One Pair of Hands Read online

  He didn’t want his breakfast till about ten o’clock, so I had plenty of time to lay the drawing-room fire and do a little dusting. The carpet was a new one, and when in a fit of enthusiasm I started to brush it the pile came off in great furry lumps and made more mess than before. If that was what was going to happen when I expended a little extra zeal, I wasn’t going to waste my energy, so I left it to its fate and went downstairs to start burning toast and over-boiling eggs for Martin’s breakfast.

  When I took it up he had gone to sleep again, so I took the opportunity to open the window surreptitiously, glancing at the bed to see whether the blessed little breath of air would upset him. All I could see was a few matted hairs sticking out of the top of the round hump under the bed-clothes. There was no sign of life, so I was just going quietly out when the telephone rang. I went back to the bed and answered it. He woke and heaved himself up to mumble into it in a doped sort of way when I handed it to him, then an unfamiliar presence smote his consciousness.

  ‘For God’s sake, shut that damned window,’ he moaned to me. ‘No, not you, Norman,’ into the telephone, ‘I’m in the most frightful draught, that’s all.’ I gave a bitter laugh inside myself and swept from the room.

  Shortly afterwards I had to brave the gas-chamber again, to ask whether there was any food to be ordered.

  He was still in bed, and I took up my stand by the window while he consulted a messy note-book, so loose-leaved that pages kept fluttering out and had to be retrieved from under the bed.

  ‘My secretary will be here to lunch, so we shall be two; three tonight, as a lady and gentleman are coming.’ He lay back against the pillows and deliberated, and I felt it might be a good thing to make an impression by rattling off suggestions in a proficient way. This was a mistake as it gave him illusions de grandeur, and he chose an elaborate dinner that was going to be quite a strain to cope with.

  I was glad to hear that the tradesmen called, though I thought it wouldn’t have done his figure any harm to trot round the shops.

  ‘Order what you need. There may be one or two things you like to have in stock. We’ve only just moved in, so I’m afraid the kitchen isn’t quite fully equipped.’

  I took advantage of this understatement to clarify the need for a few essentials such as sieves, spoons, saucepans, etc.

  ‘Well, you’d better get those yourself. I’ll give you some money and you can pop round to Woolworth’s some time – you can get out every afternoon between lunch and tea; by the way, I think people ought to get all the fresh air they can.’ I refrained from saying: ‘Then why sleep with your window shut?’ and left the room, as I could hear faint cries of ‘Milko!’ from the street. The milkman wasn’t nearly as nice as the one with the unfaithful wife. I went out to give his pony some sugar and discovered that they were both bad tempered. One cursed me for not putting out the empties and the other bit me.

  There was no sign of Martin getting up, so I couldn’t contemplate doing his room yet. Anyhow, I could hear the faint strains of the bell from below, and I ran downstairs to find the arrow bouncing at ‘Back door’. I began to see why people have to move into flats because they can’t get maids for their houses. However, running up and down stairs may be death to the arches of the feet, but it is very good for the figure.

  The greengrocer was a perfect Adonis, but not talkative. I gave him a string of orders and an allusion to the weather, and his sole contribution to the conversation was ‘Ah’.

  ‘Beautiful but dumb,’ I thought as he sped off on his bicycle like a Greek charioteer. ‘Still, you can’t have everything.’ Looking through the store cupboard, I found it contained practically nothing but salt and pepper and a few old tins of cocoa, permanently sealed with rust and age. I had been told to order what I needed, so I made out a long list for the grocer, and was in the middle of dictating it to him when the bell rang from upstairs. I thrust the list into his trembling hands – he was an ancient grocer of the high collar era – and panted up to the top floor.

  Mr Parrish was out of bed and wrapped in another of the flowery garments that he favoured – a sort of kimono this time.

  ‘Please light the drawing-room fire so that the room can warm up before I go down,’ he said. After I had done that I heard sounds of him going to his bath, so I thought I might as well make his bed. The pillow was smeary with grease and the sheets were covered with Mimi’s dirty hairs. The bell rang while I was fighting down the nausea that this aroused in me, and after having toiled all the way down to the basement, only to find that it was the front bell this time, I opened the door on a very nice young man indeed.

