‘I’d like that.’
‘Good. That brings me to the last condition. If you work here, you are not to set foot in the shop, do you understand? If you wish to speak to me, you knock on the door between here and the rest of the house and wait for me to answer.’
This seemed so unreasonable. What was wrong with me? I didn’t have two heads, did I?
‘But why?’
‘I will not have my kitchen maid, even a clever one, interfering with my customers. You stay out of sight, do you understand?’
Bed and board versus the pleasure of telling him to get stuffed. Guess which won out.
‘Yes, sir.’
He gave me another of his insincere smiles. ‘Then you can start right away. What’s your name?’
‘Catherine Royal.’
‘Well then, Cathy. Come this side of the counter and I’ll show you where you are to live.’
Stepping through the gap, I shed my status as ‘Miss’ and became just ‘Cathy’. I thought to say that my friends called me ‘Cat’ but realized at once that I didn’t want Mr Tweadle addressing me on those terms. Cathy was a stranger I was sharing my life with for a few weeks until I could get myself out of here. She wasn’t me – not really.
Mr Tweadle led me down a dark passage to the back of the house. It didn’t take long to work out why the last maid had left. Mr Tweadle and his assistant had the eating and sleeping habits of pigs – though perhaps, Reader, I am slandering those worthy porkers whose only fault is that they like to roll in a little mud. The kitchen was filthy – not a clean utensil anywhere, rotting food in the cupboards and an inch of muck on the floor. Even a rat would have turned his nose up at dining here. Mr Tweadle thrust a cap and apron in my hand, pointed to the pump in the yard and turned to go.
‘Where am I to sleep, sir?’ I asked, thinking that I’d like to get that clean before I bedded down for the night.
‘Here of course. This is your kingdom now, Cathy. You’ll find your bedchamber behind that door.’ He crunched his way out over the grit that had accumulated on the flagstones. ‘I’ll have my dinner at five, supper at ten. I’ll send Nokes in with the necessaries when he gets back. I’ve an urgent errand for him.’
He left, roaring the name of his assistant. I heard the thunder of feet down the stairs and a hurried conversation in whispers before a door slammed.
How had I come to this? I wondered, looking at my sordid surroundings. It was only a week ago that I had been sipping sherbet in Grosvenor Square; now I was to scrape every foul thing known to mankind off the floor of a windowless kitchen. My bedroom was no more than a cupboard with a straw mattress. I propped the door open to let in some fresh air. The backyard went nowhere – just a square of bricks barricaded by high walls. You could look up to the heavens to see some colour and movement, but everything else was sooty and barren. It felt like a prison exercise ground with me as the only inmate.
Well, I was here by choice. I could walk out if I wished. My job was to make the best of it as so many had had to do before me. I rolled up my sleeves and started working the pump handle.
After several hours of work I felt quite pleased by the impact I had made on the kitchen. You could now at least see the flagstones on the floor and the table was scrubbed clean. I had lit a fire in the old stove and was just contemplating making myself a cup of tea when the door from the passageway burst open and a young man with a crop of greasy mud-brown hair clattered into the room carrying a basket.
‘’Ere you go, skivvy,’ he said, dumping it on to the floor. I could tell at a glance that he was a poor shopper: the vegetables were old, the meat scraggy and tough. He then parked his bony bottom on my clean table and stared at me.
‘What you looking at?’ I asked sharply, quelling the urge to poke him off with a toasting fork applied to his rear.
‘Pleased to meet you too, Copperknob.’ He put his big dusty boots on the chair, elbows on his knees, and continued to gaze at me. ‘’Ope you’re a better cook than the last one. She nearly poisoned us, she did, buying off-meat so she could keep the change.’
‘I’ll try not to.’ Little chance of that if I wasn’t allowed out to market.
‘I’m Nokes.’
‘I would never have guessed.’ I began sorting through his purchases.
‘Friendly soul, ain’t you?’
I said nothing.
‘Well, wise up, Copperknob, I’m either yer best friend in this ’ouse, or yer worst enemy. Treat me nice and I’ll be nice to you; go all superior on me and you’ll regret it. Just ’cause you can read and write don’t mean you’re better than me.’
So he knew about my writing, did he?
‘I don’t think I’m better than you,’ I said quietly, wishing he would leave me in peace.
Nokes picked his nose and ate the contents with relish. ‘Too right, girl. You’re not better than anyone now, are yer? Old Tweadie said your “patron” was Mr La-di-dah Sheridan – we all know what that means, don’t we? ’Ad flash friends once, ’e says.’
His thin face was lit up by a malicious smile. In my anger, I snapped a carrot in two – but at least it wasn’t his neck – you should give me some credit for that, Reader.
‘But you’re ’ere now – and don’t you forget it. At our beck an’ call.’
I didn’t think this speech deserved an answer so I took out a knife and began vigorously chopping vegetables for a stew.
‘You know what?’ he said loudly.
I shook my head.
‘I don’t think I like you.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said sardonically, throwing some meat in the pot. ‘See, your cruel words have made me weep.’ Tears caused by chopping onions were trickling down my face. ‘I am devastated by your penetrating character assessment and will forever be labouring under the burden of your displeasure.’