The Servants (19 page)

He did not comprehend all these things clearly yet, or in words he could say, but as he sat and stared out of the window at the black car driving away, the paths of understanding were laid in his mind, the sad walkways that later in life would shape the routes by which he understood the world and its ways. And for now, from a place inside him so deep he had no inkling it even existed, he cried.

And cried, and cried.

The tears came in waves, but they did not stop. He didn’t even know what time it was anymore. It had to be after seven, maybe eight, but David was right about one thing—when

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m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h things really came down to it, time didn’t matter much inside.

He got halfway to his door again, wanting to go upstairs and be with his mother, but was stopped once more by the sound of coughing from above. It seemed to get louder and louder with each bout, as if it was coming to him not down through his ceiling but somehow echoed out of every wall, and up through the floor.

He could not bear to see her coughing that way, as if something was being ripped apart inside her. He knew what it meant, now. He didn’t have to see it for himself. He would rather stare out into darkness. It was the same thing, but did not hurt as much.

He stumbled back to the window, barely able to see through a fresh fall of tears. His stomach was cramping and he was out of breath, dried out, and yet still he cried and cried. He stared down at the park, trying to imagine ever not feeling this way.

Two people were standing in the street. One was tall, the other was short.

Mark blinked, trying to stop the tears. Something about the figures looked familiar.

He rubbed the back of one hand quickly across his eyes. His vision was still blurred afterward, but he could make out that the tall figure was a man and wore a tight black suit. The short figure was a woman in a white apron. It was Mr. Maynard, and Mrs. Wallis.
How on earth could they be outside?

Mark rubbed his eyes again. They were standing on the

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t h e s e r va n t s

opposite side of the street, close to the hedge, talking together urgently. They did not look as if they were fighting, however, but as if they had some joint business that required a speedy resolution.

Mr. Maynard bobbed his head, in brisk agreement. Mrs. Wallis nodded too. Then they both turned their heads and looked up at his window.

Mark blinked, and they were gone. The street was empty. He was still standing at the window, motionless and bewildered, when he heard the doorbell. He could not imagine what was happening, who could possibly be at the door. He heard David’s footsteps coming down the stairs, and the door being opened. A low, quiet conversation. Then a knock on his bedroom door.

When he opened it, David was standing there. His stepfather looked exhausted, his eyes wide and flat.

“There’s someone here for you,” he said. He stepped back, out of the way. Mark walked slowly out of his room. The old lady from the basement was standing neatly in the doorway to the house.

“I wondered if you might come downstairs,” she said. “I have a cake of which I believe you’ve become fond.”

Without consciously making the decision, Mark found himself following her onto the steps outside. He was halfway down to the sidewalk when his stepfather said his name.

“Mark.”

Mark turned to look at David, still standing in the corridor. “Is there something you can do?”

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m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h

“I don’t know,” Mark said.

He felt David looking into him in a way no one but his mother had ever done before.

His stepfather nodded once.

“Do it,” he said.

Then he slowly closed the door.

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twenty-two

The old lady didn’t say anything on the way down the metal stairs, nor as she opened her door or led him inside, or until they were standing in her room, warm as ever, and with the clock going
tick
so loudly Mark could feel the sound in his chest. He looked at her table. There were no plates on it, no brown paper bag.

“A little fib,” she said. “There is no cake.”

“But what—”

“You won’t need it tonight,” she said. “I believe you remember where the key is kept?”

He looked at her, feeling caught out and afraid. The old lady’s gaze was open and direct, and he realized with some confusion that she had known all along, and that her door had not been left unlocked last night by accident. That when she’d said someone must watch the starlings, she had not been making fun of him.

He remained frozen, however, not knowing what to do.

“Go ahead,” she said, going to the stove. “I’ll get the kettle on.”

