‘If you met my brother-in-law, you’d think the Carlings very generous.’ Renie spoke without thinking, but to her surprise this led to one or two other women talking about relatives who were also treated badly by their stingy husbands.
‘Don’t ever marry, young Irene!’ said Miss Plympton, who was in charge of the cakes in the tea shop. ‘The only way you’ll keep the money you earn is to stay single.’
Another woman tossed her head. ‘Well, I don’t agree. My Jimmy isn’t like that and I can’t wait to get married, but we’ve agreed to wait two years so that we can save up for our furniture.’
When the women got talking in the evenings, Renie learnt quite a lot about life.
She didn’t join in the complaints about the Rathleigh. She’d never stopped being thankful for this job. Whatever anyone else thought of their employers, the Carlings had taken her away from the grinding poverty and constant nastiness of her life with her brother-in-law.
She wished she could take Nell away, too. And little Sarah.
There were so many things she hoped for, now she was in London. Who knew what would happen to her in such an exciting place? She’d taken the first step out of poverty, and would work hard to go further yet.
After Christmas, Renie still occasionally got lost in the areas of the hotel where guests were not to be found, and got teased a lot about that. But she couldn’t help it. It was easy enough to find your way round the main part of the hotel where the guests stayed, but there were two levels of cellars below that, where employees did dirty or menial jobs, mending, cleaning, fetching and carrying coal and oil. Only they were called ‘basements’ because ‘cellar’ was considered a rather common word.
Worst of all was going down to the lower basement, which was mainly storerooms, because there were very few people around and it gave her the shivers as her footsteps echoed on the stone paving. Once she let a door slam behind her and couldn’t open it again because the wood was damp and it had stuck fast.
She thought she’d be trapped there for hours till someone noticed she was missing and her lamp wouldn’t last that long and she’d be alone in the dark. She nearly panicked, but fortunately she heard footsteps in the corridor and called
for help. And even more fortunately, it wasn’t one of the pageboys.
After that, she made sure to prop the doors open carefully before she went into a storeroom. It was her job and she had to do it, so she gritted her teeth and tried not to jump at strange noises, because if the pageboys found out she was afraid, they’d make her life hell, she knew. When she had been new to the hotel, they’d played a few nasty tricks on her until Maud had had a word with them. No one would dare play tricks on Maud.
The front cellars connected at several points with the side basement beneath the hotel’s rear wing. There was one wide passage and several narrow sets of stairs. The wing had been built later to extend the hotel and the guest rooms here were not as spacious – or as expensive – and were used mostly for guests’ servants, who had their own dining room and sitting room.
Three worlds under one roof, she thought: guests, staff and visiting servants. And in each world there were several different groups as well, such as upper and lower servants, who didn’t sit down to eat together. It could be very confusing to a girl from the country.
As he started to recover, Gil, who had almost lived out of doors and been very active, fretted at sitting around inside the house and wasn’t the easiest of patients.
His mother came to see him morning and evening when she was at home, and for her he held back his frustration, but she could tell how he was feeling.
She stopped Walter in the corridor one day to say, ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you. My husband means well
and I love my son dearly, but neither of us is any use in the sickroom.’
No wonder. The master had never bothered to get to know his children, just barked orders at them, Walter thought. Mr Rycroft might lavish money on his children, but that wasn’t the same as loving someone.
The mistress cared for her children in the way most
upper-class
ladies did, from a distance. After all, Mrs Rycroft had a busy social life with her husband and they spent most of the year in London.
A nanny had brought up their three sons, young nursemaids had played with them or taken them for walks. As he grew older Gil became mad about horses and spent a lot of time in the stables with Walter. It was a pity old Nurse had died a few years ago. She’d have been a great help just now.
Walter left his deputy in charge of the stables, and tried to keep his lad from plunging into deepest despair.
When Gil was allowed to get up, he had to be lifted into a wheeled chair by Walter and the nurse, because the broken arm and leg were still in plaster. Dr Laver would remove that after a month or so.
Mr Rycroft, a stout gentleman who puffed going up stairs, had wanted to install a newfangled invention in his country house, as he had in his town house: a lift. But with no electricity in the country, this wasn’t possible.
Gil refused point-blank to be moved to the London house, so they brought in men to carry him up and down the stairs morning and evening.
