Charity (13 page)

But then, she could buy what she liked with her wages. She could have four-inch heels, her hair done at the hairdresser’s in a beehive, and she could wear makeup all the time if she wanted to.

She put the new diary into her case. This was Uncle Geoff’s gift to her. It would last for five years and he said she must write down her thoughts every day so she could look back on it when she was an old lady.

‘Imagine all those first times to record,’ he’d said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Your first wages and what you spent them on. The first kiss, the first alcoholic drink. Five years from now you might be married with a child on the way. You’ll have spurned dozens of suitors, broken as many hearts. But if you write down your feelings, all your little worries, joys and moments of sadness, it will end up like a glorious tapestry for you to look back on with pleasure.’

Auntie Lou bought her a little travelling alarm clock, as always the more practical of the pair.

There was a small bible from the vicar, a manicure set from Auntie Lou’s friend Josie, and a sewing kit from Mrs Howard who lived next door.

Uncle Stephen had replied to her letter telling him about her job with just the kind of vindictive sneering she’d expected.

You’ve made your choice, though to me it appears a remarkably shortsighted and selfish one. I hope when you are washing floors and scraping plates you think now and then of the gracious life I offered you at Studley Priory. Under the circumstances I feel unable to offer you any further support and I have informed Mr and Mrs Charles that they are to relinquish any further responsibility for you.

Charity had felt very scared when she read the letter, but both Lou and Geoff reassured her that it only meant he wouldn’t be sending them any money for her keep in future. They insisted that as far as they were concerned, this would still be her home. But Charity couldn’t get rid of the dark thoughts in her head. She had overheard Geoff talking to her uncle on the phone and from what she’d picked up, he was very angry with her. Would he retaliate by taking the children away from here? If he stopped her seeing them altogether she couldn’t bear it.

‘All packed?’ Lou put her head round the bedroom door.

‘Just about.’ Charity lifted the case to the floor. ‘I’ve got a great deal more than I came with, haven’t I?’

‘None of that’s important.’ Lou came closer and put an arm round Charity’s shoulder. She tapped her on the head. ‘It’s what we’ve put in here and in your heart that counts. No one can take that away.’

Charity moved round to lean her head against Lou’s shoulder. She wound her arms round Lou’s slender waist. ‘I love you both,’ she said.

She had always told the children she loved them, but this was the first time she felt able to say it to an adult.

Lou was feeling unreasonably emotional. She had said goodbye to so many children over the years, and most she knew she’d never see again. It didn’t help to know that Charity would be home for the holidays.

Charity looked up and was stunned to see tears on the older woman’s cheeks.

‘Silly, isn’t it?’ Lou brushed them away quickly. ‘I never cry and anyone would think you were going to the other side of the world. But then it never hurts to show your true feelings.’

Charity buried her face closer into Lou’s bony, flat chest. ‘Don’t let the children forget me, will you?’

‘They won’t ever forget you, silly goose.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘You’ve stamped yourself in their hearts my darling. Nothing can ever erase that.’

‘Well this is it.’ Uncle Geoff lifted her case into the luggage rack. ‘Now one last hug before I have to get off.’

Victoria Station was frantically busy. The first of September, and most of the people seemed to be returning from holidays with bulging suitcases. Strange crackling voices over a Tannoy which seemed to be in a foreign language, newspaper men shouting, the sound of trains chugging in and out. Children yelling, babies crying, businessmen and women shoppers all pushing and shoving their way through the crowds of people who just stood watching the arrival and departure boards crank over.

The train was filling up rapidly. The empty compartment Uncle Geoff had found for her would soon be as full as the rest.

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ Geoff said with forced jollity. ‘Spend your wages recklessly, have fun in your spare time and don’t take yourself too seriously. I want to hear some good descriptions of everyone. If I get a letter that says, “Nothing to tell you much” I won’t write back. I expect a warts-and-all rundown on everything.’

‘You’ll have to get off.’ Charity lifted her face and kissed his cheek just above his beard. ‘Thank you for everything, Uncle Geoff!’

