FROM THE GRASS BY ROSE BOUCHERON so~ in- Thursday is Joan’s day in our house, and as a family we adore her. She came to us five years ago on a bleak November day, a small almond-eyed woman a Roman from Italy, rejoicing in the unlikely name of Joan. Our old Victorian house takes a lot of cleaning, and I had long given up hope of finding someone who would help out with the household chores. For the rate some of them were asking I would gladly have applied myself given the time, and others just raised their eyebrows and looked askance at the enormous windows, old passages and tiled flooring. I found myself apologizing for the fact that my old vacuum cleaner was a vintage model, that I do not possess an electric polisher, a washing-up machine, a tumbler drier, not even fitted carpets. There are surrounds to be polished and a tiled floor to wash, the bathrooms are archaic and the stairs go on for ever. I was digging in the front garden, wrestling with the ground elder under the sycamore, when a foreign voice behind me said: “Madama, scusi, please.” I straightened up, leaned on my fork, and found a small figure confronting me. Small, thin, with a square olive face, black bright almond eyes, and a gay headscarf. “Madama, please-a, where this-a Grin Lowns?” I looked at her. Her face was screwed up in a mask of perplexity, and she handed me a scrap of paper. We live in the lane where the houses bear no numbers, so that one is frequently brought to the door to be asked where Twin Stack is, or April Cottage, and really one can’t remember them at all. Grin Lowns, though, was a new one. I looked down at the paper, and read Green Lawns quite clearly. I smiled. “Green Lawns,” I said. “Yes,” she nodded, frowning hard. “Grin Lowns. Where is this-a place?” “Go up the hill until you get to the top, and it’s on your right-hand side, several houses along. About a mile, I should say.” She shook her head, folded the paper and put it in her pocket. “It’s too far,” she said. “Oh, dear,” I said, not sure what she meant. “You want ‘elp?” she asked suddenly. I looked at her, my mouth open. I should say I did, but stranger, who was she – an Italian – my thoughts wondered around with indecision. “Why is it too far – Green Lawns?” I said. “I work in ‘ospital in Benton,” she said. “I get off bus and walk. I dinning-room maid, she said proudly. “On my day off I work in ‘ouse. You like ‘elp?” “Well, I dithered. “Er, it’s an old house, lots of work to do. Not modern, you understand.” “I not care ‘ow much work.” She curled her lip. “I work for you all-a day – one pun, eh?” Her cockney co-workers had given her the most delicious accent, so that her voice was a mixture of Italian, cockney and Irish. “All day?” I said. “For a pound?” “You try,” she said. “I come a Thursday – you see. If you not like – I go. Alrigh?” “Alrigh,” I said. “All right,” I amended. Not able to believe in my luck or bad luck as events would prove, we awaited Thursday, and there she was at eight o’clock sweeping the garage out while she waited for the door to be opened. I showed her the rooms, and she seemed not at all overcome with the amount to do, and endeared herself to us immediately. We are used to people coming in and saying: “My dear, how do you cope?” and “Oh, I say, those windows, and those frightful high ceilings! How do you reach?” Joan said: “It’s a beautiful, Madama, beautiful ‘ouse.” And we felt that we could forgive her anything. Anyway, that wasn’t necessary, for armed with polishing cloths, pails of hot water and metal polish, she worked like a mad thing from eight until two o’clock. I made her coffee at ten-thirty, which she drank while doing the stairs and when I urged her to have lunch at twelve-thirty, she refused to stop. “I not like-a food,” she said.” I ‘ave dinner tonight. I go on.” And go on she did, like a whirl-wind, while I was almost having a heart attack wondering how long she could last. At two o’clock she sat on the outside steps by the dustbin. “Is-a too much-a,” she said. “I finish now and come nex-a week. Alrigh?” “Alrigh,” I said, “and thank you Joan.” Needless to say I paid her well. Should we ever see her again? We wondered, and was she just a new broom? From then on, every Thursday, Joan arrived promptly. After that first week, every chore was accompanied by an aria from an Italian opera, and I can’t tell you how pleasing it was to have the dinning-room area polished, or the upstairs loo scrubbed out to the accompaniment of Traviata or Aida. We soon discovered that Joan had a mortal enemy, Miss-a Potts, who was supervisor of