When the plaster was cut away, Dr Laver said the bones had healed well. ‘Try walking a few steps.’
Gil found to his horror that he couldn’t walk evenly. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It was a bad break. You’ll have to consult the specialist as to whether anything else can be done.’
Walter had seen it before. A break that healed to leave one leg shorter than the other. He didn’t say that to Gil, but he doubted a specialist could perform a miracle.
They’d have to wait and see. At least going to London would get the lad out of the house.
They went up to London by train a few days later, but Gil was still limping badly and needed to use a stick. They had a compartment to themselves, and when they got out of the train, Gil avoided looking round or making eye contact with anyone.
At the last minute Mr Rycroft was called away to an important meeting, so it was Walter who went with Gil to the specialist.
‘The leg’s healed well, Mr Rycroft.’
‘But I’m still limping,’ Gil protested.
‘It sometimes happens that a leg is shortened by such an accident. I’m afraid you’ll always limp, Mr Rycroft. There’s nothing that can be done unless you want to undergo a series of operations – and even then, nothing can be guaranteed. I’d not advise it in your case. The bones were badly damaged.’
Silence, then, ‘And my arm?’ Gil scowled down at it. ‘It twitches. I can’t control that.’
‘I’m afraid the rough treatment you received after the accident has injured nerves in that arm. It may improve a little, but I doubt it’ll ever be fully right again.’
There was a long silence, but Walter could see how his
lad’s shoulders slumped. He knew how embarrassed Gil was by the way the arm jerked involuntarily.
Other people weren’t always tactful about how they reacted to it, either. His mother hated to see it and couldn’t hide how she felt. His father had once or twice said sharply, ‘Can’t you control that damned arm?’
After that interview with the specialist, there were no more tears, but there were no smiles, either. Gil limped round the country house like a white-faced ghost, spending hours staring out of the window or sitting in the summer house. He still tired quickly and retreated to his bedroom on the slightest excuse.
The family continued to lead their normal life, spending most of their time in London and coming less and less frequently to Hampshire. The two older brothers were married and no longer living at home. It seemed clear to Walter that the Rycrofts were avoiding their previously handsome, athletic son.
Well, the lad was still handsome. The accident hadn’t harmed his face.
One day Walter took the bull by the horns. ‘How about going to London for a few days? There’s more to do there.’
‘There’s nothing
I
want to do. Do you think I want to be seen by the fashionable world like this?’ He tried to gesture to himself, and as the damaged arm jerked sideways, he let out a bitter laugh. ‘I’m like a badly strung puppet.’
‘Your father’s talking about consulting other specialists to see if they can help.’
‘I doubt anyone can. We’ve already seen the supposedly best man.’
‘Well, a dicky arm isn’t the end of the world.’
‘No. And what can’t be cured must be endured. Only … it’s the end of my world. I don’t know how to bear this, Walter. I just … don’t know how.’ His voice broke.
As the months passed, Renie settled into her new life. The work was hard and not very interesting, but there were more people to talk to and a lot to do in London on her day off. Even if she had only an hour off, she often nipped out to walk round Yew Tree Gardens, glad to be among greenery and to see a few flowers. She enjoyed watching children play there.
In June, the city was filled with spectators for the coronation of King George V. Fortunately the summer had been fine and the coronation could take place in style.
Renie was surprised at the fuss that the staff of the Rathleigh made about it, hardly talking about anything else for weeks. They couldn’t go to watch the procession, of course, but most of them managed to see the preparations, the stands for spectators and the decorations along the route to be taken to Westminster Abbey on the 22nd.
The day after the coronation, she overheard one of the guests talking about it, and it didn’t sound at all like what she’d seen when she sneaked a look at one of the guests’ newspapers.
‘Just a procession of men in fancy uniforms riding expensive horses,’ the old lady said scornfully. ‘And the route was soon covered in dung. Those animals have no respect for the Queen and King, or for anyone else except Mother Nature.’ She laughed heartily at her own joke, but her companions seemed embarrassed.
The staff of the hotel knew better, of course, than to
criticise the royal family in any way, but the younger ones had been surprised when the poor queen had to give up her own name Victoria and become Queen Mary. The older staff said there would never be another like dear Queen Victoria and forbade them to speak of either queen disrespectfully.
