One Pair of Hands Page 8

  When Kenneth arrived, he was very annoyed in his gentle way that he hadn’t been told he would not be wanted. He had to go up to his employer’s bedroom to ask him to sign something, though even that would probably be too great a strain for Martin. I was giving the dining-room a quick flick-over, and I heard a great deal of complaining talk going on – I couldn’t hear what they were saying, even when I stood outside the door and polished the knob, till Martin’s voice suddenly rose to a scream:

  ‘Damn it all, I pay you, don’t I? What else do you want, you jealous little – !’ I recoiled and Kenneth staggered out, white and shaking and, before I could try to comfort him, ran unsteadily downstairs and banged out of the front door.

  I didn’t give Martin much of a lunch, I was too busy doing things for the dinner, but he polished off what I took him quite happily, and then settled down to a well-earned sleep.

  As the evening drew on, I was involved in a frenzy of cooking, and getting more exhausted and harassed every minute as I kept remembering things that still had to be done. Mr Parrish did not help my confusion by strolling languidly down to the kitchen with a book on how to make punch, with which he wanted me to help him. I said:

  ‘I can’t spare you a minute, sir.’

  He was very affronted, and I had to scare him away by nearly spilling some egg on his sleeve as he pored over the book on the table which I wanted to use. I couldn’t help it if he was annoyed; he’d be much more so if the dinner wasn’t ready, and I did not see why he shouldn’t do a little work for his silly party. He shuffled away into the dining-room and spent a sulky half-hour throwing fruit peel, spices, and the contents of various bottles into a huge china bowl.

  I got hotter and hotter as I basted meat and stirred sauces like mad, trying at the same time to fry potatoes in a deep pan of fat, which spat viciously at me whenever I went near it. When the door bell rang I was in too much of a turmoil to tidy myself or even take off my apron. My one idea was to rush upstairs and down again to my cooking as quickly as possible. I thought the couple that I admitted looked at me a little queerly, so when I returned below I took a look in the pathetic little square of spotted mirror that hung behind the kitchen door. I certainly was rather a terrifying sight. The steam and heat had turned my hair from a mass of fascinating curls to a sort of hayrick of lank straight locks; spots of brown grease were spattered all over my face, and there was egg in one eyebrow. It was not surprising that the guests had seemed a little taken aback; I looked as if I had some sort of plague. There was no time for repairs now, as a piece of paper, which was covering something on the stove, suddenly caught fire, and dropped black ash into the Hollandaise Sauce. I skimmed and strained it feverishly, but it was useless to try to remove all the little black specks, and equally useless to start it again, as there simply wasn’t time. I was in a panic, but I suddenly had a brainwave and turned the sauce into Béarnaise by adding some chopped herbs and gherkins which effectively mingled with the black specks and camouflaged them.

  I had barely time to do this before the bell rang again. I hastily did something about my plague-ridden face, broke a comb on my hair, and tied it back with a bit of ribbon. I tore off my apron as I ran upstairs, flinging it into the gent’s toilet as I passed. The rest of the party had all arrived together, and I announced them in my most up-stage manner, hoping that the first couple would think that there were two maids, and not connect me with the apparition who had let them in. Dinner was rather a sticky affair, the punch didn’t seem to imbue any of them with a wild party spirit. My bête noire, the chain-smoking American woman, sat on the host’s right and blew cigarette smoke into his face in a half-hearted attempt at fascination. He was still sulking, I’m afraid, and sat hunched over the end of the table, throwing out an occasional moaning word or two by way of conversation. A fat gentleman told long and pointless stories which made nobody laugh except himself, and that only a spasmodic wheezing.

  However, I could not pay much attention to the social aspect of the party. Serving up and handing a four-course dinner to six people all by oneself is a distinct strain, and I got pretty hectic. It was difficult to preserve an air of calm efficiency in the dining-room, while my nose told me that all was not well in the kitchen. The necessity for concealing the fact that my hands were filthy was troublesome too. When I cook and dish up in a hurry, it is rather a messy process, what with tasting and all, and of course there was no time to wash before taking the food in. I had to slide my hands carefully under the dishes; it’s not easy to get the second hand under, and involves clutching the dish to the bosom, but it’s better than shoving a grubby unappetizing thumb under the noses of the guests. When they finally went upstairs to play bridge, I felt as if I had been through a battle, and had to ‘take five minutes off’ before washing up. When I was in the thick of it, they rang for me to take up drinks, which meant taking off my overall and decking myself out once more in my frills.

