The Swan Maid. Dilly Court

pots onto the dung heap, which lay festering in the heat of the late summer sun. She had been up since five o’clock that morning and had not yet had breakfast, but the rooms had to be serviced, and the guests must be looked after. Their needs came before those of the inn servants, and the mail coach from Exeter would be arriving at any moment.

      ‘Lottie, answer me at once.’ Prudence Filby leaned over the balustrade on the first floor, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. ‘Is that you down there in the horse muck?’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Lottie had hoped that the short-sighted landlady might not see her, but it seemed that her luck was out. It was better to answer, and receive a tirade of abuse, than to hide, only to be accused later of every shortcoming and misdemeanour that came to Mrs Filby’s mind.

      ‘That’s where you belong, you idle slut, but I have need of you in the dining parlour. Come in at once, and wash your filthy hands.’

      ‘Coming, ma’am.’ Lottie hurried indoors, leaving the chamber pots in the scullery to be scoured clean when she could find the time. She washed her hands in the stone sink and was about to dry them on her apron, when she realised that this would leave a wet mark, which would be enough to earn a swift clout round the head from her employer. Mrs Filby had a right hook that would be the envy of champion bare-knuckle fighters, and had been seen to wrestle a drunk to the ground on many an occasion. Her husband Shem, who was by no means a small man, treated her with due deference, and spent most of his time in the taproom, drinking ale with his customers.

      Lottie hitched up her skirts and raced across the cobblestones to the kitchen on the far side of the stable yard. The heat from the range hit her with the force of a cannonball, and the smell of rancid bacon fat and the bullock’s head being boiled for soup made her feel sick.

      She acknowledged the cook with a nod, and hurried on until she reached the dining parlour, where she came to a halt, peering at her hazy reflection in a fly-spotted mirror on the wall. Strands of fair hair had escaped from the knot at the nape of her neck, and she tucked them under her frilled mobcap. She straightened her apron, braced her shoulders and entered the room.

      Prudence Filby stood by the sideboard, arms akimbo. She glowered at Lottie. ‘You took your time,’ she hissed. ‘Clear the plates and don’t offer them more coffee. The Exeter mail coach is due any minute, and I want this lot out of here.’

      ‘More bread, girl.’ A portly man clicked his fingers. ‘And a slab of butter. I paid good money for my breakfast.’

      Lottie hurried to his side. ‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’

      ‘You’ll do more than that. Bring me bread and butter, and a pot of jam wouldn’t go amiss.’

      ‘Is there jam?’ A woman seated with her husband at the next table leaned over to tug at Lottie’s skirt. ‘Why didn’t we get any jam? I don’t like dry bread, and I’ll swear the flour had chalk added to it. My mouth is full of grit.’

      ‘No wonder this place is half empty.’ Her husband turned his head to stare at Mrs Filby. ‘This is your establishment, madam. Why have we been deprived of jam?’

      Mrs Filby folded her arms across her ample bosom and advanced on him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. ‘You paid for bed and breakfast, sir. No one never mentioned jam. Jam costs extra.’

      ‘Don’t make a fuss, Nathaniel.’ The man’s wife reached out across the table to touch his hand. ‘Suddenly I’ve lost my appetite.’

      The City gentlemen at a table by the window had been listening attentively, and they too started demanding more coffee, and bread and butter: one went so far as to ask for marmalade.

      Mrs Filby answered their requests by dragging Lottie from the parlour. She closed the door, and boxed Lottie’s ears. ‘That’s what you get for nothing – see what you get for something. I’ve told you time and time again that bread, butter, coffee and the like should be given sparingly. We’re here to make money, and you must wait until the last minute before the coach arrives to serve the coffee or soup. It has to be so hot that the customers leave it.’ She caught Lottie by the ear. ‘What happens then, girl? Do you remember anything you’ve been taught?’

      ‘It goes back in the pot, ma’am.’

      Mrs Filby released her, wiping her hands on her skirt. ‘That’s right. Then we can sell it twice over and we make more money. You do know, so why don’t you carry out my orders?’

      ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.’

      ‘Go and fetch hot coffee, and make sure the bread is straight from the oven. I heard the post horn. This miserable lot of complainers will be leaving in the time it takes to change horses and turn the coach around.’

      ‘What about jam?’

      ‘Jam?’ Mrs Filby’s voice rose to a screech.

      Lottie fled to the kitchen.

      The next mail coach arrived just as the disgruntled passengers from the dining parlour were boarding the one about to leave. The lady who had been refused jam climbed into the coach declaring that they would be travelling by train next time. Her husband followed her, saying nothing.

      Lottie stood to attention, waiting to show the new arrivals to the dining room. London might be the end of the journey for some, but others would want to rest and refresh themselves before travelling on. It was a never-ending cycle of weary travellers arriving and departing, with only minutes to achieve a swift turnaround. The ostlers worked with impressive speed and dexterity, and Jem, the potboy, raced about doing the jobs that no one else wanted to do. He nudged Lottie as he went to offload the luggage.

      ‘Save us a slice of bacon,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m starving.’

      She nodded. ‘I will, if I can.’

      He dashed forward to catch a carpet bag thrown from the coach roof by the guard, resplendent in his livery of scarlet and gold. Trotter was a regular on this route, and Lottie had observed that he liked to show off his strength in front of an appreciative audience. She looked up and, sure enough, the other chambermaids, May and Ruth, were leaning over the balustrade on the top floor, waving their cleaning cloths in an attempt to attract his attention.

      Jem followed her gaze. ‘You’re a randy old goat, Trotter,’ he said, chuckling. ‘How do you do it, mate?’

      Trotter’s answer was to hurl a leather valise at Jem that almost brought him to his knees. ‘Cheeky devil.’ Trotter flexed his muscles. ‘You could learn a thing or two from me, son.’ He turned and waved at the maids before leaping to the ground, and swaggering off in the direction of the taproom.

      ‘You’d best get that lot indoors before Mrs Filby sees you,’ Lottie said hastily. ‘She’s already given me a clout round the head that made me see stars.’

      Jem tucked two smaller cases under his arms and then lifted the heavier bags, one in each hand. ‘She’d have to stand on a box to reach my head, but she punched me in the bread-basket last time I made her mad. She’s a nasty piece of work, and that’s the truth, but we’re better than her, Lottie. Keep that in mind, my girl.’ He strolled off, whistling.

      Lottie looked up, but May and Ruth had vanished, and a quick glance over her shoulder revealed the cause. Mrs Filby was standing in the doorway, scowling at her. ‘Don’t loaf around doing nothing, you lazy little slut. Get on with your work.’

      ‘How does she do it?’ Lottie muttered as she hurried into the scullery to take up where she had left off. ‘She’s got eyes in the back of her head.’

      ‘Talking to yourself, are you? That’s the first sign of madness.’ Ruth edged past her, carrying two dangerously full chamber pots. ‘You’d think the horses had pissed in these. I was all for emptying them over the balustrade, but May stopped me just in time.’

      ‘That would have taken Trotter down a peg or two,’ Lottie said, laughing. ‘He wouldn’t have been so cocky then.’

      Ruth