Christmas Past (2 page)

Torn between excitement and anxiety, Mary had worried all the way from Newcastle about what she would do if no one should be at the station to meet her. However, Father Flynn
had arranged everything to perfection, and she had spotted the chauffeur even before the train had drawn to a halt at Sheffield.

She was soon settled nervously in the back seat of the gleaming black Morris and for the rest of the journey sat feeling somewhat in awe of the dark-haired driver, who didn’t look much
older than herself. Fortunately, he whistled cheerfully most of the way so conversation was unnecessary. Instead she found herself relaxing and marvelling at the comfort of the soft leather seats,
in the first car she had travelled in throughout her uneventful life.

It was only as they approached the drive that Mary became aware of her surroundings. Green lawns, still sparkling from an earlier shower, spread out before her, lined by rhododendron bushes and
disappearing to the rear of a beautiful old house.

‘Holy mackerel,’ she exclaimed, using one of her mother’s habitual expressions, ‘I must have arrived in heaven.’

She scrambled out of the car, completely unaware that the young driver was being given an equally interesting view of brown lisle stocking tops. Remembering his manners he turned away, but not
before he had managed a good eyeful of shapely white thigh.

Mary gathered her few pieces of luggage together, mesmerised by the glory of the scene. The large, stone-gabled house; the miles of purple-heathered moorland stretching to left and right and
down to the long valley below them, then up the hill beyond; the looming grey crags in the distance; and everywhere green meadows, like a patchwork quilt, dotted here and there with stone
farmhouses. To the left two tiny hamlets nestled, one deep in the valley, the other high on the opposite hill.

Mary’s wide brown eyes travelled downwards to the valley and the large, pear-shaped reservoir that had been created there. She could see smoke rising to the right, a looming grey cloud of
it.

‘Is something on fire over there?’ she enquired of the rather handsome young man beside her.

‘No, that’s Sheffield yer can see. Spoils the view a bit, doesn’t it? Still, it’s handy for the shopping and not too far for the doctor to travel to the hospital. He
lends me the car sometimes, to take my young brothers to the park. A right good sort is Dr Roberts. Yer mustn’t take advantage of ’im, mind. He’s not daft and he’ll soon
‘ave yer weighed up.’

‘Oh, I would never do that,’ Mary assured him. ‘But why would anyone want to visit a park when they’ve all this countryside here?’

‘Yer’ll be surprised. When you’ve been here a week or two yer’ll be longing to get back to civilisation, especially in’t winter when snow blocks road to Longfield.
Yer’ll wish yer’d never set eyes on’t place. If yer look over t’other way that’s Lower Longfield in the bottom and up the hill is Upper Longfield. Doesn’t the
church stand well? I suppose yer’ll be going there on Sunday. Even if yer not religious it meks a change.’

‘Is it Catholic?’ Mary asked doubtfully.

‘No. We don’t have a Catholic church in Longfield. I expect yer’d ’ave to go into Sheffield for the nearest, although there is one over in Millington where some of the
lads go on St Patrick’s night, but that’s only to the dance – yer’d be as bad burned as scalded trying to get over there every Sunday. By the way, I’m Tom Downing. I
hope yer like it here and stay a bit longer than the others. Like I said, it isn’t much of a place for young folk. I’m used to the quiet, being born down in the village, but for someone
from town it takes some getting used to. Can’t seem to keep a maid at all. Can’t think why, with a good boss like doctor. Where are yer from, anyway? Obviously not Yorkshire with an
accent like that.’

‘Newcastle.’ Mary smiled and clasped Tom’s outstretched hand, then grabbed her bags and hurried up the steps towards the large panelled door. It opened even before she reached
it, revealing a rather buxom, grey-haired lady who looked immaculate in a black skirt and crisp white blouse, the sight of which made Mary feel even more bedraggled. She should have brushed her
hair in the car, and someone should have warned her not to stand near the edge of the platform. She had been speckled with soot even before leaving Newcastle.

She patted her beautiful chestnut hair back into the tortoiseshell comb behind her head. Then her hand was clasped in a warm welcoming one and she was drawn into the hall, from which a staircase
curved upwards. Mary had seen a picture of one like it once, in a book at Father Flynn’s, but imagined they only existed in the homes of film stars and royalty.

