Misunderstandings

 Day 2. Tuesday

 

It was a beautiful July morning. I took my normal route to the café, alongside a stream full of watercress and tall grasses and late-spring scents. It followed the route of an avenue of fine old sycamores and chestnuts, went past the visitor car park and then through an entrance arch. The café was a glass and wood structure, leaning against the wall to the left of the arch. It could have been a regular morning going to work, but for being two hours early. I kept walking, leaving the yard, greenhouses and the stable building behind me, taking the path that ran beneath fine rare hardwoods, in full hue of light and dark greens. 

It seemed odd not to turn into the restaurant and begin unpacking the tessellated chairs and tables, ready for the first thirsty visitors. Instead, a sense of adventure gripped me. Something new! How many employees get that dumped in their lap? 

I heard the stable clock strike eight as I turned onto the gravel path across the wide closely-cut lawns with their tablecloth stripes, which took me to the front entrance of the house. The clock was drowned out by a vehicle approaching from behind. I stepped aside, onto the immaculate grass to let it pass. Instead it stopped next to me, sending a shower of gravel onto the grass. A young man, about my age, whom I recognised as one of the gardening staff, wound the window down. His face was so familiar, but his name evaded me. It dawned on me that he’d been in my primary school, but a few years ahead of me.

'Get in, will you,' he called through the wound down window.

I was confused. It was just a few steps to a massive fuchsia hedge and once round it, the house would be in full view.

'Not worth it,' I called. 'I can walk those few steps.'

'No way! I’ll catch hell. Yer Lady Ashington will know I was too late to pick you up.' 

I shrugged and opened the door.

'Why were you to pick me up?'

'She found me mucking out last evening and told me to collect you – on the dot at eight. More, I know not. I can guess though.'

'Go on!'

'Er Ladyship’s friends don’t walk to the house, especially not if they are pulling a suitcase.'

'She said nothing to me. Just told me to use the front entrance.'

'Yeh. And if you use the front entrance you don’t walk. You should have waited for me to arrive to pick you up.'

'I know nothing of this arrangement, so it seems you were late,' I retorted with a sniff. I admit that I felt I was coming over a bit arrogant. Bad style, Millie. I may have the job as Lady Ashington’s companion, but I actually belong drinking my tea with the ground staff. He put me right about punctuality.

'This is your actual aristocracy, Millie. Everyone’s late. Whatever posh school they went to, they never learned to tell the time or tie their shoes.'

I climbed in.

He crashed the aging Land Rover into gear and set off for the main entrance. It was as filthy inside as out, stank of manure and dog-farts and I was struggling to protect my new tights from nondescript metal bits poking from the seat upholstery. 

'Anyway, Millie, how did you end up a personal friend of Lady Vera?'

'Pass.'

We rounded the fuchsias and the house came into splendid view. There was a figure standing under the fine bay windows which lunged out over the grand portico doorway.

'Crikey. That’s ‘er. Don’t tell her I missed you, and let me carry your case.'

'You are joking!'

'Never more serious.'

We stopped in front of the door. I tried to step down from the wagon. I’d chosen a tight business skirt for my first morning and getting out proved more taxing than getting in. I felt the firm hands of the gardener lift me at the same moment as I felt my brand-new tights hang on a bit of seat spring. I now had dusty hand prints on my white blouse, but worse would be my backside, held in place by a tight, black, power skirt, which I assumed was now covered in a mixture of farm and builder’s dust. He put me down on the gravel and disappeared round the side of the house with my suitcase. This felt all wrong. If I’d had time to consider things I may have laughed about it, but I was fuming. No! Fuming doesn’t begin to cover it!

'I’m so sorry, Millicent. You shouldn’t have had to come here in that dreadful Land Rover.'

'Honestly, Vera?'

'Honestly?' she echoed.

'A girl can walk you know. That with the Land Rover was bollocks.'

I walked by her and into the cool dark house, past an enormous pair of stuffed bears either side of the door to the portrait gallery. I heard her steps behind me. She must be able to see the gape in my hose. She had chosen a wide gardening skirt and sensible brogues and caught me up in seconds, panting in her need to offer an explanation.

'A girl can walk, but a Lady’s Companion cannot. If any of my friends found out, they wouldn’t give you the time of day thereafter. And please don’t swear in the house. We have standards you know.'

I looked to see if she was serious - after her performance yesterday one could take it either way! Not a hint of a smile!

'I was still outside the hallowed hall, Vera. And don’t patronise me. I’ve a good education, good manners, so I’ll not embarrass you, but my family are dirt poor. I can’t afford new tights and a dry-cleaning bill every time you decide it’s too infra dig for a girl to walk. Am I here to be the person I am - Sultan! Remember? - or to act the little rich girl I’m not?' 

I turned to look her in the eyes. I tried to stay calm but I couldn’t. I really hit a crescendo with the F-word. I knew it shouldn’t happen, but there you are -  it did.

'If it’s the former, I’ll walk. If it’s the rich girl, then send a decent fucking motor!'

There was a pained pause, then she admitted, 'Oh - I suppose you are right in a way.'

In a way? In a way! How divorced from life is the cow?

Vera led me through to a sun-filled gallery with comfy armchairs invitingly pushed into convenient alcoves. She pointed at one for me to sit in. I remained standing, next to a variety of late nineteenth century soft-porn statues of loving couples, just about decently draped round the saucy bits. At the end of the hallway was a collection of Steinway pianos -  grands and uprights. I was about to put on my most vitriolic voice and ask why she needed six pianos, when a sign caught my eye, indicating that it was a sales pitch from a local music store. Vera pulled my attention back to the matter at hand. 

'We have got off to a bad start, haven’t we? What exactly have I done wrong Millicent, apart from sending the Land Rover?'

'Either let me walk, or send a decent car.'

'There was no other car or driver available. It’s a busy time of year as you know.'

'You have a car and driving licence. If you are too busy tomorrow, then I walk and take the servants’ entrance.'

I was so cross, I couldn’t keep the tears back. Crying on your first morning. How pathetic is that?

She went as white as a sheet, and slumped into an armchair. Her gaze rested on some faraway spot on the side lawns, which I would discover was a habit she had whenever things were in danger of coming unglued.