though much rougher and heavier. As her eyes travelled along her body, she found she was wearing the black dress and long white apron of a traditional maid, and, patting her hand on the top of her head, felt a cloth hat of some sort. Sarah closed her eyes.
A mop cap
.
Oh God, I must look like an extra in
Upstairs Downstairs
.
Her eyes snapped open at the sound of quick, light footsteps approaching outside. The door opened and a young blonde-haired maid, dressed in an identical uniform to Sarah’s, came in. She carried a bucket and made a beeline for the window. Humming a merry tune, she set the bucket down and dipped a cloth into it. After wringing it out, she stood upright again, and that’s when she saw Sarah.
‘Bleedin’ ’ell, Sarah, you gave me a start! What’s happened?’
The maid hurried over and knelt at Sarah’s side. ‘Well, cat got your tongue?’
Sarah shook her head and shrugged. ‘No, just came over a bit funny,’ she whispered, wondering if Albert would suddenly pop up and nod, knowingly.
‘Well you’ve got more soot on your face than all the sweeps here in London.’ The maid dabbed at Sarah’s forehead with the damp cloth. ‘And I can smell sick … have you chucked up in that coal bucket?’
Sarah flushed and nodded, though why she should feel embarrassed about it she didn’t know. It’s not every day you’re in a supermarket going about your business one minute, and then getting sucked down a time tunnel or whatever the hell it was, and dumped in Edwardian London, the next.
‘ … because if you have, Sarah, you’ll be in right trouble and no mistake. She’s sacked people for less.’
Sarah was aware the maid had said something but in her confused state, half of it hadn’t registered. ‘Who sacked people?’
‘Who do you fink? Queen Victoria, of course, she came back from the grave and sacked the footman last week.’ The maid tutted, and shook her head at Sarah, but she did have a twinkle in her pretty blue eyes.
‘What did you say I had to do?’ Sarah ventured and managed a little smile.
‘Oh, lumme! I said get yourself up, empty that sick and get that fire lit before Mrs Pankhurst gets here. If you don’t, Lady Attwood will have your guts for garters!’
‘I expect you mean Mrs Pankhurst the suffragette?’ Sarah asked, getting slowly to her knees.
‘No, I mean Mrs Pankhurst the music-hall actress.’ The maid shook her head in disbelief. ‘Now, take my hand and let me pull you up.’
With grim determination Sarah struggled to her feet and immediately felt much better. She sighed and pushed her hair back under her cap.
‘Stop touching your face with them hands; you keep smearing more soot all over you.’ The maid took Sarah’s hands and scrubbed at them with the cloth.
Sarah sighed again and wondered who the hell she was supposed to save this time. Perhaps Mrs Pankhurst would visit and slip on a blob of Sarah’s sick. In her mind’s eye she saw a slow-motion scenario of Mrs P falling, her head inches away from brutal contact with the edge of the marble fireplace. But then, in the nick of time, Sarah would launch a rugby tackle at her. Mrs Pankhurst would land heavily, but unharmed, upon Sarah’s prone body.
Valiant history teacher provides a soft landing for the heroine of women’s rights. Hurrah!
‘What are you smiling at?’ The maid was looking at Sarah as if she’d lost her marbles.
Not a bad assessment to be honest, my dear maid
. The girl picked up the sick bucket. ‘Look, come on, I’ll take you down to the kitchen, you’ll have a glass of water and wash your hands, then you must get back to the fire, alright?’
The house was massive. As Sarah trotted after the slight figure down stairs and along corridors, she admired the beautiful but faded grandeur of the old building. Tapestries adorned oak-panelled halls, portraits, presumably of previous Attwoods, sneered down at her from high balustrades and landing walls and, in the main hall,
A mop cap
.
Oh God, I must look like an extra in
Upstairs Downstairs
.
Her eyes snapped open at the sound of quick, light footsteps approaching outside. The door opened and a young blonde-haired maid, dressed in an identical uniform to Sarah’s, came in. She carried a bucket and made a beeline for the window. Humming a merry tune, she set the bucket down and dipped a cloth into it. After wringing it out, she stood upright again, and that’s when she saw Sarah.
‘Bleedin’ ’ell, Sarah, you gave me a start! What’s happened?’
The maid hurried over and knelt at Sarah’s side. ‘Well, cat got your tongue?’
Sarah shook her head and shrugged. ‘No, just came over a bit funny,’ she whispered, wondering if Albert would suddenly pop up and nod, knowingly.
‘Well you’ve got more soot on your face than all the sweeps here in London.’ The maid dabbed at Sarah’s forehead with the damp cloth. ‘And I can smell sick … have you chucked up in that coal bucket?’
Sarah flushed and nodded, though why she should feel embarrassed about it she didn’t know. It’s not every day you’re in a supermarket going about your business one minute, and then getting sucked down a time tunnel or whatever the hell it was, and dumped in Edwardian London, the next.
‘ … because if you have, Sarah, you’ll be in right trouble and no mistake. She’s sacked people for less.’
Sarah was aware the maid had said something but in her confused state, half of it hadn’t registered. ‘Who sacked people?’
‘Who do you fink? Queen Victoria, of course, she came back from the grave and sacked the footman last week.’ The maid tutted, and shook her head at Sarah, but she did have a twinkle in her pretty blue eyes.
‘What did you say I had to do?’ Sarah ventured and managed a little smile.
‘Oh, lumme! I said get yourself up, empty that sick and get that fire lit before Mrs Pankhurst gets here. If you don’t, Lady Attwood will have your guts for garters!’
‘I expect you mean Mrs Pankhurst the suffragette?’ Sarah asked, getting slowly to her knees.
‘No, I mean Mrs Pankhurst the music-hall actress.’ The maid shook her head in disbelief. ‘Now, take my hand and let me pull you up.’
With grim determination Sarah struggled to her feet and immediately felt much better. She sighed and pushed her hair back under her cap.
‘Stop touching your face with them hands; you keep smearing more soot all over you.’ The maid took Sarah’s hands and scrubbed at them with the cloth.
Sarah sighed again and wondered who the hell she was supposed to save this time. Perhaps Mrs Pankhurst would visit and slip on a blob of Sarah’s sick. In her mind’s eye she saw a slow-motion scenario of Mrs P falling, her head inches away from brutal contact with the edge of the marble fireplace. But then, in the nick of time, Sarah would launch a rugby tackle at her. Mrs Pankhurst would land heavily, but unharmed, upon Sarah’s prone body.
Valiant history teacher provides a soft landing for the heroine of women’s rights. Hurrah!
‘What are you smiling at?’ The maid was looking at Sarah as if she’d lost her marbles.
Not a bad assessment to be honest, my dear maid
. The girl picked up the sick bucket. ‘Look, come on, I’ll take you down to the kitchen, you’ll have a glass of water and wash your hands, then you must get back to the fire, alright?’
The house was massive. As Sarah trotted after the slight figure down stairs and along corridors, she admired the beautiful but faded grandeur of the old building. Tapestries adorned oak-panelled halls, portraits, presumably of previous Attwoods, sneered down at her from high balustrades and landing walls and, in the main hall,
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