Polly Below Stairs.

Polly peeled potatoes; gouged eyes. Sliced through skin; ripped away into the sink. Dudman the butler loomed large pacing beside Gripe the cook. Wish it was his neck, Polly mused. Smiled. Lifted her eyes to the window on the back garden. Air. Fresh air. Turned back to the potato; peeled more. 1

“Where’s Simmons?” Dudman asked. Polly turned and gazed at him.2

“Upstairs.” She held the knife and the potato motionless. 3

“What’s the girl doing? She’s supposed to be here,” Gripe moaned.4

Polly shrugged her shoulders; turned to stare at the sink and potatoes. Gouged the eyes. Imagine it’s Dudman’s neck. Slit slit the knife soft and fast. Mind the fingers. Need them. Sighed.5

Susie entered the kitchen; had the look of fear on her face; in her eyes. 6

“Where you been girl?” Dudman asked; barked. Stood upright.7

“Been doing the backstairs. Dirty with dust,” Susie mumbled; put the broom and dustpan away in the cupboard. 8

“Took you long enough,” Dudman moaned. Walked to the girl; pulled her towards Gripe at the stove stirring the large saucepan. He stood her at the table; put her hands in the bowl of peas to be shucked and washed. “Work is the way to salvation,” he said, moving away, staring at the girls’ thin back, at her small behind beneath the black dress. Imagined. 9

Polly imagined Dudman's neck sliced through and his eyes gouged. She smiled. Good riddance. She took a side-glance; caught Susie’s eyes fill with tears. Bastard Dudman and his cruel ways. Ought to be in uniform with others getting his head blown off in the trenches. Poor Susie; poor bitch. Cold feet on her in bed at night. Freezing bloody attic. Share a bed with anyone in such a climate. Huddle huddle cuddle warm. Back embraced in need for warmth.10

“Get a move on, Perkins,” Gripe moaned, giving the dark stare, the fat arms folded momentarily away from the stirring. Polly turned away, plunged her hands into the water; grabbed the potato, slit and gouged.11

Dudman walked off and out along the passage. Susie pulled out her tongue at his going; tears washed her eyes. Leaned her stomach on the tableside. Cursed under her breath. Glanced at Polly, smiled weakly. Wanted to hug and hold. 12

“And when you’ve done that girl, these pots want washing,” Gripe griped. Pulled face like broken glass; wiped her brow with the back of her large mitt. Her bust broad as a battleship heaved and heaved as she moved off into the larder down the passage. Thump thump her large feet away and away.13

“Bitch!” Susie moaned, “no rest for the wicked,” smiled weakly.14

“He’s back tonight,” Polly whispered.15

“Who?” Susie replied, vacant look and folded brow.16

“Master George,” Polly said softly, words as butter in her mouth.17

“So?” Susie said. “More work, and hands on the backside.”18

Polly grinned. More to the man than eyes see. Remembered nights when he was here last on leave. The bed rocking; the kisses; sighs, holding and releasing. “Hope so,” she said, looking for Gripe’s return, hushing her voice in the excitement.19

“Who said?” Susie asked, pushing peas out of a shuck.20

“Her upstairs, old silver-spoon chops,” Polly said,21

Griped returned sour-faced; pushed passed Susie with her broad beam of a backside. Polly turned away to her chore and peeled. Fat cow. Sleep alone rather than with her. Cold or not, freeze rather.22

Susie pulled a face, shucked, and pushed peas from the womb of the shuck like babes green and small. Wished her finger could push Gripe’s head from her large shoulders; toss it in the saucepan for her ladyship’s dinner and serve with veg and gravy thick and brown. Smiled. Grinned. Maybe someday. Who knows? Looked at Polly’s back. Huddle huddle warm and cuddle. Not if she’s off to George’s bed, hugging, and such. 23

Polly thought of soft pillows; George’s scent and smell; the arms about her; between her, him and all. Lovely. Smooth. Love it. Want and want. Nearly caught once. Close thing. Saved the day Master George. Knew what to say, explanations galore he had. Thank God. She smiled in remembrance. The soft pillow; the blankets; sheets embracing her arms and thighs; the Master easing her with his ways and laughs.24

Dudman returned grim-faced; passed behind Polly’s back, pressed himself against her in passing. Flesh near but not enough. Felt her backside soft beneath cloth and cloth. Moved on. Sighed. Wished. 25

“Dinner is to be delayed,” he informed Gripe. “Master George may be later than thought.”26

Gripe nodded and sighed softly as if she had wind and eased it out. “Bet he needs his rest. Damn war and all,” she ventured, moving a saucepan onto the stove and another off the range's hotness to cool at the back.27

“His Lordship will be back just then, too,” Dudman informed, casting an eye at Susie leaning forward as he passed, feeling her thin frame along the way; reached Gripe’s side to watch; sniffed the air; smell of cooking with a wide smile and folded arms. Gazed at the clock on the high wall. Turned to gaze at Susie; her thin frame; arms moving slow and sluggish. Imagined. Nodded.28

Polly peeled and gouged. Hoped and swooned. Sighed; licked her lips with her tongue; thought of him and his; smiled soft as butter melting. Warm and close. Away from the cold attic; Susie’s arms and cold feet on her back; her thin arms embracing against the bite of chill and freeze in their shared bed. Peeled potato. Slit slit bit by bit. Time and tide. Time and tide. And in his arms to hide huddle huddle warm soft cuddle. Smiled. Peeled. Eyes. Clothes. Bed sleep. Perchance to dream soft and warm in Georges’s arms until dawn’s light or bird’s song catches her ear by pillow’s hold. Polly paused; let her thoughts wander off like playful children; stuck the knife in deep the potato; dug out an eye; balanced it on the tip; twirled it round and round in her wishful desire that simmered and simmered in her secret fire. 29