Trapped in 1895

Cheryl was sound asleep when she dreamt she had been kicked into a freezer.

“Get up, it’s time for work,” said Mrs Cole, pulling the blankets off her warm body that instantly started shivering.

“What the hell. What time is it? ” said Cheryl, trying to grasp the blankets, but Mrs Cole had done a thorough job.

“It’s four in the morning and you’re a scullery maid. You agreed. Now get up, we have work to do.”

Mrs Cole already had her clothes ready, big baggy knickers, a corset, two cotton petticoats and a coarse pinafore dress and, of course, the boots. Sleepily, Cheryl dragged everything on and followed Mrs Cole.

It has been two weeks since she was wrenched into the late-nineteenth century. Oh, what she would give to hop into a nice hot shower, strong coffee and into a nice warm BMW, but Mrs. Cole yelled, “Get a move on.”

When they reached the kitchen, Mrs Cole pointed to a chair at the table and said, “Sit down. Just to prove I’m not cold-hearted, I’ve made you breakfast but don’t expect me to in the future.”

She laid out a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausages, bread and coffee. The last was an especial pleasure but was weak and insipid.

“When the professor comes for his breakfast, take up a fresh chamber pot and empty the old one”

“Eww! Why me.”

“Because for the last few days, I’ve been emptying yours several times a day.”

The professor arrived for his breakfast and Cheryl screwed up her nose and courage and went to the professor’s bedroom on the second floor. Trying hard not to look or smell the revolting contents, she carried it out to the outhouse. A fresh layer of snow had fallen through the night and Cheryl crunched her way through the fresh snow to the outhouse. She went to open the door but a man’s voice said, “Sorry, occupied.”

Swearing under her breath, she stood waiting, getting colder, and almost dropped the pot when the door jumped open. She expected to hear the toilet flush, then she remembered she was in the nineteenth century.

“Hello, it’s Cheryl, the scullery maid, isn’t it? Here, let me take that for you.”

He took the pot and poured the contents into the can in the outhouse.

“Hold on,” he said and took it to a tap, cleaning it out. She was impressed. No longer was he a dirty young man but a spotless, handsome one.

“Did you enjoy your bath?”

“I did indeed. I wish I could repay you for emptying that for me.”

“Then come and have lunch with me this Saturday.”

“I wish I could but ... but I’m buying a new dress.”

Cheryl was fed up with Mary’s cast off and had convinced the Professor to give her some money. She was two sizes too big and her only other clothes were scullery maids.

“Mrs Cole is going to take me into the town stores.”

“You’ll afford nothing there on a scullery maid’s wages.”

This ruffled Cheryl slightly.

“How would you know?”

“I’ve got three sisters and they are always complaining about the price of dresses and other lady things. I have the perfect answer. Have you ever been to Petticoat Lane?”

“Um no. What happens there?”

“Clothes, used clothes.”

Cheryl’s mouth dropped. She had never worn secondhand clothes in her life. She made a very good wage as an IT specialist, then she realised that at the moment she was penniless.

“Is it nice stuff?” she whispered, pushing her dignity to the bottom of her empty purse.

“If you look carefully. All the rich women take their stuff there and some of it is superb. Look, why don’t I pick you up at say eleven on Saturday? Find some nice dresses and go to lunch at a really nice pub I know.”

Mrs Cole yelled out from the kitchen, demanding Cheryl get her bum in there.

“It sounds good. I have to go. See you at eleven.”

“The professor didn’t pay you to go chatting with young men. Do it on your own time. Now get down on your knees and start scrubbing the kitchen floor,” said a very annoyed Mrs. Cole.

She used her foot to push a pail of water and a huge scrubbing brush towards her.

“The professor pays me pennies, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to scrub floors,” retorted Cheryl.

“You’re not worth paying anything. You’re slow, you can’t clean, you can’t cook, you can’t even scrub. In fact, you’re bloody useless.”

Cheryl bridled.

“I am not. I have a degree and am responsible for the IT of a large company. I make heaps of money.”

Mrs Cole stormed over to the kitchen door and threw it open.

“Go on then, find a job with your degree or whatever you call it.”

Cheryl stared at the snow falling in the courtyard, realising she would never get a job or survive. She was at the mercy of Mrs Cole. With a feeling of helplessness, she dropped to her knees and started scrubbing. To add insult to injury, the professor walked in.

“Helping around, I see. Good girl.”

Little tears trickled down Cheryl’s cheeks.

By the time dinner arrived, Cheryl’s knees ached, and she was exhausted and too tired to eat.

“Nonsense, girl. You will eat. However, can you expect to give a decent day’s work if you have no food in your stomach?”

Cheryl had to admit, Mrs Cole’s food was very good.

Mrs Cole, once again, pulled the blankets off her at four in the morning.

“Get up, you lazy excuse for a girl. Use the potty and get dressed.”

