A Stitch in Time (8 page)

Down, down she sank, trapped in an invisible, but tightly wrapped cocoon, into the thick gas. No, not gas … she realised it was fog. Her skin was coated with moisture and her nostrils were invaded by the fog’s smoky, leafy smell. And then at last her feet touched down on something solid. Rigor mortis released her body, and the fog drifted away.

Sarah blinked rapidly and rubbed her eyes. The something solid was a highly polished wooden floor. She was standing in the middle of a grand Victorian drawing room. Heavy oak chairs and settees upholstered in sumptuous crimson hulked around a marble fireplace. In high purple-painted arches either side of the fireplace stood alabaster full-sized sculptures of semi-nude maidens, arms raised above their heads with cherubs at their feet. An imposing grandfather clock marked time at one side of a floor-to-ceiling window, heavily draped in navy velvet curtains, and on the other side, a mahogany grand piano postured on lion-clawed feet.

Sarah, wide eyed and open mouthed, tried to register and process what she was seeing in her panic-stricken brain. She felt her stomach roll and her heart assume an irregular rhythm as her attention was directed towards what she held in her right hand. The basket containing a ready meal and wine had miraculously changed into a metal bucket full of coal and a box of matches.

Before she had time to think coherently, the door flew open and a tall, beady-eyed, horse-faced woman of around her own age bustled in. She wore her dark hair parted down the middle and swept into a loose bun, a high-necked, long-sleeved, lemon, calf-length dress and on her feet highly polished laced boots.

‘There you are,’ she said, pointing her finger at Sarah imperiously. ‘Get that fire made up, girl. We have the Pankhurst visit in a few hours. This room is old fashioned enough; she mustn’t be cold into the bargain.’

Sarah gawped, her stomach rolled again and she feared she may vomit. Bollocks! Just when I thought I’d got away with not being dispatched to the American West, I end up in Edwardian England!

‘Chop-chop; stop staring like an imbecile, you silly ninny, and do it!’ The woman turned on her heel and flounced out.

Sarah ran to the fireplace, tipped out the bucket of coal and then knelt. With her hands on the rim of the sooty bucket, she vomited.

Trembling like a whippet in a strong wind, Sarah pushed the bucket away and sat with her back to the fireplace. Brushing a strand of hair from her eye, she took deep breaths and tried to quell her turbulent gut. Focus on one point and concentrate, her dad had always told her when she’d been carsick as a child. Replacing the nausea for an instant, a pang of sadness twisted her belly; God she missed her dad. Was it really seven years since he’d died? She could do with his strong, dependable, eyes-front support right now.

Sarah focused on her feet. They wore the same style boot as the woman in the lemon dress, though much rougher and heavier. As her eyes travelled along her body, she found she was wearing the black dress and long white apron of a traditional maid, and, patting her hand on the top of her head, felt a cloth hat of some sort. Sarah closed her eyes.
A mop cap
.
Oh God, I must look like an extra in
Upstairs Downstairs
.

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of quick, light footsteps approaching outside. The door opened and a young blonde-haired maid, dressed in an identical uniform to Sarah’s, came in. She carried a bucket and made a beeline for the window. Humming a merry tune, she set the bucket down and dipped a cloth into it. After wringing it out, she stood upright again, and that’s when she saw Sarah.

‘Bleedin’ ’ell, Sarah, you gave me a start! What’s happened?’

The maid hurried over and knelt at Sarah’s side. ‘Well, cat got your tongue?’

Sarah shook her head and shrugged. ‘No, just came over a bit funny,’ she whispered, wondering if Albert would suddenly pop up and nod, knowingly.

‘Well you’ve got more soot on your face than all the sweeps here in London.’ The maid dabbed at Sarah’s forehead with the damp cloth. ‘And I can smell sick … have you chucked up in that coal bucket?’

Sarah flushed and nodded, though why she should feel embarrassed about it she didn’t know. It’s not every day you’re in a supermarket going about your business one minute, and then getting sucked down a time tunnel or whatever the hell it was, and dumped in Edwardian London, the next.

‘ … because if you have, Sarah, you’ll be in right trouble and no mistake. She’s sacked people for less.’

Sarah was aware the maid had said something but in her confused state, half of it hadn’t registered. ‘Who sacked people?’

‘Who do you fink? Queen Victoria, of course, she came back from the grave and sacked the footman last week.’ The maid tutted, and shook her head at Sarah, but she did have a twinkle in her pretty blue eyes.

‘What did you say I had to do?’ Sarah ventured and managed a little smile.

‘Oh, lumme! I said get yourself up, empty that sick and get that fire lit before Mrs Pankhurst gets here. If you don’t, Lady Attwood will have your guts for garters!’

‘I expect you mean Mrs Pankhurst the suffragette?’ Sarah asked, getting slowly to her knees.

‘No, I mean Mrs Pankhurst the music-hall actress.’ The maid shook her head in disbelief. ‘Now, take my hand and let me pull you up.’

With grim determination Sarah struggled to her feet and immediately felt much better. She sighed and pushed her hair back under her cap.

