The Farm by the Lake

Chapter 2

On Sunday morning Flo was taken to the Vicarage where Mrs. Royer worked. There was a cook, who was also supposed to be general, but she never touched any job that was dirty or tiring. Ivy and Flo had told their mother that she ought to leave, only she had been going there for twenty-two years last February 28, a date easy to remember, so that it was foolish even to expect her to leave. All Saturday night Flo had been happy, standing to be admired and stroked by her mother’s friends, listening to exclamations and questions, and aware of jealousy when there were others of about her own age present. But now she felt different.

“Is Missis up?” asked Mrs. Royer as soon as she had got her head and first foot across the back doorstep.

“Up? Of course,” snapped Mrs. Worthing, six feet two, little more than a skeleton. It was one of her grumbles that Mrs. Royer should be allowed to get there at nine on Sundays instead of at eight. “She’s been up half an hour.”

“Here’s our Flo,” said Mrs. Royer, quite deaf to the antagonism. “What d’you think of her? Isn’t she a stunner?”

The inspection was made with a widening of the lower part of Mrs. Worthing’s nostrils, the wings of which had a curious flexibility that let her make a sneer her most artistic accomplishment.

“Where did she get them?” she asked.

“Missis got ’em,” Mrs. Royer answered, enjoying her moment.

“Whatever for?”

“To go to job as she’s got her; that as I told you of, and as you said wouldn’t be no good.”

“And if she’s got to be dolled up for it like that, it won’t be no good. If she was any girl of mine, I’d send them back and tell them I can dress my own daughter without any of their charity.”

Mrs. Worthing turned away and clanged the iron frying-pan on the gas-stove.

“It isn’t charity; she’s going to pay for ’em,” said Mrs. Royer determinedly. “Where’s Missis?”

“There’s all the washing-up waiting,” Mrs. Worthing stated coldly, now ignoring Flo. “Missis’ll have no time to waste. It’s a special service . . .”

“She’ll be in the breakfast-room, is she?”

Mrs. Royer accepted cook’s silence as “Yes”, and told Flo to wait. She came back five minutes later and told Flo to follow. They went through the hall which was overcrowded with a Victorian hatstand, a mahogany table with a marble top, and a much-carved black oak chest. There was a smell of dust. The breakfast-room was on the right. The vicar’s wife was at the far side of the fireplace sitting very upright in a maroon silk dressing-gown decorated with large scroll pattern in white. Her plentiful auburn hair was done loosely, chiefly towards the front, so that it helped to increase her appearance of height, and Flo felt small, as if she were going up to someone on a dais.

“Oh, now, Miss Royer, you do look smart,” Mrs. Howell greeted her. “No wonder your mother feels proud; indeed, anyone could be proud of you; you might even be taken for a . . .”she was going to say “bishop’s daughter”, but realised just in time how demeaning that would be to the bishop; therefore she finished by saying “a police inspector’s daughter”, Fortunately Mrs. Royer was thinking too much of Flo, and Flo was thinking too much of Mrs. Howell, for either of them to notice the hesitation or to wonder why in the world the police had been dragged in. The awkward moment passed very satisfactorily, Mrs. Howell thought, and she went on in a loud, elaborate manner: “Go over there, my dear, in the light. Oh, wouldn’t she make a picture, Mrs. Royer? If only I had time to paint her.” Mrs. Howell raised her large rather coarse hands in a gesture meant to indicate the extreme of regret, and then waved for Flo to come closer. “Let me feel the material, dear; I don’t want you to have to pay for poor stuff, you know.”

She picked up the hem of the skirt and tested its thickness and strength while Flo stood uncomfortable and stiff like a child.

“She’s vests an’ everything,” said Mrs. Royer.

At once Mrs. Howell lifted the petticoat and exclaimed how beautiful Flo’s underclothes were, and how beautiful her shoes were, and then told her to stand away again and went on about how beautiful her hat was. “Artistic, don’t you think, Mrs. Royer? Sets her off so; she has features just perfect for a vignette.”

Flo had never listened to such a gush.

“Oh, I’m so glad you were wise and decided to take advantage of the scheme,” Mrs. Howell went on. “And I’m sure you ought to feel very happy, Miss Royer; happy and grateful.”

Flo murmured that she did.

“Of course, you must be good and always do your best, and think of your mother and try to be a credit to her, dear. And remember that I recommended you, which, of course, means that the Vicar is interested. You wouldn’t let him down, I’m sure. You must be a little credit to us all,” and Mrs. Howell smiled benignantly, not directly at Flo, but over her head. It was as though she were addressing a class. “Of course, you mustn’t expect everything to be easy; it isn’t for any of us; we all have our trials, even your mother here, I know . . .”

