The Earl Maid

By Susannah Donim

Rob is a shy and reserved young man, but an unexpected inheritance suddenly makes him the centre of attention. His wife helps him find a way of hiding in plain sight.

Chapter 5

The Countess brings in a private investigator to help counter the threat the Hadleighs are facing. Martha the maid goes undercover.

Towards the end of that week Treacher called at the Hall to give us an update. I let him in, continuing to play Martha the maid as he wasn’t in on my secret. I was used to being her now; it was less of an ordeal every day.

The first thing Treacher did was inspect our alarm system. I showed him to the little pantry where Empire had installed the controls and the monitors and unlocked the door for him. I was careful not to let him see any of the codes, but he was only interested in the makes and models of the various equipment. It was plain that he already knew how everything worked and approved strongly.

“They’ve done very well for you, Martha my dear,” he said, a little patronisingly. “This is the best value system on the market. Her Ladyship couldn’t have done much better if she’d paid ten times more.”

By now it was late afternoon, so I showed him into the drawing room where Madam was waiting and made to go and fetch refreshments. She stopped me with an imperious wave of her hand.

“A moment, please, Martha,” said my wife. She turned to the detective. “Would you mind waiting until she returns with the tea, Mr Treacher? With my husband away, Martha is my only confidant. I would like her to hear what you have to say.”

“No problem, My Lady,” he said. “Have you heard from His Lordship?”

“Not for a few days,” Susie was saying. “We agreed it was better if he didn’t try to make contact in case Beckett has found a way of listening in. Maybe that’s a little paranoid…”

“No, no, it’s a very sensible precaution,” he said.

I turned again to go to the kitchen.

“I don’t even know where he is now,” Susie continued smoothly. “He thought that was best. If I don’t know his whereabouts, I can’t give him away. He must have finished the business he went away for, and he really wants to come home, but…”

I didn’t hear any more of the conversation, but she’d hit the nail on the head there. The excitement of crossdressing was beginning to wear off now. My frilly underwear and maid uniforms were beginning to feel routine and normal.

I sensed that the thrills of cooking, cleaning and helping My Lady dress and undress weren’t going to last forever either. Actually that wasn’t fair. Susie still did most of the cooking, being much better than me. That left me to do the clearing up.

I returned to the drawing room with the tray. A quick curtsey to Madam and I poured the tea and passed out little cakes and biscuits. That done, I took my place on a hard-backed chair next to my mistress, my hands folded demurely over my apron. Susie suppressed a giggle, but I was still quite enjoying play-acting Martha the maid in company. It was a matter of personal pride to get it right, not just a desperate need not to be caught out.

“The first thing I found out about Beckett,” Treacher began, “is that, while he is widely known to be a member of the criminal fraternity, he is not himself a thief; that is, he’s not a burglar or armed robber, or anything like that. He has his fingers in various pies as a middleman. I suppose the best term for him would be ‘fence’. He has an extensive network for the disposal of stolen property. So actual villains come to him with the proceeds of their thievery and he sells them on, taking a percentage for himself.”

“That sounds rather high profile,” suggested my wife, the high-flying young solicitor, who I knew had done a certain amount of criminal work as part of her training. “Surely the police must be aware of this?”

“Oh yes, My Lady,” Treacher agreed, dunking a digestive biscuit in his tea, “but they’ve never been able to get any evidence on him. I don’t think he’s especially clever, but he is careful, and he’s well-protected. He only deals with people he knows – often members of his extended family – and because he is so useful to them, his customers look after him. The police have found it impossible to get anyone to talk.”

“And you’ve been more successful?”

“I know people, who know people, who know him,” Treacher smiled. “Some of them are his competitors and might be willing to air a little of his dirty laundry. I’m working on it. Best of all would be if we could find one of his stores. If we can tip off the police where there might be some stolen property that he hasn’t managed to dispose of yet…”

“You’d still have to tie him to it though,” said Susie, “and if he’s as careful as you say…”

“Agreed, but if it’s a storage facility, or even a lock-up garage rented from the local council, there’d be records.”

It still sounded optimistic to me. I got up to offer more tea.

“Thank you, Martha,” he said as I poured.

“I did have one other idea,” he said, “but it’s not entirely without risk.”

He paused to gauge our reactions. I sat down again. We must have looked encouraging as he quickly went on.

