Story: Lady Helen

by Jackie J

Chapter one

Patricia had worked for Lady Helen for some twelve months in the capacity of house maid carrying out her duties diligently working six days a week being at Lady Helens beck and call with no complaint. Wednesday was Patricia’s free day when she would leave the secluded manor house of her reclusive Mistress and visit her friend in the neighbouring village. It was Wednesday and after serving breakfast Patricia left the Manor, she would be returning no sooner than eight thirty in the evening, in time to serve supper.

Lady Helen, a traditionalist, was fastidious insisting on strict protocols within the household, whilst somewhat draconian, conditions that Patricia willingly accepted. Patricia understanding the demarcation, Patricia was the house maid and Lady Helen was the Mistress of the manor and she paid due deference to her Ladyship at all times.  Patricia, always smartly attired in her dated, old fashioned and cumbersome maid’s uniform, curtsied when addressing her Ladyship, never questioning her instructions, speaking only when spoken to and efficiently going about her duties. A sensible three year indenture clause, within the contract, giving security to both Mistress and maid, the indenture only to be revoked should both parties agree and a replacement maid be trained and in position to serve the Mistress of Hillside Manor.

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 9.

By Camille Langtry and Monica Graz

I have been in a complete state of shock during the next two days.  All I could think of was the upcoming arrival to Singapore of Mark Fitzwilliam and his wife. The formal dinner at the Moretti residence he was supposed to attend this Saturday was fast approaching.

I had a moment of rest in my room before going back to my never ending chores. I was sitting on my tiny bed looking at the formal black uniform dress hanging on the opposite wall, the dress Signora gave me during our meeting two days ago, and I was trying to think how I was going to act as a Filipina maid in front of Mark and his new wife. Do I know her? Has she met me as Julia? Would they recognize me? God! I felt so miserable and uncomfortable. How could I let myself be so badly cornered? Or, deep down, as professor Caprio was telling me, was I really craving for that sort of exposure and humiliation?

At that moment Signora entered my room without knocking in her customary abrupt and busy fashion, carrying a package in her hands. I stood up immediately and greeted her with a formal curtsey. She has hardly ever visited my quarters so it must have been something really important.

Caption: Her Proper Station in Life

Maria walked a few paces behind her mistress, feeling the slight trail of her French perfume in the air. She couldn’t help but stare at her perfectly coiffed golden mane, her manicured hands, her designer leather jacket, her stiletto high heels that forced her hips to sway sexily with each step. To an outside observer, the contrast between them couldn’t be greater: the mistress was young, rich and beautiful; the maid was a much older woman in her 50s – old enough to be her mistress’s mother. One was picture perfect; the other was plain looking, her skin showing unmistakable signs of age and hard menial work. One was dressed to the nines; the other was wearing a traditional maid’s uniform that announced to the world loud and clear that she was nothing than a simple domestic.

Yet, the looks were deceiving. For starters, the women were about same age. Furthermore, until about a year ago, the mistress was working for the maid.

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 8.3.

by Lady Charlotte

Three Questions
3. Question Three

‘Tell me, Julia,’ said Signora Moretti, ‘back when you were the youngest ever Professor of History at Cambridge, what did Mark Fitzwilliam mean to you?’

I tottered at the question, clutching at the desk. Perhaps it was my exhaustion. The Signora, who had rescinded her instructions that I join the university cleaning team the moment I had begun going to church, had reassigned me to it for the whole of the past week. I stood before her in my hideous yellow housekeeping uniform, my long black hair pulled back into a ponytail and threaded through the gap in my baseball cap. Naturally, I was standing.

‘Well?’

I blinked back tears.

‘Address your comments to Professor Carpio.’ She indicated the stout and bespectacled Filipino sitting behind the desk in front of me. It was his office in which I was standing, having been summoned there from mopping the main hall of the Psychology Department. The Signora had introduced him to me as the psychologist who had been translating my Tagalog for her. I remembered what else she had told me about him – that he was fascinated professionally by my case. And now, here I was, standing before him: an exhausted, dirt-smeared cleaner.

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 8.2.

by Lady Charlotte

THREE QUESTIONS

2. Question Two

"Tell me, Julia," said Signora Moretti, "back when you were the youngest ever Professor of History at Cambridge, did you reckon yourself an atheist?"

I looked at my employer in surprise. For months now, ever since our chat about my one-time feminism, she had only ever summoned me to discuss matters more appropriate to a domestic: cleaning, childcare, errands. Now, out of the blue, an unexpected question once again.

‘I… when, Madam, I…’

Signora Moretti raised a hand. "Silence, Molly. There is no point trying to have a discussion on such a topic with someone whose English and intelligence are as limited as yours. As it happens, I know the answer to my own question. Look."

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 8.1.

Lady Charlotte, the author of the original story Arriving in Milan, has kindly agreed to take the story where Monica Graz (will a little help from yours truly) have left it. This is the first of at least three questions that our heroine will have to answer. I hope you enjoy this installment as much as I did. And to make reading previous installments of the story easier I've created a Molly saga label. 

by Lady Charlotte

THREE QUESTIONS

1. Question One

“Tell me, Julia,” said Signora Moretti, “Back when you were the youngest ever Professor of History at Cambridge, did you reckon yourself a feminist?”

I stared in consternation at my employer. It was a long time since anyone had called me by my original name – and even longer since mention had been made of my original career. I could feel myself going red – and then I paused to wonder if someone as dark-skinned as I now was could actually go red. I tried to meet Signora Moretti’s eye. Of course, it was impossible. As I did instinctively now, whenever I looked at a European, I found myself lowering my gaze to the floor, and fiddling with the hem of my apron.

“Well, girl?”

I tried to find my voice. “I… I…” A cascade of thoughts and memories had come unbidden into my mind; but my words were humiliatingly inadequate to expressing what I wished to convey. “When I… first… when I no maid, Madam… I no want…”

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 7.

by Camille Langtry and Monica Graz

I was so tired! I was in bed for over an hour and I couldn’t fall asleep. My whole body was aching and my cheap cotton nightie was clinging to my skin because of the everlasting heat and humidity. But my mind was racing, thinking how my life had changed once again since my arrival in Singapore as a FDW.

I wasn’t certain anymore how long I have been in Singapore. I have lost track of time completely, but it should have been well over a month. The tropical climate wasn’t helping either since there was no change of seasons and the days were repetitive and, for a FDW like me, full of the same mundane chores which were endless and of all kinds.

All the past month’s scenes of embarrassment and frustration were coming back to me as I was lying in bed dead tired but with my eyes wide open and my mind in a race mode changing from one scene to the other like being in the middle of a very lively dream. I remembered how embarrassed and stupid I felt when Mr. Singh took me to the settling-in program, the traumatic visit to the health center and to see a plastic surgeon the day after...