  ‘Whom did you wish to see?’ I said.

  ‘I am Mr Parrish’s secretary,’ he said with a shy smile, tapping the brief case under his arm. He went into the drawing-room to wait for his employer. Something about his gentle boyishness appealed to my maternal affection, so I poked up the fire for him and said there was a nip in the air, before returning to my bed-making. I thought Mr Parrish was still in the bath, so I walked into the bedroom without knocking and surprised the gentleman in long woollen pants.

  ‘Monica,’ he said, in a controlled but cutting voice, ‘it is not considered manners to enter a bedroom without knocking. Please remember this.’

  I didn’t think it was worth while explaining, so I retired with dignity. When eventually he was out of his room it was time to start the lunch, so I left the bed, meaning to do it in the intervals of cooking, but, somehow, what with one thing and another there were no intervals. Bells rang, sauces boiled over, the spinach took hours to wash and prepare, and as there were so few saucepans I had to keep washing them.

  The first opportunity I had to get upstairs was when I had handed round the first course and shut the door on the sounds of eating. I raced up, and just had time to do the bed before the dining-room bell sent me flying down again. Mr Parrish wanted a second helping it seemed. This was surprising in view of the fact that he had done nothing in the short time since eating a hearty breakfast, except lie in bed or recline on a sofa dictating a few letters.

  I just had time while they were on the next course to go back again and flick around with a duster, removing cigarette ash and talcum powder, to make the rooms at least look as if I’d done them. I had made the mistake of doing the bathroom before Martin Parrish was up, and he had turned the place into a dripping shambles, so my good work had gone for naught. A shambles it remained, for ‘they’ were screaming for coffee and my stomach was screaming for food.

  It was half past two before I eventually relaxed over the dried-up remains of the lunch that had been keeping warm in the oven.

  I had only shovelled down one or two mouthfuls in the unladylike manner that one employs when tired, hungry, and alone, when the red arrow started to do the rumba under ‘Drawing-room’. I went upstairs chewing, and discovered that they wanted more coffee, and I wondered when they were going to get down to a little serious designing – they certainly did not look like it at the moment.

  When I had finished my lunch I lit a cigarette, and putting my feet upon the table as there was only one chair, I ‘took time off’, resolutely shutting my mind to dishes that wanted washing. Let bells ring themselves hoarse all round me, I was on strike for five minutes.

  Chapter Four

  NOW THAT I had time to reflect at leisure on my new situation I came to a great many conclusions. The chief one was that now that Mr Parrish had got a maid safely installed he was a changed man. He was still quite friendly, but that affable solicitude for my happiness had rather worn off. I realized that there was more than enough work for one person to do in this house, and that I would have to bring all my labour-saving ingenuity into play to cope with it. He had said that I could go out every afternoon if I liked, so after I had washed up the lunch things I thought I might make a little trek to Woolworth’s to buy what I needed. I was just climbing out of my uniform when the drawing-room bell rang and I had to climb back into it and run upstairs. The secre
tary was typing in a dilettante way, while the designer sat on the sofa with a large board on his knee – presumably designing.

  Holding up the top of my apron with one hand, as I hadn’t had time to find a pin, I inquired what they wanted. The creative genius was suspended for a moment while he said: ‘A lady is coming to tea at half past four. Could you make us some scones and little cakes, or something?’

  ‘With pleasure, sir.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’ He threw me a fascinating smile, as if he knew that I would not now have time to go out and was trying to placate me. When he was once more safely immersed in his drawing I responded with an ironical leer and returned below.

  Making cakes is not my strong point, especially with very few materials at hand and no cake-tins. However, I managed to throw together some fairly passable rock cakes and short-bread, and made a few surprisingly successful scones with a tin of Ideal milk. I thought I might as well make enough to keep them quiet for a few days so that I could be sure of getting out one afternoon in the near future. It was getting quite dark by half past four, always a cosy time of day, and the kitchen, which was beautifully warm and smelt pleasantly of baking, would have been quite snug if I had had some curtains to draw.

