‘Will I ever see the children?’ Ettie asked sadly.
‘Never,’ Mary snapped. ‘Not with your nose to the grindstone every day.’
Suddenly a noise made them jump. A woman entered the scullery, wiping her hands on her apron. She had brown curly hair tucked under a cap, and a great bosom. Ettie gauged she was close to sixty; her cheeks were bright pink and her eyes very blue.
‘So, you’re the new girl. O’Reilly, is it?’ She padded over to where Ettie was seated.
‘Yes, er … ma’am,’ Ettie stammered, rising to her feet.
‘Sit down, dearie, we don’t stand on ceremony round here. Now, let’s have your first name, shall we.’
‘I’m known as Ettie, ma’am.’
‘Ettie, eh? I’m Cook, ducks. Pleased to meet you.’ There was a smile forthcoming; the first that Ettie had witnessed all day.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, too, Cook.’
‘Now finish your broth,’ Cook replied in a firm but affectionate manner. ‘Would you like some apple pie after?’
‘If you have any to spare. Thank you.’
‘After the day you’ve had, you probably need feeding up.’ The smile was still there and Ettie felt as though a ray of sunshine was bursting its way into the dark and depressed corners of her spirit.
‘What about me?’ Mary cried in alarm. ‘I’ve had a hard day, too.’
‘Oh, stop your caterwauling, miss,’ Cook chuckled good-naturedly. ‘You won’t be left short. You know that very well.’
‘You’ve fallen on your feet there,’ sniped Mary as Cook disappeared. ‘Must be that posh accent of yours.’
Ettie didn’t know what kind of accent she had, indeed that she had one at all. But it was obviously not to Mary’s liking.
Just then Cook called and Mary grabbed her bowl and hurried out. This time, Ettie was swift to do the same. On entering the warm scullery, the delicious smell of Cook’s apple pie baking in the black-leaded oven reminded her of the convent kitchens.
‘A spoonful of custard won’t go amiss either,’ Cook offered.
Ettie could hardly hide her delight as Cook spooned the piping hot crusty apple pie into her bowl. At least God had sent one welcoming soul along. If the rest of the day had been a bitter disappointment, then Cook was a gift from Heaven.
As if Mary was reading her mind, she nudged Ettie's arm. ‘Don’t enjoy yourself too much,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve a mountain of washing up to do yet.’
‘That’s all right,’ Ettie told Mary with a shrug. ‘I’ll do it all if you like.’
‘What?’ Mary stopped eating.
‘I worked every day in the orphanage kitchen.’
‘That’s a turn up for the books. I’d have had you down as a posh type fallen on hard times.’
‘Then you’d be very wrong.’
‘Blimey,’ said Mary in surprise. ‘You’ve got no one then, just like me?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Ettie, ‘just like you.’ She knew now why Mary had acted in such an unfriendly manner. She suffered from the often-fatal condition of being unloved, just like the children of the orphanage.
Chapter 58
Late that night, after helping Cook to clear the kitchen, Ettie climbed the many stairs with Mary to their attic room. It was pitch black inside until Mary lit the candle.
The shadows cast themselves in the flickering light as Mary flung herself on her bed with a loud yawn. ‘I’m tired,’ she complained, undressing and letting her clothes drop to the floor. ‘We’ve only got one po, so if you want to wee, do it quietly. In the morning you can empty it. If you don't this gaff will stink like a drain.’
After Ettie had washed, she took her rosary and knelt by her bed.
A few seconds later, Mary sat up in bed. ‘What are you doing now?’ she bellowed.
‘I’m saying my prayers.’
‘That again! Well, you can say whatever you like, but not with the candle burning. We only get issued with one every month.’
Ettie quickly extinguished the flame and the smell of wax curled into the darkened room. A half moon provided a little light through the small window pane. Even so, she managed to stub her toe on the truckle bed.
‘Now go to sleep,’ roared Mary. ‘Or else!’
Ettie slipped into bed and reached for her cross tucked under her pillow. She would say her prayers in bed, in future.
Mary’s snores were so loud they seemed to vibrate through the walls. Ettie lay awake thinking of Sister Patrick and her gentle Irish accent. Of Sister Ukunda and her clever bartering at the market. Of Soho and the family that would never live at the salon again. Of Gwen and her band of thieves and Terence; all the people who had passed through her life until now.
Lastly, she thought of Michael. It was just a few weeks to Christmas. She wondered if he thought of her, as she thought of him; if he missed their close friendship? Or was he at this very moment, lying in the arms of the beautiful young woman he had accompanied to the tobacconist’s of Silver Street?
The moon was still shining when Ettie rose the next morning. Woken by Mary’s snores, she lit the candle and poured a little water to wash with into the china bowl. She bathed her entire body, enjoying the luxury. How good it felt to be clean!
Gently probing around her eye, she was relieved to find the swelling, if not the bruising, had vanished. Tipping the dirty water into the chamber pot, Ettie turned her attention to dressing. Shivering like a jelly, she drew on the pantaloons and fastened her girdle. Unlike the soft brown uniform that Mrs Buckle had made to her exact measurements, the grey dress was several sizes too large. But once held in place by the ties of her white apron, Ettie was satisfied with its fit.
She bent to shake Mary’s shoulder. ‘Mary, wake up.’
Mary roused sleepily, pushing back her frizzy mop of hair. ‘What time do you call this?’ she demanded crossly.
‘I heard a clock strike four.’
‘Go back to bed. We don’t start till five.’
‘Where do I empty the chamber pot?’
‘Down in