“Beckett keeps an office in town. It’s above a Chinese takeaway. Yesterday I watched it from lunchtime onwards. He was there all day, apart from quick trips to the corner shop for food and drinks. He left at about five o’clock in a big black estate car – a Mercedes E class. It was parked in a reserved space in front of the building. Traffic was heavy but there weren’t many intersections or traffic lights in the direction he went, so I was able to follow him without risking being spotted. He eventually turned into a property on the Langdale Estate.”

“Those are nice houses,” Susie said. “One of our Partners lives up there. His place backs onto the golf course.”

“Indeed. Beckett’s house is a four-bedroom detached with a large garden,” Treacher agreed. “I did some checking later, and I saw why I hadn’t been able to get his home address from the usual sources. He’s not the registered owner. Seems he lives with his mother and the property is in her name. She’s a widow in her early eighties. I watched the house for the rest of the evening and he never left.”

He paused to take another biscuit. I marvelled at the self-discipline and patience required to be a private eye. He had sat in his car watching nothing much happening all afternoon and all evening. I wondered what he did about food and drink during these vigils, and going to the toilet…

I glanced at Susie. She was looking at me, a little crossly, I thought. She quickly cast her eyes down my person, her brow furrowed. I realised I was sitting like a man. I had allowed my knees to open wide. I quickly snapped them together. Treacher didn’t seem to have noticed. He’d dunked and finished his fourth biscuit.

“When all the lights at the house finally went out, at about midnight, I returned to his office,” he resumed. “The sign on the door says, ‘J Beckett & Associates, Independent Trading Co’.”

“Like Del Trotter in Only Fools and Horses,” Susie said. Treacher smiled and nodded.

“I doubt he keeps anything valuable there,” he said, “because both the door to the street and his office door were easy to pick, and there was no alarm…”

“You broke in?” said Susie, doubtfully.

“Certainly,” he said, “although ‘breaking in’ puts it a bit strongly. He might as well have left both doors open really. The street was quiet and deserted. Anyway, it was just an ordinary office. There were two desks – I guess he must have an occasional secretary although I didn’t see one yesterday afternoon. One desk had an old computer and a printer; the other just had a monitor, a keyboard and a mouse, all with dangling wires. So I suppose he must carry a laptop around which he plugs into the kit on the desk when he’s in the office. There was also a filing cabinet, which was nearly empty. No interesting names or addresses, just a few boring invoices. I took pictures of most of them, and I’ll look at them more carefully later, but I don’t expect they’ll be any use. There was no safe.”

“Disappointing,” said Susie, “especially after the risk you took.”

“No risk really, My Lady,” Treacher smiled. “I do this for a living.”

I was impressed by his sangfroid, and his dedication. I would have been terrified of being caught by the police, or even worse, by one of Beckett’s thuggish friends.

“So he got back home at half-past five yesterday evening and left at eight-thirty this morning,” Treacher continued. “He went straight to the office and he’s been there most of the day. He had several early visitors, some of them carrying large suitcases. In the middle of the morning he brought the suitcases down and put them in the back of his car. I tried to follow but he went through the centre of town this time and I lost him in traffic. I drove over to his house in Langdale in case he’d gone home by a different route, but he definitely wasn’t there, so I went back to the office. He returned after about an hour and a half and he was still there when I left to come here.”

He paused to make sure we were still with him. We were agog.

“So you think his customers are bringing him stolen goods in those suitcases, and he goes off to put them in storage somewhere?” Susie said.

“That does seem likely, yes.”

“Why do you think they don’t meet at wherever he stores the loot?” Susie asked.

“That would be riskier, I should think,” Treacher said. “The police might be watching any of his customers. Many of them would be known criminals. This way only Beckett ever goes to his store, and he can take care that he isn’t followed.”

“It still seems a little risky for him, doesn’t it?” Susie persisted. “I mean, if the police were watching his office… or if they found some reason to stop him when his car was full of stolen goods.”

“Ah yes…” Treacher agreed. He hesitated. “…which is why I suspect he has friends in high places. Or at least at the local constabulary.”

Susie was nodding. “So there really wouldn’t have been any point in us reporting his visit here, would there?”

“Probably not, My Lady. The report would just have been lost in the system, I’m afraid.”

Susie looked thoughtful, as well she might. If Beckett had crooked cops on his side, our position looked even more bleak. She sighed.

