Saturday, February 1

 I noticed I didn't post any message yesterday.  Clearly, I had nothing to say in the morning and that situation didn't change during the day.  I've always thought of this blog as being a daily journal and that's fine if we're travelling somewhere like Nepal and every day brings a new experience, but, when you're living in a nondescript suburb of a small city in Tasmania, reportable experiences are hard to find.  

Anyway, that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.  Here's the story I would have posted yesterday if I had bothered to write a blog.   It's called Suzanne.

SUZANNE                                                                                                     26 MARCH 2021

Suzanne was the only person she knew who had that name and she never understood what her mother was thinking when she decided to inflict her only daughter with such an unusual appellation.  It was unlikely her mother had read it because she couldn’t read so she must have overheard it somewhere.  It may have been part of some obscure hope that people with influence might be impressed with the name and give Suzanne special attention.

One never knew with Suzanne’s mother; she may have lacked education but she was cunning and was forever thinking of ways that her daughter could have more opportunities than she, herself, had enjoyed.  

Suzanne never went to school because her family would have been expected to pay a shilling a week for the privilege, and there was never a shilling to spare for such frivolity.  Instead, she occasionally visited the local Church minister along with half a dozen other under-privileged children for some basic tuition in reading and writing.

When Suzanne was twelve years old, her mother died and her father said it was time that Suzanne contributed to the family income.  He had arranged for her to meet the housekeeper at the Big House and warned her to be polite and say, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am”

With her heart in her mouth, Suzanne dragged her heels through the town and up the long driveway to the Big House.  She had never been close to the house before and couldn’t understand why just one family would need so much room.  Her own house only had two rooms and everybody in the street shared one lavatory.  She had been warned not to go to the front door so made her way to the back and timidly knocked.  The door was opened by the grandest individual Suzanne had ever seen: he was tall with glossy dark hair and an immaculate uniform.  “Yes?” he enquired.  Suzanne was speechless but the man beckoned her inside and pushed her along a corridor to a little room where she could see, sitting there, a severe-looking woman dressed all in black.

This was the housekeeper, who said, “You must be the girl who needs a job.  What is your name?”

  “Please, ma’am, it’s Suzanne.”

“That’s a most unsuitable name for a servant.  We will call you Susan.   You may call me Mrs Hodges.”  You will begin work here as a scullery maid and, if you are satisfactory, you may be selected to become a chamber maid.  You will work from 6 o’clock each morning and you will be allowed one afternoon off each week.  Because you are just twelve years old, your wages will be paid to your father. Report to Cook who will find you more suitable clothes and explain your duties.”

From that moment, Suzanne’s life changed forever.  Vaguely, she had thought that she might marry and have a small home of their own where she could bring up her own children.

Instead, her own dreams had to be set aside and all her energies and attention must now be on fulfilling the desires of the members of the wealthy family who owned the Big House.  Susan (as she now must call herself) didn’t even know the name of the family who owned the house and how they had come to own it.  Were they aristocrats, or did they make their money some other way?  Susan knew that ‘real’ aristocrats looked down on people who were making their money ‘in trade’ and she hoped her new employers were not members of that grubby bunch.

Days passed and Susan’s life fell into a dull but reassuring routine.  There was one other scullery maid, a cheerful girl called Beryl who took Susan under her wing and helped her through the difficult early days.  Mrs Hodges was strict but was seldom seen by the younger staff who worked assiduously to keep out of her way.  There were a couple of boys on the staff about Susan’s age and she enjoyed their cheeky banter.  She shared a bed with Beryl but the sheets were always clean and the food from the kitchen was more than she expected.  The best part of her day was when all the staff sat together around the large table in the kitchen for their evening meal. Her life might have improved if she had a little money to spend on her afternoon-off but it was all given to her father who never thought to pass any on to her.

Susan, if she thought about it, would have agreed that her life was surprisingly happy.  Certainly, she was working hard and had very little free time but she enjoyed the friendship of the other servants and Beryl was almost like a sister.  Also, one of the young men who worked in the coach house was showing an interest in her and they were walking out together on their afternoon off. 

We can only imagine how Susan’s life might have evolved but, sadly, she died in the 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic.  To his credit, her father insisted that her headstone should show her true name, and it is still there in the churchyard of her village.  Her young man visited her grave for a time but finally realised he needed to get on with his life and his visits ceased.  Suzanne is now all but forgotten, just a girl with a slightly exotic name who trod lightly on the earth.