‘It’s me who should be thanking you,’ he replied, and his gaze faltered. ‘You and your family have given Lou and me such a lot. You’ll be constantly in our thoughts.’

Chapter Six

‘Haven’t you finished those pans yet?’ Mrs Cod barked at Charity through the scullery door.

Charity was exhausted: not just tired but dead on her swollen feet. It was almost two in the afternoon but she still had a huge pile of cutlery to dry and put away before she could climb up the stairs and lie down on her bed.

Her back ached from leaning over the sink, her head throbbed and her hands were so sore it was agony to keep them in hot water.

It had seemed a perfect job at first – polishing floors, making beds and cleaning windows, in preparation for the boys’ arrival back at school for the new year. But the honeymoon period had been brief. The real job wasn’t chatting and laughing with Carol as she found her way around an empty school. It wasn’t about doing tasks she found rewarding; it was a nightmare of endless drudgery.

Before the first of the flashy cars came rolling into the drive, bringing two hundred boys to fill those rows of empty beds, Charity discovered the meaning of real work.

All the bread was made at the school and though there was a machine for mixing and kneading, the dough had to be put into tins. Huge slabs of cake needed fruit to be picked over and washed. Then there were the mountains of vegetables every day. Potatoes were peeled in a machine, but all the other vegetables had to be done by hand.

It seemed as if no sooner was one meal over than another began, day in day out relentlessly.

Charity, in her junior position, didn’t actually cook anything; she was just the chopper, mixer, washer-up, collector of ingredients from the store rooms and the one who cleared and wiped down the long tables after the boys had finished eating.

She didn’t have time even to glance out of the window. The boys in their blue blazers, grey flannel shorts and striped ties were nothing but an incessant noise in the background.

She heard their feet on the big oak staircase beyond the staff wing, but her world was the scullery, where she stood at the big stainless-steel sinks, scouring huge pots, baking trays, mountains of dinner plates and cutlery. The window in front of her looked out on to the dustbins and a brick wall. Through the door, Mrs Cod presided over the kitchen. A sometimes terrifying place, shrouded in steam, hot with the many gas burners going all at once and blasts of extra fierce heat each time the ovens were opened to haul out huge meat pies, apple crumble and treacle tarts.

Charity had the greatest respect for Mrs Cod. Anyone who could roll out enough pastry for two hundred hungry boys, yet glaze the pies and decorate them with fancy leaves to make them look nice, deserved a medal. She ran the kitchen with military precision, judging quantities with her eagle eye, bellowing out orders to her minions so that everything was ready to split-second timing.

A barrage of conversation came from the kitchen as the staff chopped, rolled and mixed: peals of laughter above the noise of the machines, jokes she was never included in. Salacious gossip, which halted whenever she appeared through the door, was the only way Charity knew she wasn’t invisible.

The other women had their tea breaks together, often lounging on the steps outside the kitchen door, sharing cigarettes and more gossip, while she was excluded by the huge piles of washing-up dumped on the surface next to the sinks. The smell of cooking took away her appetite, the dirty plates strewn with leftovers made her feel nauseous.

‘Charity, where are the rest of the knives? Haven’t you washed those plates yet? I need those big saucepans. Do you call that clean?’ were the sorts of comment that were flung at her. Up at six, ready to serve breakfast at half-past seven. At nine she got ten minutes sit down to eat her own breakfast, providing the scullery and kitchen were clear of dishes.

Scraping out burnt porridge with her fingernails from the bottom of pans. Two hundred eggcups and spoons which she didn’t dare let one trace of egg stay on. No sooner had she eaten than it was time to haul in the vegetables from the store and start peeling.

Her blue nylon overall stuck to her body with sweat, her white cap slid down her forehead and, because of her slender shape, the huge white apron almost drowned her. Sometimes when she caught sight of her reflection she was reminded of Uncle Geoff discussing the plight of girls in service in Victorian times and wondered if he knew that things hadn’t changed much.

