Above the upper servants in a dizzy region I knew nothing of directly was the steward, Mr Assinder, to whom the butler, the housekeeper, and the cook were responsible for the smooth and economical running of the household. He ate in his own apartments — this was the “steward’s table” I had heard reference to — or sometimes with the family. On certain gala days, however, he was the guest of the upper-servants and I heard these mentioned as occasions of considerable delicacy when his hosts had to steer a narrow course avoiding either miserly parsimoniousness or extravagant indulgence. On the same level as the steward but of negligible importance within the economy of the household, there were also the governesses and tutors who existed in a hideous limbo and, as an outward token of their insignificance, usually took their meals alone on trays in their rooms.
Apart from Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson, Mr David, and Miss Henrietta, the only other member of the family in residence was an old lady usually referred to by my fellow-servants (without rancour) as the “old cat” but more formally as Miss Liddy. The first three had apartments on the second floor, as did Mr Tom who, as I knew, was out of the house, and the two latter on the floor above that, on which were also the rooms of the steward, Mr Tom’s tutor and Miss Henrietta’s governess.
I felt increasingly, as the time dragged by, that though I was tantalisingly close to my goal, yet I might never reach it for the profundity of the gulph that still divided it from me. For example, one of the duties that Bob and I discharged was to spend two mornings a week cleaning in strict rotation various of the ground-floor and first-floor rooms. On Tuesdays we cleaned the Great Parlour, and since this was the only occasion on which I was permitted to enter the room, I hoped to be able to make use of the opportunity. When Bob had set me to polishing everything that was visible — rubbing the brass fittings with lemon-juice, cleaning the fireplace and grate by scouring the bars with brick-dust and black-lead and then brushing this off — he took charge of the more skilful work of sweeping the dirt and dust out of sight beneath the floor coverings. I learned some useful things for when we opened the shutters I saw that there were now bells on spring-handles secured to them against burglars, which would make that mode of exit very difficult. If nothing else, I was able to record in my memory the precise appearance of the entablature and its mocking design for it fell to me to clean it. This involved smearing it with a compound of verdigris, finely-powdered pumice-stone and newly slacked lime mixed with soap-lees, and then washing all this off with soap.
Knowing how essential it was to comprehend the workings of the household if I was to achieve my design, I worked out as quickly as I could the principles that regulated the structure of the day — or, at least, the normal week-day, for Sundays and holidays were different. The first division of the day — the forenoon — lasted from dawn until the moment when the dressing-bell for luncheon rang as the signal for the footmen to don their livery and make ready to serve that meal. During the forenoon they were in “undress” livery and I could be above stairs so long as I was under the control of Bob. Now all the work above stairs was completed: cleaning the rooms, making the beds, changing the linen, lighting the fires, and so on. The family either breakfasted late in their rooms and remained there, or kept out of the way of the servants in the breakfast-room, the morning-room, or the library. No visiters were admitted except those on business to Sir Perceval who received them in the library, where he was often closeted at this time with Mr Assinder or his legal advisers.
Once the dressing-bell for luncheon rang shortly before one o’clock, the “afternoon” had begun. This meant that no unliveried servants — kitchen-maids, laundry-maids, and so on — or livery-servants in “undress livery” could be seen above stairs. The evening began when the dressing-bell for dinner rang at half-past seven o’clock. The rules forbidding access above stairs were even stricter now, for liveried servants had to be in evening livery. One of the effects of these rules was that Bob and the other footmen spent a great deal of time dressing and undressing.
Tea was served to the family and guests at half-past nine. This period ended — unless there was a late dinner or supper — at half-past ten when the house was locked up in the ritual I have described. During this brief in-between period we lower servants were allowed once again to venture above stairs to perform our duties: carrying up lamps, candles, warming-pans and heated bricks. But after about eleven o’clock it was, in principle, part of the nightwatchman’s responsibility to ensure that no servants were moving about the house. In fact, since he fell rapidly into a drunken slumber he was not able to enforce this, and I soon became aware that quite a lot of movement between the different sleeping-quarters of the servants took place up and down the back-stairs.
