Just Jemima

Front matter

JUST JEMIMA

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JUST JEMIMA

Chapter 1

I

SHE GOES ON A JOURNEY

M'A fayther wasna keen on the notion, and maybe ma mither had her doubts, but ma sister backed me up for a' she was worth—which was a guid deal jist then, for she was on the eve o' gettin' married to Adam Jamieson, and that easy agitated, her parents could refuse her naething.

When it was decided I was to gang, she fell on ma neck and bursted in tears.

"It's a noble deed ye're daein', Jemima," she says. "I wish I had been a better big sister to ye."

"Oh, we'll no' gang back on that," I says, generouslike, "and it's never ower late to mend, and ye'll maybe be wealthy someday."

Of course I didna really mean that she had ever been a bad sister, but then neither did she; folk'll say onything when a weddin's on.

I'm no' gaun to describe the weddin', paper bein' that dear, nor hoo I had to slope for the station afore the feast was entirely shifted. I'll merely mention that there wasna a dry hanky in the room, the gents bein' so galliant as to lend theirs to the ladies, after the latter's was soaked. Ye see, everybody was that vexed for the parents lossin' their twa dear daughters at one fell sweep.

Likewise I'll pass ower the railway journey. It was a terrible warm day, an' to tell ye the truth, I was that wearied wi' a' the excitement that afore long I was dozin', and twa hours had rolled awa' when I got a queer start, hearin' a voice cryin' the name o' ma station. I was but half awake when I found masel' wi' ma things on the platform; and the train gaed on again. When a young porter cam' up holdin' oot his hand, I was that confused that I gi'ed it a shake.

"I was only wantin' your ticket," says he; "but I'm delighted to see ye."

I'll no' deny that I blushed, but I managed to pass him ma ticket as if he had been dirt.

He looked at it.

"I doubt ye've been hasty," says he. "Ye've alit at the previous station."

"What station's this? " says I, no' believin' him.

He pinted to a board.

"If ye canna spell, I'll be glad to assist ye."

I read the name—"Sunnyburn."

"Oh, help!" says I, and sat doon on ma box. But I was up again like a shot. "The man cried oot 'Westerbay,'" I says, gey angry. "Wha was the man? Fetch a' the porters this instant!

"I'm the staff," says he, "except for the station master, and he's awa' to his tea."

"Was it him that cried oot the name?" says I.

"It was the staff," says he.

"Then can ye swear ye didna cry 'Westerbay'?"

At that he jamp. Then he doubled up his fist and gi'ed hissel' a dunt on the nose.

"Oh, criffens!" says he, "maybe ye're right. Ye see I got shifted here frae 'Westerbay' only a month back."

I collapsed on to ma faithful box.

"Oh, for ony favour, dinna cry!" he says.

"Cry?" says I. "I've a guid mind to yell! Oh, what for did your mither let ye be a porter?"

Jist then the station master cam' along.

"What's ado, lassie?" says he. "Lost your ticket?"

Weel, I'll say this for the porter: he told the truth and didna try to excupulate hissel'.

"See here, ma lad," says the station master, "when ye gang off duty the nicht, get a spade and dig a nice wee hole, and become a turnip. It's a' ye're fit for." Then he turned to me. "Fortunately it's no' vera serious for you, miss. The hoose ye're bound for lies aboot half-roads betwixt this and Westerbay station—less nor twa mile frae this. Peter here—afore he digs hissel' in—'ll get a barrow and hurl your box for ye. But first, come along wi' me, and the wife'll gi'e ye a cup o' tea."

There's a station master for ye! What an example to some o' them at the big city stations! An' his wife was jist as nice. She gi'ed me champion scones wi' honey frae her ain private bumbees. May Heaven reward her and her pets!

When I was ready to tak' the road, there was the porter waitin' wi' the barrow. He didna look as sheepish as I expected, but I soon seen that his face wasna adopted for lookin' sheepish, bein' like a horse's.

Weel, we set oot without speakin'. I kept ma heid up, and looked neither to right nor left till I tipped ower a stane and near fell on ma nose.

"Ye're no' used to country roads, I see," he says politelike.

"I hope I'll never be used to this road," I answers him.

After a while he tried again.

"I see your address is 'Seaview.' Ye'll get a view o' the sea there."

"Thanks for the warnin'," says I.

