Quincunx

  “What are the other rules, Mr Bob?” I hastily repeated.

  He relaxed again: “That’s better. You’ll find ’em out. There’s jist one rule what you needs to know for now,” he said. “And that’s ‘Do what Mr Bob …’ ”

  At that moment he broke off suddenly as a fattish, middle-aged man came in. He was wearing a green coat and white trowsers with a yellow and black checked waistcoat and a fine white stock. He had a lowering face which was covered with brandy-blossoms.

  Bob jumped to his feet and shoved the pipe into his pocket still cradled in his hand.

  “Are you doing those boots, Edward?” the man demanded.

  “Yes, Mr Thackaberry. That’s to say, the new boy’s jist a-doin’ of ’em now.”

  “Keep at your work,” Mr Thackaberry snapped at me, for I had turned to look at him while I continued to polish as hard as I could. “There was a good half pint of sherry left in the blue glass decanter last night, which I want to know what happened to it?”

  “Oh no, Mr Thackaberry, with respeck, sir. There weren’t no more nor a couple of fingers.”

  “I’m not going to argue about it, Edward. I’m just going to say, for the last time …”

  “Excuse me, please, Mr Thackaberry,” Bob broke in deferentially. “Let me send the boy away.”

  The man nodded and Bob turned to me: “Dick, go into the scullery and help Bessie clean the pans.”

  Taken aback, I did not move for a moment.

  “Is the boy half-witted?”

  “Excuse me, Mr Thackaberry,” Bob said apologetically and then a blow landed on my head from the flat of his palm.

  “Are you deaf?” he shouted.

  I staggered dizzily into the passage and making my way further along it, found myself in a gloomy, foul-smelling cellar that I took to be the scullery. Amidst the smell of damp and the reek of tallow-candles there was something sharper that pricked my nostrils. In a corner I now saw that there was a little hunched creature bent over a sink and scouring a huge copper.

  “Are you Bessie?” I asked. “I’m Mr Bob’s new boy.”

  Without glancing at me she nodded towards a number of vast pans stacked up beside the sink. I now saw that she was a girl of about my age but her body was twisted askew and her face was so thin that she looked like a very old woman. She said in a high-pitched voice: “Second table. Quick.”

  “I’m Johnnie,” I said, as I picked up a pan. “That’s my real name, though they call me Dick here.”

  She made no acknowledgement. I watched how she was rubbing a mixture of fine sand and caustic soda — that was the smell I had noticed! — onto the inside of each pan and then scouring with a stiff brush. I saw that her hands were red with numerous tiny splits in the skin that were bleeding in places and that their backs were covered in blisters.

  So I began to work and found that the soda burned my hands painfully. I was much slower and less adroit than the girl but although she worked furiously and without stopping it took us nearly three hours without a break to clean the coppers and boilers, scraping the burnt food off the pans and then scouring them with lemon and sand and using soda for the dirtiest until they shone like looking-glasses.

  Occasionally Bob wandered in and stood watching me for a few minutes, and two or three times a fierce-looking red-faced woman whom I took to be the cook came in from the other direction and encouraged us to work harder with a rain of curses and a shower of light blows about the head and shoulders.

  By eleven o’clock I was exhausted and my hands seemed to be on fire with the pain, but we had finished the coppers. I noticed that my shirt and trowsers were now filthy.

  Just then Bob came in and tossed something to me: “Put this on. Look at the mess you’re in. You should have arst me for your apring.”

  What he had given me was a long white apron. I noticed that he had taken off the dark green one he had been wearing.

  “Wait,” he said as I began to don the apron, and to my surprise he reached into one of the pockets of my trowsers and pulled out the contents: a six-pence, three pennies, and some ha’pence and farthings. He investigated all my pockets in the same manner, though no more contents were disclosed.

  He counted the money: “One shillin’ and four-pence three-fardens,” he said, then put the coins in his pocket. “This blunt goes in your box. And I have the key to it. So if you’re ever found with blunt or anythin’ what I didn’t give you, I’ll know how you come by it. Understand?”

