I find comfort in cleaning. I start a task, and as long as I keep at it, I see the results. Organized shelves. Sparkling floors. Glistening walls.
That’s how I start my day of cleaning. Oh, it’s tougher than at home, where I can hit the button on my robotic vacuum cleaner. Harder even than when I was a kid and homeowners would hide away their “good” vacuum and give me the crappy old one. No vacuums here. No spray-bottled cleaners. Not even rubber gloves. I’m on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and water filled with some cleaner that I’m ninety percent sure will later be proven to cause cancer.
I also spend far too much time reaching for my phone to start a podcast, resume an audiobook, even listen to music. That’s what I do when I’m cleaning, same as when I’m working out or driving or any time my hands are busy but my brain is not. Here, there’s nothing to do except keep uselessly checking my nonexistent watch for the time, which passes with excruciating slowness.
Still, hard work never killed anyone, right?
By midday, I decide that whoever coined that phrase never toiled as a nineteenth-century housemaid. I don’t mind the cleaning. Don’t mind the hard work. But it never ends. Scrub this. Polish that. Haul hot water.Empty dirty water. Make the beds. Sweep. Dust. Clean. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the chamber pots.
I suppose I should be thankful that I’ve at least managed to jump into a time period with actual bathrooms. I have not, however, jumped into the era of flush toilets. What looks like a toilet has a basin under it, and Alice and I alternate the duty of emptying that basin and then scrubbing it. We’re allowed to use the facilities ourselves, as I discover when Mrs. Wallace reminds Catriona what a privilege it is for staff to be permitted to use the family “water closet.” I don’t even want to know what the alternative would be.
When I do complain—a bit—about the water hauling, I get a lecture on how lucky I am to be in a house that has the luxury of both hot and cold running water. At least I don’t need to heat the water on a fire and haul it the way Mrs. Wallace did back in her day, which was, I’m guessing from her age, only about five years ago. Yep, gas lighting, running water, it’s all fairly new, but when it comes to science the Grays have the best. Mrs. Wallace proudly tells me they’ve even been pricing out the possibility of central heating, coal-fired of course.
I work from sunup until sundown. No rest breaks. No lunch hour. Oh, I get enough food. Breakfast, a cold lunch after Mrs. Wallace returns from church, dinner, even afternoon tea with a piece of cake. No other downtime, though, and my meals are expected to be expeditiously eaten. Tomorrow, though, is my “half day.” According to Mrs. Wallace, we get three half days off each fortnight, which is apparently far better than the norm. To me, it just means that I can get back to that alley tomorrow and return to my own time.
By 8:00P.M., I finally finish the list of tasks that Alice relayed to me. I didn’t dare admit my “memory lapses” to Mrs. Wallace. I rely on Alice, who seems surprised every time I speak to her, but happy enough to conspire. In return for her help, I offered to clean the water-closet chamber pot for the rest of the day. She’d looked startled—and suspicious. Maybe it’s a matter of pride, not wanting to be accused of shirking one’s duties.
I don’t know what to make of Alice. She’s a twelve-year-old kid, done with school—if she ever attended—and already in a life of service.
I know this isn’t uncommon for the time period. If there are child labor laws, they don’t apply to children like Alice, in relatively safe occupations. Yet is she really better off than working in a factory? At least thereshe could go home to her family at night. All she has here is a cranky housekeeper and a befuddled housemaid.
I get the feeling Catriona had been Alice’s friend. I catch her looking at me with alternating concern and wariness. Her “big sister in service” is acting odd, and she’s worried. If she’s lost her only friend, then I should be that friend, which would be so much easier if I had experience interacting with preteen girls. I will be kind. I can do that. The rest… Well, hopefully she’ll getherCatriona back tomorrow.
Tasks done, I detour to the kitchen in hopes of bedtime tea. Mrs. Wallace is madly preparing food for Tuesday, when the “mistress” returns. Something tells me the mistress is a harsher taskmaster than her brother. Gray hasn’t rung the service bell all day. He expects the household to run efficiently around him, leaving him to his work. From the way Mrs. Wallace and Alice are freaking out, the lady of the house is another matter.
“Do you mind if I boil water for tea before I retire for the evening, ma’am?”
She turns to me. “Retire?”
“Y-yes. I’ve finished…” I list my tasks. It takes long enough that I could have boiled that water and probably steeped my tea.
“And the parlor?” she says.
I nod. “Dusted it, swept it, and cleaned the silver.”
“I mean the funerary parlor.”
“The what? Oh. Dr. Gray’s place of business. Am I supposed to drop something off there?”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’re supposed to drop yourself off there. It hasn’t been cleaned in days, that being your job. Dr. Gray has two appointments in the morning.”
“You want me to clean it now?”
“No, I want you to clean it tomorrow night, after his appointments. Let the grieving families discuss their dearly departed amidst the dust and cobwebs.”
“Right. Okay.” At her look, I correct my speech to, “Yes, ma’am, you are correct, and I apologize for my confusion. I’ll grab—fetch—my coat and—”
“What do you need your coat for? If you’re cold, you’ll warm up as soon as you get working.” She waves a hand. “Now off with you.”