Diary fragment · 2 min read ·
The Scullery Lamp
A charwoman finds the scullery lamp already lit each morning when she comes in to do the boilers, and the oil in its reservoir falls by exactly the amount of work she will do that day before she has picked up a single cloth.
- dated: the wet autumn
- narrator: Elsie Travers, charwoman
- reliability: unreliable
Monday. Came in at six to do the boilers at the Hartley house, as I have done for eleven years. The scullery was dark and cold, the range out, the sink full of last night's pans. Lit the lamp on the shelf by the door, the old brass oil one, and set about the grates.
Tuesday. The lamp was lit when I came in. Not by me. I had left it cold on the Monday night, I'm certain, with the wick turned down and the glass wiped. This morning it was burning steady and clean, and the light had gone right into the corners where the damp gets in. I did the grates in half the time.
Wednesday. Filled the lamp from the can in the cupboard before I left on Monday, so I know how much oil was in it. This morning it was a third down. I have done the whole of Monday's work since I came in, the boilers and the pans and the mopping, and I had not yet picked up a cloth. The oil had gone exactly with the work I would do, and not a drop more.
Thursday. Told Mrs Hartley about the lamp. She said it was the old scullery girl's, from before the war, who used to light it for the early bake and never let it go out. She said the girl had died of the consumption in that very room, and the lamp had been kept on the shelf ever since because nobody liked to throw away anything that still worked.
Friday. The lamp is kept in the scullery window now, and the glass is clean. Each morning I light it, and each morning it is already lit, and the oil is down. I have started to leave a little more in the can, a spoonful over what I need. The next morning there is always a little more in the reservoir than I left there.
Saturday. Asked the girl's name, which Mrs Hartley did not know. Found it on the lamp base, scratched in the brass with a nail when she was young. Lily. Under it, in a different hand, neater and more recent: Thank you, Mrs T. It's all done now.
Monday. Came in at six. The lamp was out. The grates were clean. The boilers had been cleaned, the pans put away, the sink scoured and dry. There was nothing left to do. I sat down on the step by the back door with my cloth in my lap and waited for the light to come up over the yard, and I did not feel afraid, only tired, the way you feel at the end of a long week when someone else has taken the last of the work off your hands.