Wainwright who was doing the asking.
‘You’re old for a junior housemaid.’
‘I can learn quick, mam.’
‘That is extremely clear, but have you ever scrubbed a floor? Laid a grate?’
‘Yes.’ Grace thought of Ma – You’ll do better than this, but best know how – and kept her smile up. Not quite three weeks and she missed home. Missed the rain, the chill, even her little sisters. Even now she still wakes in the night thinking she can hear them all those hundreds of miles away.
‘I don’t know who this Miss Sand is,’ said Mrs Wainwright, ‘but she writes a good letter. Mary will show you your room and you’ll share with her. Even though she’s younger I am afraid she’ll be above you, for she’s been here a good while. I’d give her the sense of that if I were you.’
‘Thank you, mam, thank you.’
‘Don’t gush. Thank me if we keep you on. And, Grace …’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ll have to learn to speak more clearly. However, keep quiet and you’ll do well. When you’re a housekeeper you can raise your voice.’
Grace bought a single sheet of notepaper, an envelope and a stamp on the way back to the boarding house to pack her bags. The dining room was empty and she sat down at the table to write a letter to her parents. It wasn’t long. All that needed to be said could fit in a sentence or two, any more and she might get herself in a muddle. She folded the paper, fiddled it into the envelope and stamped it. She was paid up until the end of the week and she wasn’t going to be seeing a penny back, not after they’d ordered her food, she’d been told, or could have let the bed out to another young woman. Grace didn’t bother pointing out that there were two beds empty on the top floor. There were no goodbyes – all the boarders were out at work – so she left her door key on the sideboard and closed the front door behind her. She passed a pillar box on her way back to Mrs Wainwright.
It’s three in the afternoon and they’ve only an hour off today, too much to do for any longer. The dance is a month away but the invitations have just gone out and so they must, says Mrs Wainwright, start to prepare. Grace doesn’t point out that the house is spotless enough for royalty every day of the week.
Mary wants to go for a walk. She’d rather, she says, that Grace came with her, good for Grace, too. ‘That’s living like a princess to see all that green across the road, asking for a visit.’ Grace doesn’t want to go out. She sits on her bed where the mattress dips, snug between the mounds on either side. Boots off, feet on the edge of the mattress, her fists are on her knees. Her thumbs press into the sides of her forefingers, twisting the near-translucent paper that she is squeezing between them. A neat script is inked across the page. Not a smudge, Ma never smudges, never let Grace either, one blob spread in the wrong page and she’d send Grace back to the kitchen table to do her lessons again, whatever the cost of the paper.
After Grace had finished her homework, Ma would give her an apron and a pair of old leather gloves to wear – you don’t wantskivvy’s hands, Grace, you won’t get into an office like that. That’s my life’s work, Grace, Ma’d say. She has a funny smile, Ma, all bright and shiny so’s you can’t tell whether she’s teasing.
The letter came two days ago and Grace slipped it straight into her pocket. For two days it’s been in her drawer, burning a hole in her clothes. How can you not read a letter somebody has written you?
When you’re only going to make the lie worse.
5th February, 1914
Dear Grace ,
How happy your letter made us. It is wonderful news and makes everything worthwhile. A private secretary is grand. Is board still taken out if you are living with the family? Still, it’s certainty, isn’t it. How much can you send home? Twenty-five shillings a month I expect, with what you must be earning! Or thirty, if you’re careful. If we
‘You’re old for a junior housemaid.’
‘I can learn quick, mam.’
‘That is extremely clear, but have you ever scrubbed a floor? Laid a grate?’
‘Yes.’ Grace thought of Ma – You’ll do better than this, but best know how – and kept her smile up. Not quite three weeks and she missed home. Missed the rain, the chill, even her little sisters. Even now she still wakes in the night thinking she can hear them all those hundreds of miles away.
‘I don’t know who this Miss Sand is,’ said Mrs Wainwright, ‘but she writes a good letter. Mary will show you your room and you’ll share with her. Even though she’s younger I am afraid she’ll be above you, for she’s been here a good while. I’d give her the sense of that if I were you.’
‘Thank you, mam, thank you.’
‘Don’t gush. Thank me if we keep you on. And, Grace …’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ll have to learn to speak more clearly. However, keep quiet and you’ll do well. When you’re a housekeeper you can raise your voice.’
Grace bought a single sheet of notepaper, an envelope and a stamp on the way back to the boarding house to pack her bags. The dining room was empty and she sat down at the table to write a letter to her parents. It wasn’t long. All that needed to be said could fit in a sentence or two, any more and she might get herself in a muddle. She folded the paper, fiddled it into the envelope and stamped it. She was paid up until the end of the week and she wasn’t going to be seeing a penny back, not after they’d ordered her food, she’d been told, or could have let the bed out to another young woman. Grace didn’t bother pointing out that there were two beds empty on the top floor. There were no goodbyes – all the boarders were out at work – so she left her door key on the sideboard and closed the front door behind her. She passed a pillar box on her way back to Mrs Wainwright.
It’s three in the afternoon and they’ve only an hour off today, too much to do for any longer. The dance is a month away but the invitations have just gone out and so they must, says Mrs Wainwright, start to prepare. Grace doesn’t point out that the house is spotless enough for royalty every day of the week.
Mary wants to go for a walk. She’d rather, she says, that Grace came with her, good for Grace, too. ‘That’s living like a princess to see all that green across the road, asking for a visit.’ Grace doesn’t want to go out. She sits on her bed where the mattress dips, snug between the mounds on either side. Boots off, feet on the edge of the mattress, her fists are on her knees. Her thumbs press into the sides of her forefingers, twisting the near-translucent paper that she is squeezing between them. A neat script is inked across the page. Not a smudge, Ma never smudges, never let Grace either, one blob spread in the wrong page and she’d send Grace back to the kitchen table to do her lessons again, whatever the cost of the paper.
After Grace had finished her homework, Ma would give her an apron and a pair of old leather gloves to wear – you don’t wantskivvy’s hands, Grace, you won’t get into an office like that. That’s my life’s work, Grace, Ma’d say. She has a funny smile, Ma, all bright and shiny so’s you can’t tell whether she’s teasing.
The letter came two days ago and Grace slipped it straight into her pocket. For two days it’s been in her drawer, burning a hole in her clothes. How can you not read a letter somebody has written you?
When you’re only going to make the lie worse.
5th February, 1914
Dear Grace ,
How happy your letter made us. It is wonderful news and makes everything worthwhile. A private secretary is grand. Is board still taken out if you are living with the family? Still, it’s certainty, isn’t it. How much can you send home? Twenty-five shillings a month I expect, with what you must be earning! Or thirty, if you’re careful. If we
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