Her Ladyship's Girl (12 page)

‘You’ve been busy.’

‘Just doing my job.’

‘Mrs Staines never lit the fire.’

I wondered about Mrs Staines and why she left. It was none of my business, but I thought I might as well ask, just in case there was something I should know about.

‘She got married. The best ladies’ maids are single, so they’re available all the time and can travel at short notice.’

Mrs Bouchard said she wasn’t going out that day and just wanted to read and take care of some household matters with Mrs Hathaway. So I helped her dress in some casual clothes and did her
hair for her in a brushed-back tutorial style and, as she didn’t want to wear any make-up, she was ready to leave the room. When she did, I cleaned up the bathroom and put everything back in
its place. Then I emptied the ashtray and cleaned it and also the hairbrushes and made sure everything on the dressing table was where I thought it should be. I realised that the cigarette smoke in
the room would eventually discolour the curtains and bedspreads, as well as the walls and ceilings, and I resolved to talk to Miss Mason about getting them cleaned. By the time I was finished, it
was almost midday and I went back to tidy up my own room. I’d only just finished when Jacob knocked on the door again.

‘Madam Bouchard requires your company in the dining room.’

I followed him downstairs and he held a chair for me while I sat close to Miranda at a long, highly polished teak dining-table.

The housemaids served us lunch of leek and mustard soup, followed by coronation chicken with sultanas and pineapple and spring onion and a seasonal salad, with home-made vanilla ice cream for
pudding. Miranda didn’t speak until the ubiquitous tea pot was on the table.

‘You think this is decadent, don’t you?’

‘What is?’

‘All these servants for just one woman.’

‘It is a bit excessive, I must agree.’

‘My family insists, for the sake of appearances.’

One of the strict rules of society she spoke about earlier, no doubt. And I did think it was decadent – all the food that would have fed half the poor in London and the frivolous waste of
money that could have paid to improve the lives of working-class families like Lucy’s. But I’d learned to ‘know my place’ to a degree that was mutually acceptable – to
me and those I was serving – and I didn’t know Miranda Bouchard well enough to expose my inner feelings to her.

‘I agree with you, Anwyn. We had no servants in Algeria. The servants in this house make work for themselves. They cook for each other and clean up after each other for the most part. Very
little of their time is devoted exclusively to me. In that respect, you’re unique amongst them.’

She lit another cigarette and offered me one from the packet. I declined. She sat back puffing it and observing me, as if she was assessing whether she could trust me or not.

‘I’m sure you know something of my background, don’t you?’

‘Not much, Madam . . . sorry, I can’t get used to Miranda.’

‘You mustn’t lie to me, Anwyn. Above anything else, I must be able to trust you. You must always be totally honest with me.’

‘I know you were married and your husband was killed in Algeria.’

She smiled, inwardly, to herself. It was a smile that was meant for the memory in her head, and nothing else.

‘Dear Emile . . .’

‘It’s not my business to know . . .’

‘Yes, it is.’

She stood up and walked to the window and looked out over Chester Square – and spoke with her back to me. There was a slight quiver to her voice and I wondered if there was a tear on her
cheek.

‘I loved him so much. But he died . . . got himself killed.’

I said nothing, just listened – giving her time to compose herself. After a moment or two, she returned to the table and lit another cigarette and I realised for the first time how utterly
lonely this woman was – how desperately isolated, despite being surrounded by everything. And I also realised she wanted more than a lady’s maid – she wasn’t all that
bothered about the cleaning and the dressing and the hair-doing and the strict rules of society – her society. Above all, she wanted a companion – someone to talk to. Someone who could
understand what was in her soul. And I wondered why she had picked me, out of all the women in the waiting room that day. Did she see something in me that was lacking in the others and, if so, what
could that something have been?

In the afternoon, Mrs Bouchard disappeared into the library with Mrs Hathaway and I busied myself by doing the washing that I gathered from the bedroom and bathroom that morning, and cleaning
out and re-setting the fire in the master bedroom. Then I read for a while, until I was summoned to the dining room for dinner at 7:30 p.m. Again, Miranda and I ate alone. The parlourmaids served
an appetiser of smoked salmon slices with cream cheese, then roast beef with steamed asparagus and butter dressing, followed by English trifle. This time, instead of tea, they served dinner with a
red Bordeaux wine and Miranda insisted that I have a glass, even though I told her I didn’t drink much alcohol.

