Yes, Mama. Helen Forrester

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СКАЧАТЬ servant knocked gently, paused and then entered the room, while Polly, terrified, quivered on the red Turkey doormat.

      ‘Come on in,’ the old man breathed irritably. ‘She’s waitin’.’ He shoved Polly forward and closed the door behind her.

      Before she lowered her eyes, Polly caught a glimpse of an incredibly thin woman, her heavy white hair done up elaborately on the top of her head. She was waiting bolt upright in an armless chair and was staring out of the window at the garden. Nestling in the folds of her grey silk skirt was a huge white cat. Heavily ringed fingers tickled the cat’s ears.

      Polly stood silently looking at the richly patterned carpet, and waited to be noticed.

      ‘Well?’ the old lady barked.

      Polly swallowed and then curtsied. She wanted to run away and cry, cry herself to death, if possible. ‘I’m Polly, Ma’am,’ she quavered, ‘wot used to scrub your steps and do the brass …’

      ‘I know who you are,’ snapped the voice. ‘What do you want?’

      Polly glanced up at her erstwhile employer. The lady was still staring out of the window; the cat stared at Polly. ‘Well, Ma’am, I – er …’

      ‘For Heaven’s sake, speak up, girl.’

      ‘Yes, ’m, I’m wantin’ to get a job as wet-nurse to a lady called Mrs Woodman in Upper Canning Street – and I was wonderin’, Ma’am, if you would write a letter to her about me.’

      ‘A reference?’

      ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

      ‘A wet-nurse, humph? Have you been in trouble? I don’t believe in helping servants in trouble.’

      ‘Oh, no, Ma’am.’ Polly was shocked out of her fear. ‘I were a married woman.’ Her voice faltered, and for the first time, Mrs Stanley turned to look at her.

      ‘Lost the child?’

      ‘Yes, Ma’am. He was born a bit early – ’cos me ’oosband were killed – in the Albert Dock, Ma’am. It must’ve bin the shock.’ She gulped back her tears, and then went on. ‘’E fell in an ’old, Ma’am.’

      ‘How very careless of him.’

      ‘Yes, ’m.’ Tears coursed down the girl’s cheeks.

      Madam stared at her thoughtfully. Everybody lost children; she had lost all hers. Still, it was depressing. And doubtless Mrs Woodman, whom she had met once or twice at parties, would be glad of a wet-nurse. She understood that, nowadays, they were difficult to obtain.

      ‘Have you been in service before?’

      ‘Yes, Ma’am. I were a tweenie when I were ten, ’elping the ’ousemaid empty the slops, and like. The Missus died … and then I found I could earn more specializin’ in doin’ doorsteps.’

      ‘Humph.’ Mrs Stanley’s lips curled. The lower classes were remarkable in their ability to survive.

      ‘And for how long did you – er – clean my doorsteps?’

      ‘Five year, Ma’am.’

      ‘Why don’t you go back to it?’

      Polly heaved a sigh. She was so tired that she thought her legs would give under her. ‘Me Mam wants me to improve meself,’ she burst out, with sudden inspiration.

      ‘Very commendable. And do you go to Church, Polly?’

      Polly had never been to Church in her life. And only once to an open air Wesleyan meeting with her father. She knew, however, what the answer must be. ‘Oh, yes, Ma’am. I go to St Nick’s – I mean, St Nicholas’s.’

      ‘Humph. Protestant, then?’

      ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ replied Polly promptly, wondering suddenly what she really was, since her mother was a Roman Catholic and her father a Wesleyan.

      ‘Mrs Woodman is a Protestant, I believe.’

      Polly did not care if Mrs Woodman worshipped golden idols, like the blackie seamen who walked the streets of Liverpool in silent, single files. All she wanted was three meals a day, to lessen the pain in her stomach, and a baby to suckle, to ease the pain in her chest; even the thought of suckling made her breasts fill and she could feel the milk trickling down to her waist.

      Mrs Stanley smiled thinly. She did not care for Mrs Woodman, a fluttering widgeon of a woman with an upstart husband who dabbled in many commercial enterprises in Liverpool. Distinctly lower-class. She thought it might be amusing to send them a wet-nurse who was probably lice-ridden.

      ‘Bring my desk from over there and put it on this table beside me.’ Mrs Stanley gestured towards the far wall.

      Polly did not know what a desk looked like and glanced, bewildered, towards the furniture indicated by the delicate white hand.

      ‘There, you fool – that – er – sloping box.’

      Polly carefully lifted a pair of crystal inkwells and a matching candlestick off the desk and laid the desk on the table indicated. She then replaced the inkwells and candlestick.

      Irritated, Mrs Stanley moved inkwells and candlestick to the back of the desk, so that she could open the lid and extract a sheet of paper, a goose-quill pen and a piece of sealing wax. In exquisite copperplate, she wrote To Whom It May Concern that Polly Ford was honest, industrious and had worked for her as a charwoman for five years. She was desirous of improving herself, and Mrs Stanley felt that she would give satisfaction.

      She sanded the paper to dry the ink. She then took a phosphorus match from the candlestick, struck it and lit the candle. She held the stick of sealing wax to the flame and allowed a small drop to fall upon the letter and seal it closed. Into the molten wax, she pressed a ring from her forefinger, to imprint her own seal.

      ‘There.’ She turned in her chair and handed the note to Polly. With a bit of luck, that would give the odious Woodmans a fair amount of trouble.

      ‘Oh, thank you, Ma’am.’ Polly’s voice was full of genuine gratitude as she made a deep curtsey.

      Mrs Stanley gave a stiff nod of acknowledgement, and then ordered, ‘Put the desk back on to the far table.’

      ‘Yes, ’m.’ Polly did as she was bidden, being particularly careful not to spill the red and black inks from their crystal containers. She then backed to the door, bobbing little curtsies as she went.

      ‘James will show you out. Pull the bell by the fireplace.’

      The only thing by the fireplace which could be pulled was a long piece of embroidered canvas hanging from the ceiling. Polly hoped for the best and pulled it. Then she stood with hands neatly clasped in front of her and examined the pattern on the carpet. She was stupid, she told herself. She should have realized that she would have to be escorted out of the house in case she stole something. Not that I would, she told herself crossly.

      The old manservant СКАЧАТЬ