“It’s a pity you couldn’t follow him this morning,” she said, eventually.

“I doubt he would have let me,” he said. “He might not have been on his guard when he was just on his way home, but I suspect he’d soon detect a tail when he had a car full of stolen goods.”

Susie nodded. Despite what you see in TV thrillers, she knew how difficult it is to follow someone for several miles through the streets of an English town without being spotted.

“He doesn’t seem to work from home at all,” Treacher continued, “but his mother’s house has toughened double-glazed windows, and doors with deadbolts, and a state-of-the-art alarm system. The old lady is there pretty much all the time too. I reckon it’s the most likely place he’d keep his vital records. It would be good to get inside and have a look.”

“Why wouldn’t he keep the important stuff on his laptop?” said Susie. “I do.”

“He might,” Treacher agreed, “but it wouldn’t be more secure. That’s a mistake a lot of people make. You need to back up your data regularly in case the laptop is lost, damaged or stolen. Few people take back-ups often enough. If your back-up is in the Cloud, it may be hacked. And if you ever do lose the thing, the disk had better be encrypted or your precious data will be easy to read. No; paper records may be less convenient but they’re much easier to secure.”

My wife was looking a little pale. I assumed her data – that is, her company’s data – was anything but safe on her laptop.

“So how are you going to get inside?” she asked.

I wanted to ask the same question, but of course as the maid it wasn’t my place to speak. It was also better for me to hold my peace. Treacher was sharp. I couldn’t be sure my Martha voice wouldn’t raise his suspicions.

“The cleaning company,” he said. “I saw their van at the end of the road, so I went and had a chat. Two of them were just coming out of one of the posher houses. Cleaning ladies are often the chatty types, especially if you cross their palms with silver, as it were. I was lucky – they do Mrs Beckett’s house too. She has them for two hours once a week, first thing on Wednesday morning.”

“How does that help?” Susie asked, but I could see where he was going with this.

“You use the same company, don’t you? J & J Home Counties Housekeeping? I thought you could ask their manager to let us send in an operative as a cleaner. Once inside she could have a sniff round. Does Beckett use a room in his Mum’s house as a home office? Has he left any useful papers lying around on his desk? Or in a drawer?”

“I see what you mean about it being ‘not entirely without risk’,” Susie said dubiously. “If Beckett catches her snooping, he might kill her.”

“We’ll do what we can to mitigate the risk,” Treacher said confidently. “I’ll watch Beckett and the house every day till next Wednesday, to confirm his pattern of movements. We won’t send in anyone till we’re confident he won’t show up during that time.”

“I want to do it,” I said, speaking for the first time.

Treacher looked at me in surprise. Susie looked at me in astonishment.

“No, no, Martha,” she said hurriedly. “It’s much too dangerous.”

“Begging your pardon, M’Lady, but I think I have to. I understand the sort of thing I need to look for.” She looked as though she was about to make further objections, but I added hurriedly, “I’m in as much danger from Beckett as you are, Ma’am, after all.”

Treacher was watching me thoughtfully.

“She would be ideal, My Lady,” he said. “She’d fit right in with the other J & J cleaning ladies. No one would imagine she was an investigator.”

I wasn’t too pleased at being characterised as a harmless-looking charlady, but when the shoe fits…

“We’ll have to talk to the manager of J & J,” said Treacher. “Do you know her well enough to ask for her cooperation?”

“I think so,” sighed Susie, recognising that this was going to happen whether she wanted it to or not. “We’ve put a lot of business her way. I’ll give her a call.”

“Let’s all exchange phone numbers,” Treacher said, “in case of emergencies.”

We agreed. I envisaged an emergency where Beckett or one of his brutes was beating me up and Treacher rushed in to help the apparent ‘damsel in distress’. Which would probably just lead to him getting beaten up as well. He didn’t look any more useful in a fight than I did, and I looked like a middle-aged housemaid.

“One last thing,” he said. “I suggest you change the codes on your alarm system. I know you’ve only just done all that, but there has been a spate of burglaries in the area, and many of the victims’ houses have had state-of-the-art alarm systems much like yours. It’s led me to wonder whether someone at one of the security companies might be on the fiddle.”

“You mean, selling alarm system data to thieves?” Susie was appalled.

“Exactly,” Treacher confirmed, “but with the system you have, the security company doesn’t have access to the master console, so if you change the codes now, they won’t see the new ones.”

