Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [69]
She slapped her head in reproach for her forgetfulness.
'We believe Abi's origins are Angolan, you see,' said Daffy, addressing himself to Mary, 'but she was brought up a Barbadian.'
What a strutting little scholar he was! What was it Doll used to say about bookish men? Much learning, little prick. Mary had to hide her smile. She tried to clear her mind of the thought, in case it might show on her face. All that was behind her now, she told herself. These days she had to think like a maid, in every sense of the word.
'Barbarian,' said the nurse suddenly.
'I must correct you, Mrs. Ash,' said Daffy politely, 'the word is Barbadian. From the land of Barbados.'
'And I said barbarian,' Mrs. Ash repeated. 'I've said it before, but it's no less of a sacred duty to say it again. No good can come of keeping a heathen at such close quarters with a Christian child.'
Hearing herself mentioned, Hetta bounced in her chair. As Mary watched, Mrs. Jones's face suddenly sagged with fatigue. 'Please, Mrs. Ash—'
The nurse interrupted her mistress. 'It's not my place to complain, madam, but I can't help but observe it causes perplexity and confusion. The child is all eyes and ears. She ran in to me the other day, asking what colour our Lord might be!' Mrs. Ash's pale eyes stood out in her face.
Mrs. Jones's lips moved as if formulating an answer, but her husband put his hand over her own.
'I compassionated the woman at first, as was my duty,' Mrs. Ash ran on, 'but when I heard Daffy's father had offered to baptise her, and she'd stood out against it—'
The door opened and Abi drifted in with a tray to take away the bowls. The silence tingled. 'We do appreciate your concern, Mrs. Ash,' said Mr. Jones thoughtfully after a minute, 'and we'll speak of this again.'
Mary checked Abi's face to see if she had heard anything, but the maid's lashes were lowered.
'Yes, sir,' said the nurse, almost meek.
There was silence, then, after Abi had gone back into the kitchen. Mary watched the family avoid each other's eyes. It was like sitting down to a game of brag where she was the only stranger, and had no idea what cards were in play.
Mrs. Ash took out a tiny dog-eared Bible now. It was just like the ones given out at the Magdalen, but Mary pushed that memory to a distance. Her eyes caught those of the master. (Is the leg all he's lost? Doll wondered lewdly in Mary's head.) He smiled, but she didn't trust herself to smile back, in case it looked flirtatious. She made a mental note to practise the smile of an innocent orphan in front of the mirror.
The porridge sat on her stomach like stone.
A new rule of the house was that no matter what task Mary might be engaged in, she had to answer the door. Having a London girl in a lace-edged apron to greet the patrons clearly delighted Mr. Jones: 'It'll give such a genteel impression that no one will raise an eyebrow at our prices!' So even if he happened to be right behind the front door when he heard a knock, he would call in to Mary and duck back into the Stays Room.
But the first time she answered, that morning, it was not a patron at all, but a crowd of farm boys. They made the most peculiar noises as they dragged a dirty great machine, decked with white ribbons. Mary's first instinct was to shut the door on them, but Mrs. Jones hurried along the hall to stop her. 'It's Plough Monday, my dear; had you forgotten?'
Mary stared at her.
'Didn't your mother ever tell you about it?' said the mistress amazedly.
Mary watched Mrs. Jones hand a farthing to every stripling who had his muddy hand held out. One of them was done up in a skirt and apron, and was that rouge on his cheeks? What a strange part of the world this was, where mollies walked the streets in broad day! Another boy called the painted one Bessie. They started singing some bit of nonsense and pushed the molly-boy forward to give Mrs. Jones a kiss. Stranger still, it seemed to Mary—she let him.
When the door was shut Mrs. Jones turned to Mary. Her colour was high, against her high-necked black jacket;