  I nodded. Now he placed his hand in my pockets again and ripped out the linings of each of them in turn.

  “Now put that on,” he ordered, and I tied the apron around myself. “The green ’un is for working and the white ’un is for above stairs and waiting in hall and the housekeeper’s room, so don’t you get them the wrong way round, because if that white ’un gets s’iled I shan’t be too pleased.” He pointed to the pocket of the apron. “Now there’s your pocket. And if I ketches you with them pockets of your own sewed up agin or with anythin’ hidden on you, may God A-mighty presarve you.”

  He turned and walked away. At the door he looked round angrily: “What the deuce are you waiting for? It’s ha’-past eleven.”

  Interpreting this as an instruction to follow him, I caught up with him at a run. Other servants were making in the same direction down the dark passage. After a few yards we entered a large, low-ceilinged room with a sanded floor where a number of people were taking their places at a long deal table in the centre. Those at the top and the bottom of the table sat on high-backed oaken settles but in the middle there were only forms. The room was windowless and lit by tallow dips that stank terribly. I saw that the men-servants sat at one end and the women at the other, but what I did not grasp until later was that they were seated in strict order of precedence with the head-coachman at the top and beside him the under-coachman, the first, second, third and fourth footmen, then the grooms in the same order of precedence. The women were headed by the head-kitchen-maid, then the head-laundress, the house-maids, the kitchen-maids and the laundry-maids so that the most inferior men and women met at the centre — though they were forbidden to talk to each other.

  Bessie and I had to carry in the food and serve it to the women’s and the men’s end of the table respectively, when everyone helped themselves in the old-fashioned style. It was very hard work and Bob kept shouting at me and drawing the attention of the rest of the company to my deficiencies for comical purposes. I was myself faint with hunger and wondered when I would be permitted to eat. I whispered this question to Bessie as we collected the great serving-dishes.

  “Arterwards,” she replied.

  When the meal was nearing its end we had to start carrying the empty and used dishes back to the scullery. On one occasion as I arrived there, I noticed Bessie quickly seize a piece of bread and run it round the bottom of the boiler she had just put down. I followed her example, but there was very little left by our fellow-servants. I slipped a piece of bread in my apron-pocket to eat later.

  Bessie saw me and shook her head, for, as I learned, we were only permitted to eat what we could scavenge at the time, and to save anything for more leisured consumption was a serious offence.

  When I had carried the last of the dishes to the scullery I hurried back to the servants’-hall. Bob now stood up and looked at me commandingly: “Come along. Second table.”

  As he delivered these mysterious words he looked at my white apron and saw small smears of grease from the heavy pans I had been carrying pressed against my chest.

  He cuffed my head: “That apring’s on’y changed once a week. Keep it clean or you’ll answer to the palm of my hand for it.”

  He led the way back to the scullery and this time we passed into the kitchen — a large, high-vaulted room with an enormous fireplace hung with spits and roasting-grids. Here we picked up more containers of food, though this time the dishes were more elegant. We carried them back along the dark passage but on this occasion we went beyond
the servants’-hall and into a large room with a barred window through which a little light entered. It was deserted, but in the middle of it there was a handsome old table which was set for eight.

  When we had placed the dishes on the sideboard Bob said: “Now don’t forget to bow when the ladies and genel’men come in.”

  Then he went out closing the door behind him, but only a few moments later he flung it open and stood, bowing respectfully, holding the door back.

  A number of people now processed into the room from a chamber opposite. They were led by the butler, Mr Thackaberry, arm in arm with a tall, crow-like woman wearing pince-nez and whom, to my dismay, I recognised. It was Mrs Peppercorn, the housekeeper whom I had briefly met at Hougham all those years ago the day I first encountered Henrietta. I quickly bowed to hide my face, but as I did so it occurred to me that though she was unaltered, the same was hardly true of myself.

  The company seated themselves, Mr Thackaberry at the head of the table and Mrs Peppercorn at the opposite end. On Mr Thackaberry’s left was the cook and on his right a gentleman with a very shiny bald head and a prominent red nose. Then there were three young ladies whom I took to be lady’s-maids and at the bottom of the table a young gentleman and the head-house-maid on either side of Mrs Peppercorn.

