Alice and Joe

My name is Alice, Alice Bird, and I’m employed as a Ladies’ Maid in Mandrake House, or the big house as most people call it, which is situated near Leeds in West Yorkshire. The house stands in large grounds, surrounded by rolling hills and tall trees —a beautiful, tranquil setting, vibrant green in the summer and awash with the yellow and red of daffodils and tulips in the spring. Autumn brings a mixture of red and orange, umber and crimson, and even winter has a strange beauty when the land is covered with a glimmering white layer of snow.

The city of Bradford is but ten miles from Leeds, important to the family, because of their love of music and entertainment, as it boasts the old building of St George’s Hall, and now a recent addition, the Alhambra Theatre, its famous opening only a few months ago, overshadowed by the onset of war. Haworth is not too far away, over distant hills and moors, and the Bronte family is always an interesting point of conversation. All their books, including “Jane Eyre” and “Wuthering Heights”, are proudly displayed in Mandrake House’s library.

It’s all thanks to my father, Ira Bird, Valet to Lord Mandrake, for he was the one who gently pulled the strings, recommending me as a member of staff in the first place. And I have to say, I’m proud of myself that, at the tender age of eighteen, I’ve risen in the ranks from Kitchen Maid to House Maid, and now hold the esteemed place of Ladies Maid to the two young misses of the house, Constance and Charlotte, the twin daughters of Lord and Lady Mandrake.

There’s also a son, Harry, who, after much persuasion by his father, has gone to serve in the war. He needed that persuasion because of his incredible ego and, I suspect, his incredible looks, which made him think he was exempt from the fighting. Of course, he was assured he would serve as an officer—a fitting role for someone of his high birth—which may have made him feel better than the lowly soldiers who had gone off to serve their country just two months ago. Oh yes, all the lowly soldiers, including another set of twins, my twenty-year-old brothers, Ira and Mattie, whom I pray for every day, hoping they return unscathed from the carnage.

For that’s what it’s being called in all the daily newspapers, “carnage,” and “the war to end all wars.” I think of it all the time with a feeling of dread, like a hard ball lodged in the pit of my stomach, and know that, even as we speak, the beginning of September 1914, the German army is stopped just before Paris by the British and French at the First Battle of the Marne. Oh yes, the war is underway, and if we knew now how long the fighting would last and how many would perish, everybody would have risen in horror and stopped it there and then.

My mother, Elizabeth, died giving birth to me, leaving my father with his hands full, bringing up my two-year-old brothers and me, a babe in arms. I don’t know how my father felt about me, the instrument of my mother’s death, but as I grew up, I was aware of a wall of coldness and distance between the two of us that I could never penetrate, however hard I tried. Perhaps it was because I looked like her, a constant reminder of the love he’d lost. I had the same thick, dark hair, and my eyes were green like hers. My brothers favoured my father in looks, with brown eyes, which was perhaps easier to bear.

While my father worked, my brothers and I spent a lot of time with my grandmother, Iris (my father’s mother), who always did her best and made up for the loss of my mother in many ways, for she was kind and loved us dearly. She was the only female touch I ever knew, my mother’s mother having died many years before, and then, when grandmother, Iris, passed away, I relied on the two Misses and clung to them with all I had.

I was surprised and pleased when Father recommended me for the job at Mandrake House, and even now, I’m not sure why; the reason is elusive, but I’m certain it wasn’t for love. I’ve no doubt it was love he felt for my brothers, for, thanks again to Father, they were taken on as footmen at the big house until the war broke out, when, off they went, big smiles on their faces, to do their patriotic duty. My father and I watched them march away on that hot August day (only a month ago, yet it seems like years), my heart heavy as a stone in my breast, fearing that this may be the last time I’d ever see them. My two big brothers, who gave me the love I badly needed and didn’t get because of the death of my mother and the coldness of my father.

