7

19 December 1913

All night, Lou drifted in and out of sleep, her thoughts crowded with faces that kept her from true rest, until at some point, she became aware of a scraping sound in the darkness. She fumbled for the lamp beside her bed, but it wasn’t in its usual place. There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ she murmured.

‘Good morning, Miss.’

Lou sat up and in the dim light watched Sally cross the room. So, she was still in the coma-induced world. Sally placed a tray on the dressing table and opened the curtains. Her lips parted to speak, but shut before she uttered a word. Lou followed the direction of Sally’s sharp stare and saw a girl crouching beside the fireplace, her hand in a coalscuttle, her apron black.

‘Mary Parkinson!’ Sally snapped.

The girl, who Lou recognised as the kitchen maid, scrabbled to her feet. She stared at her boots and brushed her hair away from her face, leaving a trail of black ash across her forehead. If Sally was the manifestation of a nurse, Mary must be a hospital cleaner.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mary said, her voice barely audible. ‘I’m a bit behind this morning, what with Alice leaving yesterday.’ She grabbed the scuttle and a bucket of ashes and headed for the door.

‘Don’t touch the handle. Not with those filthy hands!’ Sally scolded. She crossed the room and held the door open. As Mary passed through, she whispered, ‘And less talk of Alice. Mrs Moriarty will tear a strip off you if she hears you’ve been talking about the staff in front of the family or their guests again. Go on with you.’

Mary disappeared, leaving Sally to close the door. ‘Did you sleep well, Miss?’ she asked, fussing with the sheets, straightening them over Lou’s legs, tucking them into perfect hospital corners.

‘Who’s Alice?’ Lou asked. If she was going to spend another day in this world, then she may as well play along.

Sally placed the tray of tea and toast in Lou’s lap. ‘You don’t want to be bothering yourself with that.’

‘Perhaps. But I’d like to know.’

‘As you like.’ Sally paused before plumping the pillows. ‘Alice Jones was a housemaid here until last night.’

‘Jones? The maid who showed me to my room yesterday?’

‘I daresay. Anyway, while we were all still fast asleep, she packed her bags and slipped a note under Mrs Moriarty’s door. Upped and left without a word to anyone. She hadn’t been here more than a month, but we’ll miss her; she was a good worker. Poor Mary is having to take on some of her chores. It’s odd though, I … Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ She ran her hand over the sheets as though to smooth them out, even though they were already quite flat.

‘Go on,’ Lou said.

‘It’s just that Mrs Moriarty said Alice mentioned something in her letter about being homesick and wanting to see her family. Only I could have sworn she said she was an orphan with no home to speak of. Still, I suppose we only know as much of a person as they choose to tell us.’