‘Stop touching your face with them hands; you keep smearing more soot all over you.’ The maid took Sarah’s hands and scrubbed at them with the cloth.

Sarah sighed again and wondered who the hell she was supposed to save this time. Perhaps Mrs Pankhurst would visit and slip on a blob of Sarah’s sick. In her mind’s eye she saw a slow-motion scenario of Mrs P falling, her head inches away from brutal contact with the edge of the marble fireplace. But then, in the nick of time, Sarah would launch a rugby tackle at her. Mrs Pankhurst would land heavily, but unharmed, upon Sarah’s prone body.

Valiant history teacher provides a soft landing for the heroine of women’s rights. Hurrah!

‘What are you smiling at?’ The maid was looking at Sarah as if she’d lost her marbles.
Not a bad assessment to be honest, my dear maid
. The girl picked up the sick bucket. ‘Look, come on, I’ll take you down to the kitchen, you’ll have a glass of water and wash your hands, then you must get back to the fire, alright?’

The house was massive. As Sarah trotted after the slight figure down stairs and along corridors, she admired the beautiful but faded grandeur of the old building. Tapestries adorned oak-panelled halls, portraits, presumably of previous Attwoods, sneered down at her from high balustrades and landing walls and, in the main hall, suspended crystal chandeliers winked in the natural light cast down from a stained-glass domed ceiling.

The journey turned past a main hall, a dining room and down two flights of stairs. Sarah noted that the predominant smell of beeswax and old books gave way to boiled cabbage and cake. Scrubbed flag stones replaced polished floors and, entering under a stone arch, she found herself in a large kitchen.

A plump woman stood at a long wooden table. She wore a green candy-striped dress and white apron and sweat rolled from her brow, almost as fast as she rolled pastry on a floured board. A few other servants dashed here and there, carrying pots, jugs and plates, and a smartly dressed butler-type sat by a range reading a newspaper.

The plump woman glanced over at Sarah and the maid. ‘Did you remember to bring the milk in, Rose?’

‘Yes, Cook, I’m just going to sort Sarah out and then I’m back up to do the windows.’

‘Sort Sarah out, why what’s the matter with you?’ The cook stopped, frowned over at Sarah and placed her meaty hands on her hips.

‘I just felt a little dizzy, Cook. I’m alright now, thank you for your concern,’ Sarah said, hoping she’d done the right thing leaving the vomiting episode out of her explanation.

The cook wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. ‘“Thank you for your concern” she says. A bit hoity-toity, aren’t we? Next thing, she’ll be joining the WSPU like madam upstairs!’ She jerked a pudgy thumb skywards.

Sarah was unsure how to react to that. Thankfully, Rose grabbed her arm and bustled her through the kitchen to the scullery. ‘Right, I’ll empty this stinkin’ bucket before Cook smells it. You get some water in the sink; wash your hands and face and then get back up to the sitting room. Cook’s not in a good mood; she thinks the WSPU should be burned as witches. “Them’s that play with matches deserve all they get,” she says.’ Rose giggled.

Left alone at last, Sarah turned the tap on over the big, white, ceramic sink. It protested, making a squeaky noise like a strangled mouse, but eventually gave out a stream of beige-coloured water. She made a face and scrubbed at her hands with a bar of rough soap and reminded herself to steer clear of any liquid that hadn’t been boiled whilst she was here. Sarah replaced the soap and carefully dabbed her forehead with a sponge.

A cotton square was all she could find for a towel and she hoped that it wasn’t Cook’s best handkerchief. Sarah looked around the scullery and decided that although the house was grand, it seemed to be outdated for the Edwardian period and a bit shabby here and there. Miss Lemon Dress, presumably Lady Attwood, had said as much to her earlier.

That brought her to her next question. So, what year was she in, exactly? The cook had mentioned the Women’s Social and Political Union. If memory served Sarah correctly, Emmeline Pankhurst, due here for tea later, had formed the WSPU in 1903. Their tactics to get votes for women hadn’t got too militant until around 1911 when women, egged on by Christabel, Emmeline’s daughter, were encouraged to smash shop windows with hammers, and throw stones at the windows of politicians. Sarah also seemed to remember that arson became a weapon of choice around 1913. Was that why Rose said the cook referred to matches? But then if it was 1913, George V was on the throne – Edward had died three years earlier.

Sarah sighed, straightened her cap and smoothed out the creases in her apron. She wondered if John would appear, or at least a John lookalike. She could use a friendly face and some guidance right about now. She took a deep breath.
Right, positive thinking, Ms Yates. No use moping in here; get your arse back upstairs.

On her way past the range, the butler still in residence, she tried to glance at the newspaper’s front page. His thumb obscured the top line, so she dropped to her knee and pretended to tie her bootlace, whilst cocking her head to the side in an endeavour to spy out any kind of clue about the date. The name Lloyd George was clearly visible over a crease in the broadsheet and a side panel advertised ‘Bingley’s Miraculous Tonics for every ailment known to man. Our tonics promise to revive and invigorate even the dullest appetite.’

