TEA AND JAM
The cloth spread on the tray. The milk in the jug. The cups on the saucers.
A heap of snow-white sugar cubes in the basin. Beside them, the silver tongs – designed for lifting a single cube delicately, because a lady doesn’t shovel in a heaping spoon of sugar, not like in the kitchen at home. Butter in a little dish, and scones on a plate – but not too many, because that wouldn’t be ladylike either. It feels like forever since dinnertime and looking at them makes Eveline’s mouth water.
Two silver teaspoons, side by side. Eveline takes them carefully out of the velvet-lined box they’re kept in. They’re real silver: smooth and heavy in her hands. Now, they’d be worth a bob or two, she imagines Ada whispering in her head. But Eveline doesn’t allow herself to think things like that. She’s not one of those maids who’d slip a silver spoon up her sleeve or into her apron pocket. She’s a good girl. Steady, reliable. A hard worker. The sort you can trust.
She warms the teapot, just the way the mistress likes it. It’s the new china today: white with a narrow edge of green, and a green and purple picture of an angel with wings, blowing a trumpet. The mistress bought the tea set last week at the WSPU shop on the Charing Cross Road. Eveline knows that “WSPU” stands for the Women’s Social and Political Union. Ada says they want ladies to be able to vote just like men do, though what an angel with a trumpet’s got to do with that, Eveline can’t imagine.
The tea set cost ten shillings and six, a good bit more than Eveline will get in her pay packet at the end of the week. The mistress is awfully proud of it. She can’t wait to show it off to Miss Wilcox, though Eveline thinks it’s not half as pretty as the old set with dainty pink flowers and a gilt rim. Purple and green don’t really go together, at least Eveline doesn’t think so.
She spoons strawberry jam carefully into the cut-glass dish. Funny to think this might be a jar that Ada filled at the jam factory. Ada took her there once, to show off where she works: a big, noisy place of rattling machinery, the girls crowded together, shouting out to each other or singing music-hall songs in loud voices. A world away from this quiet kitchen: it’s Cook’s half-day off, so there’s no one here but herself, the ticking of the kitchen clock, the kettle singing on the range. She wouldn’t swap it for the heat and noise of the factory, no matter what Ada says.
“You’d not catch me skivvying for anyone! I dunno how you can bear it,” Ada had declared when Eveline had first started work. “All that bowing and scraping! Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am, three bags full, ma’am. Having to keep your mouth shut all the time! It’d drive me batty.”
Ma had laughed at her. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut for a minute if you tried, Ada. You make more noise than a church bell!” She’d touched Eveline’s cheek. “But my Evvy’s a good girl. She’s got herself a good place.”
Eveline has always known she’d go into service. “Get your feet under somebody else’s table – that’s the way to do it,” Da always says. But the thing is, she always imagined she’d have her feet under a nicer table than this one, in the dingy basement kitchen of a tall grey house on a grey London street. She thought she’d work in a grand country manor, like the place Ma and Da met when they were young. In a place like that there’d be other people to talk to – scullery-maids and footmen and bootboys – not like here, where there’s no one else but cross old Cook, always complaining about her feet hurting or because the fishmonger’s sent the wrong kind of kippers again.
In a better place than this, Eveline would be a proper under-housemaid with a fluffy feather duster and a lace-trimmed apron, and long streamers on her cap, and maybe one day she’d climb up through the ranks and become a head housemaid. Here, she’s a maid-of-all-work. Some days it really does feel like all the work too, when she’s up before six to air the rooms and light the range, sweep the fireplaces and fill the coal-scuttles, brush the boots and lug the hot water upstairs – all before she’s had so much as a bite of her own breakfast. Though at least here, she’s close to home, which means that on her half-day off she can go and see Ma and Da, and Ada, and the little ones.
But when she does go home, Ada makes fun of her print dress and laughs at her cap and apron. “The badges of servitude”, she calls them. Ada turns up her nose at the idea of being anyone’s servant. “Cleaning out someone else’s drain-holes and scrubbing their floors? No thanks!” But Ada’s like that. If you say right, she’ll say left. She talks back to Ma and Da something terrible, and at school she used to cheek the teacher until Eveline was so embarrassed she wanted to hide her face behind her slate. She’d been secretly glad when Ada was thirteen and left school, and she had the classroom to herself.
