Sedge Court has its share of cooped-up, squally temperaments. The master is a snappish man, who is never easy in the house, and Downes, it goes without saying, is always as cross as a sack of cats. But everyone was jumpy that winter, even Mrs Edmunds. It was an action of hers that causes a particular day from that time, late in February, I recollect, to linger in my memory.
As I came into the servants’ hall in the morning, bent on an errand for the mistress, Mrs Edmunds happened to be lugging a crock of milk from the still-room. At the same moment I glimpsed the kitchen cat, which was black and panicky, make a late decision to cut across her path. Our housekeeper is usually as unflappable as a fire shovel, but when the cat shot in error under her petticoat, she gave a shriek and let loose the crock of milk. The crock seemed to hang in space for a very long time before plummeting to its doom on the flagstones. The kitchen rang with a stunned silence.
Mrs Edmunds cried, ‘In God’s name how did that happen?’as if it had taken a supernatural force to wrench the crock from her grip.
We stared in disbelief at the shards and spillage on the floor. In the background a joint at roast on the spit faintly seethed. Then a gob of fat fell into the dripping pan. I can still hear its hiss of disapproval. Mr Otty, who is otherwise the pattern of affability, cuffed Rorke’s ear and bellowed, ‘What in blazes are you gaping at?’ and Hester Hart burst untypically into tears. The cat, too, was confounded and dared not take advantage of the slowly dilating puddle of milk. Evidently overcome by the tension in the kitchen, she slunk into the scullery.
I think we were all of one mind about the incident: it was an affront to the accustomed order and somehow even ominous. Now that I am at a distance from the event, it is clear to me that my life was never the same afterwards. I did not absolutely understand at the time – I was not yet fourteen years old – that my position at Sedge Court was not entirely secure, but I believe I sensed even then that the long fuse of childhood was burning down to its annihilation.
I came out on to the driveway on that February morning in a state of sudden anxiousness, wondering why everyone was so on edge, and I recall looking back at the house a little fearfully, like someone fleeing a building rigged with gunpowder. Needless to say, Sedge Court simply sat there indifferent to my imaginings, calmly regarding its reflection in the lake. The house is built from the soft red sandstone that abounds in that part of the country, and if not as tremendous as Lady Broome’s mansion, Weever Hall, it is certainly substantial enough with its three storeys, a courtyard and many offices out the back. I will say, though, that the house always struckme from the outside as looking surprisingly small or, rather, smaller than my experience of it. The interior, on the other hand, seemed to go on for ever in order to accommodate within, I supposed, the ballooning cargo of our lives and their accompanying emotions. I once relayed that observation to our governess, my dear Miss Broadbent, and she remarked in her quietly astute way that I had too much the sensation of things that are not there. There is a lake on the right-hand side of the drive as you look towards the gates. Well, Mrs Waterland called it a lake, but actually it is an old marl pit, one of the many meres and sloughs of our perforated countryside. We are very watery in our offshoot of Cheshire, you know. Waves lap at us continuously from the Dee in the west to the mighty Mersey at our backs in the east. From the north, the Irish Sea delivers any amount of storms and wrecks.
It was a chilly day and as I walked along I had the sense of being squeezed between petered-out winter and locked-up spring. Save for their trunks, which were smothered by dark creepers, the oaks and alders were bare – you could see the blotches of birds’ nests high in their
As I came into the servants’ hall in the morning, bent on an errand for the mistress, Mrs Edmunds happened to be lugging a crock of milk from the still-room. At the same moment I glimpsed the kitchen cat, which was black and panicky, make a late decision to cut across her path. Our housekeeper is usually as unflappable as a fire shovel, but when the cat shot in error under her petticoat, she gave a shriek and let loose the crock of milk. The crock seemed to hang in space for a very long time before plummeting to its doom on the flagstones. The kitchen rang with a stunned silence.
Mrs Edmunds cried, ‘In God’s name how did that happen?’as if it had taken a supernatural force to wrench the crock from her grip.
We stared in disbelief at the shards and spillage on the floor. In the background a joint at roast on the spit faintly seethed. Then a gob of fat fell into the dripping pan. I can still hear its hiss of disapproval. Mr Otty, who is otherwise the pattern of affability, cuffed Rorke’s ear and bellowed, ‘What in blazes are you gaping at?’ and Hester Hart burst untypically into tears. The cat, too, was confounded and dared not take advantage of the slowly dilating puddle of milk. Evidently overcome by the tension in the kitchen, she slunk into the scullery.
I think we were all of one mind about the incident: it was an affront to the accustomed order and somehow even ominous. Now that I am at a distance from the event, it is clear to me that my life was never the same afterwards. I did not absolutely understand at the time – I was not yet fourteen years old – that my position at Sedge Court was not entirely secure, but I believe I sensed even then that the long fuse of childhood was burning down to its annihilation.
I came out on to the driveway on that February morning in a state of sudden anxiousness, wondering why everyone was so on edge, and I recall looking back at the house a little fearfully, like someone fleeing a building rigged with gunpowder. Needless to say, Sedge Court simply sat there indifferent to my imaginings, calmly regarding its reflection in the lake. The house is built from the soft red sandstone that abounds in that part of the country, and if not as tremendous as Lady Broome’s mansion, Weever Hall, it is certainly substantial enough with its three storeys, a courtyard and many offices out the back. I will say, though, that the house always struckme from the outside as looking surprisingly small or, rather, smaller than my experience of it. The interior, on the other hand, seemed to go on for ever in order to accommodate within, I supposed, the ballooning cargo of our lives and their accompanying emotions. I once relayed that observation to our governess, my dear Miss Broadbent, and she remarked in her quietly astute way that I had too much the sensation of things that are not there. There is a lake on the right-hand side of the drive as you look towards the gates. Well, Mrs Waterland called it a lake, but actually it is an old marl pit, one of the many meres and sloughs of our perforated countryside. We are very watery in our offshoot of Cheshire, you know. Waves lap at us continuously from the Dee in the west to the mighty Mersey at our backs in the east. From the north, the Irish Sea delivers any amount of storms and wrecks.
It was a chilly day and as I walked along I had the sense of being squeezed between petered-out winter and locked-up spring. Save for their trunks, which were smothered by dark creepers, the oaks and alders were bare – you could see the blotches of birds’ nests high in their
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