  Feeling quite happy, I went upstairs to answer the front door bell, and admitted a competent-looking girl, fashionably dressed, though a trifle spotty about the face, carrying a large brown paper parcel. When I took in the tea the drawing-room was draped in lengths of material of all colours, and the three of them were flinging themselves among it, holding up a piece here and there and exclaiming ecstatically. I put the tea-tray down on a vacant stool and was just going out when Martin Parrish rushed at me with a bit of gold lamé, and, commanding me to stand still, draped it swiftly and skilfully round my form. He stepped back with clasped hands, surveying with his head on one side, and I stood there feeling like one of those improbable-looking effigies in shop windows.

  ‘Look!’ he cried, calling upon the other two to admire. ‘Quite perfect for that blonde type – the whole effect in gold could be too marvellous. Take a note, Kenneth; what’s the number of the stuff? Oh, yes. Here – avoid any contrasts with BX 17 – accessories, etc., unbroken line important to carry on colour effect. Oh, wait – how about this?’ Very excited, he wound something dark red round my middle, only to tear it off again impatiently – pushing me about dispassionately as if I really were canvas and sawdust.

  ‘Ah, delicious!’ they all cried when the desired effect had been obtained. I wanted to go and put the joint in the oven and started to edge towards the door when the lamé was unpinned.

  ‘No, don’t go away, I haven’t finished,’ said my employer irritably as he advanced on me with a length of black taffeta which he bunched round me, crying: ‘The classic contrast! You can’t get away from it!’ I began to think I might soon ask for a rise. He was quite carried away by his art and had evidently forgotten that I was only the cook and had better things to do than stand around all day being draped. I wished I had a union which would forbid me to act as a model during working hours. Eventually he became absorbed in a discussion with Kenneth, the secretary; and, having also discovered the cakes, they were quite happy waving them about in the air and talking with their mouths full. I seized the opportunity, while I was temporarily forgotten, to escape to the kitchen and start preparing the dinner.

  I took a great deal of trouble over it as I wanted to make an impression on my first day. I got along quite well, in spite of being interrupted by summonses from above – the first time to clear the tea. I saw my employer looking at me meditatively while he fingered a piece of blue chiffon, so I fairly skipped out of the room with the tray before he could pounce. The next time it was to help the spotty girl fold up the stuff, and yet again when she and Kenneth had gone, to make up the fire and bring sherry.

  The guests were a little late, luckily, otherwise the dinner would not have been ready. They were Americans, she rather loud-voiced and voluble and he a little quiet man with a sad smile, and a glance for me round the corner of his pince-nez. I tried out ‘Dinner is served’ on them in a vain attempt to better myself, but the effect was rather spoiled by the door-knob coming off in my hand as I said it. Evidently the kitchen wasn’t the only room in the house that was lacking in efficient construction, and Mr Parrish said ‘tch, tch,’ and glared at me as if it was my fault. I replaced the handle apologetically and took the tattered remnants of my dignity downstairs. They followed close on my heels, and I handed round the soup, justly proud of its creamy smoothness. ‘He’ had asked for potage bonne femme, so I had made it in its most superior form, sparing neither cream nor eggs. The American woman was smoking so I placed an ash-tray beside her, but to my horror she did not put out her cigarette but held it in her left hand, taking puffs in between almost every mouthful of soup. I was terribly upset and moved the ash-tray a little nearer as I passed, but she was talking and didn’t notice.

  The next course was oeufs mornay. One of the eggs was rather overcooked and shrivelled, so I put it at the end, and handed her the dish so that she would be pretty sure to take that one. She did so, waving a freshly-lighted cigarette over the other eggs and ate it abstractedly, so that I was tempted to give her boot polish instead of anchovy for the savoury, to see if she would notice. Having learnt my lesson at Miss Faulkener’s, I washed up as much as I could as I went along, but it was an unequal struggle. Some of the things had to be cooked while they were eating the course before, and the end of dinner found me exhausted and surrounded by almost every plate we had in stock, all dirty. I took up the coffee and tried to send a telepathic hate wave to the American woman, which can’t have reached her, for her hand never faltered as she lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of her last. I ploughed through the washing-up, fury lending speed if not deftness to my hands, and stacked the dishes in the doorless cupboards where they would rapidly collect the dust again. Then I slung a few odd bits of broken china into the huge inverted electric light bowl which did duty as a rubbish bin, and left the premises by my private route – the area steps – not forgetting to put out the milk bottles.

