The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
This story is one of a series of tales told by Martha the ghost. Each one is complete in itself and they can be read in any order.
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The laundry of my ancestors' house is now my workshop. I'm a potter and good enough at my trade to make a reasonable living from it.
The main attraction of the laundry room was Martha, the resident ghost. I was aware of her from an early age. I would sit on the scrubbed table and ask Martha to tell me a story. She always did. When I became an adult, she told me about incidents from previous ages at the Hall. Each time I become the heroine of the story and experience the events exactly as she had. This is one of those stories.
I was looking at an old photo album that I had found in a car boot sale. None of the pictures were captioned or dated but I had liked the fashions worn in the photos. They were late 19th or early 20th Century. The men's suits could have been earlier or later. I was looking more closely at the women, all of whom were wearing long dark skirts. Did they have bustles? Or not?
I had a very old black skirt draped across my lap. From time to time I held it up, trying to match its folds to the skirts in the photos.
Martha's voice sounded in my head, as it always did when she was in contact with me.
"That reminds me," she started.
"Of what?" I asked.
"Of a Christmas incident about the turn of the century in the kitchen at the Hall."
I sat back and waited for Martha to start her story.
"It all started with Albert, the next to eldest brother. He was a rake and he started his career with the servant girls. He believed he had the Droit de Seigneur, the right to use the family's servants as sexual prey. The family hushed it up at the time but he had made two girls pregnant within a couple of weeks. The girls and their children were looked after, but Albert was banished to the colonies, specifically Australia. He never returned."
"What did he do in Australia?" I asked.
"It doesn't matter. He joined the Australian Army at the start of the First World War and died bravely at Gallipoli. It is thought that he joined then because he had married at least three times, bigamously and had too many children by mistresses as well. He isn't important except that the servant women were worried that the sons of the family might have similar tendencies. When his younger brother Simon was about to come home from Oxford for Christmas the younger servant women were really tense, watching for a sign that he might be like Albert."
"Was he?"
"Wait for the story. Ellen was the Head Laundry Maid, working here. Despite her young age, she was the Head because she was the most competent at laundry, best organiser, and popular. She had persuaded your family to let the laundry take in work from the village. One of the laundry maids used to take a handcart around the village every day, collecting dirty washing and returning clean clothes.
Ellen was twenty. Simon was twenty-one. They had been friends for many years. Even when Simon was very young they used to play together in and around the Laundry Room while Ellen's mother was working. They had stayed friends but their relationship had always been just that, friends and no more.
When Simon went back to Oxford earlier that year he had given Ellen a tentative peck on the cheek, the first ever. She had hugged him briefly. That was their sole acknowledgement that they were man and woman, not just friends. Or was it friends saying goodbye?
Except for Albert, Ellen would have thought nothing of Simon's kiss. But Albert, recently departed for Australia, had caused chaos among the servants and Ellen was worried."
As usual when Martha started telling me one of her stories I found myself assuming the role of the main female character. I was becoming Ellen. My legs were covered by a long black skirt over which I was wearing a waist apron. I could feel the heat of the laundry, my chapped hands, my hot clothing even though I was wearing only a light cotton blouse above my waist. I was impatient with some of the other laundry staff. Why didn't they understand the importance of their work, the need to produce absolutely clean clothes no matter how soiled they had been when brought in?
Despite the ordered work going on around me I was thinking about how I should respond to Simon when he came to see me, as I knew he would. Why shouldn't he? He would talk about his experiences at Oxford. He would listen to my tales of the Laundry room and want to catch up with all the local gossip. He would probably want to hear the servants' version of Albert's amours.
Why was I concerned? All my life Simon had been a friend or more like my slightly older brother than a member of the Hall's family. Why should that change? All there had been was one peck on the cheek to which I had responded with a hug. Simon wasn't Albert. But the nagging doubt remained. Simon was Albert's brother.
I wanted to marry in the next few years. He didn't know it, but within a few months I was sure I could persuade Jonathan to propose. He was a senior groom and was being trained to drive the family's expensive new toy, a Daimler car. If he became a qualified chauffeur, we would be earning enough to start a family. I couldn't afford to ruin my prospects by an affair with Simon.
I even knew when Simon would come to the Laundry room. He wouldn't come during the day when I would be too busy. He wouldn't come when I was surrounded with the other Laundry maids. He would come in the evening, after dinner, when I sat down to do the accounts - alone.
The accounts! Simon had taught me how to do them. We had spent many hours with our heads nearly touching, as he had taught me how to set out the accounts clearly, legibly and how to balance them. In all that time Simon had never touched me inappropriately, never even hinted that he wanted to. Yet Albert's sexual marauding had made me doubt Simon. Damn Albert!
Everyone else was getting excited about Christmas. Of course it meant more work for the servants, even for me. I would change my role slightly and help to serve Christmas dinner, dressed as a parlour maid with a crisp white waist apron over my black dress, or perhaps a white blouse with a black skirt. What we would wear depended on the Butler's decision.
During the past few days all the maids' best uniforms had been washed and ironed in the laundry. I had taken the opportunity to sort my clothing into best and not so good. We servants had more clothing than most people of our class because the family replaced the uniforms frequently. Our black skirts were popular because when no longer required as uniform we could wear them when walking out.
I had three spare black skirts. The oldest was also the narrowest at the hem and lined with material from a recycled black silk petticoat. It wasn't a favourite because I couldn't stride out as I wanted to. But looking at it splayed on a bench gave me an idea.
At the end of the day I spoke to my friends and fellow maids Amy and Esther and asked them to stay behind tomorrow evening when Simon would come to see me. I explained what I wanted them to do. They thought my idea was ridiculous, my fears of Simon unfounded, but they agreed to cooperate as long as I took all the blame if anything went wrong. I had forgotten that Esther was Jonathan's sister.
Simon was collected by the family's carriage from the railway station. As the oldest son living at the Hall he was formally met by the assembled servants lined up outside the front door. He walked along the line as we bowed and curtseyed. He had a word with most of us, and shook hands with all, even me. He had a smile for everyone.
Why was I so worried? This was the Simon I knew, friendly, polite and genuinely popular with all.
That evening after dinner I was ready for Simon to arrive. Amy and Esther were nearby. We had even added a few sprays of fir tree as Christmas decorations. Normal decorations would soon have looked soggy and distressed in the Laundry's heated air, now cooling as the most of stoves died down.
Simon walked in as if he hadn't been away. As I had always done I offered to make him a cup of tea. He sat in his usual chair as I put the kettle on the stove that was kept alight all night to dry the clothing hanging on racks suspended from the ceiling.
"Well, Ellen, what has happened while I've been away?" Simon asked.
"Nothing much, except for your brother Albert..."
"Albert! I wish he wasn't my brother. He's a..."