At two-thirty, with her day’s work done, she was always too tired to do anything but stagger up the stairs and lie down on her bed. When her shift changed to afternoons and evenings she’d foolishly thought this would be easier, but once again she was wrong. Maybe there weren’t the vegetables to peel or the porridge pots to scour, but the workload was just as daunting. Huge piles of bread to be buttered, heavy teapots to be carried, cleaning the kitchen, scrubbing the floor, more washing-up from tea, then polishing and laying the tables in the refectory for breakfast the next day. Late at night found her crying with exhaustion and homesickness, wondering how she’d find the strength to face another day.

‘Come on, girl, get those pots back in here!’ Mrs Cod called out again. ‘I’m going off now. Make sure you clean up before you go today. Yesterday you left an inch of scum round the sink.’

Charity picked up the pots and took them into the kitchen, reaching up to hang them on the hooks above the stove.

Mrs Cod already had her coat on, ready to go home to her cottage in the grounds. She was standing by the back steps with Pat, one of the part-time helpers from the village, both smoking, heads bent together as if chewing over some meaty bit of gossip.

Charity had found private names for each of the kitchen staff; planning letters about them to Lou and Geoff helped to ease the misery of the work. Mrs Cod she called the Fire-Eating Dragon. Dragon she certainly was, never satisfied with anything, and when she’d gone out to have a quick cigarette she came in with smoke billowing out through her nostrils. Pat she called the Viper, mainly because of her narrow face and stinging remarks. But Charity had discovered little about these two, or any of the other women, since term started, because she was always working alone and against the clock.

‘What’s that miserable look for?’ Pat yelled in through the open door. ‘It’s enough to turn the milk sour!’

Charity turned away, blinded by sudden tears. They were all so horrid. Even Carol hadn’t been near her since the boys came back, and no one had noticed how sore her hands were. How could she keep on writing cheerful letters to the children and Lou and Geoff? It was all very well people saying she would get used to hard work, but surely they had no conception of just how much she was supposed to do?

*

Carol was in the refectory laying the tables for tea as Charity limped by. Only occasionally did she have to take food to the refectory. The first time she had been so scared she had barely lifted her eyes off the floor.

It was a huge, oak-panelled room with low, small mullioned windows overlooking the drive. The boys sat at narrow refectory tables on forms in four long rows, with a member of staff at each who kept them under control.

A sea of faces, all seemingly staring at her, and when they moved to form a line to get their lunch, their vivid royal blue sweaters and grey trousers appeared like some huge centipede, bearing down on her.

Charity hesitated at the door, tempted to go and ask Carol’s advice, but the lack of communication between them in the last couple of weeks daunted her. Carol was so outgoing, so full of fun and laughter … maybe she thought Charity was a drip?

Peeling off her overall, Charity lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. Her room was on the top floor of the tower, looking out across the quadrangle. She could hear the boys playing rugby and their shouting reminded her painfully of Toby.

Her hands throbbed and she lifted them up wearily. They were identical to those of the woman who used to run the baths at Greenwich: swollen and red with her fingernails broken. There were small lacerations on each of her fingertips and one on her thumb was oozing a mixure of blood and pus.

She missed the children so much she felt like a part of her had been torn off. For as long as she could remember they had been everything to her and without them she was empty. She missed Lou and Geoff too. For the six months in their house she’d felt secure. She missed all those discussions with them, the joy of just being like any other teenager, their warmth and laughter. Now there was only work, no one to care if she was tired. No one interested in her. Letters were the only link, read and reread, but only to find she was guilty of jealousy. Sometimes it smarted like her sore hands as she imagined Prue bounding home from school to tell Lou about her day, or Toby playing with friends on the Common. Who had ever cared how she did at school? She had never played like other children.

Was this how it would be for ever? Too tired to do anything but lie on a bed once she’d finished work. Just a kitchen maid at everyone’s beck and call, with no life outside the scullery.

She had thought this room nice when she arrived. Now it looked like a prison cell with its iron bed and plain green walls. She had intended to explore Tunbridge Wells on her day off, buy some posters, but the room was just as impersonal now as it was when she moved in.