“I do,” said Mrs. Royer solemnly, thinking of cook.

“. . . but you know what trials are for. They are sent to test and try us; and according to how we meet our trials, so we are rewarded. You know what it says in the Bible . . .”

But Flo wasn’t listening. She wished that Mrs. Howell would let her go. She felt so helpless; as if she had done something wrong already and was being reprimanded. Suppose that her new mistress were to turn out to be like this.

“You will be a long way away, but that will be all the better,” Mrs. Howell was now saying. “You won’t always be able to run home when something goes wrong, and so you’ll learn to depend on yourself, and that is what we all have to do, isn’t it, Mrs. Royer?”

Taken by surprise Mrs. Royer nodded vigorously and spasmodically clasped her hands, holding on to herself as it were. As Mrs. Howell went on the thought came to Mrs. Royer that what had been said wasn’t quite right about the Vicar, at any rate, because he certainly depended on his wife. “Blow ’is nose for ’im, if she could, she would.” And Mrs. Royer smiled without knowing.

Mrs. Howell did not notice because she had just become aware that her talk hadn’t yet been rounded off as it should be.

“And, of course, my dear, when I say we all must depend on ourselves, you know I mean also that there is an Ever-present Friend to help us.” The capital letters were those of a born elocutionist. “Yes, you must never forget your prayers, Miss Royer, promise me that, won’t you, and I’ll tell the Vicar, and He will pray for you, too.”

There was a pause. Mrs. Royer cleared her throat. Flo wondered if she might go. Mrs. Howell wondered whether she had said all that her husband would have liked her to say.

“How do we pay for these ’ere things?” asked Mrs. Royer, self-consciously jerking her thumb at Flo. “That was what I wanted ’er to be told, mum. I’m honest an’ I don’t want there to be no charity an’ no mistakes.””

“I’m quite sure you don’t, Milly,” Mrs. Howell took the opening promptly. “The clothes have been given you, my dear, so that you can go away decently dressed, so you won’t feel inferior . . . you’ve heard of an inferiority complex, of course. Well, that’s it. The society have seized on this as the best method of helping you because, although, as the Vicar says, there is nothing degrading in waiting on others . . . it should really be, indeed, of course, it really is, a privilege, to serve . . . but there has unfortunately grown up a . . . a, well, shall we say, a foolish idea that it is demeaning to go out to service. So in order that their girls shall not feel menial, the society have decided . . .”

Flo wondered what “menial” meant. It sounded mean, and the Vicar’s wife’s talk now made her feel meaner and smaller than before. She glanced to the square bay, but it had been made into an arbour for tall ferns, and grey chenille curtains kept out most of the rest of the light, so that there was no relief there. When her attention came back, Mrs. Howell was saying:

“. . . I know that it may seem to be a long time for a girl to have to go on paying, but it enables her to start right, and a good start is half the battle, as my Husband is always reminding us. And all the six months, of course, she has the privilege of wearing good clothes. Isn’t that an awfully good idea don’t you think, Miss Royer? But I know you do.”

Flo was relieved not to have to answer.

“I suppose, though, mum, that she’ll have something just to be going on with?”

“Two shillings a week,” said Mrs. Howell very graciously, “and most of that she will be able to save, I expect. You see, with clothes and all her food, what more can she require? It will give her a good opportunity to practise that other great virtue, it will teach her the Value of Thriftiness . . . too much makes us all wasters . . . waste not, want not, you know, my dear,” she concluded, turning towards Flo and motioning for her to come closer. “Let me give you a kiss, dear, and be sure, if there is any way in which you think the Vicar or I may help you, that we shall be perfectly happy to do it, won’t we, Mrs. Royer?”

“I’m sure, mum. You always does.”

Then came the kiss. Mrs. Howell’s lips were thick and soft and rather surprisingly warm and seemed to leave a wet blob on Flo’s cheek, so that she felt that she wanted to mop it at once.

“It was so thoughtful and kind of you to bring her to see me before sending her away,” Mrs. Howell called after them. “Don’t forget to close the door behind you, Milly.”

Mrs. Royer obediently shut it.

“The stuck-up frump,” said Flo. “I . . .”

“Ssh,” interrupted her mother urgently. “She’s very good, she is, an’ as she says, you ought to be . . . er, you ought to do as she’s told you. But for her you wouldn’t have all them things.”

“Way she talked, she might be giving them . . .”

“Don’t let cook hear,” Mrs. Royer broke in, following her through the heavy lobby door. “I bet she’s wonderin’. She’ll be trying to find out all day,” and a chuckle in the gloom of the back passage told Flo that her mother would be happy for the rest of the morning, anyway.