The Observations Read online

  I took off my own frock and stepped into the striped one. It fastened up the front from the waist. My fingers was trembling for some reason and so the missus stepped forward and done it for me, every button, one after the other. When she had the frock all fastened, she stroked my hair and smiled and took a step back.

  ‘Perfect,’ she says.

  ‘Are they your frocks, missus?’

  ‘No, no,’ she says. I looked at her and she went on. ‘They belonged to a girl who was here some time ago. She—she left some things when she went. I put them in the attic, in case—in case she came back.’

  Well, there was something queer about all this, the way she hesitated and avoided my gaze, you could have sensed it a mile off downwind with your eyes blindfold your nose blocked your ears stopped up and a cork in your hole. But before I could ask any more she clapped her hands together and laughed very gay.

  ‘Now then, let’s get started,’ she says, as if she was inviting me to join her in a great old game. ‘Put on a cap and one of the aprons. Reverend Pollock is coming to visit and I would very much like you to wait on us in the parlour.’

  ‘Very good marm,’ I says.

  I had never met the Reverend Pollock but would have laid money that he was U.P. that is ‘United Presbyterian’. I have to admit that I felt a little thrill of excitement at the notion of passing myself off as a maid to a Man Of The Cloth even if he was a member of what my mother always called The Opposition. Not that she was religious or Holy in fact to my knowledge the last time she’d went to Mass she was full and fell off the chair laughing and then was sick in her purse, but Blueskins or ‘You Pees’ I was acquainted with one or two of their number and they would have made a saint spit.

  By 3 o’clock the transformation was complete, I was a maid good and proper. I had on me the striped frock, a white apron and a frilled cap, my hair combed flat over my ears and caught in a bun at the back very sober. I even had time for a wash. Whoever the runaway girl was she had no figure for my titties was squashed flat as fadge inside the frock but otherwise it did not pinch. Missus give me an inspection and pronounced me good and it was so.

  She got me to lay a fire in the parlour and light it and then sent me back to the kitchen to butter the scones while she sat down with her sewing. At ½ past 3 there was a knock on the front door. I hurried into the hall and opened up there was the Reverend Pollock on the step, a well built man about fifty with side-whiskers and a handsome old phiz. He blinked in surprise when he seen me and give his curls a bewildered shake, I think he was expecting someone else.

  ‘Well—gracious—hah!’ he says in tones that was meant to be jolly but to my ears sounded awful forced. I made him a curtsey and give him ‘Good afternoon sir,’ then ushered him in all this, very fancy.

  ‘Yes yes,’ he says. ‘Now then I haven’t seen you before.’ He said it like he was pretending to scold you and then he made this noise, not quite a chuckle and not quite a sigh but a sentimental sound somewhere in between, ‘Aahh-hah!’

  ‘No sir,’ I says. ‘I’m new.’

  ‘Aahh-hah!’ he goes again then set to nodding shrewdly and examining me out the corner of his eye while I took his hat and coat. The Reverend Pollock, as I came to realise, liked to think of himself as a wily fox, he hated anything to get past him. I noticed he had a strange smell wafting about his person of paraffin or somesuch and his boots creaked like an old galleon.

  I hung up his coat and turned round. He was still nodding away shrewdly.

  ‘Aahh-hah,’ he goes another time. ‘A new girl, eh.’ He contemplated this notion fondly for several moments. At length he says, ‘I imagine you have a charming name.’

  ‘My name is Bessy, sir.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well never mind. Names are not important . . . it is how a person is guided by God that counts. And also observation of the Sabbath . . . that goes without saying.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Aye well,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy here . . . Yes, you have a wonderful mistress . . . Aye indeed . . . She and I are . . . very good friends . . .’

  He had the air about him of a man that was preparing to launch into a long speech punctuated by great pauses so I butt in. ‘If you would like to come this way, sir,’ I says and hurried over to the parlour. But instead of following, he stayed where he was, smiling in a self-satisfied kind of way with his arms by his sides and his shoulders hunched up around his ears. Obviously he hadn’t finished with me yet and I would lay good money we would still be there today if I hadn’t just ignored him and went ahead and knocked on the parlour door.

