Sapphire Battersea (11 page)

‘
GET UP, GET
up, you lazy little girl!’

It was Mrs Briskett, shaking me so hard I had to cling to the sides of my bed, in danger of tumbling to the floor.

‘I said you had to be up at six to light the kitchen fire. It’s nearly half past now, and I can’t start cooking till the stove heats up. We’re going to be all behind like a sheep’s tail, and I can’t bear that! Get up, Hetty Feather!’

I got up and barely sat down again the whole day long. I didn’t have time to wash myself properly – just a quick dab. I didn’t even brush my hair, I just crammed my cap on top. I scarcely had time to rush to the terrible outside privy.

I was put in a corner to clean Mr Buchanan’s boots while Mrs Briskett genuflected in front of the kitchen range. She tried to show me what to do, but it was so complicated and temperamental I couldn’t get the hang of it at all. I was sent off in disgrace to sweep and clean the downstairs grates. Then I was
given
a brush and cloth and polish, to clean the doorstep and brasses. I scrubbed my fingers raw trying to impress, but Sarah was in a bad mood too and sniffed at my efforts. Next I had to haul a huge jug of hot water up the stairs to set on Mr Buchanan’s washstand. He was sitting up in his bed, wearing a nightcap instead of a fez, but looking more monkey-like than ever. The sleeves of his nightgown rumpled up, showing excessively hairy thin arms. Maybe that long tail was lurking under the bedcovers after all.

I had to serve him a cup of tea, and then scurry back downstairs to down a cup myself. The kitchen was warm now, and something smelling delicious was sizzling in the pan. I sniffed at it hopefully, suddenly remembering the pigs we kept long ago in my country foster home.

‘Don’t you go making big eyes at me, Hetty Feather,’ Mrs Briskett snapped. ‘Lazy girls go without their breakfast.’ But she gave me a rasher of wondrous bacon, and a sausage too. I wished I had time to savour them properly, but I had to run to the dining room to serve Mr Buchanan
his
breakfast.

I would have thought a tray would suffice for one gentleman, but oh dear, no. We had to lay a white damask cloth over the table, with the fold exactly in the middle. Sarah fussed over a centrepiece of
flowers
and ferns, and then set me laying two small knives, two small forks, a dessertspoon, a dish, a plate, and an intricately folded table napkin before Mr Buchanan’s chair. I had to refold the wretched napkin three times, and even rearrange the cutlery, because I didn’t have the bowls of the spoon on the table and the prongs of the fork upwards. As if it mattered!

Then there was fuss fuss fuss with the salt cellar and pepper box and mustard pot, and the loaf of bread had to be precise upon its platter, and the butter – oh dear goodness, the butter had to be fashioned into a little rose shape with a pair of pats.

We set it all up, with covered hot-water dishes containing enough rashers, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms to feed an army, plus two boiled eggs in a napkin and a rack of toast. I saw Mr Buchanan left his toast, two rashers, a sausage and several mushrooms when I went to clear the table, and I crammed them all into my mouth quick to keep me going.

I was sent upstairs to clean Mrs Briskett’s and Sarah’s rooms, and then I did the master’s bedroom. He’d used his chamber pot even though he had his splendid water closet a few steps across the landing. I tried out the water closet for myself while I was stuck inside cleaning it. I clung hard to the
edge
of the seat just in case I was sucked down the hole by a sudden spurt of water – it still seemed eerily mysterious to me.

He’d left his bed for me to strip and make up. Thank goodness the beds in the guest rooms were still pristine, though I had to dust and sweep these rooms too. I was ready to crawl into bed myself, but Mrs Briskett was calling for me, needing me down in the kitchen to peel the potatoes and carrots and chop the cabbage. I chopped my finger too and had to suck it hard to stop it bleeding.

