suspended crystal chandeliers winked in the natural light cast down from a stained-glass domed ceiling.
The journey turned past a main hall, a dining room and down two flights of stairs. Sarah noted that the predominant smell of beeswax and old books gave way to boiled cabbage and cake. Scrubbed flag stones replaced polished floors and, entering under a stone arch, she found herself in a large kitchen.
A plump woman stood at a long wooden table. She wore a green candy-striped dress and white apron and sweat rolled from her brow, almost as fast as she rolled pastry on a floured board. A few other servants dashed here and there, carrying pots, jugs and plates, and a smartly dressed butler-type sat by a range reading a newspaper.
The plump woman glanced over at Sarah and the maid. ‘Did you remember to bring the milk in, Rose?’
‘Yes, Cook, I’m just going to sort Sarah out and then I’m back up to do the windows.’
‘Sort Sarah out, why what’s the matter with you?’ The cook stopped, frowned over at Sarah and placed her meaty hands on her hips.
‘I just felt a little dizzy, Cook. I’m alright now, thank you for your concern,’ Sarah said, hoping she’d done the right thing leaving the vomiting episode out of her explanation.
The cook wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. ‘“Thank you for your concern” she says. A bit hoity-toity, aren’t we? Next thing, she’ll be joining the WSPU like madam upstairs!’ She jerked a pudgy thumb skywards.
Sarah was unsure how to react to that. Thankfully, Rose grabbed her arm and bustled her through the kitchen to the scullery. ‘Right, I’ll empty this stinkin’ bucket before Cook smells it. You get some water in the sink; wash your hands and face and then get back up to the sitting room. Cook’s not in a good mood; she thinks the WSPU should be burned as witches. “Them’s that play with matches deserve all they get,” she says.’ Rose giggled.
Left alone at last, Sarah turned the tap on over the big, white, ceramic sink. It protested, making a squeaky noise like a strangled mouse, but eventually gave out a stream of beige-coloured water. She made a face and scrubbed at her hands with a bar of rough soap and reminded herself to steer clear of any liquid that hadn’t been boiled whilst she was here. Sarah replaced the soap and carefully dabbed her forehead with a sponge.
A cotton square was all she could find for a towel and she hoped that it wasn’t Cook’s best handkerchief. Sarah looked around the scullery and decided that although the house was grand, it seemed to be outdated for the Edwardian period and a bit shabby here and there. Miss Lemon Dress, presumably Lady Attwood, had said as much to her earlier.
That brought her to her next question. So, what year was she in, exactly? The cook had mentioned the Women’s Social and Political Union. If memory served Sarah correctly, Emmeline Pankhurst, due here for tea later, had formed the WSPU in 1903. Their tactics to get votes for women hadn’t got too militant until around 1911 when women, egged on by Christabel, Emmeline’s daughter, were encouraged to smash shop windows with hammers, and throw stones at the windows of politicians. Sarah also seemed to remember that arson became a weapon of choice around 1913. Was that why Rose said the cook referred to matches? But then if it was 1913, George V was on the throne – Edward had died three years earlier.
Sarah sighed, straightened her cap and smoothed out the creases in her apron. She wondered if John would appear, or at least a John lookalike. She could use a friendly face and some guidance right about now. She took a deep breath.
Right, positive thinking, Ms Yates. No use moping in here; get your arse back upstairs.
On her way past the range, the butler still in residence, she tried to glance at the newspaper’s front page. His thumb obscured the top line, so she dropped to her knee and pretended to tie her bootlace,
The journey turned past a main hall, a dining room and down two flights of stairs. Sarah noted that the predominant smell of beeswax and old books gave way to boiled cabbage and cake. Scrubbed flag stones replaced polished floors and, entering under a stone arch, she found herself in a large kitchen.
A plump woman stood at a long wooden table. She wore a green candy-striped dress and white apron and sweat rolled from her brow, almost as fast as she rolled pastry on a floured board. A few other servants dashed here and there, carrying pots, jugs and plates, and a smartly dressed butler-type sat by a range reading a newspaper.
The plump woman glanced over at Sarah and the maid. ‘Did you remember to bring the milk in, Rose?’
‘Yes, Cook, I’m just going to sort Sarah out and then I’m back up to do the windows.’
‘Sort Sarah out, why what’s the matter with you?’ The cook stopped, frowned over at Sarah and placed her meaty hands on her hips.
‘I just felt a little dizzy, Cook. I’m alright now, thank you for your concern,’ Sarah said, hoping she’d done the right thing leaving the vomiting episode out of her explanation.
The cook wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. ‘“Thank you for your concern” she says. A bit hoity-toity, aren’t we? Next thing, she’ll be joining the WSPU like madam upstairs!’ She jerked a pudgy thumb skywards.
Sarah was unsure how to react to that. Thankfully, Rose grabbed her arm and bustled her through the kitchen to the scullery. ‘Right, I’ll empty this stinkin’ bucket before Cook smells it. You get some water in the sink; wash your hands and face and then get back up to the sitting room. Cook’s not in a good mood; she thinks the WSPU should be burned as witches. “Them’s that play with matches deserve all they get,” she says.’ Rose giggled.
Left alone at last, Sarah turned the tap on over the big, white, ceramic sink. It protested, making a squeaky noise like a strangled mouse, but eventually gave out a stream of beige-coloured water. She made a face and scrubbed at her hands with a bar of rough soap and reminded herself to steer clear of any liquid that hadn’t been boiled whilst she was here. Sarah replaced the soap and carefully dabbed her forehead with a sponge.
A cotton square was all she could find for a towel and she hoped that it wasn’t Cook’s best handkerchief. Sarah looked around the scullery and decided that although the house was grand, it seemed to be outdated for the Edwardian period and a bit shabby here and there. Miss Lemon Dress, presumably Lady Attwood, had said as much to her earlier.
That brought her to her next question. So, what year was she in, exactly? The cook had mentioned the Women’s Social and Political Union. If memory served Sarah correctly, Emmeline Pankhurst, due here for tea later, had formed the WSPU in 1903. Their tactics to get votes for women hadn’t got too militant until around 1911 when women, egged on by Christabel, Emmeline’s daughter, were encouraged to smash shop windows with hammers, and throw stones at the windows of politicians. Sarah also seemed to remember that arson became a weapon of choice around 1913. Was that why Rose said the cook referred to matches? But then if it was 1913, George V was on the throne – Edward had died three years earlier.
Sarah sighed, straightened her cap and smoothed out the creases in her apron. She wondered if John would appear, or at least a John lookalike. She could use a friendly face and some guidance right about now. She took a deep breath.
Right, positive thinking, Ms Yates. No use moping in here; get your arse back upstairs.
On her way past the range, the butler still in residence, she tried to glance at the newspaper’s front page. His thumb obscured the top line, so she dropped to her knee and pretended to tie her bootlace,
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