Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [82]
'Don't they speak English in the Indies, then?'
'Pick sugar cane, mostly,' said Abi coldly. 'Not much call for talk.'
'I like a bit of conversation when I'm at work, myself.'
Who did this brat think she was, Abi wondered? She called this work, as if a bit of light laundry bore the least resemblance to toiling in the cane fields. Abi threw the men's small-clothes into the pot now: flannel drawers, muslin shirts, worsted stockings and garters, all cut much the same.
'Is this the master's?' asked Mary, snatching at a breeches cuff before it went below the water.
Abi shook her head.
'Ah, yes, the nap is low, and here's a little hole; it must be Daffy's. Too busy studying to sew on a patch, I suppose. He's an odd little fellow, don't you think? Daffy, I mean,' she repeated, as Abi hadn't heard her the first time.
The maid-of-all-work gave a slow shrug and carried on rubbing the clothes together in the soapy water.
'Has he been here many years?'
A shake of the head.
'Three or four?'
'Maybe one year,' said Abi reluctantly.
'And where was he before that?'
'I think he work in his father's inn.'
Mary Saunders nodded her head, storing the information. 'Yes, I can just see him as a drawer-boy, with cider stains down his front!' She pulled a pair of old velvet breeches out of the pile. 'Now these must be the master's; the cloth's not worn at all, on the side where he buttons it up. How did he lose his leg, tell me? Or was he born that way?'
Abi shrugged to show she had no idea. She had never thought to ask. It was easy to lose a part of your body, it seemed to her; there were so many ways, it was a wonder anybody reached their death intact. She punched the swirl of clothes with her stick now, watching dirt rise to the surface. Hot water slopped over the side. She might not work fast, but she never quite stopped. That was the first thing she'd learned when she joined the field gang at ten years old: Keep moving. Never look idle.
Mary was examining a pair of Nottingham stockings. 'Very nice,' she said professionally, testing the delicate pattern with her thumb. She was about to drop them into the tub when Abi stopped her. 'Those go in cold,' she said, gesturing to a basin.
'And these lace ruffles? They must be the mistress's too.'
'No wet at all. Only dust with bran for take the grease out.'
Mary nodded and went for the bran tub. 'I never did any laundry in London; we had a neighbour do it for us. It's vastly complicated. I don't know how you keep it all straight.'
Recognising flattery when she heard it, Abi ignored that.
The Londoner plucked up a cambric shift now. 'This must be Mrs. Ash's,' she murmured, sniffing at it. 'Smells as sour as her face.'
Abi found the corner of her mouth curling with amusement.
Mary was plucking long grey hairs out of the nurse's nightcap. 'If she goes on at this rate she'll soon be bald as an egg. So what did the husband die of, then—being preached at?'
The washerwomen were busy wringing out the sheets in the scullery; they couldn't hear a word of this. Abi muttered, 'Didn't die. Ran off, I hear.'
The girl's eyebrows went up. 'That explains a lot. Would you blame the man?'
Abi pursed her lips so as not to smile.
'When did this happen?'
'Twenty years back, I hear,' said Abi, bending a little closer.
Mary covered her laughing mouth and whispered through her fingers, 'So no one's laid hands on the old bitch since ... 1743!'
A yelp of laughter escaped from Abi's mouth. And then the washerwomen came through, so she straightened up and began hauling clothes out of the tub. The London girl worked by her side.
That afternoon Mary and her mistress sat sewing in the shop, not two feet apart. 'I was wondering,' Mary began mildly, 'is Abi a slave?'
'Not at all.' Mrs. Jones looked up at her, shocked. 'We'd never do such a thing as sell our Abi.'
'What is she, then?'
'A servant,' said Mrs. Jones uncertainly. 'One of the family.'
Mary mulled this over. What a multitude of oddities the word family could cover. 'But she's not free to go, is she?'
'Go?' Mrs. Jones's lips pursed. 'Where