  “Do what I do,” Bob hissed at me and began to hand round the plates in the new style.

  The food was exquisite and each course was accompanied by a different wine.

  “What do you reckon, Mr Thackaberry,” the gentleman sitting next to the butler remarked, “to the fact that the family is not to go down into the country for the festive season?”

  Pointing to the gentleman, Bob held out a dish and whispered to me: “Give this to Sir Parsivvle’s valick.”

  Mr Thackaberry looked at Bob’s back and waited until he had gone to the sideboard. Then, forgetting or discounting my presence, he first wiped his mouth with his napkin and then opened it, but before he could speak Mrs Peppercorn cut in: “The intention is to economise, of course.”

  “There is,” Mr Thackaberry said solemnly, “another reason. The Chancery suit is at a delicate stage, I understand.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” Mrs Peppercorn said. She added dismissively: “That suit has always been at a ‘delicate stage’.”

  “Ain’t it rum,” the cook began pacifically, for the Tartar of the kitchen seemed to be resolutely emollient amongst her superiors; “that Sir Perceval is so keen for Mr David to marry Miss Henny rather than the young lady he has in mind. They say she’s fearfully rich.”

  “But she’s a nobody, ain’t she?” boldly put in one of the young ladies who had the most charming curls and the prettiest dress. “They say her father was just a nabob who was bred apothecary and made his fortune nobody knows quite how.”

  Mr Thackaberry looked at her severely: “Sir Perceval would never give his consent to such a match.”

  “Why, Sir Perceval don’t know anything about it,” she exclaimed. “It’s Sir Thomas who is trying to bring it about.”

  With considerable dignity, Mr Thackaberry said: “If Sir Perceval did know of it, then I’m certain he would oppose the marriage. His sense of family pride would assuredly lead him to value rank above merely mercenary considerations.”

  Speaking as if to one of feeble understanding, Mrs Peppercorn said: “The truth is, Mr Thackaberry, that Sir Perceval does not realize that Mr David is so deeply in debt that he must make a good marriage or go under.”

  The butler flushed.

  “They say that Sir Perceval is furious with Mr David over his losses at Hazard,” the bald gentleman — whom I now knew to be the valet — commented.

  “And yet he does not know the half of them,” the same young lady cried. “Goodness knows what will happen when he finds out!”

  Mr Thackaberry glared at her but to no effect.

  “Ned told me he had a fearful row with his mamma last week,” she exclaimed in delight.

  “Joseph had no business to tell you,” Mrs Peppercorn said severely. “Mr Thackaberry, I trust you will warn your men-servants against spreading gossip.”

  “And likewise you, ma’am, your women-servants against listening to it,” the butler said.

  “I can’t believe this story about Mr David marrying Miss Henrietta,” the cook said quickly; “for she has no expectations at all.”

  “Very true, ma’am,” said Mr Thackaberry. “She would be a penniless orphan if it were not for the goodness of heart of Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson in bringing her up as their own child. And how in character it is that they should now want to make her one of the family by marrying her to Mr David.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Miss Pickavance cried. “Mr David is to marry the heiress. It’s not he who is to marry Miss Henny.”

  Mr Thackaberry flushed again and Mrs Peppercorn, smiling at his discomfiture, said: “Yet you are at least right in praising their generosity towards their ward. After recalling her from school in Brussels they are now paying for a governess.”

  “Governesses!” exclaimed Miss Pickavance with deep significance.

  Mrs Peppercorn glanced at her: “You are right. In reality, a governess is an upper house-maid with leave to wear no cap.”

  “And just because she is occasionally invited to dine with the family when they have no company,” Miss Pickavance commented, “that Miss Fillery thinks she lives on a footing of equality with them!”

  “In my experience, Miss Pickavance,” Mrs Peppercorn put in magnificently, “governesses always do. Consider the last one.”