"I'll hold ma tongue," says he.

"Oh, speak to the birds if ye like," says I.

To ma surprise he didna say another word.

At last I took a squint at him. I hadna noticed it afore, but he had a game leg. That made me feel kin' o' different.

"Excuse me," says I, "but ha'e ye been at the wars?"

"Fell off a tree when I was young, worse luck," says he.

"Weel, ye're honest, onyway, and I'm sure your mither doesna think it worse luck. I had twa brithers fightin'."

After that we got mair frien'ly—at least, I let him haver.

He told me aboot the place, and pinted oot subjects o' interest, sich as potato fields and farmhooses and coos, etc.

Though I wasna gaun to ask, I was hopin' he would tell me something aboot the hoose I was bound for.

So I enquired if "Seaview" wasna in sicht yet.

"No' yet," says he. "Are ye in a hurry to see it?"

"I jist am. I'm late, as ye ken."

"Dinna keep that up ainst me, Jemima."

"Dunna you call me that!" says I, sharplike.

"The rest o' your name has got rubbed off the label," he says. "Mines is Taggart—Peter Taggart."

I didna reply.

"D'ye ken," he says at last, "until this day I thought Jemima wasna a real name."

"Ye should read your Bible," says I.

"If ye tell me the place2"

"Begin at the beginnin' and read till ye come to it. It would dae ye guid," I says sternlike.

"I'll no' deny that," says he. "Still, it'll dae me nae harm to ask at the minister next time he tak's the train. Weel, are ye no' gaun to tell me what ye're gaun to 'Seaview' for?"

"I'm the new hoose-table-maid," I answers boldly, though I wasna feelin' extra bold.

He drapped the barrow, and stood and looked at me.

"What's wrang wi' ye?" says I.

"Hoo auld are ye?" says he.

"That's nane o' your business."

"Sixteen?"

"I'll soon be three and twenty."

Without a word he started pushin' the barrow again. He seemed to be offended.

"Never mind ma age," I says. "What sort o' place is it at 'Seaview?"

"I'm sorry for ye, if ye're really gaun to service there," he says.

"What's wrang wi' it?"

"Servants never bide. Maybe because it's that dull."

"But it's a boardin' hoose."

"Ay; but they're maistly stuck-up folk in bad health, and there's never onything daein'," says he. "Ye'll be wishin' ye was dead in a week."

If ma box had been handy I would ha'e sat doon again. What a blow! It's true that I was gaun to "Seaview" to oblige ma sister, but a' the same, I was lookin' forward to seein' life.

"Keep up your heart," says the porter. "Ye'll get your meat, onyway. An' maybe they've healthier visitors noo nor when I last heard. But," says he, solemn-like, "it's ma duty to warn ye that there's a boots at 'Seaview'!"

"A what?" says I.

"A sort o' waiter. Beware o' him!"

"Why?"

"Never mind. Then there's the landlady's husband—beware o' him!"

"Mercy!" I exclaims, "what's wrang wi' him?"

"And at the station," he says, without stoppin', "there's a porter called John Craw—beware o' him! And the chap that drives the baker's van2"

"Goodness gracious! Are they a' bad?"

"Rotten! Ye'd best beware o' a' the men in this neighbourhood," he says. "When ye've settled on your nights oot, I'll be glad to show ye the local scenery and so forth. I'm free after 6 p.m. Every night for the next week or so, I'll look oot for ye on this road—eh, Jemima?"

"Behave yoursel'!" I says gey sharp. "I'm obliged for your offer, but I was brought up ower strict ever to think o' sich a thing. Nae need to tell me to beware o' the men. I've always bewore, and always will."

"Oh, but we're no' a' rotten," he says in a hurry.

"Is this 'Seaview' we're noo approachin'?" I enquires, pintin' haughtily wi' ma auld bumberstick.

"That's the back o' it. We'll be at the sea in a minute," he says. "But as I was sayin', the men2"

"What's your fare for hurlin' ma box?" I interrogates.

"Dinna insult me," says he, and for a while he was dumb. Then he says: "Supposin', on a fine night, we was to meet accidental-like—eh?"

I held ma peace and let him haver till suddenly we turned a corner, and there was the sea. My, it looked lovely, did the Firth o' Clyde, that evenin'.

"I believe I'll be happy here," says I.

