4

18 December 1913

‘I’m so sorry,’ the man said, water slopping from the bucket he was carrying. It appeared to contain a large and rapidly melting lump of ice.

‘It’s me who should apologise,’ Lou said, finding her voice now that she was faced with a handsome young man, instead of the chainsaw-wielding lunatic she was expecting.

The man shifted awkwardly, seemingly reluctant to make eye contact. He was tall, mid-twenties, his short hair parted and oiled neatly to one side, dressed in what Lou could only describe as the livery of a footman – dark blue knickerbockers, a blue and gold striped waistcoat, crisp white bow tie and matching stockings. When he noticed her glance at his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he hurriedly placed the bucket on the floor and rolled his sleeves down.

‘I shouldn’t have burst in on you, and … well, whatever this is,’ Lou said. ‘Are you some kind of re-enactment society? I like the wooden pail, nice touch. Very authentic.’

‘A society?’ The footman frowned. ‘I’m not sure I under –’

‘William, is that you?’ the foreign man yelled. ‘How long does it take to collect a bucket of ice from zee icehouse? How am I to make pineapple ice cream without ice?’ A short, skinny man with a pointed nose and wild, staring eyes, dressed in chefs’ whites, appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. A young girl craned to see around him. She wore an apron splattered with grease. A grey dress, made for a woman twice her size, hung loosely on her slight frame, and unruly strands of dark hair escaped from beneath her mob cap. She couldn’t be more than thirteen, fourteen at most.

‘Ah, I see,’ the chef said, looking from Lou to the footman. ‘You are too busy making small talk to –’

‘I think this lady is her Ladyship’s visitor, Monsieur Gotti,’ the footman interrupted.

The girl gasped and looked to the floor.

‘Please accept my apologies.’ The chef removed his hat and bowed. ‘William, why do you not ask if madam would like to wait in Mrs Moriarty’s parlour while you go to find Mr Bainbridge?’

‘Mr Bainbridge is out with Sir Charles. They’re checking on the birds for the shoot.’

‘Then, fetch Mrs Moriarty.’ The chef attempted a smile, but it turned into a grimace. He didn’t look like a man who smiled much.

‘Please,’ Lou said, ‘don’t go to any trouble. I found my own way in, I can find my way back out again.’

‘If you’ll excuse my impertinence, madam,’ the footman said, ‘I think Mrs Moriarty would prefer it if you were to wait, so that she might escort you herself.’

Here we go, Lou thought. Whoever was in charge of this funfair was going to come along and send her away with a flea in her ear. Accepting her fate, she followed the footman to a room where he asked her to wait. He closed the door and everything fell into place. The Council must have rented out the basement to these historical enthusiasts to generate a bit of revenue. That’s why the front door had been left unlocked; to give access to create the kitchens and this cosy parlour, authentic down to the small, hard-looking sofa, dark wooden table stacked with piles of accounting ledgers and heavy curtains at the windows high in the basement walls. There was even a potted aspidistra sitting on a doily on a plant stand, and a pair of blue and white Staffordshire pottery dogs standing sentry at either end of the mantelshelf. This re-enactment society must have scoured every antique fair, car boot sale and online auction to assemble such an array of props. Especially the calendar beside the clock that revealed the date they were “living” – 18 December 1913 – one hundred years ago to the day.