We played on the street whenever we could, but my favourite summers’ days were spent exploring. With my twin sister Gwenith and as many friends as we could round up, we would make our way to our mother’s home village of Cwmdare where “Mamgu” (our grandmother) would give us a greaseproof parcel filled with Welsh cakes to sustain us on our adventures on Craig Rhiwmynach, the mountain above the village. The climbing was never arduous but it was the highest and most exciting part of our young world and we felt like gods as we looked down the valley to the town, the villages, the railway, and the mines below.
I loved school. Most of my friends merely tolerated it, and Gwenith positively hated it, but I found something magical even in the mundane and boring work of copying letters and working out sums. But those tedious tasks enabled me to do something that really captured my imagination: to read. I read everything I could find, which in Aberdare wasn’t much. There was no public library in the town and so, with my parents’ reluctant permission, I would regularly walk the seven miles over to Merthyr Tydfil and spend the day in the library there. The librarian came to know me well and occasionally even let me borrow books, even though I wasn’t strictly allowed to.
At thirteen years of age, my schooling was done. There was little work for girls in a mining town, but my ambitions lay further afield anyway. I loved the town, I loved the mountains, I loved the valley, but I knew there was more, and I wanted to see it. We had been on a day trip to Cardiff once, and in my young mind, that bustling city was the height of sophistication and glamour.
I knew that my mother had worked in service and in my na?veté I thought that it would be an excellent way to see more of the world than just what was visible from the top of the mountain. My mother, of course, well knew how misguided my romantic ideas of life in the big city were, but she also knew that there was little for me at home and that there was more of a chance for me to make something of myself if she indulged my fantasy.
‘You can try it, my love,’ she had said. ‘And if it’s too awful we’ll have you home quick as a wink.’
And so, with the help of one of her old friends, I managed to secure employment as a scullery maid to a well-to-do family by the name of Williams in a prosperous area of the capital. I begged Gwenith to come with me. I couldn’t imagine life without her and tried desperately to convince her that we would have the most wonderful adventures together in Cardiff, but she was adamant that there was more than enough adventure for anyone in Aberdare and steadfastly refused to budge.
And so I went alone. I missed my family, most especially my sister, but there were other young children among the servants and I soon made friends.
The hours were long, the work was hard – and most often dull – but as well as teaching me to read, school had also taught me a tolerance for drudgery that saw me through. I did as I was told, learned my duties well and managed to stay out of trouble. For the most part. There were the usual tellings-off and chastisements, but on the whole I got on pretty well.
Theirs was a mining family, but unlike my own they didn’t work in the mines, they owned them. The house was large and lavishly appointed and it was possible, when they were away, for even the junior servants to explore. Mr Evans, the butler, would huff and bluster if he caught us, but we were careful enough and managed to get away with it for the most part. One girl was fascinated by the music room and would try to sneak in to play the piano whenever she could, and the boys, of course, loved the billiards room. But for me there was only one room worth the risk of being at the wrong end of one of Mr Evans’s lectures on correct behaviour: the library.
When the family was away, I would spend every possible moment of my spare time (of which there was, admittedly, precious little) hidden away in the library, working my way through their impressive collection of books. The best possible times were when one of my rare days off coincided with the family’s absence and I would manage to spend a whole day reading. I would usually sneak into the library, snaffle a couple of choice volumes and spend the rest of the day in my room, making sure to sneak back and return them later that evening.
One such Sunday I had done exactly that and was just about to leave when a copy of Emma caught my eye. I had discovered Jane Austen earlier that month and I couldn’t help opening up the book and reading the first few pages just to give myself something to look forward to the next time I was free.
I sat down on the floor by the tall bookshelves and crossed my legs. It wasn’t long before I was completely engrossed and lost track of time so that I was still there, avidly devouring page after page of Austen, when the door swung open and in walked Mr Williams.
There was a moment of mutual shock, but then to my immense relief, he began to laugh.
‘Well, well, well. What have we here?’ he said. ‘It’s Florence, isn’t it. We don’t see much of you up here.’
I stammered an apology and hurried to put the book back on the shelf.
‘What are you reading?’ he said kindly, taking the book from me. ‘Ah, Austen. A girl of impeccable taste. I find her a little fussy at times, but she sees the truth of people. A keen observer, don’t you think?’
I wasn’t completely sure what he meant, but as he gently coaxed answers from me, I found myself beginning to gabble excitedly about not only Jane Austen, but all the books I’d read. He seemed both amused and impressed and invited me to come to the library any time I wanted to, as long as I treated the books carefully and always put them back in the correct spot.
I was dumbfounded. When he had first walked in I had been sure that my illicit reading would be my undoing, but it turned out that it was an important turning point. Over the months that followed I had many more conversations with Mr Williams about literature, poetry, history, politics… everything, in fact, that his library contained. I was, I now think, his pet project, an attempt to make something of the poor little waif from the Valleys. Whatever his motives, though, I shall be forever in his debt.
Life in Cardiff had settled into a comfortable routine and before I knew it, two years had passed since I first left home. I had visited Aberdare at Easter during my first year away and it was wonderful to see them all, but even at fourteen I already knew that my life was going to be elsewhere.
I had taken to reading the newspapers as well as Mr Williams’s books, and on the 12th of July 1892 (I still have the clipping) I saw an advertisement for an agency at London. London! Cardiff had much to offer, but… London. I applied at once.
Mr and Mrs Williams wrote me the most excellent references and within a month I was on a train bound for Paddington.
Lady Hardcastle kicked the sole of my boot.
‘Daydreaming, pet?’ she said.
‘Actually, yes, my lady. Just reminiscing about the first time I was on a train to London.’
‘Ah, yes, your first big adventure. Actually, the start of the whole big adventure, if you think about it.’
I was still lost in thought.
‘Any regrets?’ she asked.