chair. ‘Wait,’ he told Liza.
* * *
George Gresham was in the library, wrapped in a rug before a roaring fire, a listless, wasted old man. ‘Ah, there you are, Gillespie. Pour me a whisky, please, there’s a good chap.’
‘ The doctor said not until after dinner, sir,’ the butler remonstrated mildly.
‘ Never mind the doctor. It’s my whisky, not his. And he only wants me alive because he knows he’ll get no money from me when I’m dead.’
Gillespie had made his token protest, as he did every day, and now poured the weak whisky and soda. ‘Would there be anything else, sir?’
Old Gresham waved a skeletal hand, and Gillespie left with a stiff little bow. As he returned to his pantry he reflected that his difficulty in getting and keeping staff was down to the gloom of the house. There was always a hush about the place, as if its occupants were in the presence of death, which they were. Frederick Gresham was dying.
And this little girl, hardly more than a child, would not do. She was too small, inexperienced, probably undisciplined from the tale she told. If he took her on she would prove another Bridie, here today, gone tomorrow ...
* * *
The ship Liza had seen had come from the Baltic and was bound for the Tyne with a cargo of grain. The smoke she trailed came not from her funnel but her hold where a fire had raged. William Morgan now climbed the ladder up to the deck with an unconscious man on his back. Hands came to take his burden from him as he reached the head of the ladder. Relieved of it, he swung his legs over the hatch coaming to stand on the deck where the canvas hoses snaked, fat with seawater. ‘It looks to be out but soak it down,’ he told the men who were playing the jets of water into the hold. Then he grinned. ‘Although the weather’s doing a good job of that anyway.’ He wiped off the rain that washed over his face, which was grimy from the fire below.
He had just turned nineteen and this was his first voyage as mate. He was the most junior officer aboard but his captain was impressed with the tall young man, and even more so now when he reported on the bridge: ‘Gallagher was overcome by the smoke but I brought him up. I think the fire’s out but I’ll go down again when the smoke clears and see what damage has been done.’
‘ Well done,’ his captain said.
* * *
Gillespie shoved open the door of his pantry and strode in. Liza stood bedraggled where he had left her, a pool of water around her feet. He remembered when he was twelve years old and in his first pair of shoes, leaving home for the first time to work in the big house. ‘I’ll give you a week’s trial,’ he said. ‘Now I suppose you’ll have to go for your box.’
‘ I hid it down by the gate,’ Liza said, in a small voice.
Gillespie sent one of the gardeners, who had been sitting in a potting shed watching the rain, to fetch it on a barrow.
That night Liza wrote a postcard to her mother: ‘I have a better position now in a big house. This is my address.’
* * *
Before the week was out Gillespie had decided to keep her on. He found her eager to work, hungry to learn and well trained by her mother. Before the month was out old Gresham had died. In the autumn his heir and nephew, Jonathan Gresham, returned from South America with Vanessa, his wife, and their children. The house came to life with a new young regime. The following year Jonathan rented a house in London for the Season and Liza was one of the maids who travelled south to work there through the summer.
* * *
Jasper Barbour had reached man ’s estate and also come to work in London. He had learned his trade in the back-streets of Liverpool and left to seek richer pickings and to avoid a growing reputation. In his first week in the capital he accosted a lone, elderly man in a dark and empty alley. Jasper was not tall but a thick-set, powerful man, brute-faced and fearsome in the gloom. He hefted a club and demanded, ‘Give us your
* * *
George Gresham was in the library, wrapped in a rug before a roaring fire, a listless, wasted old man. ‘Ah, there you are, Gillespie. Pour me a whisky, please, there’s a good chap.’
‘ The doctor said not until after dinner, sir,’ the butler remonstrated mildly.
‘ Never mind the doctor. It’s my whisky, not his. And he only wants me alive because he knows he’ll get no money from me when I’m dead.’
Gillespie had made his token protest, as he did every day, and now poured the weak whisky and soda. ‘Would there be anything else, sir?’
Old Gresham waved a skeletal hand, and Gillespie left with a stiff little bow. As he returned to his pantry he reflected that his difficulty in getting and keeping staff was down to the gloom of the house. There was always a hush about the place, as if its occupants were in the presence of death, which they were. Frederick Gresham was dying.
And this little girl, hardly more than a child, would not do. She was too small, inexperienced, probably undisciplined from the tale she told. If he took her on she would prove another Bridie, here today, gone tomorrow ...
* * *
The ship Liza had seen had come from the Baltic and was bound for the Tyne with a cargo of grain. The smoke she trailed came not from her funnel but her hold where a fire had raged. William Morgan now climbed the ladder up to the deck with an unconscious man on his back. Hands came to take his burden from him as he reached the head of the ladder. Relieved of it, he swung his legs over the hatch coaming to stand on the deck where the canvas hoses snaked, fat with seawater. ‘It looks to be out but soak it down,’ he told the men who were playing the jets of water into the hold. Then he grinned. ‘Although the weather’s doing a good job of that anyway.’ He wiped off the rain that washed over his face, which was grimy from the fire below.
He had just turned nineteen and this was his first voyage as mate. He was the most junior officer aboard but his captain was impressed with the tall young man, and even more so now when he reported on the bridge: ‘Gallagher was overcome by the smoke but I brought him up. I think the fire’s out but I’ll go down again when the smoke clears and see what damage has been done.’
‘ Well done,’ his captain said.
* * *
Gillespie shoved open the door of his pantry and strode in. Liza stood bedraggled where he had left her, a pool of water around her feet. He remembered when he was twelve years old and in his first pair of shoes, leaving home for the first time to work in the big house. ‘I’ll give you a week’s trial,’ he said. ‘Now I suppose you’ll have to go for your box.’
‘ I hid it down by the gate,’ Liza said, in a small voice.
Gillespie sent one of the gardeners, who had been sitting in a potting shed watching the rain, to fetch it on a barrow.
That night Liza wrote a postcard to her mother: ‘I have a better position now in a big house. This is my address.’
* * *
Before the week was out Gillespie had decided to keep her on. He found her eager to work, hungry to learn and well trained by her mother. Before the month was out old Gresham had died. In the autumn his heir and nephew, Jonathan Gresham, returned from South America with Vanessa, his wife, and their children. The house came to life with a new young regime. The following year Jonathan rented a house in London for the Season and Liza was one of the maids who travelled south to work there through the summer.
* * *
Jasper Barbour had reached man ’s estate and also come to work in London. He had learned his trade in the back-streets of Liverpool and left to seek richer pickings and to avoid a growing reputation. In his first week in the capital he accosted a lone, elderly man in a dark and empty alley. Jasper was not tall but a thick-set, powerful man, brute-faced and fearsome in the gloom. He hefted a club and demanded, ‘Give us your
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