An Orphan in the Snow. Molly Green
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Unlit candles in sconces were set in niches near the fireplace, and several chandeliers shaped like individual flares hung from the ceiling, which was painted with what appeared to be hundreds of coats of arms. In the middle of the flagstone floor was a huge oriental rug, rucked up at the side.
It was just as she imagined the great hall of a castle would look. This was a grand house indeed. She took a deep breath to still the nervous fluttering of her heart.
‘Is that Miss Lavender, Gilbert?’ A strident voice came from above and a woman poked her head over the curving oak staircase.
‘Yes, ma’am. She’s arrived.’
The figure made her way slowly down the stairs, holding on to the banister. She was an exceptionally tall, large-framed woman, her grey hair scraped into a tight bun on top of her head. She stopped short, and from behind a pair of rimless spectacles her piercing steel-grey eyes regarded June from top to toe.
‘You’re not very big.’
‘I’m five foot four.’ June drew herself up to her full height. ‘And I’m not a weakling.’
‘Mmm.’ The woman pursed her lips, her head cocked to one side. ‘We’ve nearly all boys here. They can be a rough lot.’ She glared at June. ‘You sounded much older in your letter but you don’t look more than sixteen.’
‘I’m twenty-one next summer,’ June said firmly. ‘And I’m used to unruly children. As I said in my letter, I’ve been looking after my sister’s three boys for the last two years and they’re quite a handful.’
‘Not such a handful as thirty-three little devils, not counting seven girls who never stop crying.’ June was about to answer when the woman said, ‘I’m Mrs Pherson, the matron. And that’s what you call me – Matron,’ she repeated, as though she had no doubt that she was dealing with a simpleton.
June offered her hand but the matron barely touched it with her fleshy fingers. ‘Take Miss Lavender’s case upstairs, Gilbert.’ Her eyes swept back to June. ‘There’ll be a cup of tea for you in the kitchen.’ She pointed to a corridor at the far end. ‘First right along the passage. I will meet you back here in’ – she pulled the chain of her watch towards her and glanced at the hands – ‘twenty minutes exactly. Please don’t keep me waiting.’
She certainly runs a tight ship, June thought tiredly, remembering the conductor’s words, which now made a lot more sense. For the moment, all she wanted to do was get to her room, drop her suitcase and find the kitchen. Her mouth was dry from the little she’d had to drink during the long journey from London, and the thought of a cup of tea was bliss.
‘Tea would be very welcome, thank you.’ June glanced at Gilbert who was standing nearby, a sullen expression spread across his small mean features. ‘I can carry my own case upstairs if you’ll just show me where to go.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Gilbert stomped up the stairs in his scuffed black boots with June following, heaving her case. Then another flight, and another. When they reached the fourth floor she thought she would drop with tiredness. Gilbert waved her towards a door and nodded.
‘That’s it, yon,’ he said, and, muttering to himself about having more work to do with extra staff, he vanished.
It wasn’t a good start, June thought. The first two people she’d met weren’t in the least welcoming, but then she was used to difficult people. She’d had plenty of training with her father and, although she’d loved her mother, she’d not been easy to look after when she’d been drinking. And her sister Stella was always known for her quick temper. June breathed out a long sigh. She would just have to do her best to get into Matron’s good books by showing her she could cope with thirty-three boys and seven girls. They couldn’t be that bad.
She opened the door and a smell of damp filled her nostrils. By the look of it, the bedroom hadn’t been occupied in months. Gingerly she stepped inside and shivered even though she still had her coat on. The room was big enough to warrant a fireplace, though there were no ashes, nor logs nearby for the next fire to be lit. An ugly brown wardrobe and mismatched chest of drawers had been pushed against one wall in a lopsided manner, and when June went to inspect a table under the window she pulled back in disgust. Unrecognisable flowers were festering in a glass vase with an inch of slimy green water. June wrinkled her nose as she unfastened the window, letting in a blast of air. It was freezing, but it couldn’t be helped, she thought. The room needed fresh air. She couldn’t see much of a view as it was still foggy so she’d have to be patient until it lifted.
How was she ever going to sleep in such an atmosphere? Or was she being too fussy after Aunt Ada’s neat-as-a-pin flat? Her own mother had done her best to be tidy and clean before she became sick but her father had never taken any notice, tramping in from the garden in his boots no matter how many times her mother asked him to remove them, and leaving his dirty clothes on the floor for her to pick up and wash.
June pushed the image of her father away. She’d give the room a good clean the first chance she had, but first, even before her tea, she decided to unpack.
She hung her few clothes in the wardrobe, which smelled of mothballs, set out her brush and comb and placed her bag on a cane-seated chair, though most of the cane poked underneath like a long fringe. There was no mirror to check if she looked tidy but she mustn’t complain. Plenty of people were much worse off. At least the house was quite a few miles from Liverpool, she reasoned, and the drive itself must be a half a mile long, so the children should be safe from any bombs.
Although June was getting more tired by the minute, her mouth curved into a delighted smile. There’d be wonderful gardens to walk in and where she would play games with the children. She’d soon make her room homely. It was just a matter of getting used to everything.
Five minutes later a maid directed her to the kitchen where a pot of tea and some cups and saucers were grouped on a scrubbed pine table. Two young girls were scurrying round a plump woman in a wraparound apron and white cap who stood over an enamel bowl as big as a baby’s bath, hands flying up and down as she crumbled in fat and flour for her pastry. She looked up as June entered.
‘Are you the girl come to help with the children?’ she demanded, though her tone was friendly.
‘Yes. I’m June Lavender – just arrived from London.’
‘Och, you talk funny.’ The woman wiped her hands on her apron and stuck out a floury hand. ‘Name’s Marge Bertram. Call me Bertie. Everyone does. I’m from Scotland. Buried the second husband and decided to have a change and cross the border.’ She laughed. ‘It’s a couple of degrees warmer here, I’ll give it that. Little did I realise how close Jerry would be, trying to smash the docks to smithereens.’ She looked at June, who was waiting to be told to take a seat. ‘Still, you don’t want to hear all that right now. You must be worn out. Tea’s on the table. Help yourself, hen. You’ll have to excuse me getting on as I’m in the middle of cooking dinner.’
‘What time will that be?’ June asked, a little embarrassed but hearing her stomach rumble again. One piece of toast and a spoonful of scrambled egg at six this morning hadn’t gone very far to stave off her hunger.
Bertie looked up at the wall clock, which showed five minutes past eleven. ‘Not until one o’clock.’ Her eyes pierced June’s. ‘Here, I’ll cut you a slice of cake. Don’t tell anyone, mind. It’s supposed to be for the children’s teatime.’
‘I haven’t heard any sound from them,’ June ventured, pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘Are they out somewhere?’
Bertie snorted. ‘No, dear, not at this time of the morning. They’re all in class. These walls are solid. The Victorians really knew how to build. You’ll not hear a peep unless they’re in the next room