In the hall the grandfather clock was striking seven. It was two hours since Mary had expected to have her tea, and she was very hungry. She had been on her hands and knees, peering through the keyhole of her bedroom door for nearly two hours now, but no-one had passed to bring food or to allow her out to eat it, and it was pitch dark in the corridor. Miss Crichton had threatened her with nothing but bread and broth to eat, but even that had not arrived. Why had nobody come?
Mary felt a rising panic. Once before she had been left alone, and nobody had come. She had waited alone in the silent bungalow under the pulsing heat of the Indian sun. Her parents were dead, her Ayah too, and all the servants who weren’t sick with the cholera had run away. There was nobody left to come. What if it had happened again? What if Mrs Medlock, and Martha, and Colin, and Dickon and everyone, even Miss Crichton, had fallen sick and there was nobody left? What if her uncle was never coming home? She did not want to be the one left behind ever again.
Eventually she heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Someone was lighting the lamps, one by one, starting at the far end near the stairs. It was hard to see who, but as the light grew with each new lamp she could make out a long black dress and a white cap.
‘Martha?’ she called through the keyhole. ‘Martha, is that you?’
‘I’m not supposed to talk to you, Miss,’ Martha whispered as she lit the lamp nearest to Mary’s door.
‘I have had nothing to eat, Martha,’ Mary said. ‘Have I been forgotten?’
‘Nay, Miss Mary. You’re being punished for sauciness. Miss Crichton has said that you can wait for your supper and maybe you will behave better tomorrow.’
‘And Colin?’
‘He’s to wait too.’ Martha moved to the other side of the corridor, lifting her taper to the lamp and adjusting the shade.
‘This isn’t what Uncle wanted. I wish I could write him a letter and explain, but how would I post it without her knowing? Unless I gave the letter to you next time you go home to visit your family. Then would you ask someone to post it for me in the village? If I can find some money? You will help, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will,’ Martha said. ‘If Dickon can’t do it I’ll ask my friend Bob … I mean, Mr. Strong. He’ll help me, I know he will. I don’t think what that woman’s doing to Master Colin is right. He was so ill, and he should be –’ She broke off from what she was saying as footsteps could be heard in the corridor, short, sharp steps marching along. Mary couldn’t see through the keyhole who it was, until the steps were almost at her door. It was Miss Crichton, with a look of fury on her face and a small wooden tray in her hands.
‘What are you doing, girl?’ she said to Martha.
‘Lighting the lamps, Miss Crichton,’ Martha replied, bobbing a curtsey and turning so that Mary could see her face through the keyhole. She was chewing at her bottom lip and her voice quavered.
‘You were talking to someone. I suppose you weren’t talking to the gas lamps?’ Miss Crichton said, sarcastically. ‘Or are you a half-wit?’
‘No, Miss Crichton,’ Martha whispered.
‘Then I can only assume that you have gone against my orders and you were talking to the girl.’
‘I … I …’
Mary spoke up from behind the door. ‘I was telling her that she should obey my orders in my uncle’s house. Martha was simply telling me that she couldn’t do what I asked because she has to do what you say.’ She was desperate to help her friend.
‘And what did you ask her?’ Miss Crichton spoke to the door as if she could see right through it to where Mary crouched behind it.
‘I was asking Martha why I could not be let out and why no-one had come.’
‘And what did Martha say?’
‘She said it was your orders,’ Mary said, which was not entirely untrue.
‘Well, Martha Sowerby, for your disobedience in talking to her you shall be turned away with no references.’
‘Please, Miss! It’s nearly Christmas and my family need my wages. There are still three children at home.’
‘Well, it isn’t my fault your mother is improvident enough to have more children than she can afford,’ said Miss Crichton with a sniff.
‘No! You can’t! It was my fault, not Martha’s!’ Mary protested.
‘Oh, it was, was it? Then you shall be punished too. I was bringing you a nice, nourishing supper of cabbage broth and brown bread, but I see that I shall have to reconsider.’ She put the tray down on the table beside Mary’s door and the smell of the broth through the keyhole was enough to make Mary’s stomach growl with hunger, even though she detested cabbages and brown bread too. ‘You, girl, go and pack up your things and be out of this house by nightfall. And as for you,’ she said to Mary, ‘I’ll deal with you tomorrow.’
Liz Taylorson 