Eveline loved school. She still thinks about it all the time: the neat rows of wooden desks; the smoky smell of the stove; playing skipping games in the playground. Mr Stephenson, their teacher, would pace up and down at the front, reading them the exciting bits of Oliver Twist out loud, or telling them stories from history. “Good work, Eveline,” he’d say, about a composition she’d written or a map she’d drawn. She’d been the best in the class at arithmetic and spelling, and sometimes Mr Stephenson let her borrow books to take home – Alice in Wonderland and Black Beauty or a book of fairy-tales with a blue cover. Once she started reading it was hard to stop. She’d want to keep on going all night, but Ma would say she’d ruin her eyes and insist she blew out her candle. The closest Eveline ever gets to a book now is when she dusts them in the mistress’s sitting room, where they’re kept in a cabinet, behind glass doors.
Ada, on the other hand, has never been interested in books. Not history, nor geography, nor arithmetic either. She couldn’t wait to leave school, but she’d flatly refused the place as a between-maid that Ma had gone to such trouble to find her. “I want my independence, I do. I’m going to be a factory-girl,” she’d said, and marched off with her friends to the jam factory.
There’d been an awful to-do about it, of course. Ma was upset: she said factory work wasn’t respectable, that the factory-girls were rough and wild. Da shook his head and talked gravely about the tough work and the long hours and the accidents that could happen. But Ada didn’t give a farthing for any of it. Just like always, she had to do it her own way – no matter how much trouble she gave. It’s selfish, Eveline thinks. She’d never want to upset Ma and Da like that.
The mistress’s bell shrills; it’s time for tea. Quickly, Eveline spoons the tea leaves into the pot the way she’s been taught: one for the mistress, one for the visitor and one for the pot. She pours in the water; the lid clinks into place. Then the pot goes on to the tray and she’s out of the kitchen and up the stairs, quick sticks, because once she’s rung the bell the mistress doesn’t like to be kept waiting. But Eveline is careful too: she’s still haunted by the memory of the day she took a spill on the stairs and smashed the mistress’s favourite vase. She’d cut her hand so badly it bled all over her apron and she’d had to soak it in vinegar to get the stains out. It didn’t half hurt, but worse than that, the mistress had scolded her for a full ten minutes and taken the cost of the vase out of her pay packet. She’d been short for a month until it was all paid back, and she’d been that ashamed when she’d handed her money over to Ma at the end of the week. With Da laid off sick, she knows that every penny counts.
Now Eveline tries to keep her hands steady as she carries the heavy tray, laden with teapot and cups, scones and sugar, milk and jam. As she comes into the drawing room, she knows she mustn’t bang the door or rattle the tray, because a good maid is always quiet – low-voiced, soft-footed. More like a ghost than a girl.
The room is warm, a good fire crackling in the hearth, even though it’s only September. The mistress is wearing one of her new frocks, but Eveline sees at once that she can’t hold a candle to her wealthy visitor, Miss Wilcox. If it wasn’t for the fact that maids don’t stare, Eveline wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes off Miss Wilcox’s beautiful embroidered frock, her long string of shining pearls, her wonderful hat with feathers in it.
“The National Federation of Women’s Workers really have done the most splendid work,” Miss Wilcox is saying. Her voice is rich and deep.
“Yes, splendid!” the mistress echoes back, all eagerness.
“And now nineteen Bermondsey factories have given their girls a wage increase…”
Eveline’s ears prick up. They’re talking about the Bermondsey strikes! Eveline knows all about those, of course. She’s heard about nothing else from Ada since the day the girls walked out of the jam factory.
“You should have been there, Evvy. You ought to’ve seen it! We all went out together – all shouting and singing through the streets. Not just us, but the girls from the biscuit factory and the chocolate factory and the box-makers too. Some of them had their Sunday best on – all rigged out in feather boas and fur tippets and their best hats. Some had made banners. It was like a party!”
But Ma had been furious. “A party indeed! A workers’ strike’s not just a bit of fun! What were you thinking? You’re none of you part of a proper union – you won’t get any strike pay. And they’ll likely just give you all the sack! We’re counting on you bringing in your share, Ada.”
