His Butler, The Apprentice
Chapter 9: My Chores Begin in Earnest
"Well, don't be shy," the blond-haired chef said, when I paused at the doorway to the kitchen. "Come on in. We servants don't stand on formality, 'cept around guests and suchlike."
I was dressed in the clothes laid out on my bed. I'd had no breakfast. From Baldroy's words, I guessed that my honeymoon status as a guest was over, and I would spend most, if not all my time with the servants.
"You might find us a bit rough, but you'll find us always ready. Finny, Mey-Rin, you've met Davey Coppersmith. It looks like he'll be with us for some time." Both servants nodded, and greeted me.
"Right, then," the chef – Baldroy, or Bard, or Baldo, or whatever his name was - said briskly. "Finny, see that the garden's weeded before noon – and prune them rosebushes this time, don't butcher 'em 'alf to death! Mey-Rin, I reckon you'd best get started gathering up the sheets for washin', or Sebastian's liable to 'ang you out to dry. I'll explain Davey's chores to him."
When the servants had bustled off, the chef drew laconically on his cigarette. "Soooooo, you've only been here a few days, and already they've put you to work, 'ave they? Well, you've got to expect that 'round 'ere. Our Young Master's nothin' if not fair, and we're all us of glad to be working here, instead o' where we were before. But he's a man of business through and through, 'e is. He's not one o' them phylan – er, fillon – uh, feller – uh, well, one o' them do-gooder types, see." He reached into a cupboard, pulled out a wicker basket and handed it to me. "You'll be wantin' that. Come on, I'll show you the tool-shed and the chicken coop."
"The chicken coop?" I repeated. Already, I could guess what lay ahead.
Baldroy led me back into the hallway, where we turned a corner. A door led outside to a small porch in back of the mansion. I accompanied the chef down a set of stone-and-mortar steps to a gravel path, thankful of my coat to keep me warm in the chill air. It was early in the morning, and the sun just peeked over the leafy tree-tops toward the east.
"There was one day Young Master went out to the countryside on business – wouldn't say what it was. It was all very 'ush-'ush, know what I mean? What we do know is, he came back with an 'ankerin' for freshly-laid eggs. Course, we've had chickens, ever since I got 'ired round here, but they was mostly broilers, not layers. Now we've got those to tend as well. And that, me young mate, is where you come in." We passed a gazebo, surrounding by white rose bushes. Finny was already there, pulling weeds and pruning bushes. He looked up and waved. I waved back. I sensed that Baldroy wouldn't reprimand me for the momentary distraction. He seemed like an easygoing sort.
Baldroy showed me one outbuilding. All sorts of gardening tools leaned up against one wall – spades, shovels, hoes, a pitchfork and the like. He also showed me a set of trowels hanging up on another wall, telling me I'd need them to clean out the chickens' nests. "But not today," he added. "We'll save that for later. Now here is where we keep the chicken-feed." He indicated a barrel with a lid, on top of which rested a wooden bucket. Handing me the bucket, he took the lid off the barrel, revealing dried cracked corn and a scoop. Per his instruction, I put three scoops in the bucket. Replacing the lid on the barrel, he ushered me back outside the shed, and further on down the gravel path.
"Now, then," Baldroy continued, "the chickens have to be fed and watered, and that means every morning of every day, see? Rain or shine, hell or high water, they have to be fed and watered, and their eggs have to be gathered, and cleaned."
"What do you mean, cleaned?" I asked.
"I mean, the hens lay their eggs and poop in the same nests, that's what. So you've got to wash the eggs off when you bring them in every morning. Also, you've got to muck out the chicken coops once a week, and lay down new straw for them."
"What do I do with the old straw?"
"Put it in a wheelbarrow, and give it to Finny," Baldroy told me. "He's got a heap composting in the corner of the garden. Makes good fertilizer, it does. Well, here we are."
We stopped a short distance away from a partially enclosed structure that reminded me vaguely of a circus tent. There stood a rickety wooden frame to which was nailed wire chicken mesh. A shed stood attached to the enclosure. Within the enclosure were scurrying, and scratching and pecking at the ground at least two dozen chickens. Baldroy pointed out the different breeds – Rhode Island Reds, barred Plymouth Rocks, white leghorns, and Cornish whites. These last ones were leaner than the others, bred, as Baldroy had said, for egg-laying, not human consumption.
"Scatter a couple handfuls in the dirt for 'em," Baldroy directed. "They like scratchin' round. Then go in the shed, and pour the rest of the feed in the their feed trough."
I did as I was told, then accompanied the chef inside the shed. He pointed out the feed and water troughs, plus a third that had white chips of some sort in it.
"What this?" I asked.
"That's ground-up oyster shell, that is," Baldroy said. "We also save old egg-shells and put those in there as well."
"And they eat that stuff?"
"Course they do," he answered. "That's how they make shells for their eggs when they lay 'em. Speaking o' which—" He gestured toward two rows of small hatches on the wall above the troughs, framed in wood, and covered with the same chicken wire mesh. Behind each hatch was a small wooden compartment with a straw nest in it. Some were empty, but the others had both white and brown eggs in them. Baldroy showed me how to unlatch each hatch and reach into each nest. As he'd said, most of the eggs were smeared with chicken guano, but some were clean. Freshly laid, they felt warm to the touch.
"All righ' then," Baldroy said. "Now I've shown you where things are, d'you think you can remember it all?"
"I—I think so," I replied tentatively.
"Let's make sure you know so. Now, how often to the chickens need feeding and watering?"
"Every morning," I answered.
"Supposin' it's rainin' cats and dogs outside? What then?"
"Then they'd still need to be fed and watered, and their eggs gathered," I said, cottoning on to the line of questioning.
"An' if it was thunderin' and lightnin' and suchlike?"