"Ye ha'e ma best wishes," says he. "Noo here's the side entrance to 'Seaview'; the front is further on. Which dae ye prefer?"

"Your manners is improvin'," says I. "I think the side'll dae for a start."

So we gaed in and through a fine garden full o' cabbages and the like. It was a braw hoose even at the back. And then we cam' to a green door.

He set doon ma box as if it had been eggs, and held oot his hand, which I couldna exactly refuse.

"Remember ma name's Peter," he whispers. "You and me ought to be frien's, seein' that both oor names is in the Bible. Will ye no' conseeder it?"

I swithered withoot lettin' him see I was switherin'.

"Supposin' I could get somebody to introduce us," he says.

"His name would need to be in the Bible," says I.

"I think I could manage that!" he cries.

"It would need to be either Nebuchadnezzar or Hannibal."

"Aw, that's no' fair," says he. Then he gi'ed a bit laugh. "Ye've some fun in ye, after a', Jemima, and ye're bonny forbye. So long and guid luck to ye."

He made to gang, cam' back wi' a face like a fiddle, and whispered:

"Beware o' the Boots."

Then he gaed off wi' his barrow, double-quick.

Suddenly I felt awfu' lonely and kin' o' feart. Ye see, I hadna the least bit o' a notion what would happen to me on the other side o' that green door. I felt masel' gettin' wee-er and wee-er, and noo I canna imagine what kept me frae runnin' awa'. Maybe it was jist that I had nae place to run to.

So at last I put ma hand up to the knocker and gi'ed a chap that wouldna ha'e frightened a moose.

Chapter 2

II

A GOOD IMPRESSION

IT wasna to be expected that ony humane ear would hear ma first knock, and after what seemed like three weeks I took hold o' the knocker again. But it slipped frae ma fingers and made sich a bang, I near drapped on the door-step in a swoon. As long as I live on this testerial globe, I'll never see a green door without rememberin' ma arrival at "Seaview."

I was still decomposed when the door was opened by a young man in his shirt-sleeves, which was white. He was a tall chap, but unco thin, and his face was awfu' pale after the porter's rubikind mug.

"Guid evenin'," says he in a soft voice. "Was the train late?"

But I was past speechifyfin', and maybe he seen that something was wrong, for says he—pintin' up a long blue passage:—

"Mrs. Parkins is in the kitchen—last door on the left. I'll look after your trunk."

Wi' a sinkin' feelin' I gaed up the passage. Suddenly I felt a terrible nice smell of guid things cookin'. It seemed to revive ma droopin' spirits, but no' for long. Next moment I was standin' tremlin' jist inside the last door on the left.

It was a big, braw kitchen, though no' as tidy as ma mither's; but there was a reason for that. A lady—oh, I could see that she was a lady right enough—-was at the table, wi' a white apron on her, as busy as could be. She wasna really near as large as she looked to me then. She would be forty or fifty, maybe; her hair was beginnin' to turn gray. I daresay she had been bonny in her youth. Noo her face was weariedlike.

She was gently stirrin' something in a bowl, and she didna lift her eyes.

"So you've come at last!" she says. "What delayed you?"

I tried to speak, but jist let oot a squeak.

Then she looked at me.

"Gracious heavens!" she cries. "Who on earth are you?"

I managed to reply: "Hoose-table-maid, mem."

"You!" says she, drappin' the spoon wi' a splash. "You are not the girl I engaged last week! What's your name?"

"Jemima, mem."

"Is that all?"

"Just."

"Just Jemima? Absurd!"

"Jemima Just, mem," says I.

"Oh," says she, "I remember! But I engaged a Jessie Just. Why are you here?"

I think she must ha'e liked the look o' me, for she wasna as cross as she might ha'e been, and so I managed to tell ma story.

"It was this way, mem," says I. "Ma sister Jessie intended for to keep her bargain, but yesterday her young man got leave unexpectedlike, and dear knows when she would get another chance, and so they got married this mornin'2"

"She might at least have sent me word," says Mrs. Parkins.

"Weel, mem, her and me cam' to the conclusion that one deed was better nor a heap o' words, and I was keen to see life, and betwixt us we persuaded fayther and mither, and so2" I stopped, for I couldna get ony further.

"But you're a mere child," she says. "How old are you?"

