The Housemaid's Daughter by Barbara Mutch Read Free Book Online Page A

before the war – I remember it written on some of the posters outside the newspaper office when I went to post Madam’s letters to Ireland. But it hadn’t lasted long. Before there was any time to get used to it, war had arrived.
    ‘Is there always peace when there is no war?’ I asked Miss Rose one day while I was folding away her clean blouses.
    She looked up from the bed where she was arranging a collection of scarves – bright, thin, slippery pieces of material, softer than anything Mama and I washed in the laundry downstairs.
    ‘Don’t be stupid, Ada,’ she snapped. ‘Of course there is. What else would there be?’ She began to move the scarves about, holding them up against a knitted jumper or a skirt, or winding them round her neck while she watched herself in the mirror.
    ‘But there is still killing,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard the Master say so.’
    ‘There’s always killing somewhere or other, it doesn’t bother me, so I don’t see why it should bother you.’ She held up a light blue cardigan. ‘I think I prefer the blue-and-white spot rather than the plain next to this.’
    ‘But I want to understand the difference between peace and war,’ I said. This seemed very important. War had changed Cradock House; it had left us short of sugar and cake tins and laughter and young Master Phil. I wanted to be prepared for the next time, for the enemy-in-waiting. But Miss Rose was too far away in her own world, and she did not hear me.
    Before Master Phil arrived home, my mother and the Madam talked in the kitchen with the door closed. I polished the dining-room table and strained to hear what they were saying but the door was too thick. Miss Rose returned from buying a new dress in town at Anstey’s Fashions.
    ‘Look, Ada!’ She spun around in it, yellow hair flying about her face. The dress was blue like the sky through the kaffirboom leaves and had a white collar with blue embroidery. It was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen.
    I won’t need the fur muff or my one good silk hat, not in Cradock. Edward says the ladies wear practical clothes. And Mother, who knows about foreign parts from her brother Timothy in India, says the most important thing is to protect my complexion. Although what Uncle Tim actually wrote to say was: never dispute with the natives, it shows weakness!
    So – sadly, for I love the silk even though it’s ancient – I shall leave it and the muff behind and take three plain bonnets and a spare parasol. After all, Mother says – a little harshly, I thought – South Africa isn’t India.
    I didn’t know what silk was or where India was. But Miss Rose’s dress was surely as beautiful as any sort of hat.
    ‘Madam and Mama have been talking in the kitchen,’ I said to Miss Rose while she twirled about, blue skirt flying, ‘and they’re not cooking.’
    ‘Silly Ada! Why can’t they talk? This is one of the dresses I’ve got for Jo’burg. They said at the store all the girls will be wearing them now the war’s over!’
    ‘I think it’s about Master Phil.’
    ‘Have you ironed my petticoats yet? Please, Ada.’ She leant forward and put on her widest smile. ‘I’ll buy you peppermint creams!’
    ‘Now then, Rosemary.’ Master appeared suddenly from the study. ‘Ada can’t run after you all day. It’s high time you did some of your own ironing.’
    ‘Mean Daddy,’ Miss Rose said, linking her arm in his. ‘Do you like my new frock?’
    Master gave a grudging smile and fiddled with the watch on a chain in his waistcoat. He couldn’t resist Miss Rose. Not many people could, especially men.
    ‘When is Master Phil coming back, sir?’ I ventured.
    I didn’t often speak directly to the Master. And the only time he looked directly at me was at the station when young Master Phil left. There was always something fierce about Master’s face – the greying eyebrows above pale eyes, the silence in him, the stern lips that only ever softened for the Madam and Miss