Many staff members at the house left at the outbreak of the war. Once the men had gone, the women disappeared too, those women who were fed up with what they thought was a life of drudgery. So, they took the men’s jobs in munitions factories, offering shorter working hours and higher pay. Some became Land Girls and worked on farms, while others worked in hospitals, and still others laboured building ships and loading and unloading coal. “The life of a domestic servant is dying out,” I heard somebody say, “This war will eradicate all that forever, and, when it’s all over, we’ll return to a different world.”

Two of the kitchen girls, Ruby and Hannah, went straight away, as if they couldn’t wait. Peeking through a half-closed door, I’d seen them leave, sly grins on their faces and small brown suitcases dangling from their fingers. It was said they liked to frequent the local public houses wearing thick red lipstick and eye shadow whilst drinking a large gin and it (whatever that is), so they hoped that their newfound freedom from the confines of Mandrake House would help to make this a regular thing. This is all hearsay, you understand, merely idle gossip from the servant’s quarters.

Even little Lois has gone too, Mrs Bentley, the cook’s downtrodden right-hand woman, or girl, I should say, a skinny slip of a thing, all bones, corners, and angles. The house feels strange now with so few people living here, as if it’s been abandoned or it’s sinking, like that great ship “Titanic,” the ship of dreams, that went down with great loss of life only a couple of years ago.

I’m not leaving. I can’t be lured away for more freedom or more money. I enjoy my work here, and Lord and Lady Mandrake are good employers, fair and just and kind, and of course, I’m very fond of the two Misses. I like nothing better than assisting them with their dressing, helping them every day, white knuckled at the bedpost as I tightly lace their corsets to create that all-important hour-glass figure beneath their beautiful gowns, and to titivate with their hair, arranging their long dark tresses into complicated up-dos or everyday hairstyles, chock full of pins and ribbons.

As you can appreciate, the call for evening up-dos is very scarce now, and I’m often at the receiving end of complaints from the two Misses at the lack of soirees and balls, and the absence of eligible men because of “this infernal war,” and “we’ll become old maids, left on the shelf, it if carries on for much longer.”

Despite them being almost three years older than me, their twenty-first birthday looming, we have long, interesting conversations about many different topics, from this awful war to which jewellery looks best with which gown. I take care of them when they fall ill, feeding them hot soup laced with lemon juice, and I remember comforting Charlotte, the far flirtier of the two, when her heart had been broken by some spoiled young man, gone now, along with her handsome brother, to serve in the war. They treat me as a friend, not just a lowly maid, and leaving them was unthinkable. I felt irreplaceable, wanted, and needed, and a vital part of the Mandrake household, an important cog in the wheel that relentlessly turns, keeping everything running smoothly.

Of course, there’s another reason why I don’t want to leave Mandrake House, and that comes in the form of six feet two inches of long legs, broad chest, jutting chin, and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, who goes by the name of Joe Murgatroyd. Truly, I’m not exaggerating, he’s a fine figure of a man and lucky enough to be secure in his work as chauffeur to Lord and Lady Mandrake. Oh yes, who wouldn’t want a chauffeur who looks like Joe?

She may be an older lady, but I’ve seen the looks Lady Mandrake gives him from round, admiring eyes, sending a thrill coursing through my body at the thought that he’s mine, all mine. He hasn’t gone to fight, having been rejected by the army for subpar eyesight. I know he wants to go and feels humiliated by the rejection. “I feel less somehow,” I remembered he’d said to me, and then thoughtfully, his blue eyes gazing into my green, “Less of a man, somehow, Alice.”

We’ve become what you might call close, so close that Joe gave me a ring. He told me it had belonged to his mother. A mother he’d lost when he was just a boy. I wear it on a chain around my neck, carefully concealed beneath my prim ladies’ maid uniform, for we don’t want anybody to know about us, despite the warm kisses and cuddles we’ve shared. We don’t want to be the butt of idle gossip, and, anyway, any deepening of our relationship has been put on hold with the arrival of the war. Life is uncertain now, tenuous, as if the whole world is on shaky ground. We’ve decided to wait, to keep our relationship a secret, until it’s all over, and hopefully that will be soon, very soon.

