Page 7

Chapter 7

January 1911

The winter light had faded and the gas mantles had been lit by the time Ursula, with Isobel’s help, had managed to disentangle the threads of numbers in the main ledger.

The leather-bound volumes from nineteen previous years were stored high up in one of the cupboards, and after studying three of the most recent books Ursula didn’t feel strong enough to spend hours poring through the rest of them.

Her predecessor’s handwriting was unfamiliar and difficult to decipher, especially as the hand which had held the pen had obviously become shaky near the end.

It seemed there had been little in the way of domestic financial management for some time, with sheaves of invoices to be cross-checked, and worryingly, some recent bills that were stamped UNPAID in red.

When at last every set of figures had been entered into a new page in the ledger, and the columns added up, Ursula could see that there was a discrepancy of more than fifty pounds.

She checked her addition and subtraction several times, but there was no doubt.

She knew she would need to talk to John about this to make sure there were no other bills unaccounted for or invoices outstanding.

While it seemed a terrible thing to do, her instinct was to abandon the half-used book and begin again with a fresh set of accounts, and she decided to ask John to bring a new ledger home from the storeroom at the office.

He had said he would leave her to organise the household, in fact he had seemed relieved about it, and she could now see why.

‘I need to check what there is in the pantry,’ Ursula said.

‘Of course,’ replied Isobel, her voice tight.

She had watched the checking and rechecking of the columns of figures with increasing alarm.

They went through the shelves of jars and cans together.

It was tempting to make a proper list of what was there, but now she was standing looking at the packets and bags and tins, Ursula could see that the kitchen was operating with a very limited palette of ingredients.

It hadn’t escaped her notice that the food served was plain to say the least, but until now she had left the meals and routines as they were, unwilling to be too much of a new broom.

She turned to Isobel.

‘Is this it?’

The young woman nodded.

‘So how does it work, with Mr Black’s preferences?

’

‘I always do the best I can with what is ordered.’ Isobel frowned before continuing.

‘On Monday I make pie from the leftovers of the joint we have on Sunday; quite often that’s mutton, or sometimes it’s beef.

’

Ursula smiled encouragement.

‘I have noticed that you have a light touch with pastry.’

Isobel barely noticed the compliment.

‘Or sometimes I use a layer of sliced tatties instead of the pastry.’ She paused.

‘I mean potatoes, sorry. And vegetables. Cabbage or carrots. On Tuesday and Wednesday there are faggots. I make those with minced beef and pork from the butcher, and there’s mashed potatoes and turnip and gravy.

In the winter months I make enough for two days and put the dish on the cold stone shelf in the larder at the back of the scullery.

But in the summer they won’t keep for a second day, so I make them fresh each morning.

’

‘Go on.’

‘Thursday is braised liver. Friday is fish. And on Saturdays Mr Black used to take the children out for lunch when he got home from the office, and they had a big plate of sandwiches and cakes and biscuits for tea instead of a proper meal. That was before you .?.?.’

‘Right.’

‘And in the mornings, there’s porridge and toast and marmalade, except for Sunday when there is the big breakfast: tattie scones, sliced sausage, bacon, eggs, and more toast and marmalade, and sometimes honey as well.

But of course you know that.

’

‘Anything else?’

‘Every day Mr Black takes a sandwich to work, two slices of bread with cheddar cheese and chopped dates. He always has the same thing.’

Ursula forgot her mother’s advice and smiled to herself.

She had seen John sit at his desk every day and unwrap his sandwiches, and watched as he folded the greaseproof paper into a precise rectangle afterwards before throwing it in the wastepaper basket.

Sometimes he missed.

‘Since,’ Isobel hesitated, ‘since the late Mrs Black has been gone, I’ve had to make plans for what is eaten, and I’ve offered to put other things in the sandwiches but Mr Black always says no.

’

‘I don’t think either one of us will win that battle.

I asked him about it once when there was no one else in the office and he told me it meant he didn’t have to make a decision about something as straightforward as lunch, and he could think about more important things instead.

’

Isobel glanced up at the clock, calculating the time needed for the work she hadn’t yet done and mentally reshuffling her tasks for the rest of the day.

‘Puddings?’

‘I sometimes make crumble if there’s fruit.

Master Finlay’s little plum tree at the end of the garden gave us a small harvest last September, even though it’s only been planted since they moved here.

He asked for a plum tree and Miss Ann asked for the cherry tree in the front garden.

