“What are you waiting for?” said Judd. “They won’t want cold tea, you know.”
The carpet was as soft as grass under Lizzie’s feet. At the top of the stairs she paused again. She had completely forgotten which way to go. The first door, but was it on the left or the right? There were six doors on the landing, and all of them were closed. She daren’t go back down again, daren’t face Judd’s wrath and the Lazy Cat’s scornful smile. Something told her it would be bad manners to call out. She put the tray down on a polished table and stood outside the first door on the right. I’m sure it was this one, she thought. She could hear nothing from inside. She knocked timidly, then more bravely. Still nothing. She turned the knob slowly and peeped inside. In front of her was a bed with a beautiful fringed quilt over it. Standing round the walls were huge pieces of dark wood furniture. There was a standard lamp with a fringed shade, and long, thick green curtains at the windows. But no Dearies. She closed the door softly. Her heart was thumping.
She crept to the door on the other side of the staircase, listened again, and now she could hear the mumble of voices. She knocked softly.
“Knock, knock!” called a voice from inside. “Tea, lovely tea!”
Lizzie opened the door, went back for the tray, and crept into the room. Facing her was a big iron bed with two old ladies sitting bolt upright in it. One had lost her nightcap, and her thin grey hair hung in long strand like cobwebs round her face. She clapped her hands together with delight. “Tea, Mistress Rickett! Tea!”
Mistress Rickett glared at Lizzie with round, pebbly eyes. “Who is it, Mistress Whittle?”
“Please, miss. Please, miss,” said Lizzie, glancing from one to the other and trying to bob a curtsy without dropping anything, “I’ve brought your breakfast.”
“Move over, Mistress Rickett,” the cobwebby one said. She patted a space clear on the counterpane that covered the bed. “Put the tray down. My mouth’s as dry as a desert. Look!” She poked out a yellow tongue.
“Who is it?” Mistress Rickett asked again.
“The tea girl. Pour it out, now! I’m parched.”
With shaking hands Lizzie did as she was told. She held out a rattling cup and saucer to each of the Dearies, then stood back, watching them sip their tea. She didn’t know whether she was supposed to go or stay. At last Mistress Whittle slurped her way to the bottom of her cup and handed it back to Lizzie.
“Pour me another. Plenty of sugar this time. Put some marmalade on my bread. Poke the fire. Open the curtains. Pour me some more tea.” Every so often the orders came, while the two Dearies worked their way through the tea and the bread and marmalade. But worst of all, definitely worst of all, was when the cobwebby one lifted up the counterpane and thrust out her skinny legs.
“Wash us.”
“Brush our hair,” giggled Mistress Rickett.
“Put us on the commode.”
I’ll do it, Lizzie thought grimly. Even though she knew it was not her job. I’ll do it so well that Judd will think I’m better than the Lazy Cat.
At last the Dearies were put back into bed, hair brushed and plaited (which Lizzie quite enjoyed doing), pillows plumped, fire blazing, teapot completely empty, all the bread and marmalade gone. Lizzie had spent all morning with them, and there’d been no sign at all of the Lazy Cat. She could hear her stomach rumbling and realised that she hadn’t eaten anything herself yet.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Have you brought tea?” Mistress Whittle asked brightly.
“Who is it?” Mistress Rickett asked. But her eyes were closing, her head sinking back against the pillow. Mistress Whittle looked round at her, tried to nudge her awake, and yawned. She smiled sleepily at Lizzie.
Lizzie tucked the counterpane round them, picked up the tray, and tiptoed out of the room. “Please don’t wake up,” she whispered. “I’m famished!”
She went quickly down the stairs. No Judd. No Lazy Cat. She opened the door to the servants’ quarters and stepped down with a sigh of weary relief. The door swung shut behind her, knocking her so hard that she dropped the tray, sending it and everything on it clattering down the stone steps. Every piece of crockery was broken.
Emily enjoyed her visit to the butcher’s with Rosie. The early drizzle had lifted; the day was blue and sharp. Already the street sellers were singing out their wares: “Fresh watercress!” “Nutmeg graters!” “Pies, all ’ot!” “Muffins and coffee!” Street boys held out their hands: “Spend a penny on a poor boy! No Ma, no Pa! No nuffin’!” Rosie hurried past them all, intent on reaching her favourite butcher’s shop before the best cuts of meat had gone. As they drew near the shops, the streets became muddier, churned up by the wheels of carriages and donkey carts. Little sweepers ran in front of the wealthier looking shoppers to clear a path for them through the muck. They didn’t bother with Rosie and Emily; they knew they wouldn’t be getting any coins from them. Now Emily could see that the gutters were running red with blood. A woman walked past them, bent almost double with a whole sheep slung across her shoulders, heading for the row of butchers’ shops. Carcasses of meat hung from the rafters of the shop awnings. The owners, all dressed in butcher’s blue, stood outside, shouting out to people to come and buy from “Me, the best butcher in the whole of London town!”
Rosie led the way to the last shop in the row, where the walls were covered in shiny white and blue tiles. Inside, a whistling boy swept the floor clean of blood drips and slopped pieces of fat and bone. Hungry dogs scavenged under the trestles that had been pulled out in front of the shop, and were kicked away by the butcher’s hefty boot.
The butcher knew Rosie well, and joked and bartered with her as she talked Emily through the best cuts to buy. He parcelled her purchases up with paper and put them into her basket. “It’s people like you who make me a poor man!” he grumbled, as she handed over the coins. “Don’t let anyone know I’m selling you meat at this price!”
She turned away, pink-faced and smiling. “He knows I was in the trade myself once,” she said to Emily. “Selling whelks and stuff for my granddad. He was so pleased when he heard I’d got a job for his lordship that he gave me a bag of stewing meat for nothing! We’ll just get some nice fresh veg now, and we’ll have just about done. Back to our baking, Em’ly!”
They hurried on to another stall and chose the vegetables to go with his lordship’s dinner. Emily looked longingly at a nearby pedlar’s tray of dangling coloured ribbons. I wish I could buy a lovely red one for Lizzie, she thought. One day, when I get some wages, I’ll buy her one. She lifted a strand between her fingers, loving its silkiness and its intense colour of summer poppies.
“Don’t daydream, Em’ly,” Rosie said. “There’s never time for that. Judd will be waiting for me to hand back her purse so she can count out her change. I have to account for every farthing spent, so don’t go mooning over bits of ribbon.”
“It wasn’t for me,” Emily said. “For Lizzie. Or Ma.” Her voice trembled. She ached when she thought about Ma, all her prettiness gone, thin as a helpless bird that had forgotten how to fly. Be safe, Ma!
As soon as they arrived back at the Big House and hung up their cloaks behind the door, Judd flounced