"I'll sune be three and twinty," I says, lookin' at the bowl.

"Oh, nonsense! Come, come, tell the truth!"

"I'm in ma eighteenth year, mem."

"When were you seventeen?"

"Last week, mem."

"And why did you say you would soon be twenty-three?"

"Time flies, mem."

She wagged her head sorrowful-like. At last she says:—

"You can't have had any experience."

I was sort o' ready for her this time.

"I've been brought up terrible strict, and I've aye helped ma mither in the hoose, and I'm rael quick at the uptak'. I never need to be told a thing twice; I can repeat the 119th Psalm without stoppin', except for breath; an' I'm maist economic. And, of course, I would never expect ma sister's wage."

At that she shut her mouth close, and then she took up the spoon and stirred for a while, and then she stopped and gi'ed a guid look up and doon.

"Do you happen to have any friends in this neighbourhood?"

"No' even what ye might ca' a bowin' acquaintance," says I, which was maybe no' quite fair to the porter.

"Well," she says, "since you can't get home to-night, I suppose you must stay here. Perhaps I may give you a trial."

"Hurray! I'm ready!" I cries afore I kent what I was sayin'. I was that excited, I tore off ma hat, and brought doon ma hair, which had scarcely got used to bein' up. Luckily it's no' bad hair, bein' chestnut, wi' a natural wave, and as thick as thick.

"Come, Jemima," she says, as if she hadna noticed onything, "and I'll show you your room." And a nice wee room it was. "Get changed as quickly as you can," says she.

"Yes, mem," says I. "Wrapper or black dress?" Ye see, I was prepared for onything, for Mither and me had sat up near a' nicht, alterin Jessie's things to fit me. Fortunately Jessie's the stout one.

"Black," says she. "We dine at 7:300."

"I think I can thole till then," says I. It was oot afore I kent. But I was quick to beg her pardon, explainin' that happiness had made me forget masel'. As ma fayther often said to ma sister, independence is a fine thing, but ower mony girls nooadays seems to think it's another word for impiddence.

When she had left me, I sat doon on ma faithful box and gi'ed masel' three hugs.

Jessie's black lustre was split new, and I rather fancied masel' for smart when I ran back to the kitchen. In the passage I nearly gaed bang into a tray o' silver things in front o' the young man which had opened the door to me. He gi'ed me a smile, but I never let on I seen it.

Mrs. Parkins didna gi'e me a smile, but a wee nod as if she was pleased. Then she started to ask questions.

""Are you an early riser?" was the first.

Ma sister had warned me to be ready for it.

"Yes, mem," says I. "Fayther gangs to his work at the back o' six."

"Can you make beds?" was another.

"Like fun!" I says. "I can dae onything ord'nar' aboot the hoose, mem. Mak' parritch, bile tatties, bake scones and pancakes, scrub and clean, toast cheese, when there's ony, knit, dam, beat ma fayther at the draughts2"

"Really!" says she. "I don't suppose you can lay and wait the table."

"No' yet," says I, "but once seen, never forgot."

"You're not afraid of hard work, I hope," she says, lookin' me in the face.

"Mem," says I, "I'm afraid o' naething but coos and, maybe, men."

"There are plenty of cows here," she says, wi' a wee smile. "But I must get on with these patties."

"Is there naething I could be daein' for ye the noo?"

"Just stay where you are, Jemima, and listen," she replies. "I'll explain some things about the house, which will make it easier for you afterwards."

So I folded ma hands and stood attentive-like. After she had told me a heap o' things, she says:—

"All the rooms, except the green and white rooms, are occupied. Colonel Beadle and Mrs. Beadle, who have made several long stays at 'Seaview,' have the blue room. Miss Tinto—she also has been here before—has the pink room. Mrs. Pagan, who came for the first time on Monday, has the heliotrope, and Mr. Shard the old gold room. Now, as it is necessary for you to remember, I'll go over them again. Listen carefully.

"I've got them safe in ma brain, mem, says I, wantin' to show off ma quick uptak'. "I'll recite them. Colonel and Mrs. Beetle2"

"Beadle."

"Colonel and Mrs. Beadle—no' much difference—blue; Miss Tinto pinko—beg pardon, pink; Mrs. Pagan and Mr. Shark2"

"Stop, stop! ' she cries. "Mrs. Pagan, heliotrope."

