Besides her wages she was given all her meals, on a scale suited to
girls who waited on Mr Thirty Bob a Week. Her breakfast was tea, bread
and margarine; her dinner, cold pudding or pie, according to the
unpopularity of the dishes among the customers, washed down once more
with tea and sometimes followed by stewed fruit if the quantity that
remained made it clear that some would be left over. The day ended with
supper, tea, bread and cheese--a variety of Cheddar which the company
bought by the ton on account of its peculiar capacity for swelling and
producing a very tolerable substitute for repletion.
As Victoria was now paid less than half her former wages she was
expected to work longer hours. The P. R. R. demanded faithful service
from half-past eight in the morning to nine in the evening, except on
one day when freedom was earned at six. Victoria was driven to
generalise a little about this; it struck her as peculiar that an
increase of work should synchronise with a decrease of pay, but the
early steps in any education always fill the pupil with wonderment.
Yet she did not repine, for she remembered too well the black days of
the old year when the wolf slunk round the house, coming every day
nearer to her door. She had beaten him off and there still was joy in
the thought of that victory. Her frame of mind was quiescent, tempered
still with a feeling of relief. This she shared with her companions, for
every one of them had known such straits as hers and worse. They had
come back to the P. R. R. filled with exceeding joy; craving bread they
had been given buns.
The Moorgate P. R. R. was a big depot. It boasted, in addition to the
ground floor, two smoking rooms, one on the first floor and one
underground, as well as a ladies' dining-room on the second floor. It
had a staff of twenty waitresses, six of whom were stationed in the
underground smoking-room; Victoria was one of these. A virile manageress
dominated them and drove with splendid efficiency a concealed kitchen
team of four who sweated in the midst of steam in an underground
stokehole.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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