I have much to learn at first, so it is over a month before I get my first afternoon off and am able to go back into the village to visit my mother. It feels as though I’ve been away much longer, as though I can barely remember my life before I was a housemaid. I have been surprised by how quickly I’ve settled in, how easy it’s been to slip into Mrs Derbyshire’s routines, to sleep away from home, to share a bedroom. Mostly I am so tired from my long days and my duties that I am sound asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
As I walk down the hill towards the village I turn back to look at the big house that is now my home. I have grown up in the shadow of Haverford my whole life. Everyone in Cranmere has and most of us rely on it for our wages – whether we work in the house or the grounds or rent land as tenant farmers or sell our produce to Mrs Derbyshire and the kitchen staff. Cranmere is a village situated in a valley and surrounded by hills. The hill that Haverford House stands on is not the highest, but it does mean that every day, from the village, we see the grand Georgian house looking down on us. There is a metaphor in that, I think.
I earn six shillings and sixpence a week, most of which I send back to my mother. The rest I keep in my bottom drawer alongside my other treasured possessions, saving up for a rainy day. Because you never know what might happen these days, as Mrs Derbyshire is always telling us.
Something else Mrs Derbyshire is always telling us is what a small staff Haverford House has now in comparison to the old days. There are twelve of us in all and that seems like a huge crowd of people to be surrounded by every day to me, who is used to spending time only with my mother. I’ve had a hard time remembering all the names and the hierarchies, but I’m getting there. In charge of us all is Mr Prentice the butler – he’s tall and thin with a hooked nose and a permanently frazzled expression. Then there’s James the footman who is two years older than me with blonde floppy hair and absolutely no sense of a work ethic at all. Cook (whose name is Mrs Jones but we always just call her ‘Cook’) runs the kitchen along with two women who come in every day from the village to help and Lucy the scullery maid. Poor Lucy is at the very bottom of the pecking order and is small and pasty-looking. I try to make sure I say hello to her every day because she does seem to be taken for granted. Mrs Derbyshire is directly in charge of the housemaids but there are only two of us now – me and Polly who I share a room with. Polly is beautiful with green eyes and thick, wavy red hair that is always escaping from her cap. She is a housemaid too but in rank she is above me because even though we are the same age, she has been here two years already, since she was fourteen. We get along most of the time, I suppose.
That makes nine of us. Then there are three who I have yet to meet. Mr Williams, Lord Haverford’s valet; Carruthers, who is lady’s maid to His Lordship’s two daughters; and His Lordship’s new chauffeur whom nobody has met yet. All Mrs Derbyshire knows about him is that his name is Doug Andrews and he comes from Edinburgh. Mr Prentice doesn’t seem impressed by the chauffer’s Scottish heritage as he sniffs disapprovingly whenever Andrews is mentioned. But then Mr Prentice seems to sniff disapprovingly at most things.
On top of the twelve indoor staff (although Mr Prentice argues that Andrews the chauffeur should not be counted as indoor staff) there is Mr McIver, whom we all call Mac, and his assistant, Ned, who work in the grounds and have staff of their own. Ned is two years older than me and is one of the most handsome young men I’ve ever seen with his dark hair that falls in his face and his hazel eyes. When he’d said hello to me the first time, I’d felt my face burn and something inside me turn upside down. What a fool I am!
‘It might seem a large staff to you, my girl,’ Mrs Derbyshire says sadly. ‘But back in the day when Her Ladyship was still alive, there were over thirty of us working indoors alone.’
I’m surprised by that, and it must show on my face because Mrs Derbyshire tells me to stop gawping and get on with my duties. I can’t imagine there being over twice as many staff as there are now. They must have all been falling over one another in the servants’ hall.
I walk down into the village towards my mother’s house and she is standing on the doorstep waiting for me. She waves when she sees me and I run down the cobbled street, straight into her arms. I hadn’t realised just how much I’d missed her.
‘Now now,’ she says. ‘Is that any way for a housemaid at Haverford House to behave?’ Her voice is soft though and a smile plays on her lips as she looks at me. ‘You look well, girl,’ she goes on. ‘The big house is suiting you I think.’
I don’t know if the house is suiting me or not. I do know that my feet ache all the time and I’ve never been so tired. But I smile and tell her how much I’m enjoying working there because what choice do I have? I may as well try to enjoy it.
I follow my mother into our little house. It is as cosy as ever but to me it suddenly looks shabby and worn. I know that this is just in comparison to the elegance and splendour of Haverford House with its many rooms with their high ceilings, and the elaborately painted ballroom, so I say nothing to my mother and instead sit carefully in my favourite armchair while she brews the tea.
It has been just my mother and me for as long as I can remember. My father was killed on a field in France in 1915 when I was just three. I have no memory of him other than his name inscribed on the war memorial in the village. We have always managed on our own although we’ve never had much money. My mother takes in sewing and does other odd jobs around the village. Thanks to her I was able to stay at the village school until last year and I am so grateful for that. I wouldn’t have wanted to be sent to Haverford at fourteen like Polly was, even if it does mean that I’m earning a wage that is really beneath me in terms of my age. It doesn’t matter. Whatever I earn is helping my mother out and that is the reason I’m doing this at all.
