England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century
"The family I got into was a lady and her two grown-up daughters, and a
son of about five-and-twenty. They lived in a small house at Shepherd's
Bush. My wages were very small, and I soon found out that they were a
kind of people who keep up a great deal of show on very little means.
Of course I had to be let into all the secrets of their miserable
shifts for dressing well on next to nothing at all, and they expected
me--mother and daughters--to do the most wonderful and impossible
things. I had to turn old rags into smart new costumes, to trim
worn-out hats into all manner of gaudy shapes, even to patch up boots
in a way you couldn't imagine. And they used to send me with money to
buy things they were ashamed to go and buy themselves; then, if I
hadn't laid out their few pence with marvellous result, they all but
accused me of having used some of the money for myself. I had
fortunately learnt a great deal with the old lady in Tottenham, or I
couldn't have satisfied them for a day. I'm sure I did what few people
could have done, and for all that they treated me from almost the first
very badly. I had to be housemaid as well as lady's maid; the slavery
left me every night worn out with exhaustion. And I hadn't even enough
to eat. As time went on, they treated me worse and worse. They spoke to
me often in a way that made my heart boil, as if they were so many
queens, and I was some poor mean wretch who was honoured by being
allowed to toil for them. Then they quarrelled among themselves
unceasingly, and of course I had to bear all the bad temper. I never
saw people hate one another like those three did; the sisters even
scratched each other's faces in their fits of jealousy, and sometimes
they both stormed at their mother till she went into hysterics, just
because she couldn't give them more money. The only one in the house
who ever spoke decently to me was the son--Alfred Bolter, his name was.
I suppose I felt grateful to him. Once or twice, when he met me on the
stairs, he kissed me. I was too miserable even to resent it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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