Work Text:
That dratted dog had left a puddle in the back hall again.
Mrs Timmings saved her shoe by a nasty little hop and skip, then turned to take her key out of the lock. It always puzzled her why Mrs Odell didn’t simply let Gyp out into the garden, for he must scratch and whine, probably for quite some time, before forgetting himself like this. He was a good old dog; but there was no doubt he was getting to be an old dog. Not for the first time, she concluded that it had probably happened in the middle of the night. The housekeeper had worked for Mrs Odell for many years, and had no difficulty imagining her mistress sleeping through even the most urgent whimpering at her closed bedroom door.
She furled her umbrella and unbuttoned her coat. Gyp was nowhere to be seen; and he usually greeted her advent with a galumphing scramble through the hall and a friendly woof. Yet there was nothing to be heard, not from the dog, nor from upstairs. Without slipping off her coat, Mrs Timmings took a quick peek into the dining room and front parlour. There she found Mrs Odell’s bag missing from beside her chair and, in the hall, the gold-handled umbrella gone from the stand. On a day like this, Mrs Odell would certainly have taken it with her. For a few moments, Mrs Timmings thought her employer must have taken the dog for a belated walk. A quick check showed, however, that Gyp’s lead was still on its hook in the hall closet; and, as he had not met her eagerly as she came up the path, the logical conclusion had to be that he had been turned out of the house as Mrs Odell left, lest he make another mess, yet not shut behind the garden gate, either, but let loose to roam. This meant, of course, that he would not return until he considered it time to be fed; and, by then, he’d be full of burrs and mud. Even if Gyp came back after Mrs Timmings had gone home to make her husband’s tea, the old Airedale might simply be shut in the shed till tomorrow morning. And, no doubt, he’d piddle in there, too.
She thrust her own umbrella into the stand and, taking off her coat, bustled through to the kitchen. There she found a note on the table, written in Mrs Odell’s good India ink but on the cheaper notepaper. It said simply that the mistress of the house had gone to the church for a bit and would afterwards take care of the day’s shopping, but be back by noon.
Mrs Timmings snorted, and put the note back down. The daily shop was supposed to be part of her own duties; and she rather resented having her routine summarily upset—the more so since she had made no mention the previous day of any lack that her employer might have mistaken for an implicit request for assistance. Not that Mrs Odell was the type to do her servant's work for her, anyway. Why she would do so now was unfathomable. There was no saying what sort of shopping list she might have made, if any.
No doubt, Mrs Timmings thought, her mistress had taken some whim into her head to change the menu at no moment’s notice at all. It would not be the first time. It always made nonsense of their usual weekly meal planning; and the nuisance would be sweetly excused with a smile and soft word. Not that Mrs Timmings was in a position to show wrath, of course: Mrs Odell would never brook it.
With a quick look in the drawer, she did see that her employer had, this time, remembered to take the ration books.
Mrs Timmings looked back at the note. Shopping after church, was it? It was not Mrs Odell’s day to do the flowers. Nor did the new vicar hold an early service on Thursdays; so it could not be that either, though Mrs Odell was certainly a regular church-goer. Perhaps it was just an excuse to go out for a bit of a constitutional despite the grey skies; indeed, the same might be true of shopping. In anyone else, Mrs Timmings might have suspected a desire to gossip; but the ladies of Mrs Odell’s acquaintance were not the sort to hover for a chat in the streets. Over tea, more like. Though tea was, of course, usually taken in the afternoon.
Oh, dear. Doing the shopping might even be a sudden, genuine attempt to be helpful. There was a war on, after all.