‘You’ll have to lose that bad habit if you’re going to travel with me, Anwyn.’

I let her pour a glass and sipped it slowly through the meal. Again, she didn’t try to converse while there was food on the table, and I always thought the toffs prided themselves on their
clever dinner conversations. But I was learning that Miranda Bouchard wasn’t just any aristocrat. She was very different.

This time I didn’t wait for her to speak first.

‘I meant to say, there are still some of Mrs Staines’ s clothes in the wardrobe in my room.’

‘They’re not Mrs Staines’s, they’re mine . . . yours now.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s a traditional perk of a lady’s maid’s job, Anwyn, to get the cast-offs of her employer. Unless, of course, you think it’s an impertinence on my
part?’

‘Oh no, not at all.’

‘And they’re mostly new. I’ve hardly worn any of them.’

‘But . . .’

‘But nothing. You’re a big girl for your age and I’m a small-boned woman. They should fit well enough, after some slight alterations.’

‘Thank you.’

This was, to be sure, a perk of the job. I was worried about going places with her in the few tattered clothes I’d brought with me from Wales. Now I had a complete new wardrobe and, from
what I’d seen of it, it was all very fashionable couture. Miranda finished the bottle of Bordeaux while I was still sipping at my glass. She asked for another one and then dismissed the
maids, so that we were alone.

‘Have you wondered why I chose you above the other candidates, Anwyn?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘It’s because all the others were vetted by my family.’

‘Vetted? How?’

‘Why, through Mr Peacock, of course. He works for my father, not for me.’

I was confused. Mr Peacock had interviewed me as well and he made it clear he knew all about me. She seemed to read my mind.

‘Of course, he interviewed you as well, but you have no history like the others.’

‘History?’

‘Yes, all the others have history, Anwyn. They can be bought or blackmailed.’

‘To do what?’

‘To spy on me, of course.’

She was well into the second bottle of Bordeaux by now and I imagined this was the drink talking – and the large dining-room was already filling with cigarette smoke.

‘Since Algeria, they need to keep me under control, so I don’t disgrace them again. Mrs Staines was their spy, handpicked by them, and they wanted to replace her with another of
their spies. But you’re a virgin . . . not in the biblical sense, Anwyn . . . what I mean is, you can’t be bought or threatened. Peacock didn’t want you, but I insisted. He only
relented because he thinks you’re an ignorant country girl and he can easily manipulate you. But I’ve got to you first and you must promise never to betray me.’

‘I promise.’

‘Thank you.’

The maids came back in to clear up at 9:00 p.m. and the second bottle of wine was empty by then. Miranda said she wanted to go to bed, so I helped her upstairs to the master bedroom, undressed
her to her underwear, and tucked her into the big bed. I was just about to leave when she turned towards me.

‘There is another reason why I took you on.’

‘And what was that?’

‘William Harding asked me to.’

I
was a quick learner and Miranda was easy to get along with. I liked being a lady’s maid and the duties were a lot easier than the work of a
scullery skivvy. I was Mrs Bouchard’s companion as well as her maid and some of her sophistication was soon to rub off on me. Being with her took the rough edges off my small-village ways and
I began to see things with a broader view – a more open outlook. Even though I wasn’t yet eighteen, I was tall for my age and her clothes fitted me well. My hair was shoulder-length and
a chestnut colour and my figure was filling out nicely. I wasn’t bad-looking either and, with make-up on, I could easily pass for an elegant twenty. We made a very classy couple, lady and
lady’s maid, and we turned heads wherever we went.

But things were changing in the world around us. Europe was in turmoil, both from the lasting effects of the Great War and the rise of the new, right-wing politics. I didn’t pretend to
know everything, but I was as aware as anyone in my position could be about what was going on – and more than some. Miranda didn’t seem to notice. At least, she gave the impression of
not noticing, of ignoring it all. And it was impossible not to notice. Almost every time we went out, the streets would be full of people protesting about one thing or another – marching with
banners and bands – Communists and Socialists and Fascists and Blackshirts and Greenshirts and every other colour shirt as well. It was all very noisy and passionate – even threatening
sometimes. I loved the urgency of it and it felt to me like I was living through an important period. But it all seemed to just wash over Miranda Bouchard, as if she was in another world and it
didn’t affect that world – and was never going to.