Groaning, Cheryl climbed out the bed, was about to sit when she said,“Could I have some privacy please.”

“Oh, ladeeda. A lady have we,” she said, laughing on the way out. When she arrived for breakfast, Mrs Cole announced some news.

“I have loaned you out to Mrs Benning. She is in desperate need of a scullery maid. Her new one isn’t due till Saturday and I said you would be delighted to help.”

If her mouth wasn’t full of bacon and eggs, she would have turned the air blue but she simply said. “What will happen if I refuse?”

“She’ll pay you. Either you work here for pennies or work there and get paid a decent amount.”

“Alright.”

Mrs Cole gave her directions to Mrs Benning’s house.

At five in the morning, Cheryl left the kitchen and entered the courtyard. It was dark, illuminated by a single gaslight over the outhouse, thick with snow and bitterly cold. Mrs Benning’s house lay a short distance from the courtyard and was enormous. Four floors and countless rooms with fireplaces in half the rooms. There were ten people living in this immense house, not counting the live-in servants. Heading the house was the grand matriarch, Mrs Benning, the married son and daughter with their respective spouses and five grandchildren.

She knocked on the door and was opened by a doorman.

“Hello, I’m the temporary scullery maid.”

The doorman looked at her as if she was a typhoid carrier.

“What de yer think yer doin. Yer knows people like you use the side door,” he sneered and slammed the door. Cheryl took this as a bad sign. She went back out the main gates and found a shabby little side gate leading to a side door. Cheryl knocked on it. A small, mean looking woman in a cook’s apron answered.

“About time you got here.”

She pointed a viscous looking finger straight at Cheryl’s nose and said, “You’re a bit old, aren’t you?”

“I’m twenty three.”

“Hmph. You better not be wasting my time.”

“Can I go to my room first?”

“No, plenty of time for that when you finish. Now get to work and get that kitchen range started and the kettle is full of water.”

This meant Cheryl had to go into the cold snow to the coal bin and bring in a bucket of coal. Then she realised she had not the slightest idea what to do.

“Gawd girl, you are useless. Clean the flu first. Here, take this.”

She handed Cheryl a brush with a long handle.

“Push it up there till no more soot comes down,” she said and went off.

Cheryl pushed the brush up and nothing happened, then pulled it out and with it big, black clouds of soot fell out, covering her from hand to foot. She repeated the process till she was satisfied it was clean, then she looked at her hands and arms. She was about to run to her room to get clean when the cook came in.

“Whatever have you been doing? The fire is not lit. Get a move on.”

Cheryl looked dumbfounded at the empty fireplace.

“Oh you stupid girl. Go get some brushwood and paper. Hurry, you lazy child.”

Cheryl jumped up and in a panic, searched for the brushwood.

“Over there, you fool.”

Cheryl returned with an armful.

“What, are you trying to set the house on fire?” she yelled at Cheryl, then took a handful, mixed it with paper and cinders left in the stove.

“Now put small lumps of coal on the mound and light the paper.”

Cheryl followed instructions and had a little thrill as it sprung alight.

“Feed larger lumps in and make sure it’s not starved for air, then clean yourself up, for gawd’s sake, then empty and wash the servants chamber pots.”

The large house actually had water closets, but only members of the family were allowed to use them. The servants used chamber pots and every single one was filled with a nauseating mess. Cheryl didn’t think she would ever get that smell out of her nostrils. No sooner had she finished that task when she had to help prepare morning tea for the Upper Servants. She was about to sneak some for herself when the cook yelled, “Stop thieving the food and clean the kitchen and pantry floors then go clean your disgusting self up and report for morning prayers. You better be spotless

After morning prayers, the work ground on. If she wasn’t serving meals and washing dishes, she was scrubbing floors. She got a little time off in the afternoon and found a cold sausage to eat and then it started again till very late in the evening. The cook said, “Off to bed with you and be up early tomorrow.”

At last the torture had ended and an exhausted and hungry Cheryl collected her bag and climbed the stairs to her room, which was built into the attic. Her spirit sank even lower at the sight of it. A tiny dressing table, almost like a box with a wash bowl sitting on it. A small hard bed and, naturally, a chamber pot. It was also freezing. She undressed and too tired to wash herself, fell into bed, shivering.

The following morning Cheryl lit the kitchen stove.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” snarled the cook.

“L...Lighting the stove, ma’am”

“It’s got to be scrubbed and blackened, you stupid girl.”

“Oh. How do I do that?”

The cook looked at Cheryl as if she was an imbecile and threw her a piece of emery paper, a black stick and a jar with a liquid that smelled of turpentine.

“Get rid of any rust, scrub the inside and mix that black stick with the turpentine to create a paste and brush it on with that brush. Wait till it dries, then polish it. Have it done before I come back?”

By the time she was finished, she was black from soot and the paste. The cook returned and inspected the stove.