Ada just tossed her head. “I know all that!” she said. “But we’ve got to speak up. We’re workers, not slaves. Some of the girls are only on three shillings a week and working a fourteen-hour day – that’s not right! If the men can strike, then why shouldn’t we? We’ve got to raise our voices – else nothing will ever change.”
Eveline had gone back to work feeling sick to her stomach. What would they do if Ada lost her job? It wouldn’t be easy for her to find a new one. Money was scarce enough as it was. There were the little ones to think about, and there were doctor’s bills to pay for Da.
One long week had dragged by, then another, and still the factory-girls were on strike. When Eveline trudged home for her half-day there was nothing for tea but stale bread and a scraping of dripping. Da looked grieved and Ma had begun to talk of taking in shirt-making to make a few extra shillings. Eveline was so angry that she could hardly look at Ada, who sat with her head held high, as though she’d done nothing wrong.
But at the end of three long weeks, the factory-girls got what they wanted. Ada preened as she put an extra two shillings down on the table for Ma. “See – it was worth it,” she said to Eveline. “Two shillings more a week. We got unions now. Better working conditions. If you want things to change, you’ve got to speak up. You have to fight for what you want.”
Eveline tries to imagine what would happen if she asked the mistress for two shillings more a week and has to bite her lip to keep a laugh from slipping out. Her hand wobbles and she splashes some tea on to the tray-cloth. The mistress purses up her mouth in disapproval, but she won’t say anything about it now, not in front of Miss Wilcox.
Steadying herself, Eveline sets the tray down on the little table she polished to a shine that morning. Miss Wilcox smiles at her, and for a moment she’s not sure what to do. Maids are supposed to be invisible, but she doesn’t want to be rude, so she smiles uncertainly back.
“So this is one of your housemaids?” asks Miss Wilcox.
The mistress smiles and nods. She doesn’t correct Miss Wilcox. She doesn’t explain that Eveline is not in fact “one of her housemaids”, but instead her one and only maid-of-all-work. She’s happy to let Miss Wilcox think she’s got a whole army of servants below stairs, instead of only Cook and Eveline.
“What’s your name, dear?”
“I’m Eveline, ma’am.”
“And how old are you, Eveline?”
“Thirteen, ma’am.”
“Only thirteen? Shouldn’t you still be at school?”
“Oh no, ma’am. You’re allowed to leave at thirteen, if you’ve got a place.”
“And did you want to leave school, Eveline, and come out to work? Or would you rather have stayed on?”
Eveline is foxed. She senses there’s a right answer to this question, but she’s not sure what it is. She can feel the mistress’s eyes fixed on her.
“N-not really, ma’am,” she says honestly. “I mean, I didn’t want to leave. I liked school. I like learning things. But you can’t keep going, can you, not when you could be earning a wage?”
Miss Wilcox looks at her for a moment and Eveline can’t help looking back. “You could keep on learning, you know, Eveline, even though you’re working now,” she says. “There are a number of activities we are putting on for young women just like you, to help you continue with your education. There are classes and lectures you might go to. Libraries you could join. All free of charge. I’ll leave some information about them for you.”
Libraries! It’s a magic word. Libraries are full of books, and Eveline thinks that anything would be bearable – lugging the hot-water can up the stairs in the morning, scrubbing out the chamberpots, even Cook’s worst moods – if she had a book she could read at the end of the day. The thought of it is so overwhelming that it’s all she can do to stammer out, “I’d like that very much, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
As she goes back out into the hall, she can hear the mistress saying, “It’s very good of you to take an interest in Eveline.”
“It’s important to do what we can to help these girls, to give them opportunities to learn, don’t you agree? There’s a great deal more to our work than campaigning for the vote, of course.”
“Of course. Would you care for a scone?”
Back in the kitchen, Eveline knows she ought to be working. There’s sewing she’s meant to be doing for the mistress, but her thread snarls up and she can’t fix her attention on her needle. She keeps thinking about what Miss Wilcox said. Lectures. Classes. Libraries. Books.
Before she knows it, the mistress’s bell is shrilling again and she jumps up to answer it. Upstairs in the drawing room, Miss Wilcox has gone; the room seems smaller and darker without her in it. Eveline goes to pick up the tea-tray but her mistress stops her.
