Dancing the Charleston, page 2
Our cottage was tucked just inside the entrance. It was the old gatekeeper’s cottage. Lady Somerset didn’t have a gatekeeper any more. Sam, the head gardener, opened and closed the gates when he could be bothered. He used to have ten men under him, Aunty told me, but now he just had Poor Fred, who was simple, and Geoffrey, who had only just left school. He seemed a little simple too – he’d had to repeat a year to get his leaving certificate.
When I got home Aunty was usually in her workroom (which was originally the front parlour), stitching away, her mouth full of pins. I could never work out how she managed not to swallow any. However, today she was standing on the doorstep, dressed in her Sunday black, looking agitated.
‘Where have you been, Mona? School finished an hour ago! Look at the state of you! You’ve got your frock all creased! And what’s that down the front? Is it grass stains? What have you been doing?’ She seized hold of me, pulled me into the kitchen and whipped my dress right off before I realized what she was up to.
‘Aunty! Don’t!’ I protested as she wet a corner of the tea towel and started scrubbing my face. ‘I can wash myself, for heaven’s sake! What’s all the fuss?’
‘We’re going to see Lady Somerset,’ she said.
I could see her lying beneath the bedcovers.
2
I was astonished. Aunty went to see Lady Somerset to fit a new dress or repair a rip or replace buttons, but I only ever went on Boxing Day, when Lady Somerset held a special party for all the village children.
It wasn’t the sort of party you read about in children’s books, with fairy lights and jelly and ice cream, and strange-sounding games like Blind Man’s Buff and Squeak Piggy Squeak. I rather dreaded it, because we had to wear our Sunday best and file into the grand hall and, unless you were lucky enough to be standing right by the fire, it was freezing cold.
We didn’t play any games at all. We had to have a singsong, with Lady Somerset’s daughter-in-law, Barbara, playing the piano. We sniggered at her in secret because she looked so weird. She didn’t wear smart clothes. She wore odd bright velvets and trailing scarves and mad shoes, with her hair hanging loose down her back.
She played carols, and we joined in half-heartedly, often forgetting the words. Miss Nelson would have been ashamed of us. The Somerset children sang loudly and confidently, holding their fair heads high. Aunty whispered their fancy names as if it was a magic spell: Esmeralda, Roland, Marcella and Bruno. She seemed especially impressed by them, though she winced at their scruffy clothes. They had long hair too, even the boys, which made my classmates nudge each other and whisper rude remarks. I actually preferred their long tangled locks to the bristles and raw red necks of the village boys.
Barbara’s husband, Mr Frederick Somerset, the eldest brother, had died of influenza just after the war, but she had a new husband now – an artist called Stanley Barber. He was supposed to be famous, but no one in Rook Green had ever heard of him. He didn’t even bother to try to sing. He looked a bit of a ragbag too. He didn’t count as a proper Somerset.
There was a second Somerset brother, Mr Eric, but he had died in battle right at the beginning of the war, like my father. Aunty said Sir William and Lady Somerset had never got over losing their two elder sons. Sir William died of a seizure a year or so later, which made it worse. However, she still had her two younger sons.
The third brother, Mr George, sang in a hearty baritone, opening his mouth wide in a comical fashion. His wife, Mary, was the opposite of Barbara, stiff and proper in her tailored clothes. She kept dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief and looked mournful, though Aunty said she’d never got on with Lady Somerset. They had two children, a pug-faced boy, Cedric, and a little girl called Ada who looked like a Kewpie doll.
I liked the youngest brother, Mr Benjamin, best. He sang too, but he sometimes copied Mr George’s singing, or Barbara’s habit of tossing her long waves, which had us all in fits. Mr Benjamin was dark, with a curly cap of black hair, and he wore the most exquisite clothes. Aunty sighed over the fine stitching on his shirts and the style of his suits, though she didn’t approve of his jewellery. He wore several big rings on his smooth white hands, just like a lady.
After the sing-song we had tea, and that was a jolly affair – hundreds and thousands on thin bread and butter, iced buns and ginger pop. We were only given one slice of bread and the buns were small but, if we gobbled them down quickly, there was a chance of seconds.