Then I had to see to the fires in the dining room and living room while Sarah flapped around with a duster. While Mr Buchanan was having his lunch, Sarah let me into his study to stoke his own fire, but I wasn’t allowed to touch anything else. Sarah dusted here with elaborate care, picking up books and papers reverently and replacing them precisely.

I hoped I might get time to breathe after
my
lunch, and maybe do a bit more fancy darning so that Sarah and Mrs Briskett would marvel at me again – but any chance of that vanished when I spilled a whole pitcher of milk trying to carry it out of the larder with greasy hands. Mrs Briskett smacked me hard about the head and set me to scrubbing the entire floor.

‘But my hands are all sore already, Mrs B, and my finger’s actually bleeding – look!’ I said,
thrusting
it at her.

‘And my heart’s bleeding listening to your endless excuses. And don’t you go calling me Mrs B: it’s Mrs
Briskett
. Let’s have a little respect around here. Get going with that scrubbing brush. Milk’s the very devil when it spills. I’m not having my kitchen reeking like a dairy. Go to it!’

I started scrubbing, squatting down and wiping the floor cautiously, because my hands were really throbbing.

‘Not like that! Get down on your knees and put some elbow grease into it, or you’ll go without any supper!’ she commanded.

How could I have ever thought she was like a mother! She was even worse than Matron Pigface Peters and Matron Stinking Bottomly. I scrubbed viciously, cursing Mrs Briskett under my breath at every stroke, imagining the flagstones were her big meaty face. I put such effort into it that my behind waggled in the air.

‘My, that’s a very tempting sight!’ said a loud Cockney voice. It was Bertie the butcher’s boy, bringing us a basket of meat.

‘Less of your cheek, you,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Now, let’s have a look at that minced beef. I hope it’s not all gristle and bone – I asked for prime mince.’

‘It’s the finest chopped-up backside of bovine,
Mrs
B,’ said Bertie. ‘Here, have a sniff, it’s lovely and fresh.’ He offered her a paper of meat as if it were a bunch of roses. She laughed and swatted his hand away, not seeming to mind at all when
he
called her Mrs B.

I muttered miserably to myself that it wasn’t fair.

‘What’s that you’re saying, Beautiful?’ said the boy.

He squatted down beside me. ‘Oh dear, what a face! You must have been a bad girl to be set to scrubbing at this hour! Remember, cleanliness is next to Godliness – so you and the kitchen floor will be wafting around the heavenly clouds one day.’

‘One day
soon
, I expect,’ I said. ‘When I faint from loss of blood, seeing as I have an open wound.’ I sucked my poor hacked finger.

‘Let’s have a look.’ Bertie held my grubby hand surprisingly gently and squinted at my finger. ‘Call that a cut! Look at mine!’

He spread his left hand out in front of my eyes, fanning his fingers – and I saw that the tops of three of them were entirely missing, not even a vestige of a nail left. He laughed when I gasped.

‘Now they really
did
bleed when I chopped the tips off. Old Jarvis minced them up lovely and everyone’s cottage pie tasted
real
good that day, with all my prime boy-meat!’ He fell about laughing
at
my face. But three missing fingers were no joke.

‘You chopped them right
off
?’

‘I’m learning the trade, see. I got a great side of beef, hung onto it tight to stop it rolling around, raised my chopper – down it goes with a great
whack
… only my aim was a bit skewed.’

‘How awful!’

‘No it ain’t – not when you’re into butchery. My master, old Jarvis, he’s got three whole fingers missing – and Samuel and Sidney, his older lads, they’ve lost one apiece. It’s only to be expected. But when you’ve done it once, it don’t half sharpen your aim for the future!’

‘I don’t think I should care to be a butcher’s boy.’

‘Yes, well, when I left the workhouse they said to me, Bertie, my boy, do you want to go into Parliament, or do you fancy a career in the city, or maybe you’d like to set yourself up as a gentleman farmer – but do you know something, Beautiful, those jobs didn’t appeal to me. Butchery, that’s what I thought.’