“Pitiful, bloody pitiful. Your breakfast is on the table.”

Thankfully, for she was starving, she retrieved the plate and stared at it. Two enormous, stale slabs of bread spread thick with lard. She forced herself to eat the horrible stuff.

She had just finished this when a man brought in two enormous baskets of vegetables of all sorts.

“Hoy, you,” the man called rudely, “clean, cut and prepare these vegetables.”

There were potatoes, carrots, green vegetables, pumpkins and others. One by one she peeled, cut and diced them all.

“Look at the state of this floor. Start scrubbing this and the parlour and don’t take all day.”

As she started scrubbing away, she became aware how everyone around her looked down at her. They were rarely civil and seemed to delight in ordering her around, giving her the worst jobs. She was so low down the hierarchy she rarely saw the actual inhabitants, let alone the much revered Mrs Benning. Cheryl became so intent on scrubbing the parlour and her mind wandered. She stopped with a start when she realised she was scrubbing someone’s shoes. She looked up a pair of trousered legs to a huge beard.

“Who is this thing?” he demanded.

A hand gripped her collar, pulling her up.

“I’ll attend to her, sir. I will make sure the stupid woman is punished.”

He pulled her into a little room and pulled a cane out. Cheryl broke free, grabbed him by the lapels, lifting him from his feet.

“Lay one hand on me and I will rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat.”

It had the desired effect.

“Just make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he whimpered and ran off.

Cheryl went back to her scrubbing, but that was not the end of the matter. The cook turned up with the kitchen maid and the housemaid.

“I will not tolerate rank carelessness, disobedience and threats from my staff.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” said Cheryl defiantly. The cook signalled to the two women who grabbed Cheryl’s arms and held her bent over the kitchen table.

“Stop, you can’t do this, I’ll call the police.”

In answer, the cook lifted her pinafore and pulled her bloomers down to expose the bare bottom. The cook lifted the cane and brought it swiftly down on her bottom. Cheryl screamed, getting her first taste of punishment in the nineteenth century for those at the bottom of the pile. Five more times, the cane fell before the cook pulled her bloomers up. The footmen released her arms, and she lay there sobbing with her bottom throbbing.

“No-one will take any notice of you. Now go up to your room and go to bed.”

Tears pouring from her eyes, she limped up the stairs to her room, falling into bed without undressing.

Chery woke in the morning and looked at her tear stained face in the mirror. Tears left tracks down her dirty face and she swore as she realised she had brought no water up. Removing her pinafore to put a clean one on she lowered her bloomers and inspected her bottom in the mirror. Six bright red welts, two of them bleeding, adorned her rear end. She sat on the chamber pot in agony and done her business. There was nothing else she could do so she pulled her bloomers up, put on the pinafore and went down to work, relieved this was the last day.

For the third time, Cheryl got the kitchen oven ready and fired up. Everything was going nicely, and she was actually getting the hang of this. She was about to collect the chamber pots when the cook said, ”When you have finished, scrub the front steps.”

“Scrub the what!””The front doorsteps, you dolt. Make sure it’s done by breakfast.”

She would have objected to this, but her bottom still hurt badly and the lesson was fresh in her mind.

“Yes, ma,am,” she said as submissively as possible.

The cook gave her a withering look and Cheryl crawled off.

She finished the chamber pots and got a pail of water and a snow shovel. Thankfully, the snow had stopped falling, and she scooped the snow off the steps. Bending down, she started scrubbing the steps. It didn’t take long for her hands to go numb, but she kept at it until she crept into the kitchen, crouching in front of the stove, her whole body shivering from the cold.

Still shivering and limping from the pain on her bottom, she had to get the meals ready for the other servants. She had just had time to wolf down the cold sausage when she had to collect all the dishes to wash them. She didn’t stack them properly when one slipped off, smashing on the floor.

Frantically, she gathered the broken pieces when the cook approached with the dreaded cane.

“Oh god, no, no, please, I’ll pay for it. I’ll work another day for nothing. Please, please don’t cane me again,” she pleaded, hanging on the skirt of the cook.

“What are you going on about, girl? Accidents like this happen. Just clean it up,” she said and put the cane back in its storage box.

It was very late when the cook said, “Here are your wages. It’s robbery if you ask me. You are completely useless. You had better improve yourself, young lady, or you will starve on the streets. Now get out of here.”

Wearily, Cheryl tramped out into the dark, snowy night and trudged to the professor’s house. It was very late, but Mrs. Cole was sitting at the oak table. Scones and tea, waiting. Cheryl looked at her and burst into tears. Mrs Cole hugged her.

“Thousands of young girls have to do that job every day and get beaten for the privilege. Life isn’t easy at the bottom of the pile. Now, do you still think I’m a dragon?”

Cheryl uttered a snivelling ’No ma’am. I’ll do whatever you tell me too”.

“Sit down and have some tea and scones.”

“Please, can I stand?”