  ‘Come!’ says the missus.

  As I went in, she glanced up from where she was sat by the fire at her needlework. She had changed her gown again and dressed her hair lovely by Jove she was pretty as a picture, I could just see it hanging in a gallery, it would have been entitled ‘The Fair Lady of the House’.

  I was about to announce the Reverend when he thrust past me with a smug smile but he had a glint in his eye now he knew I would not be indulging him.

  ‘The Reverend Bollock, marm,’ I says.

  Missus shot me a look as she rose to greet him, I think she was not sure if she had heard right or was it my accent but all his attention was on her as he moved across the room with one hand outstretched.

  ‘Reverend Pollock,’ she says. ‘How good of you to visit.’

  ‘Ah-hahh!’ he goes.

  This was my cue to boil the kettle.

  I returned a while later with the tray and could hear their voices murmuring inside the parlour but when I knocked and went in they fell silent, it was as though they had been discussing something they did not wish me to hear.

  They was sat either side of the fire, the Reverend had took possession of the big leather armchair, his feet splayed in the hearth. He looked to be quite at home.

  ‘Ah, very good,’ says the missus to me. She gestured to the table between them where I was to lay out the tea things. I began the process very slow, hoping they would resume their conversation. I set out one saucer—and then the next. And then I set out one cup—and then the next. One spoon—The Reverend cleared his throat.

  ‘I don’t know if I tellt you, Arabella,’ he says. ‘But I have had some rather—well, flattering news.’

  I was a bit ticked off for this was clearly a change of subject.

  ‘Oh?’ says the missus. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, very pleased with himself. ‘I have been prevailed upon to deliver a Monday Evening discourse in Glasgow.’

  ‘Really?’ says the missus. ‘That is good news.’

  ‘Aye indeed,’ he says. ‘At the Corporation Galleries or perhaps the Queens Rooms . . . it is not yet decided. In any case, it will not be until next year. However these affairs being so—important—it takes quite a long wee while to organise the publicity and what have you. I’m given to understand this lecture series is very well attended.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ says the missus. Dear knows she sounded impressed. I couldn’t help but wonder how she put up with the old goat.

  ‘Well I hope the committee have been right to put their faith in me,’ he says. ‘They did say that I had been highly recommended. People do tell me that I am one of the best speakers they have ever heard although I don’t go along with that myself. And of course now I have to give some consideration to what I will have as my theme—perhaps you could contribute to my deliberations, Arabella. Of course, you know my Hobby Horse . . .’

  Here he paused and waited for the missus to fill the gap.

  ‘William of Orange,’ she says with a nod.

  ‘Aye,’ says the Reverend. ‘The old king is my strongest suit as it were. But I wonder whether I might not tackle something entirely new.’

  Clearly this was going nowhere interesting so I swiftly doled the rest of the tea things off the tray and straightened up ready to leave.

  The Reverend sat back and beamed at me with great indulgen
ce. ‘Aahh-hah!’ he goes. ‘I can tell you are going to be a very valuable asset to this house, Betty.’

  ‘It’s Bessy, sir,’ I says.

  ‘Oh?’ he says. ‘You told me your name was Betty.’

  ‘Did I sir? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Indeed you did. When I arrived I distinctly remember you told me you were called Betty.’ He smiled at missus and shook his head as if to say I was daft.

  ‘Well, sir,’ I says. ‘In that case I must be mistaken about my own name.’

  ‘That will be all, Bessy,’ says the missus shortly. ‘We can help ourselves to tea.’

  I give her a curtsey and went out, leaving the door open a hair and then lingered a moment in the hall to see if they would pick up their previous conversation or talk about me but they didn’t—at least not at first. The Bollix carried on bragging about his lecture and the missus promised to help him think of a suitable topic. She then made a few suggestions, the Electric Telegraph was one idea but he says ‘Aahhhah, ’ he was no expert on that subject and then she proposed he talk about farm servants, their religious and moral improvement or the like and he agreed that it was an interesting theme but perhaps a bit narrow for his taste.