  One of the tables was holding a rather acrimonious post-mortem, and voices were getting shrill. I withdrew thankfully to my kitchen, whose peace was only broken by the occasional gluggle glug of the Frigidaire. It was half past eleven before I had finished, and I was just going to go when they rang for me again. Martin Parrish came out into the hall and told me to make some more punch for them to drink the New Year in. He offered me the book of words, but I thought I would probably make a better one than he without its aid. I put in all the drink I could lay hands on, which wasn’t much as Parrish never kept a proper supply of anything, but I poured in the dregs of any bottles I could see, including the cooking brandy. After adding the fruit, I heated the whole thing to boiling-point, poured a big glass out for myself, and took it upstairs for the still slightly querulous company. It was rather a beastly party really – I was glad to be an accessory and not a member of it. When midnight struck, and grating sounds of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ floated down the staircase, I drank myself a toast in the poisonous Punch: ‘A kick in the Pants for all employers.’

  New Year’s Eve marked the beginning of a downgrade in my spirits. Work and dirt seem to pile up every day, and I got more and more tired. I was always getting desperate and leaving things to be done the next day, and, in spite of the frequent assistance of Ernest, I never seemed to catch up on myself.

  Exhaustion made me miserable, and many were the times when the plates in the sink were washed with my tears of self-pity.

  One evening as I was sobbing brokenly over a soup tureen, I felt a trembling hand placed round my shoulders. The back door had evidently been left open and Ernest had walked in all unbeknownst. He was very sympathetic and said: ‘Come, come, don’t take on so,’ and ‘dry your tears, little woman.’ I soon recovered, if only to make him remove his arm, and we had a long chat about Life and its Injustices which ended by his saying:

  ‘Give notice, dear, that’s what I say. Face it out, now come on, do.’

  Really, when I thought about it, it seemed a good idea. As I felt sure of getting another job, I saw no reason why I shouldn’t decamp before I got into a complete rut.

  I promised Ernest that I would give Mr Parrish a week’s notice the next day, but, by the time I arrived the next morning, I was so taken with the idea of leaving that I felt I couldn’t even bear to stay a week. Once I had made up my mind to go, I felt I must go at once or bust, and so, nerving myself for the ordeal, I delivered the bombshell to my master. ‘Sir,’ I said, depositing the breakfast tray on his chest, ‘I wish to hand in my notice.’

  He shot bolt upright and spilt some coffee on the grubby sheet.

  ‘Well, really, this is a bit thick! Perhaps you will tell me why you don’t wish to stay?’

  Common civility prevented me from giving several reasons, so I just said:

  ‘I’m afraid I find the work too tiring, there is really too much for one person to do.’

  ‘What rubbish. Anyone with any method would find this a very easy job, with all the consideration I have given you. However, if you’re not capable o
f managing, there is no use in your staying. I thought from the first that your lack of experience would lead to inefficiency.’ As I was going anyway, I thought I might as well let him have it, so I raved, in the most ill-bred and childish way for quite five minutes.

  ‘All I can say is,’ I finished, ‘that you’ll never get anyone to do the amount I’ve been doing. Your ingratitude amazes me – I shall go at once.’

  ‘No, you can’t do that,’ he said, regarding me with cold and withering distaste. ‘You will have to stay a week or at least until I get someone else – that’s the legal position.’ I flounced out of the room; as I passed the dining-room I savagely wrenched the handle off the door – it had never been mended – and hurled it out of the window. It gave me the utmost satisfaction.

  I bided my time, and maintained a brooding silence all day. Mr Parrish thought he had won, so did not mention the matter again, but gave himself some sadistic pleasure by summoning me upstairs countless times when he knew I was busy, and sending back his omelette at lunch, demanding another one less leathery.