With a sigh, Mrs Timmings went into the scullery for carbolic soap, and cleaned up the puddle by the door. Then, dropping the rag in the bleach bucket, she turned to dealing with the clutter by the sink. A tidy kitchen is always easier to work in. Last night’s casserole dish—which, as usual, Mrs Odell had failed to leave in soak—was set aside to deal with later. The dregs in the teapot, such as they were given the rationing nowadays, were emptied on the rosebushes; and the toast rack got a good brushing-down to remove the crumbs. Then, whisking the bag of soap flakes to get a bit of a lather in the water, Mrs Timmings dumped in the cutlery. As she scrubbed, her mind drifted. The sky outside the window was a little lighter than before: perhaps it wouldn’t rain after all. Or, if it did, perhaps Gyp would come running home before he took it into his head to roll in the mud. If Mrs Odell planned to be back by noon, then preparing her luncheon should be timed so that it would be ready before she returned—but should the food be hot, given the chill of the morning, or cold so that it would keep if she were late? She could well be delayed: after all, there would be queues at the shops. On the other hand, there would be little inside to tempt her to linger and look round the shelves for—
Mrs Timmings stopped. The sponge in her hand lay idle on a smear of gravy for a long moment before she blinked, looked back down at the dinner plate, and wiped it clean. Suddenly, the realization had struck. If Mrs Odell lingered, it would be in church. Of course, she would want to pray at a time like this: it was only natural. Maybe she would light a candle. Perhaps it would even help: who could tell?
All help was needed now.
Taking a deep breath, Mrs Timmings shook herself firmly back to the day’s duties. When all was said and done, for all that she’d missed young Laurie each term when he’d returned to school, in fact she was not his mother. It was Mrs Odell who had the privilege of time to pray for her boy. For the housekeeper, there was work to be done.
She skipped Laurie’s empty bedroom, which needed only occasional turning out, and began in Mrs Odell’s own room. The bedclothes had been thrown back to air. For a moment, even this brought back memories of the little boy whose first year of fagging at school had taught him the virtues of hospital corners. In the “hols”, the two of them had often conspired to keep escapades from his mother, and thus spare him those sweet, carefully worded reproaches that so daunt a young boy’s heart. Muddy dog and muddy boy had been washed in the scullery. Scraped knees had been plastered, socks darned, and dirty clothes hidden in the hamper till wash day. Warmed with cocoa, and bread and treacle, he had told her all his fancies and adventures. She knew, Mrs Timmings thought, more about his schooldays than he’d ever confided to his mother.
The bathroom came next. Mrs Odell was a tidy lady, neat in her ways; and the sink was always wiped. (Once there might have been smears of lather left from a youth’s unskilled shaving.) Still, Mrs Timmings gave a quick lick with a wet cloth, polished the taps, and cleaned the soap dish. She ran a rag over the wooden toilet seat, scrubbed the bowl, and put out a new packet of toilet paper. As she tore it open ready for use, she caught a whiff of its fresh disinfectant smell.
In the last war, there had been trains of wounded back from the front, headed for hospitals with that crisp clean smell.
In an unwontedly melancholic mood, Mrs Timmings went back downstairs to the parlour—or living-room, as Mrs Odell liked to call it. With a glance at the clock, she turned on the radio to hear the news; and the announcements accompanied her as she dusted round the room and brisked the broom into the corners. At this time of year, Mrs Odell would never light a fire; so there was no need to brush out the grate. Still, each ornament on the mantel received its due; and she worked her way around the bric-à-brac on tables and shelves. She stopped at the photograph. With such determination, Laurie had donned khaki at the call of his country; and, like so many others, he had gone to the chemist in his smart new uniform. Mrs Timmings had been there when he presented his mother with the photograph on the day he strode off with his kit bag to the station, and to war. Mrs Odell’s words had been brave and firm, and she had waved good-bye with dignity. Yet, in the laundry hamper next day, Mrs Timmings had found many secret, sodden handkerchiefs.
She had said nothing: Mrs Odell was not a woman to confide in her housekeeper. Nor was her housekeeper one to gossip, except to her husband at home; and he wasn't a man to talk round the village. So they kept their worries, each to herself, while the war stayed quiet for months. Laurie wrote more often than one might expect; and, if Mrs Odell did not share the correspondence, that never kept Mrs Timmings from reading the letters when her mistress was out.
The war had stayed blessedly quiet for so long; and each, in her own silence, had begun to hope.
Now, on the BBC, there was an appeal for men and ships—little ships—and, inlander though she was, Mrs Timmings knew what it meant.