dinning-room maids. A boiling feud existed between them as Joan fought for the Italian girls rights and woe betide Miss-a Potts if she asked Joan to work on a Thursday. “I tell ‘er,” she would say grimly, “is-a my day off. ”Her face was bleak whenever she mentioned Miss-a Potts, in fact wee all hated her, sight unseen. We discovered that Joan also worked for two other houses for an hour or so outside her duty time, and although we never discovered who they were, sometimes a hat or a coat Joan was wearing looked faintly familiar. Joan could look like a smartest film star, in a middle-age way, of course, or the dumpiest little woman imaginable, depending on what she wore. Invariably she wore a headscarf over her jet black hair, now threaded with grey, and sometimes Mrs. Thingummy’s voluminous tweed dirndl skirt and shirt blouses, or Mrs Whatsername’s rather dressy dresses and cashmere jumper. It was nothing to see Joan scrubbing the bathroom wearing a royal blue georgette miles too long for her, and obviously Mrs Thingummy, this one, or a cream draped Courtelle from Mrs Whatsername. We felt we knew these other ladies of Joan’s quite well just by their clothes. The real delight came when a friend of ours, with three beautiful and glamorous daughters suggested that Joan might like some of their shoes. I might add that Joan, like most Italians, has a small foot, size four, and the gorgeous girls, like most girls today, take anything from size six to size eight. These shoes were assorted and came in a giant outsize bag. Some of the heels were almost four inches high, rapier like, and almost all had long, sharp toes, from the shiniest patent to the brightest plastic. Joan pounced on them with delight, and breathed with wonder. “Madama, such elegant shoes!” My daughter and I watched her go through the bag with unconcealed joy. “But Joan,” I said, “they are large, of course, but perhaps some of the girls at the hospital take larger sizes.” She turned on me at once, “no, Madama. They will be alright. “She tried them on, they were obviously miles too big for her, like boats, but she quickly pulled some newspaper from her bag and stuffed it in the toes. “There,” she said, teetering on the high heels until we thought she would fall over, “there, that’s alright. See,” So clutching the others under her arm in the voluminous bag, she tottered up the drive, with the gorgeous girls’ shoes, Mrs Thingummy’s fur hat, and Mr. Whatsername’s velour coat. She looked positively stunning – and slightly drunk. In short time we got to know Joan quite well. She was rigid in her principles, utterly honest and conscientious. So when she became morose and silent we wondered what had happened to her. No longer did she sing while she worked, and her face wore a sad pained expression, which was totally unlike her usual one, which was either belligerent or smiling. She kept muttering to herself, for she talked to herself quite a lot. “From-a the grass, Madama, from-a the grass.” “What does that mean, Joan?” I asked. “From the grass?” She curled her lip, and spread her hands just above the floor. “In Italy, Madama, some-a girls good girls, like-a girls from Rome-a and Milan-a. Honest, work ‘ard!” Then her face grew dark. “Some girls bad-a girls. Like some girls from Naples, Madama, very bad! Not educate, bad girls.” The black eyes glowed at me willing me to appear shocked. “They like animal,” she said, putting her hands down again, “from the grass, Madama.” “Oh,” I said as understanding dawned, and need to say that now-a days when we really wish to finish off a scathing comment about someone we dislike, from a television personality to a politician, we finish up with “From the grass” and look at each other meaningly. But that morning Joan was glum, and at length when I gave her her coffee, she looked so troubled, I asked her: “What is it Joan? Is something troubling you?” She shook her head “From the grass-a, Madama. That girl Renate.” “Who is Renate?” I asked curiously. Joan said: “She work-a at ‘ospital. She beautiful girl, Madama. Very smart,” and lowered her voice to a reverent whisper. “Very fair, towl (which was “tall”), beautiful, Madama-and she smoked.” She waited for me to be impressed. “Oh, yes,” I said. “She came from Germany.” She shook her head with all the doubts of the age. “I think she a nice-a girl. So beautiful, Madama, you would not believe, so nice. When she go back to Germany I give her two pun, Madama,”- and here the meaning of Joan’s misery began to sink in – “for a skirt-a, Madama. Very nice-a skirt, Renate have, and when