Gladys Roberts not only fussed like a mother hen, she looked quite like one too. Her head jutted forward when she walked and her nose had a little bump on it making it rather beak-like in the
middle of her ruddy face. Despite her fifty years her eyes had not yet lost their healthy shine, and her whole appearance seemed to ooze energy. She had been up since six this morning cooking and
baking. The windows had been polished to a high shine with crumpled newspaper and the large range in the kitchen blackleaded until it gleamed. Despite the warm August day she had built up a fire to
give the kitchen a cosy glow, and all for the new maid. Dr Roberts had pointed out to his wife that Mary was not to be treated like a hotel guest but as the girl appointed to do all the tiresome
jobs Gladys was now doing herself, thus leaving her time for the leisurely pursuits befitting a doctor’s wife. But Gladys Roberts had no more intention of taking to her sofa with a piece of
fancy, useless embroidery than the doctor had of neglecting his patients.

Truth to tell it wasn’t a maid Gladys needed but someone on whom to lavish the deep maternal love which had grown in her heart from the day she was first married. Not once in all the years
had she voiced her disappointment at her childless state but inside she had grieved continuously, as much for her husband’s sake as for her own. She had never suspected it to be his fault,
nor he hers. They had come together from the first with an earthy passion, never forced but exchanged spontaneously, whenever and wherever the urge came over them. Yet for all the love they had to
give she had remained barren.

Gradually the pain had subsided but she still continued to lavish her pent-up affection on any young person available. If only the house had been nearer to town she would possibly have
considered adoption, but, being an unselfish soul, by the time she realised it was too late for motherhood she considered herself too old to be a suitable companion for a child out here at the back
of beyond.

So a series of maids came and went again after a few months, and now another. Perhaps this one would be different. She certainly looked less flighty than the previous ones. Father Flynn had
pointed out in his letter that Mary was hard-working and eager to be taught, but in the end what had persuaded Mrs Roberts to take her on instead of one of the local girls was the fact that Mary
had been diagnosed as suffering from TB glands. Newcastle and the lack of nourishment endemic among miners’ families there could only restrict her recovery, so here she was, to be filled with
as much food as could be stuffed inside her and more fresh air than she had breathed in her entire life.

‘Come in, come in. Whatever is Tom thinking of letting you carry those bags? You must be exhausted after your journey. Here, let me take your coat. We usually leave our
outer wear down here in the hall – it saves so many journeys up and down stairs when we’re in and out of the garden or the outbuildings. The wind’s cutting up here in winter so
don’t you be running around without a coat.’

Mary’s coat was placed carefully on the hall stand along with the more expensive garments belonging to the Robertses. She felt her face burning at the sight of the threadbare sleeves, but
Mrs Roberts didn’t seem to notice. She guided Mary by the elbow through the first door on the right. ‘This is the dining room. Don’t you think it’s lovely?’

Mary managed to suppress the words ‘Holy mackerel’. Instead she stood there open-mouthed. The rectangular room seemed enormous, with a large marble fireplace furnishing one wall and
three tall windows along the opposite one. A long table in the centre was surrounded by eight velvet-bottomed chairs and everything in the room seemed to shine like the new pennies in a Christmas
stocking.

Dumbfounded, Mary followed Mrs Roberts back into the hall and towards the door opposite.

‘This is the lounge, smaller but much more comfortable, I think.’

‘A piano!’ Mary couldn’t conceal her excitement. For years she had been fascinated with the school piano, pomming out ‘Chopsticks’ with one finger whenever Miss
Williams happened to leave the room and receiving a crack across the knuckles with a ruler on numerous occasions for her efforts. Of course she would never be allowed to touch this one either, but
she might hear someone else playing it.

Mrs Roberts was flicking an imaginary fleck of dust from its lid.

‘Yes, and doesn’t it take up some space? Still, my husband loves his music. He’s the choirmaster, you know,’ she told Mary with pride. ‘We usually retire in here
after supper. He’s obsessed with the wireless at present. World affairs, you know.’

Mary didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to admit it.