Lord Mandrake is too old to fight, as is my father, so their lives will remain unchanged for the time being, although rumours abound that part of Mandrake House may be converted into a hospital if the wounded and dying become too much for the local hospitals. I can’t see the Misses liking that very much, although they, too, may have to bite the bullet (no pun intended) and become involved in the war effort, and yet if they do, what would happen to me, their lady’s maid? Would I still be of use to them, or would I be out on my ear too, thrown out into what was now becoming a treacherous world?

In the meantime, I have to carry on as normal and do my job to the best of my ability, despite any worries I have about my brothers and the anxiety that Joe could be called to fight at any time. I’d overheard my father talking to Lord Mandrake, his words sending a chill running down my spine, “If this war carries on, all men, subpar eyesight or not, will be sent out to fight.”

“You mean, my chauffeur, Joe Murgatroyd?” asked Lord Mandrake, turning away from the mirror in which he’d been admiring himself, to look worriedly at my father. “I don’t want to lose him; he’s a good man and an extremely useful one, too. His driving is second to none, and he knows everything there is to know about cars. I can’t drive, and I’m too old to learn.”

Father shrugged, “You wait and see, Sir. Once the regular army and the volunteer soldiers start dying off, they’ll search for those men they turned down.”

“How are you at driving then, my good man?”

Father smiled, “I’m sure I could ferry you and Lady Mandrake around with no problem, Sir.”

“Good, good.” Lord Mandrake rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, “So we won’t suffer then, eh, Ira?” Lord Mandrake looked up at my father, trust in his eyes. He was a small, wiry man with a shock of grey hair and a tight beard, no doubt kept just so by my father, who I suspected clipped it every morning.

“No, of course not, Sir,” father replied, “I’m here to serve you, come what may, through thick and thin. But don’t you think there’ll be less need for a driver during wartime?”

“Certainly not. I’m a member of several political parties and hold a significant position. I can guarantee that I’ll need to attend many meetings. I may even have to go down to London, and I need somebody I can count on if Joe is called up. Travelling in wartime won’t be easy.”

“Oh, you can count on me, Sir,” Father replied, giving a slight bow of his head, “Of that you can be sure.”

As he spoke, his gaze shifted to the door behind which I was hiding, and in that instant, I realised Father was aware of the relationship between Joe and me and would be thrilled if Joe were sent to war so he could take his job. He also wanted me to know that he knew I was nearby, listening to his every word. “Tread carefully, Alice,” I thought, “Tread very carefully. For not everybody is your friend, and certainly not your father.”

***

The odour of leather and oil, and soap was powerful in the confined space of Lord Mandrake’s car, where Joe and I sat in the back seat, entwined in each other’s arms. The car was in the part of the stables that had been converted into a garage of sorts, firmly locked and secured, far from prying eyes. The old part of the stables still housed Lord and Lady Mandrake’s trusty steeds, Thunderbolt and Virginia. I didn’t know much about cars, but I could see that this one was a beauty, not only because of its shiny red exterior and the comfort of its soft leather seats, but also because of the roof that rippled open to the elements, which was particularly useful in sunny weather.

“It’s an Alfa Romeo,” Joe told me. “Not only is it a good car, but,” he gave me a sidelong glance, “the king of cars.”

I giggled, “Don’t you mean the queen of cars? After all, the women come first, don’t they?”

He grinned, “Well, yeah, I suppose you’re right there, Alice, only if all the women are like you, though?”

“Oh, you,” I nudged him gently as he pulled me closer and closer still until our lips met and held in a kiss that left me reeling, the thought running through my mind that this must be what it feels like to be drunk. Curious, I asked, “Have you ever been drunk, Joe?”

“Drunk?” Even in the gloom, I could see the frown etched over his face, which deepened as he gazed at me, “Now why would you ask a thing like that?”

