The Spider, excerpt —
Liverpool, 1892
Stepping out of the carriage to look at number five, Percy Street, Frances Bryant gasped. Her new home stood at an impressive four stories, with an ornate gabled roof and striking red brickwork. The beauty of it brought a lump to her throat. “This is our house?” she asked her husband, who was watching the nanny lift their daughter out of the carriage. The coach driver inspected the interior for any forgotten belongings and, satisfied that there was nothing there, gently closed the door, bowing to the little girl with a kind smile.
From the outside, the house was what her mother would have described as ‘grand’. A grand house, with a green lawn, glistening white paint on the window frames and floors upon floors of space. It stood neatly contained among a row of complementary siblings, all proudly facing the street. Their gardens displayed their prosperity; their bricks displayed their wealth.
John Bryant stood beside his wife on the pavement, placing an arm around her waist. Frances felt that at any moment, she would wake up and be back in the cottage she had shared with her mother.
“It’s ours,” John said, pointing the handle of his umbrella to the tall, black varnished door that stood within a pillared porch. “You can thank Australia.” She looked up at his handsome, chiselled face. His grey eyes pierced through his tan like diamonds in the dirt. She felt a buzz of electricity power through her body as his lips landed on her cheek. She felt his moustache brush against her soft skin; although his new fashion statement tickled her, it added to his charming character, she thought. At that moment, they could have been the only people on the street, for she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Only one day before, it had been four years since she had last seen John Bryant.
“It feels like a dream.”
Birds chirped in the dense trees overhead as the driver lifted their belongings out of the back of the cab. John ensured that the old man was paid and thanked. The horses, under firm instruction, trotted into action, taking the cab back the way they had come, leaving the Bryant family and their nanny on the doorstep of number five. “Shall we?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.
“John, you’re making me nervous,” she said, taking to the steps with a giggle. He removed his hat and unlocked the door. Frances, on closer inspection, could see that it was freshly painted. “Don’t touch it darling,” she said to her little girl.
Elspeth ‘Elsie’ Bryant was four years old. She stood in a green velvet dress trimmed with black ribbon and held the hand of her nanny, Sarah Jones. Sarah, a young woman in her early twenties, had been an agreeable choice for a nanny when Elsie was a baby. More importantly, Elsie adored her. The family had been living in a small cottage in West Derby until John returned from Australia with what he called “a small fortune,” and swiftly moved them to the eastern part of the city.
John stepped in first, hanging his hat on the stand. The black and white tiles that decorated the hall were brand new. “They finished just yesterday,” John remarked as the women admired the craftsmanship. He hooked his umbrella on the coat stand and, with the familiarity of a man who had lived there for years, checked himself in the hall mirror.
“John, this house is beautiful,” Frances said, looking up at the white, high ceilings with their decorative cornices and festoons. The chandelier in the hall seemed enormous. She wanted to cry.
To Frances’ surprise, waiting for them at the foot of the stairs were two women. The mid-morning sun had met the window of the landing, passing white beams down the stairs that silhouetted the two figures at first. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Frances could see them in more detail. One was a young, thin maid with a pasty, freckled face and long, bony limbs. The other, an older lady. Both wore white lace caps and aprons. “Frances, this is our maid, Maggie,” John said, introducing the first one.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Maggie said with a curtsey, revealing some rebellious strawberry blonde curls that tried to burst out on her return to standing upright. John raised an arm toward the older lady, “and this is Mrs Mckinnon, our housekeeper.”
“Housekeeper?” Frances asked, taken aback by the announcement.
“Unless you want to run all of this by yourself, of course?” John opened his arms and twirled around the hallway. Frances shook her head. She did not want to manage four stories by herself.
“That’s wonderful,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Frances,” she said, reaching out a hand. Mrs Mckinnon took it enthusiastically.
“It’s lovely to meet you Mrs Bryant, ma’am.”
“Mrs Mckinnon and Maggie are with us every day except Sunday when they finish at twelve,” John added. “The gardener comes every fortnight on a Monday.”
“Wonderful,” was all Frances could think to say. Mrs Mckinnon, almost sensing the impending silence, bent down to look at Elsie.
“And you must be Elspeth!” Mrs Mckinnon remarked, smiling at the little blonde girl hiding behind the nanny’s skirts.
“Elsie can be quite shy, Mrs Mckinnon,” said Sarah apologetically.
“Ach, I’m a strange old woman today. She’ll get used to me, I’m sure.” Mrs Mckinnon rummaged in her pocket and produced a small, boiled sweet. Elsie silently approached her and took the sweet like a little bird, retreating back to her hiding spot behind Sarah. Mrs Mckinnon laughed.