Apart from the piano – a baby grand which really did take up some room – and a wireless set on a small table, all the room contained were two large leather straight-backed easy
chairs and a long low sofa. Not one like Father Flynn’s with worn upholstery and a wobbly leg, but a beautiful, padded, leather one with two curved arms and a buttoned back. The leather
matched the wooden floor and the walls which weren’t lined with books were also of panelled wood. The curtains and central carpet square were a warm honey beige. Mary wondered how she would
keep a carpet of such a pale shade clean.

‘And now the scullery, my favourite room.’

Mary loved it on sight. The long, white, scrubbed table, with chairs to match, was laid at one end with a folded checked cloth and a china tea set. The fire cast a glow on to the brass fender
surrounding the nasturtium-patterned hearth tin, and the copper kettle, saucepans and bellows hanging on the wall. Two spindle-backed chairs were set in front of the fire, and long wooden cupboards
lined the back wall. A side dresser was stacked with willow-patterned crockery, and shelves were crammed with colourful chutneys, jams and preserves. The alcove by the fire was brightened by gingham
curtains, under which was a sparkling white ceramic sink.

Mary had never seen anything like it. The contrast with the living kitchen back home was unbelievable. If only her ma could have a kitchen like this – no, a scullery. She must remember to
call it a scullery from now on.

She never thought she would be grateful for the elocution lessons Father Flynn had encouraged her to have, but she was glad of them now. At least Mrs Roberts could understand what she was
talking about. Her Newcastle accent was not nearly as pronounced as it used to be, and anyway Mrs Roberts had a slight Yorkshire accent herself, although it was a lovely voice all the same.

‘Come and sit down, Mary,’ she was saying. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea. You must be parched. Or would you prefer nettle beer?’

‘Oh, tea please,’ said Mary, not sure what nettle beer tasted like, or if it would have the same effect on her as the beer had on her da.

A slice of parkin was placed in front of her, sticky and hot with spices, almost as good as her ma’s.

‘Eat as much as you like. We really must fatten you up a bit and get some roses in your cheeks. We grow all our own fruit and vegetables, thanks to Tom. I really don’t know what
we’d do without that boy. I do hope we aren’t going to lose him to the war service but Dr Roberts can see it happening soon. Still, I hope you’ll be a help to me when you become
accustomed to things. Then I should have more time to spend in the garden. If there’s one thing I enjoy it’s my garden. Are you used to housework, Mary?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ve been in service since I was fourteen, and learned from my mother long before that. My mother’s the best cook in our street: everyone comes to her
for help at weddings and funerals. The trouble is she’s hard up most of the time so can’t afford the ingredients, but I can cook almost as good as she can. Even Mrs Brown who I worked
for admitted that and she never says anything good about anyone.’

Mary blushed as she realised she was rambling on but Mrs Roberts laughed and poured another cup of tea.

‘I think we’re going to get along fine, Mary,’ she said. ‘But now you must be tired. Come, let me show you to your room. We have supper in here at seven thirty, but
don’t bother coming down tonight. I’ll bring you a tray and you can have an early night. We’ll discuss your duties in the morning.’

Mary marvelled at her room. At home, the only privacy she ever had was in the lavatory and even there she’d rush in and out again, panic-stricken at the sound of scurrying rats from the
midden round the back. And now, here she was, in this beautiful room.

Though the sun had disappeared the room seemed to be filled with light. The yellow curtains were matched with the bed covers and the lino on the floor. A carpet square of green reminded Mary of
the velvety lawns outside. She looked out of the window, unable to believe anything could be so glorious.

If only their Norah and Kathleen could see her now, and her ma and da. Oh, she was going to miss them. She felt the tears prickling her eyes, but she mustn’t cry. Mrs Roberts might think
she didn’t like her room and she seemed such a kind woman, it would be dreadful to disappoint her.

Mary unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it. Then she poured water from the jug into the basin and began to wash, finally stepping out of her undergarments and washing her whole body,
revelling in the silky feel of the water, softened by the scented soap and the fluffiness of the towel, yellow to match the furnishings. How lovely to smell of lemon instead of carbolic.

The knock on the door startled her.