I felt myself blushing. ‘You were in the work-house?’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, and I ain’t ashamed of it, either. Weren’t my fault my ma ended up there, and I dare say it weren’t her fault either, so don’t you go looking down on me.’

‘Oh, I’m
not
!’ I glanced over to see if Mrs
Briskett
and Sarah were listening, but they were chatting together. Mrs Briskett was busy setting the pieces of meat out on plates and covering them with mesh domes while Sarah started sewing the hem of a tablecloth.

‘My mama was in the workhouse too,’ I said.

‘So you know what it’s like,’ said Bernie.

‘Well, I was brought up in the Foundling Hospital.’

He shook his head. ‘A foundling and an orphan. Well, we’re a matching pair, ain’t we?’

‘An orphan? So your mother died?’

‘Yup, when I was about ten.’

‘You poor thing,’ I said.

‘Well, I didn’t truly know her, did I? We were kept separate, see. We met up on Christmas Day, and that was a rum time, and it meant the world to all of us – but we still had to get through the three hundred and sixty-four other days.’

‘So where do you live now, Bertie?’

‘I live at the shop – where else? I’ve got me nice little bed under the counter.’ He said it cheerily enough, but I imagined lying all night in the dark with meat dripping bloodily all around me. Perhaps I was more fortunate than I realized, living in the scullery.

‘When’s your afternoon off, then, Beautiful?’ Bertie asked.

‘I don’t think I get one.’

‘Oh, I’ll make sure of that. You watch.’ He sidled up to Mrs Briskett. He looked smaller than ever beside her huge bulk. ‘Like them lovely steaks, Mrs B? They were supposed to be going up to Letchworth Manor, but I swapped them round because you’re my favourite customer, and a lady line you appreciates quality.’

‘Hark at the lad! He’s got the patter, all right, even though he’s such a little squirt,’ said Mrs Briskett, chuckling.

‘You’ve got an extra kidney too – did you see?’

‘What are you after, lad? A slice of my steak-and-kidney pie?’

‘Well,
now
you’re tempting me! But I was just wondering if I could take your little maid here off your hands on Sunday, seeing as she’s a bit down in the dumps.’

‘No wonder – she’s a careless girl, and needs to be taught a lesson. And on Sunday she’ll be coming to church along with us.’

‘Of course she will, but what about
after
church? Can’t you spare her for an hour or two? I’ll bring her back rosy-cheeked in time for supper – how about that?’

‘How about you clear off out of my kitchen and stop distracting my little maid,’ said Mrs Briskett – but she didn’t say no.

Bertie winked at me. ‘See you Sunday, then, Beautiful. I’ll come calling,’ he mouthed.

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go off gallivanting with this cheeky Cockney lad, Bertie. He was clearly mocking me, calling me Beautiful. He had obviously forgotten my name.

But when he clattered over, swinging his basket, he called, ‘Bye-bye, then, Mrs B. Bye-bye, Sarah Sew-a-fine-seam. And bye-bye, Miss Hetty Feather.’

Mrs Briskett and Sarah tittered.

‘My, you’re a dark one, Hetty, setting your cap at Jarvis’s boy already!’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘I told you, I don’t want you to have no followers. It just causes trouble – and you’re not old enough anyway.’

‘I don’t
want
any followers,’ I said, but I found I was a little cheered all the same. I still had miles of stone flags to scrub, and my cut finger was throbbing more sorely than ever, but it didn’t seem such a terrible task any more. When I was done at long last, Mrs Briskett fried me a slice of yesterday’s currant cake in butter, dusted it with sugar and served it to me on a plate. It tasted truly delicious.

I was set to more work straight afterwards, running up and down stairs tending the fires and fetching hot water. Then Mrs Briskett got it into her head that her saucepans weren’t quite clean, and I had to boil them all for half an hour on the
range
, then attack the enamel pans with a rag and Monkey Brand. It nearly broke my heart when she dirtied them all again cooking Mr Buchanan’s dinner.