It wasn’t disrespectful to wonder why things were done, Renie thought mutinously, but she’d changed since she was a girl and didn’t burst out with her thoughts. Living with Cliff and being afraid of being thrown out of his house had taught her to hold her tongue and made her grow up quickly.
Far more important to Renie was that little Sarah was very ill with diarrhoea that same month, and Nell could only send her sister a couple of brief notes to assure her that Sarah hadn’t succumbed. So many children died of stomach upsets that Renie had tears of sheer relief in her eyes when she heard that Sarah was well and truly better.
It was living in that nasty little house that had done it. How could Cliff make his family live in a slum? It wouldn’t cost him much more to rent a decent house.
In September Renie took her annual week’s holiday, going to spend it with her sister in Lancashire. It was wonderful to be with Nell, to be able to talk about anything and everything, and she loved playing with little Sarah, who was just starting to walk, clinging to the furniture, not moving on her own yet.
Cliff was as nasty as ever, demanding Renie pay him for the food she ate and the washing she would cause. ‘I’ll buy my own food,’ she told him. ‘I’m not giving you any money. Anyway, you don’t do the shopping.’
For a minute he glared at her so fiercely she wondered if
she’d said too much and was afraid he might throw her out. Instead, he looked at his wife. ‘You’d better not keep me short to feed
her
.’
‘Of course not, Cliff.’
Nell’s voice was toneless and she kept her eyes down. That upset Renie.
Once he’d gone out to the pub, she asked, ‘Why do you let him treat you like that?’
‘Because it’s easier. He’s out all day and at the pub several evenings, so I don’t have to put up with him for long.’
Renie didn’t comment but that phrase upset her.
Put up with him!
She remembered when Nell had thought herself in love and loved by Cliff. What an unhappy life she led now.
All Renie could do was buy her sister and niece treats. One afternoon she took them to see a moving picture show.
But the week passed so quickly, and Nell looked so unhappy as she said goodbye, that Renie knew she’d go home and cry.
There was nothing she could do to help Nell, except stay independent. She knew her sister was very pleased about that and wanted nothing but the best for her.
But was being a waitress the best life had to offer?
Renie still wanted so much more.
She bought Christmas presents to send to her sister and niece from a nearby market Daff showed her, where there was a second-hand stall selling clothes that were better than average, though of course more expensive.
Daff always studied the clothes carefully, fingering them and sighing in envy. ‘One day I’m going to have lots of clothes
like these. Till then, I keep my eyes open for bargains.’
‘Is this where you bought the blue skirt and jacket you wear on Sundays for church?’
‘Yes. Oh, look at this. That’s good value. Wool as fine as that usually costs a fortune. It’d really suit you.’
Renie was nearly tempted into buying the dark-red skirt and jacket, then thought of Nell, how hard she worked, how work-worn her poor hands were. ‘It’s lovely but I can’t afford it, and when would I wear it anyway?’
‘To church.’
‘Who for?’
‘You might meet someone you like.’
‘I don’t want a fellow.’
The owner of the stall sidled up to her. ‘This would suit you even better, love.’ He held out a blouse and skirt and Renie sighed. He was right.
‘It would, but I can’t afford it, thanks.’
He looked at her shrewdly. ‘New to London, are you? Come out dancing with me one night and I’ll sell this to you for half a crown.’
She knew what he really meant by that invitation and drew herself up. ‘No, thank you. I don’t accept favours from strangers.’ She walked off before he could say anything else, muttering, ‘The cheek of him!’
She had seen girls get tempted into trouble by easy ways like that to get things they wanted, but nothing would persuade Renie to give her body to a fellow till she was married – if she ever did marry. She didn’t intend to wind up like Nell, tied for life to a mean-spirited man who didn’t care for her or his own child.
At the moment Renie was enjoying life hugely, in spite
of her worries about her sister, even though she’d never worked as hard in her life before. It was enough. She was only eighteen, after all, though sometimes she felt older.
In November 1911, a year after Gil’s accident, Mr Rycroft came down to visit his son and told him over dinner, ‘I’ve made an appointment in London with a specialist in the rehabilitation of injuries like yours. He’s been studying in France and has recently returned. Daniel Seaborne is very well thought of. Maybe he can do something for you.’
Gil stared at him across the end of the large, shiny mahogany table that could seat ten people even without extra leaves. ‘Do you think this one will be able to perform miracles, then? The others couldn’t.’