‘Hello, Bert,’ I said as I got in beside him. ‘I hope this isn’t too much trouble.’
‘None at all, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘Fact is, I’m glad to be out of the place for ten minutes. It’s bedlam up there, it is. Bedlam. Everyone’s running about the place, setting up this, tidying that, moving t’other thing. Cook’s shouting at the kitchen maid. Jenkins is shouting at Cook, the footman and the parlour maid. The mistress is shouting at Sir Hector. Sir Hector is shouting at the dogs. Miss Clarissa is shouting at Mr Woodfield. And I was thinking I’d be next in the firing line if I hadn’t had to pop over here to fetch you.’
‘Then I’m both grateful for the lift and delighted to have been of some help,’ I said as we set off.
‘I don’t suppose you needs to go over to Chipping Bevington to fetch something for your mistress? Bristol...? Gloucester...? London...?’
I laughed. ‘We should get up to The Grange, Bert. Maybe an extra pair of willing hands will lessen everyone’s need to shout quite so much. And perhaps they’ll all be better behaved with a stranger in their midst.’
‘Perhaps, Miss, perhaps. But don’t let them bully you into doing more than your fair share. There’s one or two of my fellow staff members who does as little as they think they can get away with and still complains about how hard done-by they are.’
‘I shall do my share and nothing more, Bert, I promise.’
‘I think you’ll be all right anyway, miss. I reckon a few of them are a little bit frightened of you after all them things you did.’
‘All what things?’
‘Catching them murderers. And there’s a story about how you threw that Irish prize fighter to the ground like he was a sack of straw. Did you really do that?’
‘Well... I...’ I stammered, bashfully.
‘I knew it,’ he said, with some triumph. ‘So that’s why them’s slightly afraid. Little thing like you chucking boxers about. Make anyone nervous.’
I laughed again and he smiled back.
It was only a few minutes’ drive to The Grange and we were pulling into the garage before I’d properly settled down to enjoy the ride.
‘If you go in through there,’ said Bert, indicating a door at the back of the garage, ‘that’ll take you into the servants’ passage round the back of the house. Go down the stairs and follow the sound of angry screaming and you’ll pretty soon be in the kitchen. I’ll be out here... er... adjusting the carburettor... yes, that’s it, I’ll be adjusting the carburettor if anyone asks.’
‘Righto, Bert. Thank you for the lift.’
‘My pleasure, miss. Good luck.’
I left him to his skiving and set off in search of the kitchen.
His directions, though vague, were uncannily helpful. The passageway was easy to follow and the sounds coming from ahead were, indeed, the sounds of pots and pans being clattered about and of Mrs Brown, the cook, screeching invectives at the top of her formidable voice. Someone in the kitchen was not having a happy time of it at all.
I decided that any show of timidity, even polite deference, would most certainly be my undoing and would see me badgered, nagged, hounded, and generally put-upon for the remainder of the day. The strict hierarchy generally observed among household servants could be all too easily forgotten if one failed to assert oneself. With that in mind I stood a little straighter, breathed a little deeper and opened the kitchen door with a confident flourish.
‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ I said, in my most self-assured, take-no-nonsense, Lady’s Maid’s voice. ‘How are we all today?’
Mrs Brown halted in mid-slam and stood with the pan in her hand, glaring towards the door as though her kitchen were being invaded. Rose, the kitchen maid, carried on with her chopping. She kept her head down and it was apparent that she was crying, but she glanced up and smiled gratefully at me for bringing her a moment’s respite from the yelling.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Brown, placing the pan on the range, ‘it’s you, Miss Armstrong. Come to join our merry band?’
‘Indeed yes,’ I said, breezily. ‘I was told Mr Jenkins would need some help upstairs.’ I had been told nothing of the sort, but I wasn’t going to give Mrs Brown an opportunity to co-opt me into her downtrodden kitchen brigade. ‘Is there somewhere I can leave my coat?’
‘Rose!’ she snapped. ‘Show Miss Armstrong to Miss Denton’s room, she can leave her coat there. Then come straight back here. No dawdling.’
‘Yes, Mrs Brown,’ said poor Rose, weakly, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Follow me, miss, I’ll show you the way.’
As she led me through the warren of subterranean corridors, I tried to engage her in conversation.
‘How long have you been working here?’
She plodded on forlornly. ‘’Bout two munfs.’
‘It’s early days yet,’ I said. ‘Things will get better.’
‘Will they?’ She was close to tears again. ‘I never thought it’d be like this. I can’t get anything right.’
‘I rather think the problem is with Mrs Brown, not with you. She hasn’t impressed me so far. I’m very much thinking of giving her a piece of my mind. All that shouting and banging. It’s not on.’
‘Oh, please don’t make trouble, miss. You don’t know what she’s like.’
‘I’ve met her sort before, Rose, don’t worry. I know how to deal with the likes of her.’
She didn’t seem reassured and when we arrived at Miss Denton’s room she simply gestured at the door and scuttled off as quickly as she could manage.
I knocked on the door.
‘Yes?’ said an imperious voice from inside.
I opened the door and poked my head round. Sitting in an overstuffed armchair with her feet on a stool, was a plump woman with greying hair swept up in an unfashionable style. Her face was set in a scowl. ‘Good afternoon,’ I said, cheerfully. ‘I’m Florence Armstrong, Lady Hardcastle’s lady’s maid. Mrs Brown suggested I might be able to hang my coat in your room.’
‘Come in,’ she said, more brightly, her face softening. ‘I’m Maude. Maude Denton. Lady Farley-Stroud’s lady’s maid. Pleasure to meet you.’
‘And you, I’m sure.’
‘I half want to say no, just to prove that bossy old biddy wrong, but I can’t take it out on you, my girl. Of course you can hang your coat in here. Join me for a cup of tea?’
‘I should love to, thank you.’
‘It’s just brewing now. Fetch yourself a cup from the shelf over there, there’s a good girl.’ She indicated a shelf above the small gas ring. ‘I gather you volunteered come over to help us with the party.’
‘That’s the plan, yes,’ I said, reaching for a cup and saucer.
‘What on earth possessed you to do something as silly as that?’
‘Well, it was this or sit at home on my own for the evening. This way I might get to listen to the band, at least. And I’m not exactly a volunteer. There was talk about “hiring” me for the evening.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t hold your breath, m’dear. If any payment is eventually forthcoming it’ll be grudgingly given and probably a penny or two short. Times is hard for the Farley-Strouds.’