she go back, I say, you get-a one for me, eh? And the other girls, Conception and Madalena. We give ‘er two pun each, that make six pun, alright? I nodded. “We not ‘ear,” she said. “We never ‘ear for ‘er. That Renate – she go, with our money. From the grass, Madama.” And I knew if she had been outside she would have spat. “Oh, dear,” I said. “But you may hear yet, Joan.” I didn’t for a moment believe she would. I could just see the gorgeous Renate with the little Italians’ six pun. “No,” Joan said resigned. “No, I not ‘ear.” “How long has she been back in Germany?” I said. “Twelve-a weeks,” Joan said. ‘Ow I get this money back?” she said suddenly. “Oh, dear,” I said. “Well, I’m not sure, Joan. I don’t think you can if she won’t send it back – perhaps she couldn’t get the skirt.” But disillusionment had set in. “No, she not try,” she said, her black eyes bitter. As the weeks wore on, Joan got more and more sombre. It was as if she couldn’t get it off her mind. We felt we wanted to give her the two pounds, but that was not the real point, it was that she was bitterly disappointed in the beautiful Renate whom she had so much admired. One day she arrived in dress much too big for her which hung on her limp little figure, and begged a moment of my time. “Madame, I write to this-a girl, this bad girl, and would like to register at the post office.” The envelope was clearly addressed to a place to Frankfurt, and when she had finished I took her down to the post office and showed her what to do. More time passed: but Joan had not improved. She still went about her work glowering, although she was as efficient as ever, but we could all have killed the beautiful Renate, who had destroyed our beloved Joan’s faith in human nature, and who had caused Thursdays to become silent without Verdi, and Joan to cease dressing like up like a bird of paradise. Eventually, one Thursday, she came with a letter she had composed herself with some help, I imagine, from the various foreign maids. Her nostrils were quivering. She handed me the first page, and I read the labored writing: “My dear Renate,” she had written. “Who you think you are? I am surprised at you, a beautiful girl like you. To take the money you must be a bad girl. Is not good to look so smart if you bad girl. Your heart is black to take poor Italian girl’s money – is no good you look beautiful if you have black heart…” By this time I was almost in tears and bit my lip. If I could get my hands on that Renate! Joan was still holding the second page of the letter, and she now looked at me triumphantly. “You know what I do, Madama?” “No,” I said, wondering what was coming next. “I tell-a Miss Potts!” There it was out, and the black eyes shone with triumph and hatred and wickedness, and she watched me closely to see how shocked I was. “Oh, Joan,” I said,” you would not.” She shook her head up and down. “I would. Yes, I would. I tell-a Miss Potts!” “Oh, Joan,” I said and took the second page…”Now, Renate, if you do not send the money (I not wont the skirt now), I will tell Miss Potts what you have done and you know what that means. The last sentence was heavily underlined. “Alrigh?” she said, folding the letter and putting it into her pocket. “I post when I go-register.” “Alrigh,” I said. The next week was much the same, but the following week she came once more in the gorgeous girls’ shoes, teetering into the kitchen in a most expensive suit from Mrs. Whatsername, and an old raincoat, thirties vintage, from Mrs Thingummy. Triumphantly, she waved the letter at me. “Madama,” she said. “Look, I show you!” She emptied the letter out on the table and out fell some German mark notes. In the letter from the beautiful Renate, she explained that she was sorry she had not answered before but she had been travelling around from place to place. “Oh, well” I said. “If that was the case –“ Joan put all the scorn she could muster into her voice. “She not travel around,” she said. “She bad girl. But she scared, Madama!” And her black eyes shone with triumph. “She scared when I tell her I tell Miss Potts! That Miss Potts - she terrible! Terrible English Lady! Renate not like I tell-a Miss Potts! Joan know that!” And she laughed and laughed. “How much is a mark-a? In English money?” “I don’t know, Joan. Take them to the bank – they will tell you.” “Yes, I do that,” she said happily. “They tell me – alrigh?” “Alrigh,” I said and breathed a sigh of relief as armed with her bucket and mop she crossed the hall, singing, “Your tiny hand is frozen” in full throat. THE END © Rose Boucheron 1967