Story: Executive Stress. Part 2.

by Charles Ryder

A week after her humiliating meeting with her husband, Abigail was stood at attention in front of Mrs Pugh’s large, imposing desk. Her new employer was reading a report. This was her weekly assessment carried out by her immediate superior, Mrs Jackson. As if the whole situation wasn’t demeaning enough she had to be subject to an assessment from an elderly yokel. Mrs Pugh looked at her over her spectacles.

“This really isn’t very good is it Munroe? Lazy, rude, work-shy, these are just some of the words that refer to you. What do you have to say?”

Abigail knew what she’d like to say but she just couldn’t summon the nerve. Lydia Pugh tended to have that effect on her; she was so cold and intimidating.

“Er...I’m sorry Mrs Pugh, I’m trying really I am but I’m not used to this sort of work.”

“Well, I think it’s high time you got used to this sort of work, because it looks like this sort of work is the only sort of work that you’ll be carrying out for the foreseeable future. Here, read this.”

She reached over and passed a copy of the local newspaper. Abigail only had to read the headline for her blood to run cold,

‘Police On The Lookout For Missing Businesswoman.’ Her eyes scanned down and quickly read the copy. ‘Officers are still on the lookout for Mrs Abigail Pugh. Mrs Pugh, a local businesswoman allegedly involved with the Bellman case, has not been seen for three weeks. Foul play has been ruled out but the fraud unit are interested in speaking with Mrs Pugh whom they believe is connected to the alleged fraud carried out at her former workplace.’ To make matters worse there was a photo of her with a champagne flute in her hand and laughing at something.

She dropped the paper and put a hand out to steady herself. Oh my God it was getting worse! For some reason she had been singled out as one of the main people behind the Bellman fiasco. Oh God, she was going to prison! She couldn’t have that, she just couldn’t. She put her head in her hands and began to cry. After a couple of minutes of sobbing she gathered herself and looked up at Mrs Pugh who was still sat impassively at her desk.

“I’m afraid the situation isn’t ideal is it Munroe? I called you in here to ask you to leave if I’m being honest. I just can’t put up with your attitude and lack of effort.”

“B...but Mrs Pugh, they’ll put me in prison... I can’t...”

Lydia Pugh held up her hand. “Please don’t interrupt be again Munroe. I was about to say that although Mr Moore was on his way here to escort you to the local police station, I have had second thoughts. Much that it pains me to accept that you are part of the family; Andrew has begged me to help you.”

“Oh thank you Madam, thank you very much.”

“That’s quite okay Gail. However in return you must buckle down and really make an effort. To help you I’ve given Mrs Jackson complete authority over your training. If I receive another report from her like this one, I’m afraid I will have simply no choice other than to instruct Mr Moore to hand you over to the constabulary.”

“I understand Mrs Pugh and I’m most grateful.”

Lydia Pugh smiled as the woman scurried from her office, Madam? She quite liked that.

Abigail soon discovered just what Lydia Pugh meant by Mrs Jackson having complete authority over her. First she was measured for a new wardrobe, pretty much all she had was her brown nylon dress and the clothes that she’d arrived at the house in. When they arrived they were the stuff of Abigail’s nightmares. Her brown thing could be laughed off as perhaps a house-coat; the new uniforms were very much more formal. Three pairs of black, patent leather court shoes, several pairs of black stockings, several pairs of plain and simple white underwear, two black pencil skirts, and two crisp white shirts, three one-piece, black short sleeved dresses which were trimmed in white at collar and cuffs. Two white aprons and finally three demeaning mob caps complete with ribbons.