"And Mr. Shark, rolled gold. Is that no' correc', mem?"

"Very good, Jemima," she says, wi' a bit laugh. "But please remember that there are no beetles nor sharks in this house. Mr. Shard is the name, and his room is old gold."

"I'll mind that," I says. "And will them be a' your lodgers, mem?"

"Paying guests, Jemima. Yes; they are all at present; but though few, they require a great deal of attention. I have made a specialty of suiting individual tastes, and that is why I have so many regular clients in this rather out-of-the-way spot."

"Ye must be clever, mem," says I.

She didna appear to catch the compliment.

I have made up a list of their chief likes and dislikes," says she, "and if you stay on here, you will require to study it. Now you had better come and get acquainted with the house. A pity you could not have arrived in the morning, but it can't be helped. You will not attempt any waiting to-night, but you may stand by the sideboard and watch how Frederick does it. If he should ask you to do any little thing, of course, you will do it."

By the time we was through wi' the hoose, I'll admit ma head was in a bizz, but I was fair bilin' wi' eagerosity to mak' a start.

"This is the job for me!" says I.

She wasna angry, but she says:—

"I think you are a little excited, Jemima, and tired, too. Go to your room and sit there quietly till I call you. Do nothing at all. Just get your wits together—if you really want to be a help."

Weel, I jist did as I was bid, and to tell ye the truth I wasna sorry to get sittin' doon. I wrote a card to ma mither, and was jist aboot to dae another to Jessie, when there was a knock at the door. I was oot in a jiffy, and seen the young man in the white shirt-sleeves disappearin' into the kitchen. I thought he had been tryin' to be funny, but the next instant, lookin' doon, I spied a cup o' tea and some scones and butter.

It was jist what I had been needin' withoot knowin' it.

When it was devoured, I took the card I had wrote to ma mither, and added the following

"P.S.—This is Heaven."

Oh, me! what a mercy we canna squint into the future!

Chapter 3

III

A SIDE SLIP

AT twenty past seven, Mrs. Parkins cried on me to come ben to the kitchen. She had snodded hersel' up, and ye would never ha'e dreamed she had ever cooked as much as a haricot bean in a' her life.

"Now, Jemima," she says, "you may help Frederick to carry things between here and the dining-room. When you are not doing that, you must stand where he will show you, and watch—not stare—and learn as much as you can. Do nothing unless Frederick tells you."

With that she hurried awa', leavin' me wi' the young man, which had noo a nate black jayket. He was busy puttin' things on a tray.

"Thank ye for the tea," says I.

"Welcome," says he. "I'm sure Mrs. Parkins would ha'e thought o' it hersel', if she hadna been so hardwrought."

"She seems to be a wonder," says I, wi' a squint at a' the numerous pots and pans on the range. "Has she never a cook?"

"Oh, ay," says he, "frequently. But I'll tell ye aboot things later on, if ye like."

"I'm no' curious," says I.

"I believe ye," says he. "But noo I'll be obliged if ye'll gi'e me a hand."

At 7:30 he played on a thing called a gong, which made ma flesh creep. Then he showed me ma place in the dinin'-room—at the end o' the sideboard, where I was sort o' hid by a screen. I kept weel back till a' the folk was in the room, but as soon as I heard them gettin' their soup, I took a keek at them. My! It was as guid as a picture hoose!

I was pretty sure which was which withoot bein' told. The man at the top o' the table I took to be Mr. Parkins, though Mrs. P. hadna mentioned his bein' alive and I couldna ha'e took the porter's word serious. He didna seem onything to beware o'. He had a long nose on a long face, wi' a wheen hairs across the top, and a droopin' red mustache, and a pair o' eyes that would ha'e been fine in a fish; but he was vera pleasant and polite to everybody. He looked a useless kin' o' body. I would ha'e been sorry for him if I hadna been sorry for his wife. She was a treat; you would ha'e said she was at "Seaview" for her holidays. But every silver linin' has its cloud.