’ She pointed to the lower shelf in the open larder where crimson-filled glass jars were arranged in a line, labelled neatly.

‘Those are spiced plums. I added some from the greengrocer so there were enough. My aunt gave me the recipe for them. Sometimes I make Eve’s pudding, and there’s custard.

Or I make rice pudding, or blancmange, or junket.

And there were raspberries and blackcurrants in the garden last year so I made summer pudding a few times when the berries were ripe.

’

‘And you have been with the family how long, Isobel?’

‘Since they moved here, after the house was built. Before that they were in a big tenement flat in Bruntsfield and there was another maid who didn’t come with them.

She said it was too much for her.

’

‘So that’s just over two years?

’

‘More or less, miss. The late Mrs Black felt that a routine for the meals was important. But this house hasn’t really been run in the same way as the others in the street.

’

‘Oh?’

Isobel looked down at her shoes.

‘Some of the other maids, we talk, you know. They tell me that the ladies in their houses are interested in the food and how it’s prepared, so they do it together.

They try new things.

’

‘And you’ve never done that?

’

‘Mrs Black, sorry, the late—’

Ursula shook her head.

‘There is no need to correct yourself all the time, I understand what you mean.’

‘Well, the late Mrs Black wasn’t interested.

Maybe it was because she was poorly.

But even before she was really ill, she just gave lots of instructions.

I did my best, though it wasn’t always good enough, I’m afraid.

I’m a plain cook, not a fancy one.

Towards the end it was easier for her to just let me do everything, and she stopped commenting on what I made.

And afterwards I had even less time for all the cooking because I was doing so many other things as well.

’ Isobel waved her arm as though to envelop the house in a bedsheet.

‘There is a lot to get done. I had to come up with a plan I could repeat because it was the only way I could manage it all. I’m very sorry.

I’ve done my best and I don’t want to speak out of turn, but it was the only way.

And Mr Black was sad for a long time, and the children couldn’t decide what they wanted, so I did it all for them.

If you want to have a new maid, I can look for another position.

’ Isobel was now talking to the floor, her head bowed.

Ursula looked at the tired young woman, who was wiping her hands on her apron over and over again, and shook her head.

‘It hasn’t been an easy time for anyone.

’

‘Before I started here, I spoke to the maid from the Bruntsfield flat and she told me that Mrs Black had her ways.’

‘Ways?’ Ursula was flummoxed.

Louise Black was an enigma.

It was like having a sainted body in the house who could not be criticised or have her methods challenged.

But from the little John had told her, Louise had not been the easiest of people to live with.

There were a lot of rules, for a start.

‘Sit down with me, please.’

Isobel pulled one of the wooden chairs out from the table and waited.

Ursula sat down and tapped the dark green binding on the ledger with her fingers.

‘There are going to be some changes.’

Isobel looked at her miserably.

She remained standing.

‘Yes, miss.’

‘First, I am now Mrs Black so there will be no more miss, if you don’t mind.

’ She paused. ‘And secondly, there will be no more liver in this house. Or faggots. And while there might be a plan, we won’t be having the same thing every Tuesday as though we are in a regiment of the Cameron Highlanders.

Tell me, do you like to cook?

’

‘I don’t mind it.

But I’m not sure I’m any good at it.

My friends,’ Isobel waved her hands again to encompass the houses on either side, ‘well, they make all sorts and I’ve just never had the opportunity because—’

‘I understand,’ Ursula interrupted.

She opened the ledger and looked again at the column of figures, now in her own handwriting.

‘Right, Isobel. In the house in which I grew up, the food was very different from this. My father’s mother was German, and when she was a child in Berlin there were often visitors from all over Europe.

’ She counted the countries off on her fingers.

‘France, Italy, Austria and Switzerland for a start. There was a lot of cooking and baking. Especially the baking part. I think a small amount of variety, introduced a little bit at a time, will definitely be the order of the day now I am in charge.’ She smiled.

‘And there is no time like the present, so I think we should make a plan for next week, together. These unpaid bills may mean we need some new suppliers, although heaven knows I am sure they all talk to one another.’

‘Yes, Mrs Black.’

‘I will need your advice before I place the orders. I’m sure you have an opinion on the best greengrocer and butcher to use, for a start.

If you can tell me which shops we have accounts with, and which ones you think send good-quality produce, that would be very helpful.

’

Isobel felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease.

She thought about the columns of figures and the unpaid bills and the checking.

All of the checking.

She crossed her fingers; if she was careful, perhaps this would be alright after all.