Yes, Mama. Helen Forrester

to survive.

      ‘And for how long did you – er – clean my doorsteps?’

      ‘Five year, Ma’am.’

      ‘Why don’t you go back to it?’

      Polly heaved a sigh. She was so tired that she thought her legs would give under her. ‘Me Mam wants me to improve meself,’ she burst out, with sudden inspiration.

      ‘Very commendable. And do you go to Church, Polly?’

      Polly had never been to Church in her life. And only once to an open air Wesleyan meeting with her father. She knew, however, what the answer must be. ‘Oh, yes, Ma’am. I go to St Nick’s – I mean, St Nicholas’s.’

      ‘Humph. Protestant, then?’

      ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ replied Polly promptly, wondering suddenly what she really was, since her mother was a Roman Catholic and her father a Wesleyan.

      ‘Mrs Woodman is a Protestant, I believe.’

      Polly did not care if Mrs Woodman worshipped golden idols, like the blackie seamen who walked the streets of Liverpool in silent, single files. All she wanted was three meals a day, to lessen the pain in her stomach, and a baby to suckle, to ease the pain in her chest; even the thought of suckling made her breasts fill and she could feel the milk trickling down to her waist.

      Mrs Stanley smiled thinly. She did not care for Mrs Woodman, a fluttering widgeon of a woman with an upstart husband who dabbled in many commercial enterprises in Liverpool. Distinctly lower-class. She thought it might be amusing to send them a wet-nurse who was probably lice-ridden.

      ‘Bring my desk from over there and put it on this table beside me.’ Mrs Stanley gestured towards the far wall.

      Polly did not know what a desk looked like and glanced, bewildered, towards the furniture indicated by the delicate white hand.

      ‘There, you fool – that – er – sloping box.’

      Polly carefully lifted a pair of crystal inkwells and a matching candlestick off the desk and laid the desk on the table indicated. She then replaced the inkwells and candlestick.

      Irritated, Mrs Stanley moved inkwells and candlestick to the back of the desk, so that she could open the lid and extract a sheet of paper, a goose-quill pen and a piece of sealing wax. In exquisite copperplate, she wrote To Whom It May Concern that Polly Ford was honest, industrious and had worked for her as a charwoman for five years. She was desirous of improving herself, and Mrs Stanley felt that she would give satisfaction.

      She sanded the paper to dry the ink. She then took a phosphorus match from the candlestick, struck it and lit the candle. She held the stick of sealing wax to the flame and allowed a small drop to fall upon the letter and seal it closed. Into the molten wax, she pressed a ring from her forefinger, to imprint her own seal.

      ‘There.’ She turned in her chair and handed the note to Polly. With a bit of luck, that would give the odious Woodmans a fair amount of trouble.

      ‘Oh, thank you, Ma’am.’ Polly’s voice was full of genuine gratitude as she made a deep curtsey.

      Mrs Stanley gave a stiff nod of acknowledgement, and then ordered, ‘Put the desk back on to the far table.’

      ‘Yes, ’m.’ Polly did as she was bidden, being particularly careful not to spill the red and black inks from their crystal containers. She then backed to the door, bobbing little curtsies as she went.

      ‘James will show you out. Pull the bell by the fireplace.’

      The only thing by the fireplace which could be pulled was a long piece of embroidered canvas hanging from the ceiling. Polly hoped for the best and pulled it. Then she stood with hands neatly clasped in front of her and examined the pattern on the carpet. She was stupid, she told herself. She should have realized that she would have to be escorted out of the house in case she stole something. Not that I would, she told herself crossly.

      The old manservant arrived with commendable promptness. ‘Yes, Ma’am?’

      ‘Show this woman out – by the servants’ entrance.’

      ‘Yes, Ma’am. Of course, Ma’am.’ He twisted his toothless mouth into a tight knot. As if he would ever show a member of the lower classes out of the front door. After fifty years of service, Madam ought to know that, he thought irritably.

      II

      Sent upstairs by Rosie, Polly stood with head meekly bowed and examined the blue and white Chinese carpet in Elizabeth. Woodman’s room, while her new mistress looked her over for a second time.

      The young woman seemed healthy enough; and with a reference from the high-and-mighty Mrs Stanley and a personal recommendation from her cook-housekeeper, Mrs Tibbs, she should be satisfactory. Yet, Elizabeth smelled a rat. Mrs Stanley was notorious for her perverted sense of humour. A leftover from the wilder days of King George IV and King William IV, the old devil was capable of all kinds of japes and capers.

      As she peered in the candlelight at the humbly bent head, a much sharper pain shot through her and she cried out. Mrs Macdonald came to the bedside immediately. She picked up the rolling-pin from the bedside table and handed it to the sufferer. ‘There, there, Ma’am. Hold on to this.’

      Elizabeth clutched at the pin and gritted her teeth, as she waited for the next pang. She felt tired already, worn out from worrying over the coming child’s existence. She was petrified at the thought of the outburst which might occur from Humphrey when he actually saw the baby.

      But if she employed this Polly Ford, the child could stay in the old nurseries on the top floor for months, and as far as Humphrey was concerned, out of sight might be out of mind. And she herself would be freed from the boredom of feeding the baby. She could go out and fulfil her social obligations, be free to spend afternoons with darling Andrew, as before, though they would have to be much more careful.

      She let another spasm go over, managing not to cry out. Then she said to the midwife, ‘Mrs Macdonald, tell Mrs Tibbs to see that this woman is bathed, her head rubbed with paraffin, and her present clothing wrapped up tightly and sent to her home. Mrs Tibbs should have her uniform ready by now.’

      ‘Yes, Ma’am. I’ll ring for Rosie.’

      Polly kept her head down. This was much better than she had expected. Both she and her mother had been worried about getting her a uniform, fearing that the pedlar might not give them credit. Now the clothes were to be given to her. If she had dared, she would have sighed with relief.

      Elizabeth knew from sad experience that vermin could come into a house in a servant’s trunk. She took no chances and always provided uniforms.

      Polly endured without comment the humiliating complaints of her fellow servants, as a tin bath was lugged up to the windowless box room which would be her bedroom. Loquacious Fanny hauled two ewers of hot water and one of cold up the endless stairs from the basement kitchen, together with a bottle of paraffin, a bar of laundry soap, a piece of flannel and a worn bath towel. ‘Mind you don’t make no splashes,’ she warned Polly.

      Polly had never had a bath in her life; she had simply rubbed herself cursorily with a bit of cloth wrung out in cold water. Now, Fanny laid an old copy of The Times on the floor and said, ‘Take off all yer clothes and put ’em on this. Mrs Tibbs’ll get next door’s gardener’s boy to walk down with ’em to yer ma’s.’

      Polly looked at the girl appalled. Take off everything?

      As if she could read her mind, Fanny said, with a grin, ‘Everythin’, ’cept yer stockin’s and boots – you’re to keep them.’

      ‘Well, you go away, Miss, while I does it,’ snapped Polly defiantly. Even Patrick had never seen her completely naked.

      At the thought of Patrick, tears welled. Fanny saw