  Then there was a pause and he says, ‘You may be right about her, you know.’

  And she says, ‘Well, it remains to be seen.’

  At that point, very abruptly, they stopped talking. I froze for a second and listened hard but there was such an edge to the silence that I feared they had sensed my presence behind the door. I did not wait to find out, instead I flew down the hall on tippy toe, thank gob the new dress was of cotton and made not a whisper. I was back in the bowels of the kitchen in a trice and there I seized up a broom and began sweeping the floor even though it hardly needed it. There was no indication that anyone had heard or followed me but my heart did not stop leaping around in my chest for several minutes.

  So I had been the subject under discussion when I arrived first of all with the tea tray! Of course in all likelihood their remarks was entirely innocent, referring only to my suitability for serving work or somesuch. But it was clear that the missus had been doing some conjecture and surmise about my person. Oh, I would have give my liver and lights to know what she thought of me or what she imagined to be the truth.

  I sat in the kitchen playing with the cat until the missus rang for me to clear away the tea things and get Old Bollix his stinky coat. But could I get shot of the old scut, devil the bit of it. Even once he was in the blasted coat he stood there in the hall with his hat on smiling fondly, going ‘Aah-haah!’ and asking nosy questions. Right enough he was different to your usual You Pee, most of them was miserable as Sin, but he did not fool me for a second. I give him the old ‘Yes sir no sir 3 bags full sir,’ and at last, after what seemed like an Eternity I got him out the door and closed it firmly behind him.

  So great was my relief at his departure that I found myself doing a little jig of victory up and down the hall. Unfortunately this was interrupted when I twirled round only to see the missus stood in the doorway of the parlour, observing me.

  ‘You seem happy, Bessy,’ she says in very even tones.

  ‘Yes marm,’ I gasps, a little out of breath and thinking quick I added, ‘I am just so very glad to have this job.’

  She studied me a moment, it was hard to tell what she was thinking. Then she says, ‘Come through,’ and turned on her heel.

  Here we go, I thought, I am in for it, because of the dancing or because I had spoke sharp to Old Bollix earlier or even because she’d guessed that I had deliberately mucked up his name when I announced him, a whole catalogue of crimes there was and so I went after her with a certain amount of dread, dragging my heels, for all I knew she could dismiss me on the spot.

  By the time I got into the parlour, she had settled again in her chair by the fire. I give her a deep curtsey and stared at the Turkey carpet. ‘Marm,’ says I, sick to my stomach.

  There was a pause. Then she says, ‘How have you enjoyed your first day at Castle Haivers?’

  This question was, to my mind, designed to fill me with shame for cheeking the minister. I looked appropriately humbled.

  ‘Well, marm,’ I says. ‘I have liked some aspects well enough.’

  ‘Yes?’ she says.

  ‘But I do be thinking that in others it should be for the best if I tried harder.’

  ‘Indeed?’ she says. Something in her voice made me glance up, I thought I seen a twinkle in her eye but then she blinked and it disappeared or perhaps it was only my imagination.

  She looked at me gravely. I thought here we go.

  ‘On the whole,’ she says, choosing her words carefully. ‘I am of the opinion that you have done reasonably well today.’

  I said nought to that, I was waiting for the tongue lashing.

  ‘Just a few things to note,’ she says. ‘I think it might be as well, for example, when you speak to anyone, especially a lady or a gentleman, to make sure that you look at them straight in the face.’

  ‘Very good, marm,’ I says. ‘In the face.’

  ‘And perhaps when you are being addressed it would also be advisable to stand erect and perhaps not waggle your leg around too much.’

  ‘Yes marm,’ I says. ‘Erect.’

  ‘One other point,’ she says. ‘Just to bear in mind, when you speak to a lady or gentleman it would generally be better if you didn’t have your finger in your mouth.’