He took the key.

m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h His first thought was that the corridor beyond the big door was even worse than he’d remembered. It was hard to close the door behind him, the piles of ash on the floor were so thick and so high. But he leaned against it with all his weight and shoved, and then suddenly it was closed. He took a couple of hesitant steps toward the kitchen, not knowing what to do now that he was here. There was one change, at least. Though the air was still heavy, and too warm, and the bad and sickly smell was everywhere, at least the terrible rushing and swirling sound from last time had stopped. There
was
a background noise, but now it was a kind of low, thudding sound. A faint
thunk . . . thunk . . . thunk . . .
with perhaps a second between each beat. Mark thought the sound had perhaps always been there, obscured by other noises.

“Ah-
ha,
” said a voice triumphantly, and Mark suddenly found himself being pulled forward.

He looked up to see that Mr. Maynard had appeared from nowhere. He grasped Mark by the shoulder and drove him toward the end of the passageway.

“How
opportune
.” The butler beamed. “I’m glad our associate was able to entice you down to us—an
excellent
stroke of chance. I hesitate to call once more upon your good offices, Master Mark—as you were of such
valuable
assistance on the last occasion you graced our quarters—but perhaps . . . ?”

He stopped, head cocked and held close to Mark’s, peering very directly at him. “Might you lend us just a few moments of your time?”

Mark blinked. Nodded.

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t h e s e r va n t s

“Wonderful,”
Mr. Maynard said, looking like a rooster whose crowing had recently won a major international award.

“Then please, if you would just follow me . . .”

With his shoulder still firmly grasped by the butler’s bony hand, Mark didn’t have to do much following. He was swept at trotting pace into the kitchen, and then brought to a sudden halt.

Though no ash was falling, and the bells were silent, this room, too, looked worse than ever before. It was full of congealed grime and black snow, and bloody, congealed fat. The sinks and all the surfaces were covered in plates and pans that looked as if they had once held far less appealing burdens than food. The floor was a distant memory. The smell rolling out of the meat and dairy stores was truly appalling. Three people stood in the room.

Martha, in front of her range. Over by one of the sinks, the scullery maid in gray. And by the back stairs, Emily. All stood with straight, proud backs, their hands neatly together at their waists, despite the fact that all stood thigh-deep in muck.

“Good evening, Master Mark,” they said, in unison.

“Good evening
indeed,
” said another voice. Mrs. Wallis came bustling in from the corridor behind, rubbing her hands together. She stood in front of the butler.

“Mr. Maynard,” she said, with a half-smile. “I trust you are well?”

“Extremely. And how does this evening find
you,
Mrs. Wallis?”

“Never better.”

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m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h

“Excellent,
excellent
.” He turned to Mark, his face growing serious. “Now, Master Mark—I shall be plain. Through a series of events and misunderstandings I shall not tire you with, we find ourselves a little
behind
. Perhaps you have already perceived something of the sort. You have demonstrated yourself to be of keen mind.”

“Well . . .” Mark said, but then just shrugged again. “You know . . .”

“In
deed
. Now. It has been brought to our attention that you are a young person who uses his
feet
with great facility. That not only do you walk great distances but also stand for pleasure upon a small board equipped with wheels, and yet do not always fall off. Is this true?”

“I suppose so,” Mark said, frowning.

“I believed it must be so. Our informant never lets us down.”

“This is a fine house,” Mrs. Wallis said, with deep and evident pride. “And it possesses a fine staff. A butler, housekeeper, cook, housemaid, and scullery maid, as you know. But there is one thing we have always lacked. Mr. Maynard, would you agree?”

“Without a doubt,” Mr. Maynard said, nodding vigorously. “And that, Master Mark, is a
foot
man, someone dexterous with their
feet
. And yet tonight, by some wondrous chance—it seems that such a thing has presented itself to us, just when we are in our hour of greatest need!”

“Will you help us?” Mrs. Wallis asked. “Tonight?”

“With what?” Mark asked. The low throbbing in the background seemed to be getting louder. The three women

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t h e s e r va n t s

in the kitchen remained standing absolutely still, like statues poised.

Mrs. Wallis inclined her head toward the butler. “Mr. Maynard—if you would be so kind?”