After I’d been at Chester Square for a few weeks, she told me after lunch that she’d like me to accompany her to a dance club that evening and asked me if I could recommend
somewhere. This took me by surprise, because the upper classes had their own private clubs and wouldn’t be caught dead in the dives that us service people frequented. It would be social
suicide. But Mrs Bouchard didn’t seem to care, so I gave her the benefit of my limited experience.

‘There’s the Hambone in Denman Street, or the Morgue in Smith’s Court, or the Shim Sham in Brixton, or the Lex near Oxford Street.’

‘Hmmm, I think Brixton is a bit off the beaten for me, Anwyn. The Lex sounds nice . . . is it?’

‘It’s good. They have proper bands and you can get a drink and something to eat.’

‘Excellent! It’s the Lex, then.’

We got there at about 8:00 p.m. and Miranda whispered something to the doorman on the way in. She gave me some money and asked me to go to the bar for a couple of soft drinks, while she sat at a
secluded table on the raised area away from the dancehall. It was a Wednesday night and not very busy, but the band was half-decent and it wasn’t long before my foot was tapping under the
table. After about ten minutes, the doorman came with a note and gave it to Mrs Bouchard. She read it and smiled.

‘Listen, Anwyn, I have to go.’

‘So soon?’

‘Something’s come up.’

‘I’ll get our coats.’

‘No . . . please, you stay here.’

‘Oh no . . .’

‘I insist!’

She gave me ten shillings from her purse and told me she’d be about an hour. I should wait until she came back and use the money to buy drinks or food or whatever I wanted. Then she was
gone, in a swirl of blue velvet and Vol de Nuit perfume.

I bought myself another lime squash with the ten bob note and sat back down. Then I noticed the piece of paper the doorman had delivered – it was still on the table. I had to have a look,
of course.

I didn’t need to have a degree from Oxford to guess that the ‘W’ might have been William Harding. He obviously knew Miranda Bouchard very well to be able to
get her to hire me as her lady’s maid. Did he do it to make up for his wife sacking me? I believed so. And I thought, how romantic! An assignation – a rendezvous – it was the
stuff of novels. And I was helping to make it happen. I was a covert chaperone – a silent stand-in to enable the lovers to be together. But then I remembered the library in Hampstead and I
wondered if Miranda Bouchard wasn’t making a fool of herself – if indeed it was William Harding who had the car outside the dance club that night. I was almost certain it was, but I
couldn’t be absolutely sure. In any case, it was none of my business and I’d promised Miranda I’d never betray her. It wasn’t due to any servile mentality on my part. It was
nothing to do with a sense of class or place or obligation – it was just one woman to another. Nothing else.

Being on my own, it wasn’t long before I attracted the attention of the likely lads who frequented the Lex. After about twenty minutes there were four of them sitting round my table, all
wanting to buy me drinks. I told them I had my own money, thanks very much, but I wouldn’t mind a dance or two. They kept me busy, taking it in turns to whisk me round the dance floor with a
waltz or a quickstep, and I didn’t notice the minutes of the hours rushing by.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Anwyn. What’s yours?’

‘Mickey.’

‘Mickey the mule?’

‘I’m no mule.’

‘And I’m no fool.’

But they were a good-natured bunch of boys and, as I didn’t take any drinks from them, I was under no obligation to take anything else either.

Mrs Bouchard came back at 10:30 p.m., over two hours after she left. Her hair was somewhat tousled and her make-up needed refreshing, but she was in good spirits and even thanked the young men
for keeping me company.

‘You can go now.’

She waved her hand imperiously and they melted away, bowing awkwardly and tripping over their toes, as if they were in the presence of royalty. I offered her the change from her ten shillings
– I’d hardly spent anything from being on the dance floor so much – but she told me to keep it as a thank you for my patience.