As she tried on each piece in front of a smirking Mrs Jackson she realised that the game, if it ever was a game, was now serious. She was no longer a wealthy young businesswoman pretending to be a maid, she actually was a maid. The clothes she was required to wear were a mute confirmation of her new role. Abigail Pugh, privately educated maid at your service, she thought bitterly. There was little time for self-pity. Mrs Jackson had decided that her new charge needed to be instructed from scratch in her new duties. There was, apparently only one way to use a vacuum, or to polish a table, or hand-wash garments, and that was the Jackson way. Abigail’s day started at six am, the bedside alarm roused her and she had to be washed, dressed and ready for work by six thirty. She was usually required to wear one of the black dresses, stockings, shoes and a cap. Mrs Jackson inspected her uniform and would have no hesitation in sending her back to her room to change if she was dissatisfied for any reason. Once she was attired to Mrs Jackson’s satisfaction she worked steadily at whatever chore she had been set by her superior for two hours. She then prepared Lydia Pugh’s breakfast and carried it up on a tray to her bedroom. She was required to knock on the door and then to wait until summoned. Sometimes she was there for fifteen or twenty minutes until called. Other times she was called immediately.

She then had ten minutes or so to have her own food which generally consisted of whatever was left over from preparing Mrs Jackson’s and Mrs’s Pugh’s breakfast. She hadn’t eaten porridge since she was a child but she wolfed down the little amount that she received. There might be a couple of pieces of dry toast available or if she was really lucky a piece of cold bacon. Whatever she ate was invariably washed down with half a cup of lukewarm, stewed tea. Once the breakfast dishes were washed, dried, and put away she had to fill a bucket with hot water and then get down on her hands and knees and scrub the kitchen floor with a stiff brush. As part of her training she wasn’t allowed to take advantage of any labour-saving devices. Mrs Jackson considered it ‘instructive’ that she had to do everything by hand.

It wasn’t instructive of course .Celia Jackson had simply taken an instinctive dislike to her charge. She absolutely doted on young Andrew, she had helped bring him up and he was in her eyes, almost the perfect child. She had happily watched him grow and develop into a lovely young man and she had high hopes for him. That was when he had first met Miss Abigail Munroe. That dreadful girl had completely taken over his life. She was loud and aggressive and demanding and poor Andrew was completely smitten with her. They’d met at University but Andrew had dropped out after two terms because he couldn’t keep up with the demands of the course, mainly because the girl required and received his entire attention. She could tell when Andrew first brought her to the house that Mrs Pugh didn’t like the girl. She didn’t like her either; Abigail, she believed, looked down on her because she perceived that she was a servant, rather than a loyal and respected housekeeper.

Andrew took another course in teacher training and the two continued to see each other. Even then it came as a huge shock when they returned from an impulsive trip to Las Vegas and announced that they were married. She’d seldom seen Mrs Pugh so upset! She herself was bewildered, what did shy and sensitive Andrew see in the girl? She was a quite dreadful person. That opinion had never wavered, and now it was proven to be correct. That so called business she made a fortune from was nothing more than a Ponzi scheme; all those poor people had lost a lot of money. As horrible as the situation was it had given Mrs Pugh the opportunity to take the girl in hand, and now here she was in the Pugh’s kitchen, dressed in uniform, cleaning the kitchen floor by hand.

As the girl passed near her chair, Celia Jackson picked up her large wooden spoon from the kitchen table and whacked it across Abigail’s impudently thrusting backside.

“Oowwww!”

“Get on with it girl, no dawdling.” that was something else that had changed in their relationship. Mrs Jackson doled out corporal punishment on a regular, relentless basis. At first she had been a little tentative, but once she realised that the girl was in no position to refuse any sort of discipline, the type and volume certainly increased. At first it might be a slap to the girl’s skirt or the back of a thigh. Abigail did complain at her treatment, but a five minute interview with her Mistress seemed to set her straight. From then on Celia Jackson was completely at liberty to deal with Miss Abigail Munroe, or rather Gail Munroe, as she saw fit. She approved of the girl’s name being shortened from Abigail to Gail, much less pretentious in her opinion. But that was the just about the only thing she approved of in relation to Miss Munroe.