  The next morning Mr Parrish’s first words to me were: ‘You must not rush off like that without letting me know; we might want something before you go. Last night I had some letters I wanted you to post.’

  The morning followed much the same course as the day before, except that about eleven o’clock I answered the front door to a small brisk man with a neat moustache who wanted to sell me a vacuum cleaner. I thought this was a very good idea; it would save me a lot of work and give me endless amusement. He gave me a card which said: ‘E. L. Robbins, representative “Sucka” vacuum cleaners,’ so I left him in the hall and went upstairs to give my employer a short résumé of his sales talk. It went down quite well, and I managed half to convince him that no house could possibly be kept properly without a vacuum cleaner and that it saved expense in the long run.

  ‘I’m wasted as a servant – a commercial traveller’s what I ought to have been,’ I thought as I went downstairs to tell the man that Mr Parrish would see him in the drawing-room. He had gone in there already, which I thought was rather presumptuous, and I gave a hasty glance round to see whether he’d pinched any cigarette-boxes or anything. Not that I really cared whether the dress designer was robbed of his trinkets, but they might suspect me.

  He was quite a long time coming, and as I couldn’t see anything missing I unbent towards E. L. Robbins and we had quite a cosy little chat.

  He told me all about the vagaries of door-to-door life. ‘Ever so nice, some are,’ he said, fingering his Old (high) School tie. ‘Talk away for hours, as pleasant as you please – even give you a cup of tea.’ If this was a hint I ignored it. ‘Then at the end they break it to you that a vacuum cleaner is the last thing in the world they’d think of buying, and there you are. A morning wasted, and what to show for it? Nothing. No, reely I’d rather they’d slam the door in your face at once like some do – eve
r so rude. Time is money I say.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll be able to persuade him to buy one of your thingammies here,’ I said. ‘It’ll be a great help to me – there’s so much to do, and he expects me to be a human dynamo.’

  ‘No, reely? What a crying shame.’

  ‘Yes, honestly – do you know –’

  Here we launched off, with one eye on the door, into a wonderful gossip, he registering suitable horror and sympathy as I unfolded an exaggerated account of my hardships.

  ‘Put upon you are, my dear – that’s what I say.’ At this point I suddenly recollected that perhaps there is such a thing as loyalty to one’s employer, and I didn’t much care for the ‘my dear’ or the too sympathetic gleam in his bulging eye. Anyway, I could hear the flop-flop of bedroom slippers descending the stairs, so I took myself off as Martin Parrish entered in a black dressing-gown with a gold dragon on the back. I left them to it, and the result was that Mr Parrish consented to see a demonstration. I was summoned from the kitchen to attend, and Kenneth arrived while the parts were being fitted together, so Mr Robbins had quite an audience as he trotted briskly about with his machine, sucking up quantities of dust from the most astonishing places.

  It was a great success. He fairly brought down the house by blowing a current of air under the carpet to ‘freshen away the damp’, which made it bulge and billow like a gentle sea. Mr Parrish and Kenneth conferred together while the machine was being dismantled, and the upshot of it was that they decided to buy a small one on the hire-purchase system, which, expounded by E. L. Robbins, sounded almost too reasonable. When he had gone I went down to answer the back door to my dream greengrocer, who was much chattier this morning and actually delivered himself of the information that lettuces were fourpence each.

  I felt in quite good spirits today. My employer had been roused out of his morning torpor by the vacuum cleaner, so I was actually able to do the bedroom and bathroom after lunch. I didn’t waste much time on them; I thought the dirt could wait till tomorrow, when it could be sucked neatly away. They were going to have cold meat and salad for lunch, and were going out to dinner, so I got down to a bit of cleaning in the kitchen. The floor was filthy, so I went on my hands and knees and scrubbed it. I started by the door, so as to be able to get fresh water from the sink without treading on the clean part, but this turned out to be not such a good plan. The back door bell kept ringing and I had to raise myself creaking and groaning and paddle over a morass to answer it. I was distinctly short with the tradesmen – they seemed to be doing it on purpose, and the milkman gave me back as good as he got.