impatiently. ‘Well,
I
am Mrs Waters, but I’m afraid you don’t look like the sort of girl I’m after.’ She went to close the door and Queenie’s heart sank. She didn’t want to find somewhere to sleep on the streets or worse, walk back home.
‘But please, ma’am,’ she said quickly. ‘Can’t you give me a chance? I ain’t scared of hard work and there’s enough little ’uns at home for me to have learned what to do with ’em. I’d be a good worker, ma’am, if you’d just let me show you.’
Mrs Waters paused and looked Queenie up and down. ‘You’ve had plenty of dealings with children, you say?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And babies?’
‘Oh yes, ma’am. Plenty. Me Mam is always having new little ’uns.’
‘So why aren’t you at home helping her?’
‘No more room for me, ma’am. And besides we had a falling out and I’m making my own way in the world now.’ Queenie stood tall and straight.
‘Well . . . you’d have to live in anyway, you know. Tend to the babies in the night if need be. And keep the house in order and fetch the children’s milk.’
‘Yes ma’am, course ma’am. I could do all that.’
‘And does your mother know you’re here?’
‘Oh no, ma’am. Not yet she don’t.’
‘Well . . . maybe I’ll give you a go, then. Just a day or two, mind. See how you get on. Have you brought your things with you?’
‘Don’t have any things, ma’am. Only what I have on. But I’ll keep myself clean I will.’
‘Well, you’d better come in, then.’ Mrs Waters looked up and down the street. ‘And tell me your name, girl.’
‘Yes, sorry, ma’am. It’s Queenie, ma’am. I’m fourteen, and I’m ever so grateful to you.’
Queenie hardly dared to say anything else in case she was dreaming. And if she was dreaming she didn’t want to wake up. A maid! She was going to be a maid in a grand house. And be trusted to look after the mistress’s children too. She wondered if she would have a uniform and a cap, or some new shoes at least.
Mrs Waters shut the front door and bolted it. ‘Come on then, girl, you may as well start as you mean to go on.’
Queenie looked around as she followed Mrs Waters’ bustling back. The hallway was bigger than their whole room at home, with a fancy dark-wood staircase that curled up and round and disappeared from view. There were faded paintings of stern-looking gentlemen on the walls and the floor was tiled with small squares of red, green and yellow which Mrs Waters’ shoes clacked on as she hurried ahead. She led Queenie through a door at the end and down a dark stairwell.
‘This is the back kitchen,’ she said, ‘where you’ll be doing most of your work. You’ll sleep here too. There’s a mattress in the scullery.’
Another woman, shorter and scrawnier than Mrs Waters but with the same orange hair scraped back in a bun, was standing mixing something in a jug at the kitchen table.
‘Sarah, this is Queenie. Answered our advertisement to help out with the babies. Queenie, this is Mrs Ellis. My sister. You’ll be taking your orders from her too.’
Queenie nodded, but couldn’t reply. The sight that met her eyes was far too astonishing. Lying on a worn sofa at the back of the kitchen was an untidy row of babies. All squashed close together with barely a stitch on any of them. Eight? Nine? Ten? Queenie didn’t have time to count properly before she saw the two wooden crates on the floor. They had babies inside too. A couple in each at least.
‘These are all
your
children?’ she asked before she could stop herself.
‘Yes, in a manner of speaking,’ said Mrs Waters. ‘But it is not your place to ask questions. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ replied Queenie, feeling more and more uncomfortable.
‘Good. Then we’ll say no more. You work hard, we pay your wages and then . . . we shall all get along just fine, won’t we? Now . . . you can help Mrs Ellis with the morning feeds.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ said
I
am Mrs Waters, but I’m afraid you don’t look like the sort of girl I’m after.’ She went to close the door and Queenie’s heart sank. She didn’t want to find somewhere to sleep on the streets or worse, walk back home.
‘But please, ma’am,’ she said quickly. ‘Can’t you give me a chance? I ain’t scared of hard work and there’s enough little ’uns at home for me to have learned what to do with ’em. I’d be a good worker, ma’am, if you’d just let me show you.’
Mrs Waters paused and looked Queenie up and down. ‘You’ve had plenty of dealings with children, you say?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And babies?’
‘Oh yes, ma’am. Plenty. Me Mam is always having new little ’uns.’
‘So why aren’t you at home helping her?’
‘No more room for me, ma’am. And besides we had a falling out and I’m making my own way in the world now.’ Queenie stood tall and straight.
‘Well . . . you’d have to live in anyway, you know. Tend to the babies in the night if need be. And keep the house in order and fetch the children’s milk.’
‘Yes ma’am, course ma’am. I could do all that.’
‘And does your mother know you’re here?’
‘Oh no, ma’am. Not yet she don’t.’
‘Well . . . maybe I’ll give you a go, then. Just a day or two, mind. See how you get on. Have you brought your things with you?’
‘Don’t have any things, ma’am. Only what I have on. But I’ll keep myself clean I will.’
‘Well, you’d better come in, then.’ Mrs Waters looked up and down the street. ‘And tell me your name, girl.’
‘Yes, sorry, ma’am. It’s Queenie, ma’am. I’m fourteen, and I’m ever so grateful to you.’
Queenie hardly dared to say anything else in case she was dreaming. And if she was dreaming she didn’t want to wake up. A maid! She was going to be a maid in a grand house. And be trusted to look after the mistress’s children too. She wondered if she would have a uniform and a cap, or some new shoes at least.
Mrs Waters shut the front door and bolted it. ‘Come on then, girl, you may as well start as you mean to go on.’
Queenie looked around as she followed Mrs Waters’ bustling back. The hallway was bigger than their whole room at home, with a fancy dark-wood staircase that curled up and round and disappeared from view. There were faded paintings of stern-looking gentlemen on the walls and the floor was tiled with small squares of red, green and yellow which Mrs Waters’ shoes clacked on as she hurried ahead. She led Queenie through a door at the end and down a dark stairwell.
‘This is the back kitchen,’ she said, ‘where you’ll be doing most of your work. You’ll sleep here too. There’s a mattress in the scullery.’
Another woman, shorter and scrawnier than Mrs Waters but with the same orange hair scraped back in a bun, was standing mixing something in a jug at the kitchen table.
‘Sarah, this is Queenie. Answered our advertisement to help out with the babies. Queenie, this is Mrs Ellis. My sister. You’ll be taking your orders from her too.’
Queenie nodded, but couldn’t reply. The sight that met her eyes was far too astonishing. Lying on a worn sofa at the back of the kitchen was an untidy row of babies. All squashed close together with barely a stitch on any of them. Eight? Nine? Ten? Queenie didn’t have time to count properly before she saw the two wooden crates on the floor. They had babies inside too. A couple in each at least.
‘These are all
your
children?’ she asked before she could stop herself.
‘Yes, in a manner of speaking,’ said Mrs Waters. ‘But it is not your place to ask questions. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ replied Queenie, feeling more and more uncomfortable.
‘Good. Then we’ll say no more. You work hard, we pay your wages and then . . . we shall all get along just fine, won’t we? Now . . . you can help Mrs Ellis with the morning feeds.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ said
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