Like I say, we’ve always got by, but I feel as though I need to pay her back for everything she has done for me. She sees it as a great honour that I should be a housemaid at Haverford like she was, so the least I can do is bring my wages home to her. She won’t be able to take in sewing forever.
‘So tell me all about it,’ my mother says as she sits down opposite me and starts to pour the tea. ‘How are you settling in?’
I tell her everything. I describe my room and tell her about Polly, about how she has been teaching me my duties, about how she fluctuates between being my friend and bossing me about. I tell her about how Mrs Derbyshire has helped me settle in, and about Mr Prentice and his disapproving sniff.
‘Oh Mr Prentice disapproves of everything and everybody.’ My mother laughs, sitting back in her chair. ‘It doesn’t sound as though much has changed.’
My mother worked at Haverford House for five years until 1911 when she married my father. He was apprenticed to the local butcher and delivered the meat to Haverford House. That’s how my parents met – at the kitchen door that I now pass through several times a day. I may not remember my father at all, but whenever I pass through that door I think of him, of what he might have been like, of how he must have made my mother smile. And I think of my mother when she was happy. I wish I’d known her then. I wish I’d known them both.
My mother has never really spoken about my father other than in terms of Haverford. She used to talk about Haverford all the time when I was younger – about the sweeping driveway and the ornately carved staircase, the silver cutlery and the painted ceiling in the ballroom. She would tell me what a privilege it was to work there knowing, long before I did, that one day I too would have to move up to the house to clean and look after my betters. Not that I think of them that way – I don’t think many of us younger staff do.
Things changed after the war and we know there is more out there for us, even for us girls. Factory work pays more than going into service, and many women had kept things running while the men were away fighting. We know what we are capable of. Not that I’d want Mr Prentice or Mrs Derbyshire to hear my thoughts, as Haverford is where my mother wants me to work and, if I’m honest, I want to stay near to her. For better-paying work I would have to travel to Harrogate or York. But they must realise, they must know by the diminished staff and the difficulty in getting a second footman, that things are different to how they were before the war. I’ve heard Mrs Derbyshire muttering about ‘the Servant Problem’. Besides, Haverford itself is diminished since Her Ladyship’s death. They do not need the servants they used to have.
‘Have you met His Lordship yet?’ my mother asks. ‘Or the girls?’
I shake my head, swallowing the piece of sponge cake she has made especially for me. ‘They’re in London,’ I say. ‘Along with His Lordship’s valet, the lady’s maid and a new chauffeur that nobody has met yet.’ I tell my mother about Mr Prentice’s sniffing disapproval of poor mysterious Andrews.
‘So you haven’t met Carruthers yet?’ my mother asks. ‘She used to be lady’s maid to Her Ladyship when she was alive and she looks after the girls now, I believe. You haven’t seen disapproval until you’ve met Carruthers.’ She chuckles to herself and I start to feel a little anxious about the staff I have yet to meet.
‘What about Williams?’ I ask. ‘His Lordship’s valet?’
‘Oh they’ve been together a long time. Harry Williams is the son of His Lordship’s father’s valet as far as I remember. He’s a nice chap. Quiet though, just like His Lordship.’
I put my plate back onto the table. I don’t want to talk about my work anymore, or the house, or the staff and family I have yet to meet. ‘Tell me all the village gossip,’ I say.
*
The afternoon flies by and it isn’t long before I find myself walking up the sweeping gravel driveway towards Haverford again. My mother has sent me back with a little packet of biscuits that she has made for me to share with the staff. I can still hear her voice in my ears and feel the touch of her lips on my cheek.
‘I’ll see you next week,’ she’d said as I’d left and now I trudge back to the house with a heavy heart. It feels like leaving for the first time all over again.
Approaching the house, I see a car parked outside. Someone has arrived. I hurry towards the servants’ entrance and bump into a young man with fair hair in a chauffeur’s uniform. He tips his hat at me as I continue on my way. Is this Andrews and if so why is he back? His Lordship and the girls aren’t due back for several weeks. Mrs Derbyshire has told me this many times.
As I walk through the kitchen door, the door where my parents first met all those years ago, the servants’ hall is in chaos.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask Lucy the scullery maid as she hurries past with a jar of flour.
‘They’re back,’ she replies.
‘Who’s back?’ I call after her retreating figure, as if I didn’t already know.
‘Annie, there you are.’ Mrs Derbyshire hurries towards me, the keys at her belt jingling. ‘How is your dear mother?’
‘She’s fine,’ I reply, handing my packet of biscuits over. ‘She made these for you.’
‘Yes, well, never mind about that right now, girl. It’s all hands on deck I’m afraid. I need you to go and change into your uniform.’
‘What’s happened?’ I ask as I head towards the servants’ staircase.
‘His Lordship and Lady Prunella are back,’ she replies. ‘And there’s been a terrible to-do by all accounts.’