Then I couldna but recognize the Col. and Mrs. Beetle. They was up in years. She was a wee lady, gray like a moose, and wi' aboot as much spirits, but I was sure she was nice. I hated the Col. at first sight. Nae doubt he had been a brave man in his time, but if a man canna be kind when he's auld, what's the use of him gettin' auld? He had a pair of eyebrows like mustaches, and when onybody spoke to him, they gaed up as if he had pulled a string, and he looked as fierce as a teeger. But he was pleasant enough to everybody except his wife. If she opened her mooth, he near bit her nose off. He sat betwixt her and Miss Tinto. Miss T. was nae chicken, though she behave like one fresh from the shell. She said "How funny!" to near everything that was told her. I fancied she was mashed on Mr. Shark, which sat opposite her. He was liker a goat nor a shark, but he had a kind face, which is better nor a handsome appearance. His conversation was aboot the things he had picked up on the seashore that afternoon, and I got that interested, I near inquired if he hadna catched onything in the wilk line.

There was naething special aboot Mrs. Pagan. She was a fat wife wi' gold glasses and nae end o' jewelry, and she payed attention to her rations. She had a black bottle dressed up in a napkin in front o' her. The Col. had a yellow one, naked.

I was that ta'en up wi' them a', that when Frederick, after grein' them their fish, touched ma elbow, I near let oot a yell.

"Dae ye think ye could fill the glasses?" he whispers. "Miss Tinto first."

"Leave it to me," says I, and I stepped oot, never noticin' that he was offerin' me a big water joog. I heard him gi'e a hiss, but jist then the Col. lifted the yellow bottle, and I jamp forward.

I was jist in time.

"Excuse me," says I, polite-like, nippin' the bottle frae his fingers, "but ladies first, if you please." And next moment I was fillin' up Miss Tinto's tumbler.

She let oot a screech ye could ha'e heard a mile awa'.

Afore I could ask her what was wrang wi' her, I heard Mrs. Parkins' voice, and oh! it was like cauld water doon ma back.

"Replace Colonel Beadle's whisky, and leave the room."

She didna need to bid me twice. I kent I was done for. I gi'ed the man his bottle and stottered frae the room. Hoo I reached ma bedroom history will never tell. I bolted the door and checked ma finger, but the agony was naething to me then. I sunk doon on ma faithful box, and fiung ma apron ower ma held and grat.

When aboot five years had rolled awa', I got up to destroy the post card I had wrote to ma mither, but afore I could dae it, there was a knockin' at the door. Wi' ma heart in ma mooth, I opened.

Frederick was standin' there, holdin' a big tray. He was solemn except for his big black eyes.

"Ye'll be hungry," says he. "Tak' a grip o' this."

I shook ma head.

"Cheer up!" says he, and pushed the tray at me, so that I had to tak' it. He was for off when I managed to ask if I had gotten the sack.

"Hope not," he says, wi' a bit laugh. "Ye gi'ed them a' a shake up, but they was needin' it badly. Miss Tinto's great on temperance."

"Oh, me!" I groaned.

"I canna bide the noo—got to serve the coffee," he says. "If ye feel fit for it, ye might gi'e me a hand at washin' up later on." And wi' that he sloped.

I set the tray on the bed and shut the door. I drapped a few mair tears, and then I asked a blessin' on the meat includin' Frederick, and then I blew ma nose and started on the tray. Oh, what tastiness! Oh, what hunger!

Half an hour later, I was busy at the big sink wi' Fredpick. There was aboot a thousand dishes, but I dldna mind that.

"The Colonel," says Frederick, "has got ower his fright. I heard him sayin' ye was a neat little baggage."

"What cheek!" says I, but I couldna help smilin'. I didna smile for long, though. "What will Mrs. Parkins say to me?" I asked him.

"I'm thinkin' she'll gi'e ye another chance when she sees hoo ye can wash dishes," he says. "Ye're the smartest I've struck, Jemima."

I frowned upon him.

"Ye shouldna to be callin' me that—so soon," I tells him. I doubt I was blushin' slightly.

"I was hopin' we was like to be frien's," says he.

"Maybe—I dinna ken—though ye've been extra kind to me; but, ye see, I could never, never call ye 'Frederick.'"

"I hope ye never will, for ma real name is 'Alec.' But Mr. Parkins's bein' the same, Mrs. Parkins had to gi'e me another. So ye can surely manage to say 'Alec.'"

"What lots o' hot water there is here!" says I.

"We ha'e got to call each other something," he says. "There's a new cook comin' the morn—at least she's expected—and she'll think us daft if we're ower polite.'

"I dinna want to be that," says I, and stuck.