All of this made it difficult to imagine how I could get access to the hiding-place for long enough to find how to open it — and I still had no idea of how that might be done. Night was obviously the only opportunity. Since I was fairly confident that I could pick the lock of the door to the Great Parlour, I would get Joey to bring me his father’s “spider” — though how or where I could conceal it I could not imagine. (I had arranged to meet him in the back-lane of the mews on Sunday evening, since Nellie had told Mrs Digweed that that was the only time the most menial servants had any chance to be free.) However, I still had the problem of how to get out of the house after my attempt.
During that first week I discovered how very hard the work was. Bob often slept late — and sometimes made me bring him his breakfast — so that the burden of his duties often fell very heavily on me. If I slacked then my share fell to Bessie, and if she got behind she received a worse drubbing from Mrs Gustard, the cook, than I did from Bob, so I tried not to let that happen. However, at least I became more adept at seizing food during the brief moment when I had the opportunity — the time when I was clearing the table after servants’-hall dinner and supper. But occasionally it happened that there was no food left and if I found any I dared not keep it for often Bob or Mr Thackaberry or even the housekeeper would, on meeting me in the scullery or the passage, stop me and almost absent-mindedly slip their hands into my apron-pocket. Once Bob found a piece of cheese that I must have put there quite without knowing it, and struck me fiercely on the side of the head.
So with the hard work and the near-starvation and the growing conviction of the impossibility of my task, I became increasingly dejected. How could I have been foolish enough to think I had any chance of securing the will? I was at the very lowest level of the household with the under-maids, the stable-lads, and the knife-boy, so that the life of the Mompesson family — their visiters, their dinner-guests, Mr David’s comings and goings down to Hougham for the game, and so on — impinged on me hardly at all. I felt myself to be like some low crustacean clinging to a rock on the sea-bed unreached by the ripples of the vessels passing high above me on the surface. All the difference I felt from the family’s comings and goings was that I had more or fewer boots to clean, coal-scuttles to carry, chamber-pots to empty, and knives to scour. Though frustrating in some ways, my remoteness from them was fortunate in other respects, for I feared — perhaps quite irrationally after all these years — that I might be recognised. Once, collecting the boots early one morning, I saw a lady come out of the door to the apartments which I had gathered belonged to the master and mistress, and recognised Lady Mompesson. Late one night Mr Thackaberry’s locking-up party found Sir Perceval still in the library and backed off respectfully after opening the door a little way. He came out, affably remarking to the butler that he had not realized how late it was, and passed without even glancing at me.
And always it seemed there was more rather than less work, for my initial exhaustion did not decrease as I became accustomed to it but grew greater as I became worn down by it. I had not started from a basis of robust health and it was an abiding fear of mine that I would fall ill.
That first Sunday when I was due to meet Joey in the evening, I found that the Sabbath-day’s r
outine as it affected me was slightly but significantly different. Although I had to rise at the same early hour, almost everything happened later for nearly everybody else in the household. So, for example, Nellie did not wake me at about five for she had the forenoon as a holiday. I performed the same early morning tasks with Bessie while Bob lay in bed late, secure in the knowledge that Mr Thackaberry would not be seen before noon. The rest of the upper servants breakfasted at eight o’clock instead of shortly after seven, while the family — those of them who breakfasted at all on Sunday, for this rarely included Mr David — had trays brought to their apartments at half-past nine. Then at eleven the carriage was sent round to take the family to their devotions at St. George’s nearby, and most of the upper servants and some of the others accompanied them thither on foot.