Abigail was exhausted, her day had started at six o’clock in the morning and she’d worked almost uninterrupted until called into Mrs Pugh’s office at six in the evening. As she stood dishevelled and grimy in front of her immaculately dressed mistress, the contrast between the two couldn’t have been greater. Lydia Pugh was well-fed and pink and obviously pampered, Gail Munroe was tired, grimy and fairly gaunt. Her reduced diet and hard, physical work had succeeded where many an expensive Personal Fitness Instructor had failed. Her tendency toward plumpness had entirely disappeared. Her smart uniform was grubby and her hair beneath her slightly askew cap was lank and greasy. Her complexion had suffered from lack of attention and a surfeit of poor food so that she had a dull, greasy sheen and the odd pimple.

Mrs Pugh struggled to keep the amusement from her voice as she studied the wretched girl in front of her. This was more like it, the dreadful girl stripped of her expensive clothes and extravagant personal grooming regimen, and subject to a few weeks of proper hard work. The real Abigail Munroe turned out to be a rather physically uninspiring, dowdy character after all, surely her darling son deserved better?

“How are you Munroe? You are looking well I must say.”

“I’m fine thank you, ma’am.”

Abigail knew only too well that she wasn’t ‘looking well’, but daren’t comment.

“Mrs Jackson has told me that you’re beginning to take on board her instructions. Indeed she’s gone so far as to describe your efforts as adequate. As a result I’ve decided to allow you to shower this evening.””

“Th...Thank you ma’am.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Munroe. Just so long as you keep your head down and work as directed then your sordid little secret is safe with me.”

Abigail didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A shower was indeed a luxury nowadays. She’d been removed from her original bedroom and been installed in what must have been the smallest available room in the large house. Her room now struggled to house a single bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table and a tiny sink in which she was expected to ablute every day. The floor was wooden and had a small threadbare rug. The single window was small and filthy and wouldn’t open. The ceiling and skirting boards looked like they hadn’t been decorated since the house was built in the previous century. The walls were painted in that particular institutional green that absolutely no one would choose voluntarily. Her shower time was strictly rationed, depending on the whims of her two strict Mistresses’. In order to use the toilet during the day she had to ask permission, during the night she was forbidden to leave her bedroom and therefore had to use a shameful pink, plastic potty.

Once she’d enjoyed her fifteen minute shower, she took herself back to her miserable room and removed her pyjamas from the dressing table drawer. Pulling them on she was struck by how tight the bottoms still were despite her weight loss. She buttoned up her top and sat and brushed her hair. The pyjamas were yet another humiliation that she had to endure .This particular pair were bright yellow brushed cotton, and decorated with cartoon characters. Grimacing at her reflection she left the room and hurried downstairs. Unusually this time, she was called into Mrs Pugh’s living-room rather than sit in the kitchen on her own. She was directed to a small stool and given her customary mug of cocoa.

“You’ll be happy to know that I’ve employed a hairdresser to come to the house tomorrow and sort out your hair for you. It’s become something of a mess as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Later in the week I’m having friends over for dinner. I’ll require your personal appearance to be immaculate, I can’t let you appear in front of them looking like a tramp, it will reflect badly on me. So I’m having your hair cut, styled and coloured.”

“Th...Thank you ma’am.” Abigail wasn’t sure about the cut and coloured bit.

“No need to thank me Munroe, it will be expensive but it’s not coming out of my pocket. The fee will be docked from your wages in the usual way.”

Abigail nodded; there was no point in arguing. She was paid the absolute minimum wage, but out of that she was required to pay for her crummy room, her minimal poor quality food, her laundry, her cosmetics and even a share of the heating and electricity. To raise extra funds she considered asking Mrs Pugh if she might have her jewellery returned to her so that she might sell it, but with each passing day her resolve became weaker and weaker.

“Have you finished your cocoa?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Lydia looked at her watch, it was nearly seven. “You may watch television for forty five minutes in the kitchen, but then it’s upstairs and lights out. I want you in bed and asleep by eight o’clock, is that understood?”

“Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am.”

“Off you go then, good night.”

“Good night, ma’am.”

Lydia Pugh smiled to herself, her new charge was coming along nicely. Perhaps now was the time to take her to the next level?

Around mid-morning, Abigail was called from her labours to the kitchen. There she was introduced to Mavis, who tutted over her hair and then instructed her to sit while she wrapped a gown around her. Mrs Pugh sat nearby with an amused expression on her face. The middle-aged woman quickly got to work. Within minutes her scissors had snipped away a large part of her long, mousey coloured hair which was soon piled around the chair. When she had finished she took Abigail over to the kitchen sink and then worked away at what she assumed was the colouring. An hour later and it was done. Abigail knew that whatever she’d done was quite radical because she could feel a breeze on her neck for the first time in many years. Mavis helped her out of the chair and took her to stand in front of Lydia Pugh. The older woman pursed her lips and nodded.

“Yes Mavis that’s very good, pretty much exactly what I had in mind for her.”

The woman smiled and nodded and began to collect the tools of her trade.

“I think that you should thank Mrs Hughes for her efforts Gail, don’t you.”

“Thank you Mrs Hughes, for cutting my hair.” Mumbled Abigail, ashamed that she was required to thank the woman like a child for work that she hadn’t required or seen the result of.

“That’s quite okay dear. That cut suits you so much better; it’s much more suitable for a girl in your position.”

A girl in her position? Abigail just had to see what the woman had done to her. Excusing herself she almost ran to the privacy of her own room. She could hardly believe her reflection in her little cracked mirror. Her hair had been cut so that it was above her ears! For the first time since she was a child she could see her own, slightly protruding ears. And the colour! Her hair was now jet black. She put her hand up to her neck and felt the bristles; her hair had never been this short. She put her little cap back on her head. All she could see now were her ears and a little black fringe of hair. The hundreds of pounds that she’d spent caring for and maintaining her hair may as well have been thrown away. All that remained was a badly cut, over-coloured mess. She put her head in her hands and wept.

When she eventually made her tearful way downstairs, Mrs Pugh explained that the reason for the haircut was twofold. The first reason was that it was actually good for her in her new duties and wouldn’t always be in her eyes, and second it was to disguise her. Nobody glancing at her would think that she was anything but a maid, certainly not former City high-flyer Abigail Pugh. Abigail was reluctantly forced to admit to herself that the woman was right. The effect of the haircut and her maid’s uniform really was quite dramatic. Certainly none of her workmates would recognise her. She had also lost quite a lot of weight as well. Her Mistress not only dictated her food intake but had also completely banned her from consuming alcohol. Her face, she noticed was quite a lot thinner than she remembered. Perhaps it was all going to work out after all?

Andy had been over to the house a couple of times, just to check that she was okay apparently. He would chat to his mother for an hour or so before giving her a little of his time. He took pleasure in telling her that nobody had asked about her. The few mutual friends they occasionally went out with appeared to have mentally airbrushed her out of their collective memories. She was a little shocked at first, nobody had asked about her? Did anybody actually care, she wondered?  Almost all her friends were work related, and clearly they’d be desperate to avoid any contact with her. They chatted for a little while, he talked about the school he was in but she wasn’t really interested and that soon fizzled out. Eventually he looked at his watch and announced it was time he was moving along, he was meeting a work colleague for a few drinks apparently. As he leaned forward to plant a perfunctory kiss on her cheek she couldn’t help but smell his expensive cologne. She knew it was expensive because she’d bought it for his birthday. She realised, with a bitter stab of jealousy, that the work colleague was probably another woman.

Within the hour she’d drunk her customary cocoa and was wrapped up in bed.  As she drifted off to sleep after another exhausting day the image that played constantly in her head was that of her husband and his new lover. Even her uncomfortable mattress and rather cramped, child-sized bed couldn’t prevent her dreaming of the two of them making passionate love in what used to be her bed in her bedroom in her house.

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