35

Vera Scaldwell

Greenway, at the back door

Vera thought they’d need one of those open-topped charabancs used with tourists at the seaside to take the children, nurses, Arbuthnots, all, to the beach. The mistress’s car was hardly large enough, and Hannaford shouldn’t offer it in any case. He had it out for a wash, Frank said. A wash, she said. Why not wait for a warmer day? You’ll see, he said. The mistress’s bath could do with a freshen, he said.

Could it now? Vera carried the bucket and mop upstairs, closed the door, and pressed her back to it. Sad state of affairs that to find a moment’s peace, one had to find it in the bathroom with a bucket.

She could have Edith do the scrubbing, but she didn’t mind the work and Mrs. M. was particular about her bath. As she was allowed to be, heavens. A woman was allowed to be particular. Vera put her back into it.

A woman who earned her right, that is.

Mrs. Arbuthnot, now that one played at houses, didn’t she? Playing the madam, but no management of those nurses, coming home all hours. A lot of high feelings, all in one place, and no one to call it off. It was all heading for a tumble, Vera was sure of it, but what shape would it take?

She sloshed the mop back into the bucket, then pulled it out and wrung it, gray water running over her hands. Later her hands would be red knuckled, the skin sore, cracked.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the sink. She wouldn’t allow a woman looking such as herself in the door, for fear she’d nick the silver. Vera let the mop lean against the wall and centered herself at the mirror, turning her chin one way and the other.

Vera Scaldwell prided herself on being the woman no one had to wonder about. But did they not wonder about her, or did they not think of her at all?

Mrs. M. relied on her, though, and she was satisfied. Frank—well, Frank relied on her, too. It was enough, most days.

In the mirror, Vera saw the ledge over the bath that Mrs. M. had ordered Mr. Bell, the architect, to install.

“For apples, God love her.”

She liked apples, too, and they weren’t a luxury here, the way they were in other places, not yet. The trees in the gardens would turn out plenty soon enough. If she could keep the villain pinching their preserves from ripping the trees, roots and all, from the ground under their feet, the orchards would see them through. The orchard, the peach house. The kitchen garden like the one her mum once had.

Vera sat on the edge of the bath, and an old memory came to her. Her mum had put something from the garden into the water for their bath, Saturday nights. And then put a new kettle to warm the water for her own wash at the end, the air steaming and petal-soft as she poured. “Go on, Verie.” Gentle nudge out of the room. As a little one, she had hated being left outside the door.

She should have more patience for those small ones upstairs. She knew she should. Children shouldn’t be separated from their own, not in times like these. It showed the cracks of the world, letting it happen.

Frank’s mum had died when he was a tot, his da put in the workhouse and the children sent on, Frank and his older brother to a boys’ home. On Sheepwash Road in Sussex, she couldn’t forget that. He never spoke of it, but she was sure he looked on the children billeted here with more kindness because of it. Her own family had suffered a bout of the cholera and the workhouse as a result, and the shame of it lived in her bones.

When she had the chance to be gentle, it was that shame that rose up and wouldn’t let her. She looked down at her dry hands, dirty nails. They had worked so hard here, and now—

Vera went to the door, meaning to open it and get back to the kitchen, or to go to their room and have another look at the mistress’s last letter. It was impossible, what she’d written. She’d never do it.

Instead, Vera’s hand reached out and turned the key.

Back at the bath, she opened the taps, running the water hot as the pipes would allow and letting her clothes fall to the floor. When she had the five inches per the Civil Defence, she stepped in and lowered herself.

Indulgent, was what it was.

Hairpins out, she lay back, sinking, sinking until her head was below the waterline. The mistress had taken all her cream hair shampoo to London or she’d have some of that, too.

Vera sat up and found the right spot for resting her head and neck, closed her eyes. The mistress had taken a great deal with her when she left, and would have it all. There were those who could make any decision they wanted, and the rest—they had the rug pulled out.

There was a noise in the hall. Vera turned her head and caught a shadow under the door—two shadows, side-by-side, a pair of shoes. It would be Edith or Elsie, with a question. Not a moment’s peace.

“Who’s there?” she said. “I’m cleaning Herself’s bath.”

But the shoes at the door only moved on, floors creaking and shadows sliding, revealing a sense of height and weight that was not Edith or Elsie.

“Frank?”

That Arbuthnot chap, prowling. Of course. The wind must have sent them back. They’d be stomping up the stairs and sending down demands.

Briefly, though, she thought of the wisht man. She lay back again but the water was no match for the chill that had come over her.