However, if Sunday was a day of rest for some, it meant even harder work for the others — at least in the forenoon. For instead of the family and the upper servants taking a small luncheon at midday and then dinner in the evening, one large dinner was eaten in the afternoon both above and below stairs. The family dined at two and the servants — both upper and liveried — had dinner together in the servants’-hall at about half-past three. This meant that while many of the household were at church, the kitchen-servants had to work particularly hard to prepare not merely parlour-dinner for the family who often had company, but also “hall-dinner” for the servants, as well as the cold suppers that would be required in the evening.
At one o’clock the family returned and the carriage and horses were put away for their one day of rest. No drive in the Park or to pay visits took place in the afternoon and if any of the family went out, a hackney-chariot was ordered from the nearby stand.
Towards half-past three when the family had had their dinner and tea had been served, there came the week’s great event below stairs: “hall-dinner”. This was the single occasion — other than feast-days, when all of the servants (except for Bessie and me and our fellow crustaceans) dined together, and they all dressed up for it. The household’s coxcombs, the footmen, appeared resplendent in their full dress livery, Mr Thackaberry and Sir Perceval’s gentleman were no less smart in their best coats and waistcoats, while even Mr Phumphred and his grooms presented themselves in carefully waxed top-boots and freshly-laundered neck-cloths. The female upper-servants, of course, vied with each other to appear in fine gowns, and even the maids in their muslin dresses competed with each other in the area of bows and ribands.
A great deal of ceremony was observed. First of all the lower servants assembled in the hall, standing beside their places. When all were present Bob went to summon the upper-servants, reappearing a few moments later with a haughty and remote expression on his face as he flung open the door and they marched in. Mr Thackaberry said grace and then the upper-servants seated themselves in places assigned to them — and the subject of much bickering — strictly in accordance with their rank. The butler occupied the head of the table with the housekeeper on his right. The rest of the servants sat in descending order of importance as the august presence of the butler grew remoter: first the upper servants with both sexes inter-mingled, then the livery-servants with the women first and then the men, ranked according to seniority. Finally, the head-coachman, Mr Phumphred, having ceded his week-day position to Mr Thackaberry, fortified himself at the opposite end of the long table with one of his grooms on either side, resplendently clad in plush knee-breeches and gold-laced coat.
On this occasion Bob took his place at the table and it fell to Bessie and myself to serve everybody. During the first course the upper-servants made conversation amongst themselves, and their inferiors had to remain silent unless addressed.
While we brought in the second course, Bob served wine to the upper servants and Ned handed round porter for those in livery. As Bob poured a first glass for Mr Thackaberry that gentleman said affably:
“Come, fill the glass, Edward.” He turned smiling to Mr Sumpsion: “To stint the wine is to insult our employer with the implication of close-fistedness, don’t you think.”
He agreed. And now Mr Thackaberry began an animated discussion with the housekeeper concerning the scandalous price of oranges. (For in front of their inferiors, they treated each other with courteous geniality.) When everyone at the upper end of the table had had the chance to air his or her views upon this topic, and the right of the upper servants to ignore the rest of the diners had been demonstrated, the butler, with great condescension, then bellowed down the length of the table:
“Very fine weather we’ve been having, don’t you think, Mr Phumphred?”
“So it is indeed, sir, you’re very kind to say so,” Mr Phumphred answered, clearly embarrassed by the public part he was called upon to play. “I thought my lady looked remarkably well at church, Mr Thackaberry.”
“She did, she did,” the butler replied, turning to Mrs Peppercorn for confirmation.
“Indeed she did, bless her,” that lady sighed. “Especially when you consider how much she has to vex her.”
The top end of the table exchanged sighs. The collective curiosity of the lower end expressed itself in Mr Phumphred’s cautious query: “They say Mr David is causing her a great deal of consarn?”
Mr Thackaberry and Mrs Peppercorn smiled at each other and shook their heads.
“And that that’s why the family ain’t going down to Hougham this Christmas,” Mr Phumphred persisted.
Mr Thackaberry placed his finger beside his nose: “Ah well, verb sap, you know, Mr Phumphred. There are various matters at issue here that I … in short, my lips are sealed.”
