It was a clear sparkling morning, one of those crispy mornings that squashed the stench of the streets and put a gloss over the grime of living in town. It was a morning to feel good. A morning to watch the traders shout over the noise of their animals, see the rooks flap from rooftop to tree, and above it all the three-mile high Fortress of Islington loomed over Brighton, partly lost in the mist and still air. A good day "to raise the Blessed Dead" as they say.
I really, really hope, thought Josephenia, it will be a good day, as she approached the Palace gates and found the back of the queue winding solemnly around to the Palace back entrance.
"It's a long queue ain't it babe?" she politely asked of the girl in front, who deferentially glanced in Jo's direction. "My Papa said to come early, so better not tell him how long the queue is or he'll just tell me that he told me so." The girl in front smiled slightly and then looked away. Jo went on "He did tell me so, several times, but that's besides the point really isn't it?" Still no reply. "This is the queue for the new maids and all isn't it?"
"The annual maids and servants recruitment for the Palace, yes," confirmed the girl.
"Yeah well, my Papa said it were about time I had myself a job, or got married. One or the other." Silence. "My big sis, she's working on the married plan... got a boy in mind... he's a smithy so a good catch... if she can catch him. That is." Still silence. A couple of girls joined the queue behind Jo, and then a boy. They were all respectably dressed with freshly washed faces and that nervous edge of someone who feels totally out of place. "I thought about working on a farm, doing the cows or something." The queue was moving forward at a respectable pace: a few steps every minute, but it still had a long way to go. "Ah, sod you," finalised Jo, but not too loud. Jo stared up at the nearest head hanging from the gate spikes, its empty expression gaping downwards. "Sod you too," thought Jo.
Jo tried to pass the time by guessing what each member of the queue's secret power would be. The girl next to her clearly could freeze hell over. Then there was an irritable boy just in front with a long neck and bad skin who could probably sharpen pencils with his teeth. That game lasted about ten minutes and as many yards forward before Jo started trying to spot the one most likely to dart for the toilet. The trouble was no one dared move from the line. A crow landed on the roof above her and stared down at Jo curiously. They said it would be a good job to get, working in the Palace. How would her Papa know anyway? All he did was walk around posting pieces of paper to people's homes. A cow lumbered by, preceded by a sullen boy staring at the queue, followed by a cloud of flies. Nice cow. Did it have anyone to milk it? Was Jo really Palace material though? She was always happy to get her hands mucky in a good cause. Not too many grubby fingernails in this line up. Maybe she should be a midwife or something? Try saying that to Papa. No imagination. The queue crept forward. It was moving surprisingly fast. Either the interviews were ridiculously fast or they had several people interviewing. Maybe they just took a hand print and worked out whether you were suitable from that? They had to at least take your name and ask what role you were seeking. So say each interview averaged five minutes. That would mean five interviewers or so. Not a lot of time to reveal all of your creative genius in is it? Maybe they have a hundred interviewers, all in their little boxes like hens at night. Maybe they slept there at night and were woken each morning by a guard with a large bunch of keys. Jo rounded a corner and saw the front of the queue ahead. Her papa's going to kill her taking so long. She had better get the job. Now she was nearing the front, Jo spotted a second queue with only and handful of people lined up. Now why couldn't she have been in that queue? Its small placard just announced "Queue B". This was clearly "Queue A". Queue A had a large, flat-faced blockhouse of a woman at its head just inside the staff entrance, checking everyone in. She wore black like it was a statement of indestructibility. If the hordes from the south started raiding the town, she could stand in their way and the torrent of attackers would pour off her like so much water. Men in full armour would bounce off with bits of metal rebounding in each direction while she stands there slowly shaking her head exclaiming "foolish boy!"
"Name!" shouted the woman.
"Wha?" replied Jo realising she had made it to the front.
"Name girl!"
"Josephenia Bloomerman," managed Jo.
"Follow this corridor until you reach the open doors on the left. Take this number to booth number five. Next!" The woman handed Jo a ticket, quickly forgetting Jo existed. The corridor was plain enough. A concrete floor, muddy by now with all the traffic but otherwise had been kept clean and tidy if none too exciting. The same could not be said of the hall that the doors opened into. Its high arched roof stood strong over a bustling scene of many booths, and light poured down from rows of open shutters, helping to disperse the heavy atmosphere. It was the hall they used for the indoor market, an undecorated space but one that had always given Jo a bit of a thrill. Booth number five was just like booth number four and booth number six, except that the woman waiting there looked if anything even less happy to see Jo than the last one. She had one of those smug round faces with plenty of flesh to take part in any smiling that had to be done. Jo handed over her ticket.
"Do... sit down."