Mr. Maynard started pacing around Mark, hands clasped behind his back, largely unhindered by the yard-deep gunk through which he strode. In the meantime, he recited, quickly and from memory:

“Commence with servants’ rise at 5:45. A waking call to sir and madam at 6:45—followed by tea delivered to their rooms at 7:25. Servants’ breakfast at 8:00 in the quarters; then for family, upstairs in the parlor at 9:15. Servants’ dinner at 12:00, parlor luncheon at 1:15. Tea in the drawing room at 4:30, dinner at 7:15, servants’ supper down here at 8:30. Tea or supper in the drawing room upstairs between 9:30 and 10:30, depending on the social activities of the household, naturally, then lock-up at the region of 1:00 a.m.”

“The backbone of the day,” Mrs. Wallis agreed. “Those are the basics. But in addition to this . . .”

“. . . there will be
deliveries
.” Mr. Maynard continued. “A stream of boys from local purveyors ringing
constantly
upon Mrs. Wallis’s door, said produce to be placed in its appropriate place. Every meal that is set must then be cleared away, every pot and plate washed and stacked—in readiness for the next assault upon Martha’s skills. Cleaning meanwhile is required elsewhere through the house, naturally. Every mirror and doorknob and stick of furniture requires attention,
every
day, with Mrs. Wallis’s
additional
schedules of work to be carried out every second or third afternoon. Fireplaces must be

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m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h scrubbed each morning. There will be telegrams and postal deliveries throughout the day, requiring immediate dispersal and possibly urgent reply—not to mention
other
visitors, personal callers at the house. Many of these are to be welcomed, of course, and provided with additional refreshments. But there are others, Master Mark, who must be
repelled
. Do you understand what I mean by this?”

“Yes,” Mark said, thinking of a black car sitting in the street below his window. A car that came to take people away.

“I thought you might.” Mr. Maynard stopped pacing, turned to Mrs. Wallis. “He is
wise,
is he not, for one so young in years?”

“Extremely so.”

Mr. Maynard and Mrs. Wallis both took a step back, until they were standing in line with the others, hands also clasped at their waists, five people in a position of readiness.

“Young sir, will you join us?” the housekeeper asked.

“Will you stand shoulder to shoulder with we other servants tonight,” the butler added, “and help us to do what must be
done
?”

“Okay,” Mark said.

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twenty-three

All at once everyone was in motion.

Martha leaned over and, with one sweep of her sizable forearm, cleared the kitchen table, sending ash and thick black gloop and old, gray chicken bones to land in the mess on the floor. Mrs. Wallis disappeared into the corridor, summoned by the first delivery of food to replace that which had gone bad. Emily fought her way through the ash and pattered up the back stairs, in response to a single ring on one of the bells. The scullery maid pushed straight to the back of the kitchen, rolled up her sleeves, and started boiling water. Mr. Maynard led Mark through this sudden hive of activity, helping him kick aside the piles of rubbish on the floor. He rapidly told Mark about the cleaning of footwear, the attention required to candles and oil lamps through the house, the daily cleaning of looking glasses and polishing of furniture in the public rooms. With regard to a footman’s
below
stairs duties, he explained that while it was the butler who was responsible for the cleaning of glassware, and the silver plates and forks, it was Mark’s role to look after the knives. m i c h a e l m a r s h a l l s m i t h Emily the housemaid would be in charge of the china—when she returned from clearing the upstairs area—and the scullery maid the pots and pans. There was more information, a great deal more, but halfway through dispensing it, the butler stopped, and took a look around. He shook his head, as if he’d only just noticed the true state of the kitchen.

“But first . . .” he said.

“A spring clean?” Mark offered tentatively.

The butler smiled warmly down at him.
“Precisely,”
he said.

He took a brush, and gave Mark another, and they started at opposite sides of the room. Martha meanwhile fired the range up, and after some initial grunts and hissing, it started to glow. Strangely, this did not seem to make the kitchen hotter. If anything, the air started to feel a little more clear. As the cook ran her finger down the long list of dishes that needed to be prepared, nodding and muttering to herself, the scullery maid darted over with a cloth soaked in hot water. She cleaned the kitchen table thoroughly, ready for work, removing every last scrap of ash and fat.