still sitting beside my bed, still holding my hand. A patient lady. Are you a nurse? I ask her.
She shakes her head. I try to smile.
Oh, Mother, she says, and turns away.
I knew I’d seen her before.
Miss Parker, round and red-faced, hard-skinned as a nutshell, with a shrivelled rotten soul rattling around inside that starched shirt-front of hers. Miss Parker, who smirked at Lady Margaret and stormed at the rest of us. Parky, we called her, meaning cold, and she was. Even Mr. Davey treated her carefully. Now, Miss Parker, he would say. Try to give Miss Rose a chance.
This after I’d walked into the kitchen with a fork in my mouth. I’d been clearing the great dining room and the stack of dessert plates was slipping and both hands were busy, so I bent instinctively forward — like a dog, Parky said. Actually, she didn’t say dog.
I started at Rittenhouse Square as kitchen help, meaning washing up. When there was a specially big party I got to carry into the dining room. Mr. Rolyoke liked me in the dining room. He said I added a splash of grace and beauty. He smiled when I offered him vegetables. Once I didn’t take him boiled beets and he called me down the table. I almost burst with confusion.
You didn’t offer the dish to me, Rose, he said.
That’s because I know you don’t like them, sir, I said. I didn’t want to embarrass you.
He laughed. It’s nice to be able to say no to a pretty girl like you, he told me. The guest on his left, another old man, laughed too.
Lady Margaret didn’t seem to hear, but when I offered her some pudding later on she waved it away. Are you not aware, Rose, that I dislike lemon pudding? she asked.
I had to shake my head. No, ma’am, I said, and then blushed again because I knew she liked us to call her milady. Parker always did. I mean no, milady, I murmured, head down, sweat dripping off my nose. Winter outside but warm in the kitchen, with all the ovens going, and I was working hard. Lady Margaret liked the heat on. The radiators used to pop all the time.
I’d been taught to clear properly, right hand into left, but I must have been thinking of something else because the whole stack of dessert plates — mostly empty, Parky made a lovely lemon pudding, one of the few things she understood — slid to one side and I barely caught it in time. Still a dozen steps to the kitchen door. I walked carefully, but a fork was slipping from the top of the stack so I bent down and grabbed it in my teeth, showing up in the kitchen looking like a retriever bitch, as Parky put it.
Mr. Davey was drinking cocoa at the kitchen table, waiting in case one of the guests had trouble with their cars. Not everyone knew how to drive back then. Give Miss Rose a chance, he said, trying to sound calm.
How many more chances does the clumsy cow need? That’s not me talking, that was Parky, never circuitous, she always called a spade that bloody thing, as in Get that bloody thing out of mykitchen. She also called me that bloody thing. Go upstairs now, she told me in a throaty whisper so they wouldn’t hear in the dining room. You great galoot. You hulking farm girl. I’ll pour the coffee myself. Go up to the bedroom — that’s where you belong, you — well, You know what she said. With such a glittering leer in her face, a hurt angry jealous passion I couldn’t begin to understand.
What did she mean by it? I wasn’t that kind of girl. I never was. I knew about sex of course, you can’t live a spring in the country and not know what goes on. I remember watching with Gert — not more than seven or eight years old, and we knew what men — I mean horses — were like. In fact, I remember being relieved when I saw Robbie for the first time, not quite a stallion thank heavens. Not a fair comparison, I know.
Poor Robbie.
I don’t know why Parky called me a hussy, which she did, or a slat. I’m not. I wasn’t. She had less shame than I did, often had her door partway open while she was
She shakes her head. I try to smile.
Oh, Mother, she says, and turns away.
I knew I’d seen her before.
Miss Parker, round and red-faced, hard-skinned as a nutshell, with a shrivelled rotten soul rattling around inside that starched shirt-front of hers. Miss Parker, who smirked at Lady Margaret and stormed at the rest of us. Parky, we called her, meaning cold, and she was. Even Mr. Davey treated her carefully. Now, Miss Parker, he would say. Try to give Miss Rose a chance.
This after I’d walked into the kitchen with a fork in my mouth. I’d been clearing the great dining room and the stack of dessert plates was slipping and both hands were busy, so I bent instinctively forward — like a dog, Parky said. Actually, she didn’t say dog.
I started at Rittenhouse Square as kitchen help, meaning washing up. When there was a specially big party I got to carry into the dining room. Mr. Rolyoke liked me in the dining room. He said I added a splash of grace and beauty. He smiled when I offered him vegetables. Once I didn’t take him boiled beets and he called me down the table. I almost burst with confusion.
You didn’t offer the dish to me, Rose, he said.
That’s because I know you don’t like them, sir, I said. I didn’t want to embarrass you.
He laughed. It’s nice to be able to say no to a pretty girl like you, he told me. The guest on his left, another old man, laughed too.
Lady Margaret didn’t seem to hear, but when I offered her some pudding later on she waved it away. Are you not aware, Rose, that I dislike lemon pudding? she asked.
I had to shake my head. No, ma’am, I said, and then blushed again because I knew she liked us to call her milady. Parker always did. I mean no, milady, I murmured, head down, sweat dripping off my nose. Winter outside but warm in the kitchen, with all the ovens going, and I was working hard. Lady Margaret liked the heat on. The radiators used to pop all the time.
I’d been taught to clear properly, right hand into left, but I must have been thinking of something else because the whole stack of dessert plates — mostly empty, Parky made a lovely lemon pudding, one of the few things she understood — slid to one side and I barely caught it in time. Still a dozen steps to the kitchen door. I walked carefully, but a fork was slipping from the top of the stack so I bent down and grabbed it in my teeth, showing up in the kitchen looking like a retriever bitch, as Parky put it.
Mr. Davey was drinking cocoa at the kitchen table, waiting in case one of the guests had trouble with their cars. Not everyone knew how to drive back then. Give Miss Rose a chance, he said, trying to sound calm.
How many more chances does the clumsy cow need? That’s not me talking, that was Parky, never circuitous, she always called a spade that bloody thing, as in Get that bloody thing out of mykitchen. She also called me that bloody thing. Go upstairs now, she told me in a throaty whisper so they wouldn’t hear in the dining room. You great galoot. You hulking farm girl. I’ll pour the coffee myself. Go up to the bedroom — that’s where you belong, you — well, You know what she said. With such a glittering leer in her face, a hurt angry jealous passion I couldn’t begin to understand.
What did she mean by it? I wasn’t that kind of girl. I never was. I knew about sex of course, you can’t live a spring in the country and not know what goes on. I remember watching with Gert — not more than seven or eight years old, and we knew what men — I mean horses — were like. In fact, I remember being relieved when I saw Robbie for the first time, not quite a stallion thank heavens. Not a fair comparison, I know.
Poor Robbie.
I don’t know why Parky called me a hussy, which she did, or a slat. I’m not. I wasn’t. She had less shame than I did, often had her door partway open while she was
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