Jo sat.
"Your name please."
"I just gave, oh... er... Josephenia Bloomerman."
"And your age."
"I'm eighteen."
"That's nice, and which post are you applying for?"
"Scullery maid?"
"And do you have any relevant experience cooking, baking or otherwise preparing food for groups of upwards of five people on at least a weekly basis?"
Jo counted through all the clauses before announcing, "No." She thought again and before the woman managed to continue said, "I've done big dinners for my Papa's lot a couple of times. That about ten of them, but that's not on a regular basis. If you're talking about regular like, then that's me, me Papa and me sis."
"So, that, as so you rightly said the first time around, is no."
"I can cook."
"Marvellous. Have you ever had any formal training?"
"My Mum was real keen and she liked to teach all sorts."
"And she pushed you to come in this morning?"
"Oh no, she's just pushing up the daisies these days."
"That is no way to speak of your elders!"
Jo looked curiously at the questioner, "I guess you you never knew my Mama."
"So no qualifications then?" spat the questioner.
"What's that?"
The woman looked blankly back, "Qualifications dear. Not done a course at one of the professional kitchens clearly."
"Get me a frying pan and a hot cooker and you'll see what I know."
"Yes I'm sure."
"I cook, like, like it's an art form."
"May I recommend that you make enquiries at a reputable tavern?" smiled the woman.
Jo had to look away from that beaming face. The low walls of the booth revealed people walking past, oblivious to the battles going on up and down the room. There were guards standing rigid looking straight ahead. "If I were to make an enquiry at a reputable whatever, I'd be looking to work there wouldn't I?" answered Jo. "Don't you train anybody up?"
"This is a very sought after position," continued the beaming face, "and there are plenty of others who have been well trained and have got the qualifications to show for it..."
Jo noticed a man watching in the background, under one of the darkened archways, tall, but stooping, his thin angular face had hawklike eyes and that mass of grey-streaked hair was very familiar. He stood without a muscle twitching, a decoration carved into the wall.
"... and I really don't think that we can countenance an application based on a family evening meal..."
"That's him, isn't it?" blurted out Jo.
"I beg you pardon?"
"That's the Unborn isn't it?"
"If you mean Sir Hugo then I must ask you to mind your language and use proper decorum."
"But I'm right, that our Lord is it not?"
"Yes, yes, he likes to view the activities himself."
"Fantastic!"
"What do you really want to do?" asked the lady. "If you are serious about a profession in cooking..."
"What I really want to do... what do I really want to do?"
"Really, I don't think..."
"You know what? I really want to be on the stage, in the theatre, crowds watching my every move. Spell bound by my recital of a famous death scene or something. You know, I don't think your poxy job is all I ever dreamed of, I just thought it might bring a bit of cash in."
"You really are a silly little girl aren't you?"
"What? Silly what?" Jo's mind was now snapped into a pure focus with only one subject now occupying it. "Maybe, maybe I will get that back street kitchen job rather than here because at least that would be a down-to-earth honest place to work rather this stuck-up, self-important, patronising, humourless and worthless, dried-up drudge generator!"
Her Papa is going to kill her.
Her Papa sat with his head in his hands, slowly shaking it back and forth. Therista, or just Tessa, her sister, giggled quietly. Robertin, her sister's focus of desire, stood next to Tessa looking extremely uncomfortable. They had a clock. It ticked very loudly. It had started well, Jo managed to get Papa on her side by reinforcing how he had been right about getting up early, but in the end they had lots of interviewers laid on, so it wasn't as bad as you might have feared, but yes Jo was very late back. She had done her best to emphasise the interviewer's insistence on qualifications, but one thing and another, the rest tumbled out and the fact that she ended up being dragged out of the Palace unceremoniously had reared its ugliness.
"Perhaps," started Rob on the foolish side of brave, "this is no bad thing as now we know what Jo needs to aim for?"
At which point Jo let out a pained scream and hid her head in her arms. Her father gesticulated to Tessa and Rob to leave. Therista gets it immediately and dragged her betrothed bodily from the kitchen.
"Josephenia," said her father quietly, "you remind me far too much of your mother. I should really be giving you a proper dressing down, but I can see all those things that made me marry her. I know you will never be happy until you shine, but... you need to be a bit practical, at least for a while. Maybe you should start at the bottom, just until they understand what you're capable of."
"But," said Jo, "would they let me try new things out? Would they understand why I mess around with the recipes?"
"No they wouldn't. They would teach you the basics, and maybe that's no bad thing. Look, why don't we find some family-run tavern that needs a helping hand in the kitchen? A nice friendly place that'll give you real experience feeding someone other than us? Sleep on it. We'll talk in the morning."