Then came the best part: the presents off the tall Christmas tree at the end of the hall. We had to line up in age order – boy, girl, boy, girl – while Mr George and Mr Benjamin climbed a ladder and unhooked parcels from the prickly green branches. They handed them to Barbara, who in turn gave them to Lady Somerset, sitting in a big gilt armchair like a throne. Several of the girls curtsied to her as they were given their presents.
The wrapping paper was colour-coded: pale pink and blue for little children, red and navy for older ones. I’m still very small for my age, so last Christmas I was still given a pink parcel. It contained a white felt mouse with pink bead eyes. It didn’t even squeak. I’d have loved a real mouse to tame and feed on titbits. The older girls were given necklaces or bottles of violet scent or storybooks, all of which I’d have preferred. Maggie was a big, hefty girl, and was given a book called The Madcap of the Fourth. She wasn’t much of a reader, so she agreed to swap with me. Aunty saw us furtively exchanging gifts in the corner and was furious because she said it looked ungrateful.
The Madcap book wasn’t particularly exciting anyway – just a story about some silly pranks played by posh girls at boarding school. They didn’t seem to do any lessons and spent their time playing a strange sport called lacrosse, which didn’t interest me at all.
‘Is Lady Somerset going to give me a present?’ I asked Aunty now.
‘Of course not!’ she said, shocked. ‘What a thing to say! Poor Lady Somerset is very ill.’
How was I to know that? I badgered Aunty with questions as she threw my best daisy dress over my head and tidied my plaits. Aunty was proud of her embroidery, but I felt it was much too fancy.
‘Does Lady Somerset have measles?’ I asked. It was the only real illness I’d ever had and it had been awful. I’d had to stay in bed in a darkened room even when the rash had disappeared, and I wasn’t allowed to read in case it strained my eyes. I had never been so bored and fidgety in all my life. Aunty dutifully read to me for twenty minutes or so after lunch, and I knew she was doing her best, but she read in such a monotone that she even managed to make A Little Princess sound dull.
‘No, she doesn’t have measles, silly,’ said Aunty. She lowered her voice meaningfully. ‘She has pneumonia.’
I’d never heard the word before. ‘What’s that, Aunty?’
‘It’s like influenza, but worse,’ she said, shaking her head in concern.
‘Won’t we catch this pneumonia if we go and see her?’
‘It’s a condition that elderly folk get,’ said Aunty. ‘Ella said she was very poorly.’
Ella was the lady’s maid at Somerset Manor. She and Aunty were friends. They didn’t walk around arm in arm and tell each other jokes like Maggie and me, but they had cups of tea together, and chatted about the doings of the Somerset family. Ella sometimes slipped Aunty half a sponge cake or a plate of iced biscuits left over from afternoon tea at the manor, and every year Aunty made Ella a new dress and rejigged her hat with silk roses.
I wondered if Ella would have to nurse Lady Somerset. But why had Aunty been summoned? She could hardly be wanting to order a new dress if she was very ill. And why me?
‘We’re going to pay our respects,’ said Aunty. ‘Now, you’re to be very quiet and well behaved. No fidgeting. And don’t lean on Lady Somerset’s bed.’
I assured her that the very idea horrified me. ‘Is she going to die?’ I asked.
Aunty nodded meaningfully.
‘But she won’t die in front of us, will she?’ I persisted.
‘Of course she won’t!’ she exclaimed, as if I’d suggested that Lady Somerset might spend a penny in front of us. ‘Now promise not to show me up, Mona!’
The moment we were outside she took my hand as if I was a baby. I tried to wriggle free but she squeezed it tightly.
‘You’ll only forget yourself and skip or run. We must act solemn and dignified at a time like this,’ she said.
‘But it’s not as if Lady Somerset’s family,’ I protested. ‘I don’t think she even likes us.’
Aunty quivered. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Mona! She’s been very kind to us.’
