answered Merty’s summons was dreadfully untidy. Her apron dragged on the floor, her mousy brown hair was escaping from under a grubby white cap, and her hands were red, rough, and deeply ingrained with mud.

Merty pointed at Irvana. “This is Irvana. She’ll share with you and help prepare the vegetables.”

Rosann grinned at Irvana and motioned her to follow, wiping her hands on her apron as she led the way to a long corridor beyond the kitchen.

“I’d offer to ’elp carry your things, but I’m afraid I’d dirty ’em,” Rosann told Irvana cheerfully. “It’s the veg, see? Sometimes I ’ave to dig them up too, so I’ve never got clean ’ands. Merty reckons I’ve always got ’alf a pound of dirt under me nails.” She opened a door.

Irvana followed her into a small room where two narrow beds had been crammed. Between them was a minuscule table where a pitcher sat in a chipped bowl, a mirror propped behind it. A curtain hung at the window, a battered chest of drawers occupying the space beneath. The sheets and blanket on one of the beds lay in an untidy heap, as though someone had jumped out of it in a hurry; there were none on the bare mattress of the other.

“That one’ll be yours.” Rosann pointed at the empty mattress. “I’ve not ’ad anyone to share with yet, an’ I’ve bin here a year. There’s a drawer to put your things in. Why don’t you do that, an’ I’ll find you some sheets an’ a uniform. Back in a minute.” She grinned and shot out of the door.

Irvana sank onto the bare bed, hardly noticing the lumps in the mattress. A single tear leaked from the corner of her eye and she dashed it away angrily. What did she have to cry about? Gramma would have told her to be grateful—she had a roof over her head and a job. What more could she need? 

“To know who my parents really were,” she whispered.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and gasped. The rock pools back at the shack had never shown her face so clearly. She leaned closer. Was there anything of her parents in how she looked? Her mouth was wide, her nose turned up a little at the end, and she had a slight dimple in her chin. Her eyes were pale blue or grey it seemed, depending on how the light fell. They gazed out from under bold eyebrows and were framed by long, dark lashes. Her hair was dark, untidy, and there were smudges of dirt on her cheeks.

“You have to be strong, repay kindness with hard work,” Irvana told the girl in the mirror. With a sigh, she tucked the worst of the stray ends behind her ears and wiped her face clean before stowing her belongings in the empty drawer.

When Rosann returned, they made the bed together. Then Irvana donned her uniform, feeling self-conscious in the unfamiliar navy skirt and mop cap. She followed Rosann back to the warmth and busyness of the kitchen and stopped at the door, suddenly reluctant to step through it. She didn’t know what to do. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what was expected of them. Even Alexia was hard at work, already rolling out pastry on a marble slab.

“Irvana, over ’ere!”

Rosann was beckoning from an archway on the other side of the room and Irvana hurried over to her. Through the arch was a small room with a split door, its top half open onto what looked like the courtyard she’d crossed just a short while ago. The room itself was filled with baskets of assorted vegetables, and squashed right in the middle of them all were two three-legged stools.

“I got Tiffan to find one for you,” Rosann said. “You sit ’ere, and I’ll get what’s left to be done tonight, ready for cookin’ tomorrow. Just ’tatoes. Last, cos they’re dirtiest . . . ’ere’s the water in the buckets, see?”

Rosann set Irvana up with a knife and bucket and they began to work on a small mountain of muddy tubers. By the time they reached the bottom of the first basket, Irvana was sick of the sight of potatoes. She peeled until her hands were so stiff and cold from the water, she could no longer hold the knife safely. Rosann took pity on her and insisted on finishing the rest alone while Irvana massaged some life back into her numb fingers.

“You’ll get used to it,” Rosann assured her. “I’ve got some goose grease I use at night. You can ’ave some if you like. It don’t smell too good, but it ’elps keep the skin from splitting.”

Irvana looked down at her hands. Already, her fingers were stained and several of her nails had broken.

A bell sounded, loud and echoing. Irvana almost fell off her stool.

Rosann jerked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “That means supper’s ready, and I’m ’ungry enough to eat an ’orse. Come on.”

Supper was served in a large, airy room, where a spotless table groaned under the weight of steaming tureens and a golden-crusted pie. Straight-backed wooden chairs were set around the table and Rosann gestured towards two empty seats at the end, furthest away from a chair filled with cushions.

“We all ’as our places according to what we do,” Rosann whispered. “We sit at the bottom of the table, cos there’s no dirtier jobs than ours in the kitchen. Don’t sit down ’til cook does.”

Merty’s glance ran all the way round the table before she lowered herself with a sigh onto her comfortable cushions. She gave a nod and chairs scraped on the stone floor in the rush to be seated. Eager hands lifted lids from dishes and the air was filled with the mouth-watering odour of fish and vegetables.

Irvana was ravenous and piled her plate high. As she ate, Rosann explained who everybody was and their roles within the kitchen.

“The man next to Merty, ’im with the face that looks like ’e’s sucking lemons, that’s Graym. ’E’s in charge of the wine cellars. Next to ’im is Brin, the storeman.Opposite is Sofy; she bakes the bread of a morning. Janil, sitting next to ’er, is cook’s number two. Does the fancy stuff, like rosewater jelly and syrup sponges. Over from ’er is the new lass, pastry cook I think they wanted, not sure what she’s called—”

“Alexia,” Irvana interrupted. “I don’t think she liked me very much.”

Rosann continued between mouthfuls. “Then there’s Tiffan, ’e’s good with fish. Next door you’ve got Lyle, the spitboy. Best job in the world come winter, but terrible ’ot work in the summer, and sitting by me is Perl, whose ’ands are as red as mine though never as dirty, cos she does the washing up. After that, there’s you and me. Each in their place, with their own job, though the others get to muck in where they’re needed as often as not. It’s not a bad life and there’s always the chance to move off the veg to proper cooking.”

Perl snorted. “You! Move to proper cooking Rosann? That’ll be the day. You’ll be grubbing in the dirt for years.”

Rosann’s chin dropped to hide the colour spreading over her face.

Irvana found Rosann’s hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. “Well, we’ll be grubbing together, won’t we Rosann?” she said, her voice carrying down the length of the table. Heads turned to look at the newcomer and she felt a sudden rush of bravery. “I don’t mind what I’m doing, as long as I’ve a friend to do it with.”

Rosann smiled gratefully at Irvana as sniggers rippled down the table.

Perl raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “It’s what you can cook that counts here, veg girl, not whether you’ve got friends.”

That night, her first in the palace, Irvana lay wide-eyed in the darkness. Her hands had thankfully been soothed by the goose grease, which Rosann had made her rub into each finger. It was not their soreness which kept her from sleep; it was her mind, working overtime. So much had happened in the last two days. Just two days! It felt like years. The life she’d known and the one she’d hoped for had been ripped away by death and lies.

“Oh, Gramma!”

With a little moan, Irvana pushed her face into the pillow to muffle her sobs. Eventually she fell asleep, her cheeks wet with tears.