Ivy Compton-Burnett: Elders and Betters

The housemaid raised her eyes to the window, putting back her head rather further than was necessary, and then sweeping her eyes from the window to the ground.

“There are only two real storeys to the house; that is, only three floors above the ground floor, if you count the small one you have to yourselves,” said Jenney, seeming to resort to complication to cover some truth. “You will like to go up, when you have had your tea.” Her tone drew attention to the more immediate prospect.

“There is a basement,” said Ethel, in a tone that added no more, as no more was necessary.

“Unusual in the country,” said Cook, using her voice for the first time, and then not seeming to do so completely, as it could barely be heard.

Ethel turned eyes of grave concern upon Cook.

“I never know why maids in the country are supposed to require less privacy than those in towns,” said Jenney, as if speaking by the way.

“How is our luggage to come from the station?” said Ethel, in an even but somehow ruthless manner.

“It will come to-morrow with the master’s and the young gentlemen’s. It has all been thought out,” said Jenney, with a touch of triumph. “You need not worry about that. Have you things for to-night?”

“I can manage for Cook and myself,” said Ethel, glancing at the bag in her hand.

“Well, come in and put that down,” said Jenney, as if offering a further benefit. “You need not take it to the kitchen. Put it here in the hall.”

Ethel glanced about the hall, as if it might be fraught with some risk, and walked on with her burden.

“It is only one more storey to carry it back,” she said, as if this could hardly be taken into account under present conditions.

“How did you come from the station?” said Jenney.

“In the fly,” said Ethel, in her deepest tones, glancing down the drive. “We could have driven up to the house, if we had known the path was so wide. Cook need not have taken a step.”

Cook was short and thin and pale, with yellowish hair and lashes, no discernible brows, prominent, pale blue eyes, a violently receding mouth and chin, and a large, bare, oval forehead. Ethel was tall and dark and upright, and had an imposing presence in her professional garb. She believed that she bore a likeness to Claribel, and in height and in asymmetry and insignificance of feature she equalled, if she did not resemble her. The two maids often exchanged a glance, a practice that does not encourage an observer, and in this case did so less than in most. It seemed that their feeling had been used up when it passed from each other, and there been a full expenditure of it. If it was hinted that their devotion bordered on excess, Ethel would reply with quiet finality that they were first cousins. When they were asked their ages, she answered for both that they were about the same age. This was not true, as Cook was ten years the elder, and now over fifty; but Ethel resented the circumstance for her, and drew a veil over it. Cook never replied to questions; she merely looked at a questioner with a smile, which the latter could never be sure was not some other expression, as it took place so far behind the rest of her face. No one repeated the questions, and Jenney had no need to put them, as she relied on her instinct in such matters. No one knew Ethel’s surname, or knew for certain that Cook had any names. The latter was sensitive on the matter, and flushed when it was broached; and Ethel would interpose with the quiet statement that Cook preferred to be called Cook. She addressed her in this way even in their personal relation, a circumstance which to Jenney was ground for the belief that their cousinship was of recent origin.

“Now you must want your tea at once. It is all ready for you in the new kitchen,” said Jenney, using the suggestion as a cover for leading the way to the basement, and putting a festive note into the last words.

“It would help Cook to keep up,” said Ethel, stretching a warning hand towards Cook, as they approached the dim staircase.

“We shall get used to the extra stairs,” said Cook, in a tone the more courageous for being faint.

“Oh, yes, you will,” said Jenney, with a confidence that was perhaps justified by her knowledge of how often they would traverse them. “You will run up and down without noticing them in a day or two.” She ran down herself, to show that she had reached this stage.

“We can’t get out of the basement without them,” said Ethel, putting the same thought in another form.

Cook came in silence to the kitchen table, and gave a smile to Jenney, who was enabled by experience to recognise it as smile. Ethel walked without comment to the kettle, and made and poured the tea, and after carefully supplying Cook, casually supplied herself and sat down at the board.

“Did you enjoy your drive?” said Jenney.

“The fly?” said Ethel, raising her eyes as she stirred her cup. “Well, the air was good, but Cook felt the jolting. She won’t be able to go right upstairs just yet.”

Cook gave Jenney another smile, which this time no one could have recognised.

“Did you not bring any of your luggage?” said Jenney.

“We thought that, as we could not bring it all, we might as well leave it,” said Ethel, with the dependence on others in matters outside her own sphere, that came from her life. Cook looked up at Jenney, as if there might conceivably be a criticism implied in her words.

“It can easily come with the other luggage,” said Jenney, hastening to correct such an impression.

“Those that bring it, might as well bring it all,” said Ethel.

“It is all one trouble,” said Cook.

“There is Miss Anna,” said Ethel, without changing her tone, but lifting her cup to her lips to make the most of a fleeting opportunity.

“It is strange how you know a footstep on different stairs,” said Cook.

“You would always recognise some,” said Ethel.

“Their steps are themselves,” said Cook.

Ethel rose and stood with her back to her companions, as if this secured both her and them some privacy, produced a cap and apron from her bag, and without any sign of haste turned to face her employer in conventional garb.

“Well, Cook and Ethel, so you have arrived in time for tea,” said Anna, in a brisk tone that seemed to suggest that other objects had been lost sight of.

“Good afternoon, Miss Anna,” said Ethel.

Cook framed the words with her lips, as she rose from her seat.

“You look tired, Cook,” said Anna, speaking as if fatigue were a light matter.

Cook smiled and almost glanced at her chair.

“Oh, pray sit down, Cook,” said Anna, with a touch of impatience. “You won’t have much to do to-day. Miss Jennings brought some cold food with her. There will not be any real cooking to-night.”

Cook rested her eyes on the stove, as if such process would have to be postponed for investigation and adjustment. Her sparing use of words made less difference than might be thought.

“Well, do you think you will like this house?” said Anna, who did not subdue impulse to diplomacy.

“Well, we did not really want a change,” said Ethel.

“You often complained of the other one.”

“There are disadvantages everywhere, Miss Anna.”

“And they strike you at first,” murmured Cook.

“So complaint is inevitable, I suppose,” said Anna, taking a seat on the table and swinging her legs.

Cook glanced from Anna to the tea-things, in silent recognition of their juxtaposition.

“I am sitting on your tea-table, am I?” said Anna, getting off and speaking as if this were a new idea.

Ethel quietly placed a chair.

“You have more room both upstairs and downstairs in this house.”