She might have been kind, giving Aunty her custom for years and letting us have the cottage for free, but I was sure I was right. Lady Somerset had never said more to me than ‘Merry Christmas’ when she handed me a present, and she did so gingerly, making sure that her pale veiny hands didn’t brush against mine. She treated Aunty in the same manner. Out on the estate Lady Somerset always stalked past as if she didn’t even know her – yet every few months she stood in her bust bodice and knee-length knickers so that Aunty could pin her dresses into place.
The image was so bizarre that I couldn’t help grinning.
Aunty saw, and gave my arm a tug. ‘Take that smile off your face, Mona!’ she hissed. ‘Hurry up now – and don’t scuff your shoes like that, you’ll get them all over dust.’
We entered Somerset Manor through the back door by the kitchen garden. We walked along the narrow, dark passageway leading to the servants’ quarters.
‘So are you a sort of servant, Aunty?’ I whispered.
‘No, I’m an independent lady,’ she said proudly. ‘But I don’t use the front entrance because I’m Trade. Trade is when you sell things. I sell my dressmaking services to Lady Somerset.’
Aunty took all these distinctions very seriously, and seemed to think them right and proper. I preferred the Higginses’ attitude. The girls might curtsy and the boys tug their forelocks if forced to, but they joked about the gentry in private, mocking their manners and plum-inthe-mouth voices. Maggie called Lady Somerset Lady Somersausage, which made us both squeal with laughter, though it wasn’t really funny.
We turned a corner and came across the Somersets’ butler, an ancient stooped gentleman in tails, who glared at us.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘We’ve come to pay our respects, Mr Marchant,’ said Aunty.
‘That’s nonsense! Her ladyship won’t want to be concerned with the likes of you just now,’ he said brusquely.
I frowned at him. How dare he talk like that to Aunty as if she was dirt!
‘Her ladyship has sent for me,’ said Aunty.
‘A likely story!’ he said. ‘She would have asked me to contact you if that was so.’
‘She wishes to see me about a very personal matter,’ Aunty persisted. ‘She told her lady’s maid to contact me. Ask Ella if you won’t believe me.’
Mr Marchant winced a little at the word personal. Then he twitched his shoulders. ‘Very well,’ he said, and turned his back on us.
Aunty pulled my hand, whisking me on down the corridors. ‘Pompous old fool,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not taking any notice of him. Come along now, Mona.’
She led me up a narrow wooden flight of stairs. These were clearly the servants’ stairs, because the ones leading off the big hall were wide and softly carpeted, with gold stair rods and an imposing carved banister. I’d eyed it wistfully, wondering what it would feel like to slide all the way down.
We went through a door – and there was the carpet, and a landing lined with dark paintings of old people and bleak landscapes. Aunty’s friend Ella was peeping round a door right at the end, subdued in her uniform, her cap pulled down to her eyebrows.
‘There you are!’ she mouthed to Aunty. Then she stared at me. ‘Heavens, Flo! You’ve brought Mona?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘But it’s not right! You can’t take a child into a sickroom!’ said Ella.
‘Yes I can,’ Aunty replied.
‘I’ll be the one in trouble,’ Ella said wretchedly.
‘I need Lady Somerset to see her,’ said Aunty, but when Ella reluctantly let us into her ladyship’s bedroom, Aunty told me to stand in the corner, out of the way.
I was happy to do as I was told. I wanted to be as far away from Lady Somerset as possible. The curtains were closed and it was very dark and gloomy in the room, but I could see her lying beneath the bedcovers, her craggy old face as white as her pillowcase. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, giving her a long witch chin. If it hadn’t been for her heavy breathing, I’d have thought her dead already.
There was a sour smell in the room, and I wished someone would open the windows. Ella approached the foot of the bed and murmured something to Lady Somerset.
‘What?’ she said irritably, opening her eyes.
‘I said Miss Watson is here, Lady Somerset,’ Ella repeated.
‘Who?’ she asked. Her voice cracked. ‘Water, girl, water!’
Ella poured water from a blue carafe into a glass, and then awkwardly slipped her arm round Lady Somerset’s shoulders to help her sit up. The old lady still had her own teeth – they clanked against the glass – but she slurped inexpertly, like a toddler. Water dribbled down her chin and onto her chest. Ella dabbed at it with a cloth until her hand was slapped away.