We walked back toward the mansion, Baldroy quizzing and me answering. Truth be told, I had never tended chickens before then, but it didn't seem any more difficult than working at Southampton Imports. I'd be outdoors, too, instead of inside some dreary warehouse, or factory line.
"Any questions?" Baldroy wanted to know.
"What do I do when the feed barrel gets empty?" I asked.
"Tell either me or Sebastian," the chef replied. "We'll order a sack more. Have Finny pour it in for you. He does all the heavy lifting around here."
We climbed the steps, and went back into the kitchen. Baldroy ran some water into an earthenware bowl, and told me to scrub the guano from the eggs.
"Gently, now," he reminded me. "Don't want any of them breakin' in your hand, now do you?"
So, I scrubbed each egg, and put it into a wire-frame basket, and when I was finished, I put the eggs into the icebox. I noted there was an identical wire basket with eggs, probably from yesterday.
"Young Master'll have only the freshest eggs with his breakfast," Baldroy told me. "The older ones Sebastian uses for cookin' and bakin'. He'll even let us have them with our breakfast, if we had anything to go with them."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "There's food around here, isn't there?" An unpleasant feeling started to settle over me. At the importer's, only the boss had any decent food. We had to get by on bread and watery gruel. Bread and watery jam was considered a treat. Did it work that way in the House of Phantomhive too?
"Yeah, most of the time, but we're running a bit low on supplies right now," Baldroy explained. "Market day's not till tomorrow, and we always run a bit low round this time."
"But I haven't had breakfast yet!" It came out as a whine. I added hastily, "What about you, or Finny or Mey-Rin?"
As if on cue, the two of them appeared in the kitchen.
"I've finished pruning the roses round the gazebo!" announced Finny eagerly.
"And I've finished gatherin' up all the linen for the laundry, yes I 'ave!" Mey-Rin added.
"I was just gonna explain to our young mate here," said Baldroy, "that none of us has had breakfast yet, on account o' how the servants eat after the Young Master's had his breakfast."
"And not before?" I asked.
Balroy looked shocked. "Are you crazy? We do that, and Sebastian's liable to have us for breakfast!" He glanced at a clock on a wall, and calmed down somewhat. "But we should be all righ' now, I reckon. "Yeah, Sebastian'll have been in here, and made the Young Master his mornin' meal by now. Well, who's for some steamin' hot coffee?"
Without waiting for a reply, he poured the rich-smelling brew into a quartet of mugs. I hesitantly picked one up for myself, but Mey-Rin stopped me.
"Here now, kid your age shouldn't be drinking coffee straight up," she admonished. Opening the icebox, she removed a half-filled bottle and pulled out its stopper. "You should have some milk with that. It'll help you build strong bones, yes it will!"
"Well, let's what we've got handy by way of grub." Baldroy started looking around. "Let's see, we've plenty of eggs and milk in the icebox, bread in the pantry, and not much else right now, I'm afraid. Market day's tomorrow, and we're always running a bit short till then."
Eggs, milk, bread. I spoke up. "I could make us some French toast for breakfast from all that."
"You?" Baldroy answered skeptically.
"The kitchen's Baldroy's territory," explained Finny. "What with him being the chef and all."
Think fast! "Well, now that you mention it," I said, "I could do with some supervision. Quite a bit of supervision in fact. If you could tell me where things are, we could have a decent breakfast in short order."
And that's what we did. Baldroy found me a mixing bowl and a cast iron frying pan. It was heavy, but Finny lifted it from its wall hook like a featherweight. Mey-Rin brought the eggs and milk. Finny had to stand by, explaining that Sebastian wouldn't let him touch anything fragile in the kitchen.
"He don't know his own strength," the chef confided to me. "But it comes in handy for lifting blocks of ice, or filling the barrel with chicken feed."
I cracked four eggs into the bowl, poured in some milk and whipped up the mixture with a fork. Baldroy had sliced the bread, and set the frying pan on the stove. A couple squares of butter melted away in the pan. We were ready. I doused a couple slices of bread in the bowl, and forked them rapidly into the pan, where they sizzled in the butter. After a few moments, I turned them over with a spatula. When they were done, I placed them on a plate, and prepared another couple of slices. I had just put them in the frying pan, when I sensed trouble approaching. The door opened. It was Sebastian, and he did not look pleased.
"Ah, why, hello Sebastian." Baldroy tugged at his goggles, and managed a lop-sided grin. "So, ah, what brings you down here?"
"What brings me down here, Baldroy, is the fact that all morning, I have heard none of the bangs, explosions, and other pyrotechnics that I have come to associate all too commonly with your cooking methods. Upon investigating this curious phenomenon, what do I find, but this!" Sebastian gestured at the stove. "Baldroy, if he's doing the cooking, then what, if I may be so bold as to ask, are you doing?"
The chef folded his arms across his chest. "Me? I'm supervisin', that's what!"
The butler looked down at the stove and the French toast sizzling in the frying pan, then at the chef, then at me, then back at the stove.
"Oh, I see," he finally said. "Well, I suppose it's just as well this way. Very well, then, carry on. Pardon the interruption."
As soon as he left, the servants all relaxed, like tightly wound springs suddenly released.
"I think we've still got some maple syrup left," Baldroy said, after a few moments' tense silence. "Bet that would go great with the toast, don't you think?"
While we ate, Baldroy outlined the rest of the day for us. I would spend some time assisting the other servants during the rest of the morning and afternoon, but not all day, he assured me.
For my part, a feeling of closeness I hadn't felt in a long time grew on me. We were sharing not just a meal we'd all done something to prepare, but the moment itself. I felt connected with the Phantomhive servants in a way I'd never felt with the boys at Boothby's Academy, much less at the importer's. For the first time in nearly a year, I felt welcome.
