trunk brought down.
When we settle into the buggy, Mrs. Dunn speaks rapidly to me: “My sister, Miss Alice Phipps, cooks for our establishment, and you will assist her in the kitchen, as well as serving at table and cleaning the boarders’ rooms and the rest of the house. At present we have five permanent guests. There is a kitchen garden, which you will help tend, and we keep poultry, so there are always fresh eggs. You will be in charge of feeding the chickens, cleaning the henhouse, and collecting and washing the eggs. The
Almanac
says eggs must always be collected in daylight hours. A woman comes in on Mondays for the heavy wash. You will help her with the mangling, and do the ironing. I presume you are able to patch and darn?”
I manage to nod, hoping there wouldn’t be too much mending. “I try my best, ma’am.”
“Where are you from? You look very dark.”
“I’m from London, ma’am. My mother told me my father came from Malta and I take after him. I never knew him. He died when I was a baby.”
“And what did your mother do–stay at home and look after the household?”
“Yes, ma’am, she took care of the house.” That isn’t a lie; that’s what a servant does.
Why is she asking all these questions? We’re orphans, we lived in the orphanage–there’s nothing more to tell.
She starts talking again.
Doesn’t she ever stop?
“The most important thing a girl in domestic service possesses is her good name. Her character must be unblemished. I expect obedience without question, cleanliness in habits, and, above all, hard work. You will take the next few months to become accustomed to our ways, and in the fall you may go to school if you are still in my employ. On Sundays you will attend St. John’s Anglican Church and Sunday school. St. John’s is the oldest church in Peterborough–we are fortunate that we live close by.”
The buggy stops in front of a pale yellow brick house with high narrow windows. I climb out after Mrs. Dunn, and she motions me to follow the driver, who carries my trunk to the rear of the house. “I will see you in the kitchen in a few moments,” Mrs. Dunn says, and walks up the steps to her front door.
If I’m still in her employ, she said. I’m to be a skivvy! Why did they tell us we were going to be part of a family? Was it all lies to make room for more orphans in the home?
If you were standing beside me, Helen, what would you say? I know … roll up my sleeves, get to work, and do the best I can. I will, Helen, and I’ll make you proud of me. You’ll see.
Journey
T he three of us start working on the top floor today. Grandfather’s whitewashing
The Attic
, and Gran and I strip off the final layer of the nursery wallpaper. Dad called from England just after breakfast. Said Step sends her love to everyone.
I tug viciously at a piece of wallpaper that sticks stubbornly to the wall. I’m stubborn, too. I manage to peel it off, and begin on the next strip.
Gran says, “I remember, when you were small, I made you take a nap in the afternoon. You were not at all pleased. ‘I don’t take naps anymore,’ you said. ‘I have quiet times.’ When I came back about half an hour later, you’d managed to pick off a corner strip of your new bedroom wallpaper. ‘It came loose,’ you told me, and you tried to put it back with spit.”
“I’d forgotten all about that.” I tear another long strip and watch it curl up like apple peel in one unbroken spiral.
“I must have made a lot of mistakes, Katie. It was a difficult time.”
“I must have been a horrible kid.” I really don’t want to get talking about after Mom died. “Gran, I’d like to go and see Miss Macready. She must be pretty ancient by now. I want to ask her about living here as a child, the kind of stuff that might help me with the play. You know, how kids were brought up, what they played, did she garden? Did she have a nanny or a maid?”
Deep down I’m still wondering about that
When we settle into the buggy, Mrs. Dunn speaks rapidly to me: “My sister, Miss Alice Phipps, cooks for our establishment, and you will assist her in the kitchen, as well as serving at table and cleaning the boarders’ rooms and the rest of the house. At present we have five permanent guests. There is a kitchen garden, which you will help tend, and we keep poultry, so there are always fresh eggs. You will be in charge of feeding the chickens, cleaning the henhouse, and collecting and washing the eggs. The
Almanac
says eggs must always be collected in daylight hours. A woman comes in on Mondays for the heavy wash. You will help her with the mangling, and do the ironing. I presume you are able to patch and darn?”
I manage to nod, hoping there wouldn’t be too much mending. “I try my best, ma’am.”
“Where are you from? You look very dark.”
“I’m from London, ma’am. My mother told me my father came from Malta and I take after him. I never knew him. He died when I was a baby.”
“And what did your mother do–stay at home and look after the household?”
“Yes, ma’am, she took care of the house.” That isn’t a lie; that’s what a servant does.
Why is she asking all these questions? We’re orphans, we lived in the orphanage–there’s nothing more to tell.
She starts talking again.
Doesn’t she ever stop?
“The most important thing a girl in domestic service possesses is her good name. Her character must be unblemished. I expect obedience without question, cleanliness in habits, and, above all, hard work. You will take the next few months to become accustomed to our ways, and in the fall you may go to school if you are still in my employ. On Sundays you will attend St. John’s Anglican Church and Sunday school. St. John’s is the oldest church in Peterborough–we are fortunate that we live close by.”
The buggy stops in front of a pale yellow brick house with high narrow windows. I climb out after Mrs. Dunn, and she motions me to follow the driver, who carries my trunk to the rear of the house. “I will see you in the kitchen in a few moments,” Mrs. Dunn says, and walks up the steps to her front door.
If I’m still in her employ, she said. I’m to be a skivvy! Why did they tell us we were going to be part of a family? Was it all lies to make room for more orphans in the home?
If you were standing beside me, Helen, what would you say? I know … roll up my sleeves, get to work, and do the best I can. I will, Helen, and I’ll make you proud of me. You’ll see.
Journey
T he three of us start working on the top floor today. Grandfather’s whitewashing
The Attic
, and Gran and I strip off the final layer of the nursery wallpaper. Dad called from England just after breakfast. Said Step sends her love to everyone.
I tug viciously at a piece of wallpaper that sticks stubbornly to the wall. I’m stubborn, too. I manage to peel it off, and begin on the next strip.
Gran says, “I remember, when you were small, I made you take a nap in the afternoon. You were not at all pleased. ‘I don’t take naps anymore,’ you said. ‘I have quiet times.’ When I came back about half an hour later, you’d managed to pick off a corner strip of your new bedroom wallpaper. ‘It came loose,’ you told me, and you tried to put it back with spit.”
“I’d forgotten all about that.” I tear another long strip and watch it curl up like apple peel in one unbroken spiral.
“I must have made a lot of mistakes, Katie. It was a difficult time.”
“I must have been a horrible kid.” I really don’t want to get talking about after Mom died. “Gran, I’d like to go and see Miss Macready. She must be pretty ancient by now. I want to ask her about living here as a child, the kind of stuff that might help me with the play. You know, how kids were brought up, what they played, did she garden? Did she have a nanny or a maid?”
Deep down I’m still wondering about that
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