‘Leave it, girl! Stop flapping at me!’ Lady Somerset lay back on her pillows with a great sigh.
‘Remember Miss Watson is here. You asked to see her,’ Ella said.
But Lady Somerset closed her eyes and didn’t respond. Ella shook her head at Aunty. ‘Better leave now,’ she whispered. ‘She’s gone back to sleep.’
Aunty took no notice. She went right up to the bed and bent her head low, near Lady Somerset’s ear. ‘Good afternoon, your ladyship. It’s Florence Watson here. How are you feeling?’ she said.
Lady Somerset’s eyes opened again. ‘How do you think I’m feeling?’ she rasped. ‘I’m dying, woman. Has that wretched dressmaker come yet?’
‘I’m your dressmaker, Lady Somerset. I’m Miss Watson. How can I help you?’ Aunty asked.
‘Ah! At last. It’s the matter of a shroud,’ she replied.
Ella gasped and looked at me anxiously. I wasn’t quite sure what a shroud was. Was it some kind of sheet thing you wore in your coffin?
‘You mustn’t trouble your head about such matters, your ladyship,’ Ella said hurriedly. ‘I’m sure the undertakers will take care of things in due course.’
‘I don’t want them to! I wish to take matters into my own hands!’ Lady Somerset insisted. Her breathing was harsher now, and she had to take great gulps of air when she spoke. I was desperate to get out of this horrible sickroom. I pressed myself against the wall behind me, wishing I could slide straight through it.
Clutching her sheets, Lady Somerset tried to speak. The veins on her forehead stood out.
‘The shroud?’ Aunty persisted.
‘Don’t want one!’ the old lady burst out.
‘But – but you have to have one, your ladyship,’ said Ella. She shook her head at Aunty, tapping her temple, indicating that Lady Somerset must have lost her mind.
But Aunty suddenly understood. ‘Do you want me to make you an alternative, Lady Somerset?’ she asked.
‘Yes! Yes! Can’t stand shrouds – dreadful things. And I don’t want a nightgown either – silly floppety nonsense, and too many buttons. I want something simple but stylish.’ Lady Somerset was making a huge effort, running her words together to get them all out while her breath lasted.
‘I think a gown might be more suitable, your ladyship,’ said Aunty. ‘Something regal. A white brocade embroidered with gold thread, and lined with white silk. Very loose and comfortable – no buttons at all, but with enough material for you to look suitably modest in your repose.’
‘Dear Lord, she’ll look like the Archbishop of Canterbury!’ Ella murmured, and I had to cover my nose and mouth to stop myself snorting with nervous laughter.
Lady Somerset seemed thrilled by Aunty’s suggestion. ‘Excellent!’ she declared. ‘Exactly the sort of thing! But how soon could you make it? I haven’t got long, you know. Even that fool of a doctor has to admit I’m on my way out.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can, Lady Somerset. Within twenty-four hours,’ said Aunty.
Ella and I stared at her in astonishment. She would have to buy the material, do the embroidery, stitch it together and then line it. How could she possibly manage such a feat?
Lady Somerset nodded, taking it for granted that Aunty wouldn’t let her down. ‘You’re a good sort, Florence Watson,’ she said, breathing more easily. Her eyelids started flickering.
Aunty had gone very pink. She opened and closed her mouth several times, and then suddenly blurted, ‘There’s just one thing, Lady Somerset.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll see you’re properly rewarded for the task. If it’s a regal robe, I shall pay you royally,’ she said, and wheezed with laughter at her own joke.
‘Thank you very much, your ladyship, but it’s more a matter of reassurance than reward,’ said Aunty.
Lady Somerset’s eyes were closed now, but Aunty laid a hand on her shoulder and shook it. ‘Lady Somerset? Can you promise me that I will be able to stay on at the cottage after – after your demise? It’s not so much for my sake – it’s for the child,’ she said.
‘Child?’ Lady Somerset murmured.
‘Mona! Come over here!’ Aunty commanded.
For a moment I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to go anywhere near that bed. But Aunty glared at me, eyes popping, and I had to. I approached tentatively, going to stand right behind her.
