Authors: Irene N.Watts
“You may move in the Saturday after coronation day, on June 24
th
, after lunch. This will allow you time to settle in and for Nanny Mackintosh to acquaint you with your duties before you commence work the following Monday morning.”
She holds her pen poised over the inkwell. “This is an exceptional starting opportunity for a girl of your age. What shall I tell her ladyship?”
I am to be taken on?
I did not really expect an offer so soon. Mother told me what to say, if I was asked.
“Please tell her ladyship that I am very grateful for the chance, thank you, Mrs. Ransom. I will do my best not to disappoint you or her ladyship.”
First thing, I’ll go and thank Miss Pringle for putting in a good word for me.
“Very well, Gardener. Any problems you encounter, you will bring directly to me. You may go now to get measured–the sewing room is across from my parlor. Good day.”
What I’d like to do is to run home to tell Mother. I feel like skipping the length of the corridor, that’s how happy I am! Instead, I hold myself straight and tall, smooth my hair, which I have put up for the first time for today, and go into the sewing room.
A tiny birdlike woman, looking old enough to be Mrs. Ransom’s mother, turns a sheet. She wears a lace cap perched on her white hair. A gray-striped apron covers her black dress. The sound of the door closing makes her look up. She removes a pin from between her lips.
“So you’re the new girl. The last one stayed barely long enough for me to let down her hems! Gardener, isn’t it?” She takes the pencil from behind her ear and writes my name down in a thick ledger. She removes the measuring tape from around her neck and approaches me.
“Twenty-five years I’ve been sewing for the family–first for his lordship’s mother and now for young Lady Milton. Hold still–staff hems are to be worn three inches above the ankle. Thirteen or fourteen, are you? Big hems then, to allow room for growth. You’re a bit on the thin side, but you’ll soon put on a few pounds with Mrs. Porter cooking. Now then, prints for morning, light blue, and for afternoon, navy blue. Caps and pinafores bought ready-made, not like the old days. Hold out your wrists.” She mutters to herself and writes down measurements, clicking her tongue and shaking her head.
“I’m stronger than I look, Mrs. Wilson,” I tell her.
“You’ll need to be. Now there’s a cape here somewhere, for outdoor wear. I can take it in a bit, make it good as new. There, you’re done. Your uniforms will be ready when you start.” She sits down at the sewing machine and begins to turn the handle again.
I thank her and go out in the passage, longing to lean against the wall for a moment. My head spins. I’ve been looked at and over, questioned, hired, given information, and introduced to more faces than I’ll ever be able to put names to!
The girl who was cleaning the stove when I first arrived pushes past me, bumping into my shoulder. The look on her face makes me wonder if she did it on purpose. The corridor is plenty wide enough for
her to get by, even if she is carrying a bucket and rags! I expect she is just tired of being at everyone’s beck and call.
“So you’re the new nursery maid, are you?” She looks behind her. “I don’t give you long with Nanny Mackintosh.” She sounds spiteful, so I don’t reply.
“I’m on my way upstairs to give the nursery windows a clean before the old biddy returns from her walk. You’ll be cleaning them soon. I’ve more than enough to keep me going downstairs.”
A young footman, carrying a tray with coffeepot and cups, passes by. The butler emerges from the pantry with a decanter and glasses.
“Gossiping again, Roberts? I trust you have finished cleaning the nursery windows. I have no wish to have any more complaints from the nursery!”
“I’m on my way upstairs, Mr. Briggs. I was just giving the new girl directions to the kitchen.” Roberts hurries away.
I hope that I won’t have trouble from Roberts. If I’m lucky, I will not have much to do with her.
“Welcome to the staff, Gardener. You will find this a busy household. All of us have our own tasks to do, in order to keep the wheels of the household running like clockwork.”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” I say.
“Then I bid you good day, Gardener.” He continues down the passage, and I return to the kitchen. I hope
he does not think I was keeping Roberts from her duties. I do not want to start off on the wrong foot with him.
The kitchen door is open and I go in. Mrs. Porter is inspecting a vast silver platter, held by Dean. It is laden with tiny sandwiches, to which Mrs. Porter adds a final sprig of parsley.
“That will do, but come back as quick as you can. The lobster patties are ready to come out of the oven,” Mrs. Porter says. I hold the door open for Dean.
