My daughter-in-law was still staring at me with a bewildered look. It was very clear that she could not manage-I would have to take charge.
“I shall speak to her after lunch,” I said. “Leave it with me.”
Kitty didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally she nodded.
“Now, eat your fish,” I said.
She pushed it around her plate a bit more, then said she had a headache. I don’t like to see such waste, but in this instance I said nothing, as she had clearly had a shock and did look rather ill. Luckily my own constitution is more robust and I finished my fish, which was very good except that the sauce was rather rich. Thank goodness for Mrs. Baker-she shall have to hold the house together for the moment until we find a replacement. I’d had my doubts about her when Kitty first hired her, but she is a good plain cook as well as a solid Christian. It does help to hire a widow-like myself she does not have great expectations of life.
Jenny came in to clear and I couldn’t help but shake my head at her brazenness. How she thought she could wander about the house with such a thick waist and think no one would notice is quite astonishing. Mind you, I suppose she knows her mistress. If I had not alerted Kitty she might never have noticed until the girl held the babe crying in her arms! I saw Kitty inspect Jenny as she leaned over to gather our plates, and a look like fear crossed her face. She was most certainly not up to dismissing Jenny. I myself felt no fear, but righteous determination.
Kitty said not a word except “No coffee for me, Jenny.”
“Nor hot water for me,” I added. There was no point in delaying the proceedings.
The girl grunted, and as she left I thought what a blessing in disguise this was-a chance to get rid of a bad apple.
I told Kitty to go and rest, then waited a short interval before going down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Baker was wiping the table clean of flour. I do not go there often, so I suppose she had reason to look surprised. But there was more to her look than that. Mrs. Baker is no fool-she knew why I had come.
“The fish was quite good, Mrs. Baker,” I said pleasantly. “Perhaps a little less butter in the sauce next time.”
“Thank you, ma‘am,” she replied quite correctly, but managing to sound put out as well.
“Where is Jenny? I want to have a word with her.”
Mrs. Baker stopped brushing the table. “She’s in the scullery, ma‘am.”
“So you know, then.”
Mrs. Baker shrugged and began brushing the table again. “Anyone with eyes to see would know.”
As I turned toward the scullery, she surprised me by adding, “Let her be, ma‘am. Just let her be.”
“Are you telling me how this house should be run?” I asked.
She did not answer.
“There is no use in being sentimental about it, Mrs. Baker. This is for her own good.”
Mrs. Baker shrugged again. I was surprised-she is normally a sensible woman. She is from a very different background than myself, of course, but at times I have thought she and I are not so different.
It did not take long. Jenny cried and ran from the room, of course, but it could have been worse. In a way the girl must have been relieved that it was out at last. She knew very well that someone would finally find her out. The waiting must have been excruciating, and I like to think I put the girl out of her misery.
My one regret is that Maude was there. I had thought she was at the Waterhouses‘, but as I came out of the scullery she was standing in the doorway of the larder. I had spoken to Jenny in a low voice, and I don’t think Maude heard what I said, but she heard Jenny’s shout, and I would have preferred it if she had not been there.
“Is Jenny ill?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, thinking that was the best way to explain it. “She will have to leave us.”
Maude looked alarmed. “Is she dying?”
“Don’t be silly.” It was exactly the kind of dramatic question her friend Lavinia would ask-Maude was simply parroting her. I knew that girl was a bad influence.
“But what-”
“We missed you at lunch,” I interrupted. “I thought you were at your friend’s.”
Maude turned red. “I-I was,” she stammered, “but Lavinia has a-a cough, and so I came back. I’ve been helping Mrs. Baker make soda bread.”
She has never been a good liar. I could have exposed the lie, but I was weary from the business with Jenny, and so I left it. And if I am honest, I didn’t want to know. It gave me a pang to think that my own granddaughter would rather bake bread with the cook than have lunch with me.
Maude Coleman
I had never thought Grandmother would come down to the kitchen. It was the one place where I thought I was safe, and could remain until she was gone-then I would not have to have lunch with her. Even Mummy thought I was at Lavinia’s. I would have been, only Lavinia was out visiting her cousins.
As it was I almost managed to hide from Grandmother. I was putting the oats and flour and bicarb in the larder for Mrs. Baker when I heard Grandmother come into the kitchen and speak to her. I shrank back into the larder but didn’t dare close the door in case she saw it move.
She passed by without looking in and went into the scullery, where she began talking to Jenny in a low voice that sent shivers down my spine. It was the voice she uses when she has something awful to say-that she has discovered you have broken a vase, or not gone to church, or done poorly in school. Jenny began to cry, and though I had a chance to close the larder door then, I didn‘t-I wanted to hear what they were saying. I crept closer to the open door and heard Grandmother say, “… wages until the end of the week, but you must pack your things now.” Then Jenny cried out and ran from the scullery up the stairs. Grandmother came out of the scullery, and there was I standing in the doorway, my pinafore covered in flour.
I was surprised when Grandmother then told me Jenny was ill, but indeed she had grown slow and fat these days, as if she had a blockage in her stomach. Perhaps she should be taking cod liver oil. Then Grandmother said she would have to leave because of it. I thought she must be terribly ill indeed but Grandmother wouldn’t say more about it.
Luckily Grandmother decided to go then, or I might have had a tedious afternoon with her all alone, as she said Mummy had gone to bed with a headache. I saw her to the door, and as she left she said I was to tell Mummy later that everything was sorted out satisfactorily. I knew better than to ask what she meant.
After she had gone I went downstairs again and asked Mrs. Baker instead. “Is Jenny going to leave us?”
There was a pause, then Mrs. Baker said, “I expect she will.”
“Is she very ill, then?”
“Ill? Is that what she’s calling it?”
There was a knock on the outside kitchen door. “Perhaps that’s Lavinia,” I said hopefully, and ran to the door.
“Don’t tell her any of this,” Mrs. Baker warned.
“Why not?”
Mrs. Baker sighed and shook her head. “Never mind. Tell her what you like. She’ll find out soon enough.”
It was Simon. He did not say hello; he never says hello. He stepped inside and looked around. “Where’s our Jenny? She upstairs?”
I glanced at Mrs. Baker, who was gathering up the bowl and sieve we had used for the bread. She frowned but did not answer.
“She’s ill,” I said. “She may have to go away.”
“She’s not ill,” Simon said. “She’s banged up.”
“Banged up-is that like knocking?” I asked uneasily. I hoped no one had hurt Jenny.
“Maude!” Mrs. Baker barked, and I jumped. She never shouted at me-only at the butcher’s boy if the meat was off, or the baker, who she once accused of using sawdust in his loaves. She turned to Simon. “Is it you been teaching her this filthy language? Look at her-she doesn’t even know what she’s saying. Shame on you, boy!”