Sarah racked her brains. Lloyd George … he’d been Chancellor before Prime Minister. If he was PM, that would make it at least 1916 and in the middle of the First World War … no, there had been no mention of war, and she felt that there would have been by now. Coupled with the WSPU information her gut gave her a ballpark figure of 1912–14.

‘Seen enough, madam, or would you like me to hand the thing to you?’

Sarah raised her eyes from the newspaper to meet the bespectacled steely beads of the reader. He did not look amused, not even a little bit. ‘Um … I was just tying my lace, Mr err …’

‘Mr Err? I think you’ll find it’s Mr Grayson, and don’t take me for a fool. And whilst it’s admirable for a maid to want to know what’s happening in the world, you will do it on your own time. Now go to work!’

Sarah nodded, jumped up and headed for the door. As she stepped through, she heard Cook say to Grayson, ‘Why they have to educate females at all I do not know. I think a bit of learnin’ leads to trouble if you ask me. I can’t read nor write and all the happier for it.’

After a few wrong turns, and confirmation from the large hall mirror that she was once again ‘herself’, Sarah eventually ended up back at the drawing room. Rose was busy at her task; she wiped dry one half of the window, singing, ‘Bird In A Gilded Cage’. The haunting quality of her voice brought a lump to Sarah’s throat, though she didn’t really know why. As far as Sarah knew, the song was about a beautiful young woman who had married an old man for money.

From the doorway, she watched the young maid for a few seconds, and concluded the reason for her emotion wasn’t the quality of her voice, but poor Rose herself, doomed to servitude for the rest of her life. Another young woman, just like thousands of others of this period, lacking opportunity and escape from this grand, but crumbling, cage of employment.

Sarah sniffed and walked over to the fireplace. Rose turned, nodded and continued with her song and her task. Gleaming brass fire tongs, a brush and a poker hung in a rack by the side of the fire. Sarah selected the tongs but realised she had as much idea on how to get the fire alight as she did about the exact date. What should she do next? Rose couldn’t be called upon to explain, because Sarah had the idea that fire lighting was a task given to more lowly members of staff. Even though Sarah was probably around ten years older, it was clear from the way that Rose had spoken to her earlier that she was above Sarah in the pecking order.

Sarah looked up to find Rose scrutinising her from across the room.

‘Ain’t you made a start yet?’ She frowned.

Sarah thought quickly. ‘I don’t know what to do; every time I bend down I go all dizzy again, Rose.’

‘Well, dizzy or not, it needs doing.’

Sarah looked beyond Rose to the view outside the window. From what she could see it looked to be a sunny day and the green leaves on the branches of a nearby tree waved in the breeze. ‘Why do we need the fire lit on a summer’s day, anyway?’

Rose tutted and shook her head. ‘Because Lady Attwood ordered it, that’s why. This old house is draughty on the hottest day, and more important, you know better than to question her wishes, Sarah.’

‘Yes, Rose, sorry. I wonder if we might swap jobs, just this once? I feel much better standing up.’

Rose looked as though she would refuse but then shrugged and pointed her finger. ‘Just this once, mind. And don’t tell my auntie, or she’ll be at you hammer and tongs.’

‘Your auntie?’

‘Gawd, yes, Cook, of course, you dozy article.’

Ah, Cook was her aunt, then. Sarah walked over to the window and dipped the cloth into the water. That explained why Rose had a higher position. From the window, she found that the house looked over a park and the row of houses next to the park were of red brick and very grand in structure. They had at least five storeys and many had balconies and arched windows edged with white frames, from floor to ceiling. Some even had Doric columns supporting porch entrances. These entrances led up a number of steps to shiny front doors complete with brass knockers. Sarah presumed that Lady Attwood’s house was similar from the outside.

It was fairly quiet on the street; only one or two people strolled past. Two women arm in arm twirling their parasols, and a chimney sweep pushing a barrow filled with tools.

Sarah knew that in the present these houses would be hotels or flats, but would, at the moment, house many of London’s rich and famous.

The feelings she’d had when walking through wartime Sheffield began to surface again. Sarah thrilled at the prospect of experiencing the past at first hand. It would be nice, though, to have a timetable and set plan of what she was supposed to do on these jaunts. She stepped closer to the window and rubbed at a smudge on the glass.

When she got back she’d get some straight answers from John. Would it be too much to ask for a bit of warning, just to prepare herself? And she wanted to know about the ‘powers that be’ he’d referred to the first time she’d seen him and how exactly he got his information. If they’d set out to test her, as John mentioned, they were certainly doing a grand job. Sarah wasn’t sure how much more her frazzled nerves could take, and she was getting more than a little tired of playing the dopey Dora.

A few minutes later, Sarah folded the drying cloth and turned to Rose. ‘I think I’ve finished, Rose, how are you doing?’

‘Nearly there.’ She struck a match and held it to some rolled paper under the coal. The fire took hold but slowly. ‘This bloody chimney could do with a fettle. Trouble is,’ she lowered her voice, ‘Lady Attwood is too busy saving her pennies.’ Rose stood up, and dusted her apron. ‘Leastways she is until she snags old Mr Darnley. She’d better do it soon or we’ll all be out on our ear I reckon, even Cook and Mr Grayson, too.’