  “Designing creature!” the young lady exclaimed. “Only recall the odious way she tried to ensnare Mr David! She even persuaded him to take her to Vauxhall-gardens once!”

  But now she had gone too far. With a glance towards Bob and myself at the sideboard, the housekeeper frowned her into silence.

  When we had served and cleared the first course, Bob whispered to me: “Help me take them dirty dishes and plates out to the scullery and mind you don’t touch nothin’ or I’ll skin you.”

  We did this and in the scullery I noticed that he was helping himself to a couple of small fowls and some slices of beef left in two of the dishes.

  When we returned to the housekeeper’s-room, Miss Pickavance was saying: “Of course, a body-servant who attends upon his or her employers must necessarily be more in their confidence than those who, however exalted, merely oversee the arrangements of their establishment. Would you not agree, Mr Sumpsion?”

  The bald valet looked at her in astonished terror and was fortunately saved the need to reply by a fit of coughing.

  We were serving the coffee a few moments later when suddenly Miss Pickavance looked at me and screamed: “What is this boy thinking of!” Everyone stared at me and she continued: “To come in here like that! That apron is absolutely filthy!”

  I had been taking pains not to dirty it any further, but Bob cuffed me on the head again: “He done it jist now, miss,” he apologised, “and I give him a row for it. It’s his fust day.”

  “Don’t come near me, you horrible creature!” Miss Pickavance exclaimed.

  “You stand back there and hand the cups to me from the sideboard,” Bob admonished me in a fierce whisper.

  “This is adding insult to injury,” Miss Pickavance announced. “I’m not used to being waited upon by servants in undress. At Lord Decies’ such a thing would never have been thought of.”

  “Indeed?” said Mrs Peppercorn very drily. “I was under the impression that in Lord Decies’ establishment the lady’s-maids did not dine at the second table.”

  The rest of the company sniggered and Miss Pickavance flushed.

  When we had served the coffee the butler said: “That will be all, Edward.”

  As we bowed and went out Bob seized my arm and twisted it behind my back to emphasize his words: “If you get me into a scrape agin, I’ll see you out of here with something to remember me by for the rest of your life. Is that plain enoug
h?”

  I cried out in pain and he released me. “Now when they ring the bell you go back and clear. Is that understood?”

  I gasped: “Yes, Mr Bob.”

  “Until then you go and help that gal.” He went off down the dark passage towards the servants’-hall and I returned to the scullery where I found Bessie cleaning the crockery that we had just brought in, and scouring the boilers. For the next hour I worked with her as before.

  After a short time I caught glimpses of magnificent figures passing the door into the passage clad in scarlet and chocolate livery with gold-braided froggings and shoulder-knots, ruffles at the sleeves, plush knee-breeches with white silk stockings and padded calves and shiny black pumps with bright buckles. They were all tall but seemed even more so now because of their heightened shoulders and powdered wigs. I had difficulty in recognising in them the mortals I had served at dinner. A new dignity and sense of their importance now hung upon them so that the fastidiousness with which they avoided anything that might soil their clothes partook almost of a moral quality that separated them from those of us not in livery. Bob appeared eventually, more magnificent even than the others, and too grand even to notice me as he passed through the scullery towards the kitchen.

  Now I heard bells ringing above stairs and suddenly there was a tremendous bustle and a procession of footmen came from the kitchen carrying smoking hot dishes. The family’s luncheon was being served and the commotion attendant upon it lasted for about an hour and a half.

  In the middle of it one of the bells above us rang and Bessie glanced up: “Pan’ry.”

  Not realizing she meant me I did not pay any attention until she screeched: “Pan’ry!”

  I returned to the room where we had served dinner. It was empty. I tried knocking at the door opposite and there I found Mr Thackaberry and Mr Sumpsion, Sir Perceval’s valet, slumped in their chairs before the fire.

  “Take ’em away,” muttered Mr Thackaberry, indicating the array of articles on the table.

  I did so and then worked all afternoon assisting Bessie. At intervals Bob came back into the kitchen to make sure I was not idling, but most of the afternoon he spent playing cards and drinking in the footmen’s room.