“Come here for a moment, Eveline. I didn’t care for the way you spoke to Miss Wilcox this afternoon. I know she was kind enough to ask you about yourself, but the way you answered her was rather bold and insolent.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” whispers Eveline, looking down at the pattern of carpet she’d brushed that morning. She feels very small. She hadn’t meant to be rude to anyone, and certainly not Miss Wilcox.
“A maid should always be quiet and respectful, Eveline. It’s important that you remember that.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Eveline can see the printed pamphlets Miss Wilcox has left for her, lying on the polished table beside the tea-tray. The top one has a black-and-white illustration on the cover – it’s that picture again, the angel with the trumpet. She can just make out a word: she thinks it says LIBRARY. The mistress gathers them up in her hand and then turns back to her:
“You do want to be a good girl, don’t you, Eveline?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eveline says at once.
The mistress nods briskly. “Very well then, we’ll say no more about it. Now, clear away the tray.”
And with that, she quickly tosses the little stack of pamphlets into the fire.
For a moment, Eveline is frozen still. She can see the library pamphlet burning. The angel is swallowed up by orange flame and then turns to grey ash.
The mistress looks impatient. “Hurry along, Eveline.” Then, seeing that Eveline is still staring at the fire, she adds, gently enough, “I know Miss Wilcox was good enough to leave those for you, but I’m afraid she doesn’t quite understand the situation. I can hardly let you go gallivanting about London by yourself, to libraries and lecture halls, can I? It wouldn’t be proper! And all it would do is give you ideas above your station, Eveline, and what good is that going to be to you? Besides, when would you get your work done?”
Eveline stares back at her dumbly. In her head she hears Ada say: if you want things to change, you’ve got to speak up.
Eveline carries the tea-tray back down to the kitchen – still quiet but for the ticking of the clock. The plates are strewn with crumbs now, the spoons sticky with jam. There’s a smear of butter on the tray-cloth, and the teacups hold the dregs of tea.
Eveline looks at the tray and thinks for a moment about what it would feel like to throw the whole thing on to the kitchen floor. To see the white-and-green teapot smashed into pieces, tea spilling out everywhere. The sugar bowl shattered. The cups with their angels and trumpets broken to smithereens.
But Eveline would never do anything like that. Eveline’s a good girl, isn’t she? A hard worker. Steady, reliable. One of the ones you can trust.
Instead, she places the tray on the table and begins to tidy up. The butter and sugar back in the larder, the jam in the cupboard. She looks at the jam pot for a moment before she puts it away. The label is a cheerful scarlet and yellow, bearing the jaunty words: THE VERY BEST STRAWBERRY JAM. A MOST DELICIOUS PRESERVE! Its boldness makes her think of Ada. She fills the sink for the washing-up, thinking of what Ada would say if she was here now, all the rude names she’d have for the mistress. She’d probably tell Eveline to put those silver teaspoons in her pocket and walk out, right now. The mistress would have to wash her own precious china and make her own tea then, wouldn’t she? That’d show her what was what!
Ada would say she should chuck it in, and come and work at the jam factory. She always said she’d get Eveline a job there, once she got tired of that silly cap and apron. In that noisy place, no one will ever say she has to be quiet again.
But the thing is that Eveline rather likes being quiet. She always liked the hush of the schoolroom, the flicker of pages turning, the quiet squeak of a pencil on a slate. She likes the idea of a library, the important silence of all those books, brimming over with stories and ideas.
She rolls up her sleeves and puts the china into the soapy water. As she does so, she holds up the teacup, contemplating the green and purple design again. Outlined in green, the angel stands on her toes like a dancer, blowing her trumpet. Not just an angel but a herald, a sort of messenger, picked out against the purple background with the letters WSPU. For the first time Eveline notices that the angel is carrying a fluttering banner. Printed on it in tiny letters is the word FREEDOM.
She knows the library exists now; Miss Wilcox told her about it. She doesn’t need the mistress’s permission, does she? She could find it on her own.
The teacup angel is calling her onwards. You have to fight for what you want, says Ada in her head. The thought of it is like a peal of trumpets or the smash of china in the basement kitchen, even though Eveline hasn’t made a sound.