I shrugged, “Oh, I’m just wondering if that’s how I feel when you kiss me. I don’t know you, see, I’ve never been drunk.”

Throwing his head back, he roared with laughter, “Oh Alice, really, never been drunk?” Our eyes locked, green and blue, “That’s not such a bad thing, you know. Maybe it gives you a good feeling at the time, but the next day?” He shook his head.

“The hangover?” I asked him.

“Ah, so you know about the hangover, then?”

“Oh yes, I always knew when my father had been drinking because he was loud and talkative, so unlike himself, but like a bear with a sore head the next day.”

Joe laughed again and said, “Being drunk would be no good for you, Alice. I’ve seen them, the women, in the pub, talking in loud voices, laughing and reeling around, doesn’t look good on a lady.”

A dart of jealousy shot through me at the thought of Joe in a public house where women laughed and reeled. “Oh well,” I said frostily, “If that’s the sort of woman you prefer to be with Joe, the women in the pub, then maybe I’m not the one for you.”

“Now, now, Alice, I never said anything about preferring those women to you. I wouldn’t swap you for the world, not even for Mary Pickford, and that’s the truth.”

I giggled, “But isn’t Mary Pickford a beautiful actress?”

“Well, yes, she is,” He turned fully towards me, awkward in the confines of the seat, the leather crackling and squeaking, “But not half as beautiful as you.”

“Oh, Joe,” I said, as once again our lips met. They were soft and warm, and moved against mine until I never wanted them to stop, but to stay there forever, ready for kissing at any time.

“Joe,” I said, pulling away from him a little, so I could see all of his face, “You won’t leave me, will you?” I suddenly felt panic-stricken, as my father’s words to Lord Mandrake sprang into my mind.

“Not if I can help it, Alice. The trouble is, though, it’s wartime and things we don’t always want to do have to be done.” He glanced at my puzzled face. “If you’re talking about me going to war, then please understand I’ll have no choice if I’m called up.”

I sighed heavily, “I heard Father talking to Lord Mandrake about that very thing. Something about when all the regular army and the volunteers are gone, the men they turned down will have to go, and that means you, doesn’t it, Joe?”

He nodded his head slowly, “Yes, your father’s right, but why was he discussing the matter with Lord Mandrake?”

“I think he fancies himself as the Chauffeur when you’re gone.”

“Oh, does he now?” He gazed at me thoughtfully, not seeing me, I knew, but looking at the helplessness of the situation. If he, Joe, wasn’t there, then anybody could come along and steal his job. “As long as my job’s still here when I get back, then good luck to him. You’ll keep me in the know with letters and all, won’t you, Alice?”

“Of course I will, Joe. If you get called up.”

“There’s no if, Alice. It’ll happen sooner than we think, I know it. Just keep your fingers crossed that a great big bomb doesn’t come along and flatten me before I even get to the front.”

“Joe, don’t say such things.” I pushed my face into his shoulder, glad of the darkness now, as tears at the very thought of losing him seeped from my eyes and soaked into his jacket, a jacket that smelled faintly of horses and tobacco.

He squeezed me in tight to his body, “Oh, come here, Alice, and give me another kiss. Let’s not talk about the war for a minute longer.” Putting a finger under my chin, he lifted my face to his, “I love you, but you know that, don’t you?”

I sniffed and nodded, “I think so, Joe.”

“Think so? You surely must know so, and if we are apart for a while, I’ll come back to you.”

“Yes, Joe, please come back to me.”

“Oh, I will, I’ll never forsake you, Alice. Didn’t I give you my mother’s ring?”

I nodded again. “Yes,” I said, showing it to him, where it hung on a chain around my neck.

“Never take it off,” he whispered into my ear. I shook my head and said I never would, just as his mouth came down on mine again, rendering us silent and consumed with the kiss. So consumed that even the war, that infernal war, the chief topic of everybody’s conversation, had disappeared from our thoughts.