ALICE IN THE KITCHEN

A SMALL GIRL GOES IN THE KITCHEN WHEN SHE SHOULD BE AT SCHOOL

Alice walks down

the steps to the dark

passage to the kitchen,

and stands at the door

looking in. Smells of

cooking, heat, bright

lights and sharp sounds.

Mrs Broadbeam in

white, and hair pinned

back, red flushed of face,

gazes at her. What are

you after, Miss Alice?

Mary, take the young

miss to the scullery

and fetch her a small

bowl of dried fruit,

she bellows over her

shoulder. The thin maid

comes over, red hands,

wet, eyes beaming.

She nods and takes

Alice's small hand,

and takes her across

the passage to the large

scullery, and lifts her

onto the bench. Sit there,

and please don't budge,

or I’m for it if you fall,

and goes off to the kitchen

to get a bowl of dried fruit.

Alice sits there, feeling

the hardness of the bench

under her bottom, no

longer painful where her

father smacked. She eyes

the large room with pots

and pans and plates and

dishes, knives and forks

and spoons of all sizes,

having been washed or

about to be washed. She

looks at the three large

sinks which come up to

her chin. The windows look

out onto the courtyard and

the small chapel with its

solitary bell. She can hear

voices from the kitchen,

banging of pots and pans,

sizzling and steam sounds.

She looks at the woods

beyond the chapel. She has

escaped the new nanny

with her beady eyes and

dark hair and moaning voice.

Her mother cried that morning

when she saw her after waking;

her eyes red and blotchy.

Her father shouting, storming

from the room, his eyes fire

and flamy. The thin maid enters

carrying a bowl of dried fruit.

Here you are, she says, be

careful not to choke, and hands

the little girl the small bowl.

Thank you, Mary, she says,

taking in the eyes and smile

and hair in a frizz. She eats

the dried fruit. The maid

watches, then carries on

washing the dishes, humming

a hymn, her hands becoming

redder as the water soaks.

A voice sounds in the passage

way, a voice calling Alice's

name, heavy tread, clapping

of hands. Alice freezes,

enlarges her eyes, holds

the bowl shaking. The maid

puts a finger to her lips and

walks out to the passageway.

Seen Miss Alice about here?

the nanny asks firmly. No,

can't say I have, the thin maid

says, hands dripping water,

eyes vacant, hair looking dull.

Well if you see her tell her to

go back to the schoolroom,

the nanny says, her voice brittle.

Will do, if I see her, the maid says,

indifferently, scratching her thigh.

The nanny goes off mumbling,

her footsteps echoing until gone.

What an arse, the maid says.

Arse? Alice says. Never you

mind about that, deary, best get

eating up and I'll take you another

way after. She smiles and touches

Alice’s cheek, leaving a damp

patch behind, a tiny tingle.

Alice eats the dried fruit,

ears cocked, eyes bright,

eyeing the thin maid as she

washes and stacks the dishes

high. She likes the hands that

rise and fall in slow motion as

if blessing, just like her mother's,

sans redness, when caressing.