  ‘Oh!’ I says a bit took aback, I was not aware I done that. ‘Very good marm.’

  ‘Generally speaking however I think it passed off quite well,’ she says. ‘But now—have you written anything in your little book yet?’

  ‘Gob no, missus,’ I says for she had caught me off guard. ‘I mean no, marm.’

  ‘In that case,’ she says, ‘you may go to your room for an hour. I suggest you take the opportunity to put some effort into your journal.’

  I would rather have put some effort into a good long nap but I was that grateful that she hadn’t tore a strip off me I practically threw myself at her feet.

  ‘Very good, marm,’ I says and made her another little curtsey. ‘I’ll do that right away, right away now.’

  Oh how easy it is to fall into the habit of bowing and scraping. Dear knows if you had took my likeness at that moment you would have said I was a servant girl to my toe nails.

  ‘I look forward to reading what you have done this evening,’ says the missus. ‘And perhaps later you can sing me your pretty song.’ I thought that was me dismissed and was about to leave when of a sudden she carried on, ‘D’you know, Bessy, that the Reverend Pollock is one of the busiest ministers in the land?’

  As if I cared the core of a cabbage what he was. But I says, ‘Oh? Is that right now?’

  ‘I always think it a shame that he only manages to visit here about once a month.’

  ‘Oh—dear,’ I says.

  ‘Sometimes he only manages every two months. Isn’t that a great pity?’

  I think I can safely says that this was my first experience of how a lady of the missus breeding has the natural ability to tell you one thing while meaning quite another. She did not like the Old Bollix either! She was looking at me straight and there was not a whisker of an edge to her voice, but somehow I knew she wanted me to understand the exact opposite of what she said. He was terrible company and the less he came to visit the better. I wanted to laugh out loud and embrace her, it was like a happy secret that we had together, her and me the both of us.

  But that would not have been right so instead I just says, ‘Yes marm, it is an awful pity,’ and made her another curtsey and went out, smirking.

  As for the little book, that soon wiped the smile off my face. Dear gob the cornuptions I went through with it to start with I do not care to recall (though I look at it now with some fondness as it lies here beside me on the table).The trouble was I knew how to spell words but joining them together to make correct sentences had me all in a pu
cker. Or perhaps it was not so much correct sentences that eluded me but sentences that I thought worthy for the missus to read. I may well have shed a tear or two over those first entries, for I can see the ink is blurred in places and also the pages are covered in blots since I had the pen constantly hovering over them, willing the words to come out. At the end of an hour, a single paltry line was all I had, however in my opinion that was plenty and I was glad to get back downstairs and throw myself into the simple task of making supper.

  That evening missus elected to sit in the kitchen and read her Bathgate Monthly Visitor except she barely glanced at it, she seemed more interested in watching me clear away. I was beginning to think she had forgot about the little book altogether when she put down her Monthly Visitor and tellt me to bring her what I had wrote. I did so with heavy heart and even now am ashamed to copy down my first desperate effort.

  thursday

  got up done a few light chores for missus nothing else strange or startling

  The missus glanced at it then looked up at me. ‘Why did you stop there?’ she says and I says to her I didn’t know for sure but perhaps it was because my hand had got tired. ‘After a single line?’ she says and I told her that it was because I did not have the habit of writing a journal.

  ‘Well, Bessy,’ she says to me, ‘a journal should be more specific. You must write down what the various chores are and say something else to give colour to the account. For instance, this morning what happened?’

  I looked at her. My mind was a blank.

  ‘The first thing that happened this morning?’ she says.

  I shrugged. ‘I got up late?’ I says.

  ‘Well—yes,’ she says. ‘That is not what I was thinking of but it will do. Why not. Now, try again.’ And she made me sit down at the kitchen table and have another go. What a shambles, I think it must have took about an hour to write.

  thursday

  got up late porridge for breakfast burnt roof of mouth on it collected eggs emptied poe for missus sheeps head broth for dinner went for scones served tea to missus and reverend other than that nothing strange or startling