Liza by Irene Carr

on oiled hinges.
    The man who stood there was tall and spare, in black jacket and trousers with a knife-edge crease. His sandy hair was neatly brushed, his long face forbidding. He looked Liza over, from the soggy, shapeless hat to the down-at-heel shoes. ‘Aye?’
    ‘ I’ve come about the job, sir, in your house.’
    ‘ It is not my house. This is the residence of Mr Gresham. I am Mr Gillespie, the butler. And what job are you talking about?’ He spoke with a Scottish accent and did not put Liza at her ease. But her mother had warned her: ‘In a big house the butler is next to God Almighty.’
    She brushed wet hair from her face with the back of her hand. ‘I met this lass in Newcastle and she said—’
    ‘ Oh, aye.’ Gillespie nodded. ‘That would be Bridie.’
    ‘ Yes, sir.’
    ‘ Well, a lass like you has no business coming to the front door.’ He frowned down at her. ‘Go round to the back.’ And he shut the door.
    Liza retraced her steps. As she looked back down the drive she saw a ship far out at sea, a rough sea under the rain. The steamer trailed a long plume of smoke and Liza was reminded of her father. The thought of him and his love for her, then of her mother, put heart into her. She walked determinedly round the house to the rear. There were two doors, one large by a window that looked into a kitchen — Liza glimpsed women moving behind the steamed-up glass. The other was narrow and open, and Gillespie stood just inside. He said grudgingly, ‘Ye’d better come in,’ and Liza followed him into a small office. There was a table and an upright chair, a shelf with a number of ledgers and a fireplace with a glowing coal fire. This was known as the butler’s pantry.
    Gillespie sat on the chair and took a notebook, pen and ink from a drawer in the table. He hooked steel spectacles on to his ears and began: ‘Name? Age? Nearly fourteen?’ He peered over the spectacles. ‘You’re not very big.’
    ‘ I’m strong,’ Liza protested.
    ‘ Are ye now?’ He sniffed and went back to his book. ‘What work have you been doing?’
    ‘ I want to be a lady’s maid.’
    ‘ Oh, aye! You and a lot more! You’ll have to wait a few years for that.’
    ‘ That’s what I meant: one day,’ Liza said meekly. ‘Now I’ll do anything.’
    ‘ So you say. Previous experience? References?’
    Liza tried to evade the latter: ‘I worked for Mrs Fanshaw.’ She gave the address in Tynemouth.
    Gillespie noted it. ‘Anyone else?’
    ‘ No, sir, but my mother taught me a lot. She worked in big houses.’
    ‘ Let me see your reference,’ Gillespie said, hand out-stretched.
    Liza swallowed and said miserably, ‘I haven’t got one.’ She tried to explain, ‘Her niece — I’d known her at school and—’ How could she put it? ‘We didn’t get on. She caused trouble for me.’
    Gillespie ’s outstretched hand was up now, signalling silence. ‘Are you saying you were dismissed without a reference?’ Liza could only admit it. ‘Aye, sir, but—’
    The hand was up again. ‘How long had you been there?’
    ‘ Four weeks, sir.’
    Gillespie rubbed his face. He laid down pen and spectacles and shut the notebook. ‘So you’ve had only one position and that was with Mrs Fanshaw. You were dismissed after only four weeks without a reference. Your only knowledge of the work in a house like this is what you’ve learned from your mother.’ He, like many in his position, had seen the results of that before, in girls who thought they knew the work but had to be taught all over again. ‘Is that correct?’
    ‘ Aye.’ Liza could not deny it. ‘But that lass tripped me when I was carrying a tray and then Piggy trampled all over my clean step—’
    The hand was up again and Gillespie was shaking his head, ‘Oh, aye, I expect you have an excuse.’
    There was a rap at the door. ‘Mr Gillespie? Mr Gresham would like a word, if you please.’
    ‘ Oh, aye, I’ll be there right away.’ He got up from the