“So you made a good impression and are joining us, Gardener. Not that I’m a bit surprised, seeing whose daughter you are! Tell your mother, Bessie Porter wants to be remembered to her.”
I thank her, relieved to escape outside and think about all that has happened since I arrived. The clock on the kitchen wall said five minutes to twelve. The two hours I have spent here seem like two weeks! I feel glad and sorry, both. I’m proud to be hired, but a little scared too.
Will I last longer than the last nursemaid? And how is it that Mrs. Porter knows Mother?
That evening, after supper, after I have told Mother and Father every detail about the morning, I give Mother Mrs. Porter’s message. Mother’s “Oh, I never” is close to a scream. “Bessie Porter…Jack, you must remember her? She
was second cook, and I was her assistant, in the kitchen of Mr. and Mrs. John Ross.”
“I could hardly forget, seeing that’s where I first met you, Flo. That head cook, what an ogre she was! ‘No followers in my kitchen,’ she’d say, when I made the deliveries. You were what–sixteen, seventeen? She couldn’t stop us meeting, right, Flo?”
“That’s enough, Jack,” Mother says.
“What did I say?” Father asks innocently.
I look down at my plate so as not to laugh.
“Well, Lou, I could not be more pleased,” he says. “Mind you, I’ll miss you when you leave.”
Emily gets off her chair and comes over to twine her arms around my neck. “Don’t go, Lou,” she sobs.
Kathleen slams the scullery door, drops her boots on the floor, and comes running in, out of breath. “Sorry I’m late–I thought Madame would never let me put the
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sign up tonight. Every lady in London wants a new hat for the coronation.” She collapses onto a chair. “My feet are blistered from running and fetching all day! Did you get the position, Lou? What’s the matter, Emily?” she asks.
“I don’t want Lou to go,” my little sister says. Her chest heaves.
Kathleen jumps up and hugs me. “You got it! Oh, my clever, clever Louisa, I’m so proud of you!”
“I’m to start next week, after the coronation. And I’m to sleep in a room of my own.”
There is a short pause, then Kathleen says, “I’ll have the bed to myself, won’t I?”
I have not really thought about what leaving home will mean. I will not be living in this house any-more…not sharing a room with my sisters–whispering, laughing together, and being comforted after a bad dream! Kathleen and I look at each other and burst into tears. Emily joins in. Mother wipes her eyes on the corner of her apron.
Upstairs, George hears us and calls out. Emily runs up, still sobbing, to settle him.
Father can’t bear to see any of us in tears and goes out into the garden to smoke.
“It’s too far to walk home on my evening off, Mother, but I’ll be home for Christmas and for a day once a month. It won’t be so bad, will it? And a week’s holiday every year–that’s good, isn’t it?” I say.
“Did you leave me any supper, Mother? I’m famished,” Kathleen says, her arm around my waist. “Lou, once you know which evening you get off, I can meet you halfway. We can have a walk.” Kathleen is still making plans for us, the way she always has. How I am going to miss everyone!
I
, who have never known what it is to be homesick, must wait a whole month before I can go home! On this first evening, seated at the table in the servants’ hall, everyone seems to be looking at me–the new girl–and I can barely keep from crying. I try to remember which name goes with which face. My cheeks grow hot when I’m spoken to.
Roberts, who does not hide her dislike of me, sniggers. “Look at the new girl blush,” she says.
What have I done to upset her? She doesn’t even know me
.
Mr. Briggs clears his throat. Heads turn to him, deferentially.
“Mrs. Porter, I am reminded that when I started out as a young footman, my hands shook so much, I spilled the port wine I was serving at dinner. I was
certain I would be told to pack my bags,” he says, with the glimmer of a smile.
“Why, that’s nothing compared to what I did, Mr. Briggs. The day I was promoted to assistant cook, I over-salted the soup and it was sent back to the kitchen. The staff put me in my place, make no mistake! They teased me unmercifully. ‘Don’t forget the salt, Porter,’ they said for days, before I sent another dish upstairs.”
Mrs. Porter is kind. Nevertheless, it is all I can do to swallow my bread and cheese. The lump in my throat refuses to go away.
