I spend the afternoon considering my options. Mother has made it perfectly clear that she won’t finance my higher education and won’t toss any money in my direction should I decide to leave. Unfortunately for me, my sister Mabel is right in so much that as things currently stand my employment prospects are limited to servitude, gardening or labouring, and only domestic service offers long term prospects since gardening is usually seasonal and labouring jobs are often short term. I expect I’d have to find a staunch feminist and suffragist to employ a man as a maid, I can’t imagine a normal lady doing so. Then the fact that I don’t have a reference springs to mind. I doubt Agatha had chance to write once since her death came so sudden. Maybe she gave one to her solicitor… but then again, why would she? I begin to fantasise that my wily old aunt has set aside a fund to finance my way to university. She may have been firm and unforgiving but she was fair, and she was fully aware that my heart was set on education when I put my life on hold in order to serve her, so maybe… just maybe. I know that my imagination is running away with me and such fantasies aren’t very productive. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place and I need to decide what to do.
Mother approaches me later in the day and asks if I’ve had a think about things. I tell her that if I do decide to remain (and that’s a big ‘if’), I’d rather adopt the routine of a ‘day’ maid rather than that of a live-in maid. Most of the servants in the town work as day maids and usually finish their duties in the early evening rather than late at night. They also get Sunday afternoon off and receive a decent allowance. “I’m more than willing to consider such terms Peter.” Mother replied. “I’m not the stick in the mud that Agatha used to be.” she claimed. “We’ll discuss it in more detail after the Will has been read.” she says. “But in the meantime… I’d like to see a little more loyalty and obedience from you.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means you don’t speak out of turn or question me in that tone of voice young man.” she sternly stated. “You seem to forget that I’m still your mother.” Blimey! If anything, she’s the one who’s forgotten that I’m her son. She’s speaking to me like some prospective employee, but as things stand, that’s pretty much what I’ve become. She reiterates her theory that I’m simply in between contracts and that today has been a day off “…of sorts. Tomorrow, I want to see you back in uniform and performing your normal duties.”
“But mother!” I protest.
“If you want me to consider your conditions…” she says, reiterating the shorter days, Sunday afternoon off, etc. “…then you have to meet me halfway.” she states. “This house needs a domestic and you’re it. Unlike Aunt Agatha, I’ll pay you a decent allowance and depending on your commitment over the next couple of days, I’ll happily consider the terms you’ve proposed.”
I really didn’t want to but what choice do I have? The next day it got up at 5.00am, fixed my hair, applied my make-up, donned my uniform, cap and apron before embarking on the drudgery of my daily routine at 6.00am. I cleaned, polished and lit the kitchen range, prepared breakfast, changed the bedding and emptied the chamber pots, cleared up and washed the breakfast dishes, dusted the house from top to bottom, swept the upstairs floors and scrubbed the hallway, polished the banisters and balustrades before starting on the silverware. Mabel and Bertrand would be returning home today, which meant I had to pack their clothes and blitz their bedroom. I was glad to see the back of them but it won’t be long before they’re moving in permanently. Bertrand has to finalise the sale of their town house and when that’s gone through, I’ll be running around and clearing up after three of them! Christ I hope they don’t have children!!
The following day, I accompany my mother down to the small town and the firm of Solicitors who are Aunt Agatha’s appointed executor. I’d have rather worn my Sunday dress for the reading of the Will but Mother insisted that my domestic frock was adequate. She didn’t even let me remove my cap or apron! I guess she wanted all and sundry to see that she’s the sort of lady who can afford to employ a housemaid. She needs to be seen as the new lady of the manor and I suspect that the only reason she’s invited me to accompany her is to perform in an ostentatious display of her social standing. I was severely tempted to thump her when she introduced me not as her son but as ‘Agatha’s maid’!!! “You remember Peter… Agatha’s maid…” she said to a dapper looking gent. “…he’s staying on to look after the manor house. You’ll have to come and visit, I’ll be throwing a party before long and everyone’s invited… well, almost… I’ll keep out the lower classes to ensure it’s a classy event.”
The gent didn’t seem at all impressed, although he did feign interest for the sake of social graces. My mother has no idea just how thin her veneer is. In fact I’d rather be ‘the maid’ than ‘her son’. She’s an embarrassment. In fact, I’ve a good mind to decline her offer of employment and take my chances. Even if do end up in servitude, at least I won’t have to bear witness to her flamboyant and false performances. What to do, what to do? I wish Agatha was still around. No matter how harsh her manner, how abrupt her tone, she always gave a no-nonsense reply. Direct and straight to the point. Firm, yet fair. She’d have told me to follow my heart, do what I felt I needed to do, proceed and progress with my head held high.. or something, possibly. On the other hand she may have told me to put up and shut up… I’m lucky that I’m being offered anything at all.