  At six o’clock he went out to a sherry party, and with a whoop of joy I let out the emotion that had been bubbling in me all day. I had realized that, if I left my last week’s wages behind, I was quite within my rights if I walked out. Thinking to heap coals of fire, I left the kitchen tidy, with the breakfast tray laid ready. When I had removed the things that I had had to buy with my own money, the kitchen equipment was greatly depleted. I had a pang of pity for my successor, so I salved my conscience by leaving behind a rather beautiful green egg whisk. Upstairs, I celebrated my Independence Day by drinking a great deal of inferior Parrish sherry, and, thus inspired, I’m ashamed to say I wrote a very rude limerick indeed, and pinned it, with my thirty shillings wages, to Martin Parrish’s pillow.

  Chapter Six

  AFTER MY DÉBCLE chez Parrish, I did not look for another job at once. A slight rest seemed to be indicated, and I spent quite a contented few days lying in bed late in the mornings and massaging my hands with cold cream, in a despairing effort to get them back to normal. Also, the family were planning a motor trip in Alsace-Lorraine in the near future, partly to see the country and partly to eat the local food. I wasn’t going to miss that for anything, and I thought I might learn a great deal about my Art.

  The only regret I had about leaving Martin was that I had never said good-bye to E. L. Robbins. I felt really bad about that. He had stood by me through thick and thin, and it was on his advice that I had eventually given notice, and now I had gone and left him flat without a word. I thought the least I could do was to write a letter of thanks and farewell, which was sent to him c/o The ‘Sucka’ Company. In a few days I got his reply.

  MISS MONICA DICKENS

  DEAR FRIEND,

  Perhaps you will allow me to pen a few words of thanks for yours. I cannot tell you how I shall miss my delightful visits to your kitchen, and to see yourself and the other charming member of the fair sex. Nevertheless, for your sake, I am delighted that you are no longer subjected to the inconsiderateness and may I say unkindness of the person whose name I will not mention. In conclusion may I take the liberty of wishing you success in the future, and hoping that you will accept these lines in the spirit of sincere kindliness with which I offer them.

  I remain

  Yours faithfully

  ERNEST L. ROBBINS

  By the same post as this touching epistle came a letter from the agency asking me if I would consider taking a job in the country for three weeks, to help out a man who had a sick wife and three children on his hands and no cook. The call of the kitchen was strong, and the family sounded so nice that I rang up the agency there and then and said that I would just have time to fit it in before going away.

  They gave me the address – a Major Hampden, living at Yew Green, a village near Wallingford in Berkshire. I had passed through this county and always been attracted by it and wanted to get to know it better. I pictured myself roaming over the Chilterns in the afternoons when I was off duty, not realizing that I would be much too busy washing up the lunch and making cakes for a nursery tea to even poke my nose out of doors. When I rang up Major Hampden, he was so delighted at the idea of getting somebody that he fairly stuttered and stumbled over his words.

  ‘When would you like me to come?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, at once, at once, if you would be so good. We’ve been at our wits’ end with no one to look after the children – my wife’s an invalid – and no one to cook. We’ve been living on s-sausages and rice pudding, which are the only things I can do. We have an old body who comes in every morning – she’ll help you with the housework. Oh, dear, it will be a relief to have you here – I can’t tell you how p-pleased I am.’

  It seemed as if I should have my hands full, what with being a nursemaid, cook-general, and housekeeper all at once, but he sounded so perfectly sweet that I promised to go down the next day.

  YEW GREEN GROVE

  YEW GREEN

  NR WALLINGFORD

  BERKS

  Wednesday

  DARLING MUMMY,

  Well, here I am, safely installed chez Hampden, after an uneventful journey. The old boy met me at the station in an ancient car tied up with string, and drove me here through lovely country. It’s quite a primitive village, sitting at the bottom of the Chilterns, and surrounded by vast ploughed fields, with clumps of elms stuck about here and there. The house is what’s known as ‘rambling’, you hit your head in unlikely places, and a draught whistles at you round every corner. But I like it here, I’ve decided already.

  First of all, let me tell you that, much to my surprise, I am not a servant – I am ‘one of the family’, and they treat me real nice. It was very amusing trying to find out exactly what my status was. I arrived, all humble, like a tweeny with her wicker basket, to be greeted like a most welcome guest, sat down at the table where they were lunching off Bully Beef and oranges, and addressed throughout as ‘Miss Dickens’. Gone are the days when I clear one end of the kitchen table to crouch pathetically over the scraps off the dining-room plates.