When it is time for me to go back upstairs and bring Nanny Mackintosh her cocoa and biscuits, it is almost a relief. Nanny takes one sip before handing back her cup.
“The cocoa is cold. Bring up a fresh cup and make sure it is hot this time, if you please.”
I go down and ask for another. “I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Porter.”
She makes no comment, but tells Roberts to wash her hands and be certain the milk is scalding hot. Roberts mutters under her breath, and Mrs. Porter gives her a look, which I pretend not to see.
Nanny Mackintosh’s idea of training me in the running of her nurseries is to correct everything I do. She manages to find fault from morning to night! Each day she checks the windows, and if they don’t
squeak with cleanliness, I must do them again. She runs her fingers along the mantel, looking for dust. Heaven help me if I forget to put a toy away the second it has been played with. Her favorite refrain is: “That is not the way we did things at Norland College!” There is no end to what Nanny will not tolerate. On the evenings she takes her supper with Mrs. Ransom, she changes into a black silk dress, which makes her look sterner than ever.
I am given a list of instructions to do before I go to bed.
The first time I accompany her to the park, and before I am permitted to push Miss Alexandra’s perambulator, Miss Portia holding on to the side, I have to show Nanny my hands. She tells me, “Nanny Gilbert and Nanny Pritchard are most particular whom their charges mix with, as indeed am I. You must always remember, Gardener, that we represent Lord and Lady Milton. His lordship sits in the House of Lords, and the highest standards must be observed at all times.
“Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra are permitted to play within a short distance of the bench, where we nannies sit. You will remain close by and watch that the girls do not become overheated or chilled, depending on the weather. They may at no time raise their voices, push the other children, or touch anything lying on the ground!”
I feel sorry for Miss Portia. She spends too much time forced to sit at the nursery table, staring at her cooling porridge, or being told to eat her crusts or clean her plate. No one at home wastes food–we can’t afford to–and the boys never leave a crumb. They are always hungry.
But could Nanny not bend just a little and give Miss Portia smaller portions?
She is not five yet and small for her age.
Nanny will often begin a sentence with “When I was your age, Miss Portia, I’d have been more than happy to see a bit of honey on my porridge. Eat up now.” And I watch the child’s eyes fill with tears.
Once, I cut up her bread into fingers to persuade her to eat her crusts. “Shall we count how many guards there are at Buckingham Palace?” I asked her. I counted slowly, to give her a chance to eat one up, so that I could say, “I was sure there were six. Where can that guard have gone?”
Well, Nanny just about exploded. “Food is to be eaten, not played with, Gardener. You forget your place.” One thing for sure, Nanny will make certain I never have a chance to forget mine!
When I finally get to see Mother and the children on my first day off, I feel as if I’ve been away for a year, not four weeks! I have all sorts of stories to tell them and never let on how much I have missed them all.
Mother tells me to keep clear of Roberts: “There’s always one troublemaker in every household. Unhappy at being overlooked, maybe, bearing a grudge, or with troubles in her life outside the house. It’s nothing to do with you and none of your making.”
Mother always says the right thing. “There’s going to be a storm tonight, look at that sky! It’ll clear the air a bit.”
“It’s not only the weather that needs to change, Flo,” Father says. “I’ve never known a summer to be this hot! I tell you, if this dock strike goes on much longer and the trains don’t start running again, the country will come to a halt! Men out of work for weeks, mines closing, and no money coming in to feed hungry families. What am I supposed to sell on the stall? Vegetables are drying up in the fields.
“Don’t mind me, Lou, I am pleased to see you. Are they treating you fair? Getting enough to eat, are you?”
“I am, Father. Nanny Mackintosh is overstrict, but from the little she’s said, I think she had a hard upbringing. Some of the servants are nicer than others. Mr. Briggs read us the obituary column last night–four more deaths from heatstroke. Do you know that he irons the
Times
every morning? We are to go to the country in two days’ time to stay with Lady Milton’s mother.”
I don’t mention that I might have to go to the seaside for a few days. It doesn’t bear thinking about, what with Miss Alexandra liking to wander off if she’s not watched all the time.
Suppose she falls into the water?
I look up and see Mother’s face. She seems a bit sad.
Is it because I’m going away, or because of all she has to do, or because of her worries about money, or is the heat getting her down?