“Is there any news of the Chancery suit, Mr Thackaberry?” the head-coachman asked after a suitable pause. “They say it’s going against us.”
“Much more complicated than that, you know, Mr Phumphred,” Mr Thackaberry said briskly. “As you know, the Huffam heir has disappeared and it’s said that the judge is about to declare him dead.”
“And what would that mean for our people?” Mr Phumphred asked.
“It would be grave,” the butler answered, shaking his head and reaching for his wine-glass. “Very grave.”
“Why would that be, Mr Thackaberry?” Miss Pickavance asked innocently.
“Why, because … That’s to say … It’s a complicated matter of law, young lady, that I don’t believe you’d understand if I were to explain it.”
“Did you not meet the Huffam heir once, Mrs Peppercorn?” the head-house-maid asked sycophantically.
The housekeeper beamed at her: “Indeed I did. More than ten years ago when I was keeping house down at Hougham. In fact, I may justly say it was I that found the Huffam heir. He was a mere child at the time, of course, and living under an assumed name. But you know, I saw something in him that made me feel that he belonged to an ancient and honourable family. One can tell, I think, if one has spent one’s life among the gentry. I mean the real gentry.” (Here she glared magnificently at Miss Pickavance.) “And I was correct for he — or, rather his mother — was the last representative of the Huffam family from which Sir Perceval is himself descended. (For as you must know, Sir Perceval’s grandfather, Sir Hugo, married the daughter of Mr Jeoffrey Huffam.) But as for that little boy, he made such a great impression upon me that I told Sir Perceval about him and he guessed the truth, and this was how he and his mother were traced. Sir Perceval was most grateful. Most grateful.” She paused to let the implications of this sink in and then went on: “Though the heir has been lost sight of more recently, I am certain I would know him again for his nobility of bearing. But alas! he must have perished, poor child.”
“And the worse for the family if that is so,” Mr Thackaberry said, shaking his head.
When the third course had been removed Mr Thackaberry, after exchanging a glance with the housekeeper, rose — slightly unsteadily — to his feet, and this was the signal for Bob to jump up and hurry to open the door and for everyone else to stand. With an elaborate exchange of bows and
curtseys on both sides, the upper servants now filed out of the room. The atmosphere instantly relaxed. Mr Phumphred moved to the top of the table, everyone made more room for themselves, and the conversation quickly became animated and unconstrained.
“Go on,” Bob said to me, seeing me still in the room after a few moments. “Dissart’s in the pantry. Git on and sarve it.”
I did as instructed and a few minutes later left the upper servants drinking and eating nuts and comfits as they gossiped and quarrelled all the more unrestrainedly after the united front they had just had to present. When I went back an hour later the ladies had withdrawn to the housekeeper’s room for their tea, but the gentlemen were still there and discharging devotedly their duty to demonstrate their employers’ open-handedness.
Their inferiors in the hall were just as jealous of the family’s reputation, and by the end of the afternoon it was clear that very little work was going to be done during the rest of that day, except that Bob had one or two trays to carry upstairs. Bessie and I, however, still had to clear up and perform our normal duties. Under the conditions that now prevailed it was at least easier to obtain food, and Bob even pressed me, with uncharacteristic good humour, to eat some slices of boiled beef and the remains of a preserved damson-pie.
Meanwhile, the family consumed a cold supper which had been set out for them in the dining-room immediately after their luncheon, and so required no further work. I realized in course of time that on Sundays they either ate such a collation or dined out, for there was no parlour dinner and certainly no “company dinner” on that day. The effect of this was that on the Sabbath the majority of the servants had no further duties from shortly after midday, and they made use of this freedom in the way I have described. When I had cleared the hall and Bessie and I had washed the dishes, it was about seven o’clock and for the first time during the whole of that week I felt relatively free and unobserved. Consequently I was able, watching for my opportunity, to slip out into the lane at about half-past seven.