  Old man Hampden is a perfect darling, and behaves as if I were here as a favour instead of in return for wages. He has mild blue eyes, and wears a fawn cardigan, riddled with holes, and short, tight plus fours. I don’t know what’s wrong with Mrs H. She lives in bed in a sort of summer-house in the garden; it must be freezing. What is it you have that makes you have to be in the open air? R.S.V.P. The children are adorable and consist of one boy of nine and one of six, and a minute thing of three called Jane. They are very independent, which is a good thing, as I’ve got to look after them, and the two eldest are at school nearly all day. I didn’t tell Mr Hampden that I had never looked after children, and didn’t know the first thing about them. The children soon discovered it, and were highly amused each time I slipped up in the ritual of bathing them. However, I didn’t drown them. Jane is a little touchy about details, and cried for five minutes because I took off her left shoe before the right. I had to run the bath water, so that the fond parents shouldn’t hear.

  I begged them not to call me ‘Miss Dickens’, it sounds so fearfully governessy and flat-chested, so I now answer universally to ‘Monty’.

  Mrs H. comes in for supper, which we have all cosy and homey by the drawing-room fire. She retires quite early into the Arctic night, so I have come up to my room, which is also Arctic. A bit of my window seems to be missing. I shall go to bed when I’ve finished this, as I have to get up at seven to dress the children, do a bit of dusting and cook the breakfast. Oh, the delights of a simple country life! But definitely like heaven after the Parrish ménage.

  All my love to everybody,

  From your cookie

  MONTY

  P. S. – Please send my trousers and any thick sweaters you can find. It doesn’t seem to matter what I wear, and it’s so cold. I wish I hadn’t bothered to bring my uniform.

  YEW GREEN GROVE

  YEW GREEN
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  WALLINGFORD

  Friday

  DARLING,

  Still here and still the most popular, seem to be the Most Popular girl in the School. Their last cook apparently was half drunkard and half-witted, and the one before that had religious melancholia and cried all the time. Major Hampden says he thinks that was why her gravy was always so watery – ha, ha. So, as I have most of my faculties, I am quite a change, and they don’t seem to mind even when I do make a mess of things. After all, how was I to know how to make suet pudding? I’ve always tried to forget that such things existed. Jane was sick in the hall after eating it, and I had to clear it up.

  I am supposed to keep the boiler stoked up – the old gardener lights it – but of course I forgot yesterday and it went out, so nobody could have a bath. I expected to be ticked off, but no. Mrs Hampden just said:

  ‘Oh, well, it’s the sort of thing anyone might do,’ and her husband giggled and said, ‘Well, no one must mind if I stay dirty then.’ I’ve quite changed my mind about humanity – the so-called servant problem wouldn’t exist if everyone was as nice as these people. Mrs Johns, the woman who comes in the morning to ‘do’, is a perfect scream. She comes from Devonshire, and something in her inside has slipped, I don’t know what, or where to, but the doctors say it’s a very interesting case. Her husband has Anaemia and has to sit in the kitchen with his feet up. Why? you ask. I’ll tell you. I had it all this morning over our elevenses. A year ago, Mr Johns was: ‘real nasty with this Anaemia; wastin’ ’e was, Lovey, and “Nellie,” ’e says, “I’m goin’ to get to me bed and stay there.” “Not if I knows it,” I says, “if you go up they stairs, you woan’t come down again, till you come feet first.”’ I didn’t know what that meant, but apparently it’s the way you arrive at your own funeral! All among the sherry and seed cake. So Mrs Johns had a marvellous idea. She remembered something that her sister-in-law’s cousin had once told her at a whist drive as an infallible cure for Anaemia. You sit with your feet higher than your head, so that all your blood rushes to your head and keeps you going. It doesn’t seem to matter if your feet wither and drop off – Mr Johns’ haven’t, anyway, and he’s been like that for six months. His wife says to him: ‘if you bring down they feet, Lovey, you woan’t last till Spring.’ It seems a depressing sort of existence for him.