It seemed a very sensible precaution. We went together to the pantry. He showed me how to change the numbers but left the room before I did it. Susie and I were now the only people who knew the codes for the gates and the doors of the house and garage.

“The system will also automatically update all your RFID tags and the transponders in your vehicles,” he said. “Better make sure you can account for all of them.”

“It’s nice to have a big, strong man to look after us, isn’t it, Martha?” said Susie, with a wink that Treacher couldn’t see.

He smiled modestly. “My pleasure, Ma’am,” he said.

I gave her a weak smile and the most sarcastic curtsey I could manage.

* * *

Mrs Jackson came straight round later that afternoon, again eager to oblige the nobility. She was rather less keen when she heard what we wanted. Susie explained our situation – without revealing my true identity – and why we needed to find out everything we could about Jack Beckett.

“I understand your predicament, My Lady, and I sympathise, I really do,” she said, “but you want me to send Martha to one of my existing customers, just so she can spy on her?”

“We realise we’re asking a lot, Sally,” said my wife, “but Martha will be very careful, and if she is caught, there will be no reason for anyone to think that J & J were involved. We’ll say that financial pressures have forced us to cut back on Martha’s hours, and she has had to look for additional cleaning work to make ends meet. Your teams are here at Hadleigh Hall two or three times a week, so she already knows you and many of your staff. It would be natural for her to apply to J & J first for additional cleaning work.”

“I suppose so…”

“You’d have ‘plausible deniability’.”

“Mm, yes…”

Susie was very good at this sort of thing. Certainly, I’d never beaten her in an argument. I could see Sally was half convinced. She was weighing up the cost of losing Mrs Beckett as a client against losing all the work she was currently getting at Hadleigh Hall…

“Well, all right,” she said, “but she needs to start with us immediately. It would look too suspicious if the first J & J customer she worked for was Mrs Beckett.”

“Yes, I see that,” Susie agreed. “So what do you suggest?”

“Well, let me see,” Sally began, “today’s Thursday.” She turned to me. “Are you free tomorrow, Martha?”

“With Her Ladyship’s permission I can be. Yes, Ma’am,” I confirmed.

“As it happens, Chloe, one of our longest-serving girls, is about to go on maternity leave, which will leave her usual partner, Fleur, needing to break in someone new. Also Fleur doesn’t drive and has to rely on Chloe to get them to their clients’ houses, so I need to partner her with someone who has a car. You have a little yellow Polo, don’t you, Martha? I saw you in it the last time I was here.”

She pulled a tablet out of her handbag and opened it at her Calendar.

“If you come over to our office at say, eleven tomorrow morning, I can get you set up on our system. Then you can go out with Fleur and Chloe on their afternoon job.”

She flipped through more entries in her schedule.

“We are next due at Mrs Beckett’s house on Wednesday. I suggest that Martha should work with Fleur all day Monday and Tuesday, so that by then everyone will assume she’s just another full-time employee.”

“You should expect to carry on working with Fleur till at least the end of next week though, Martha,” said my wife, with just a hint of an apology, “whether you find what we need or not.”

“I was going to suggest the same,” said Sally with a smile, “to allay any suspicions.”

So now in addition to being my wife’s lady’s maid, I was going to be both a full-time cleaning lady and a part-time spy; the Mata Hari of the scrubbing brush; the Modesty Blaise of the vacuum cleaner.

* * *

Sally had instructed me to bring my – that is, Martha’s – National Insurance and bank account details with me on Friday morning, so I had to go to ‘my’ cottage in ‘my’ little car first to find them. Fortunately Martha – the other Martha – was tidy and methodical with her important documents, and I had no difficulty finding everything I needed in a chest of drawers in her bedroom. I would also have to show my new employer my driving licence as proof of identity.

I had asked Sally what I should wear, and she said ‘something neat but comfortable’. Some of her clients liked their cleaning ladies to wear maid’s uniforms, but that was rare. She would issue me with a tabard with the J & J logo. I could wear smart trousers or black leggings underneath. Jeans were not permitted. A dark dress would be suitable too, but that would require tights, which I would probably find uncomfortable for hard cleaning work at this time of year. I should tie my hair back, or wear a headscarf. Trainers or ballet flats would be fine on my feet, as long as they were clean.

All of these (except shoes which I already had) were easy to find at the cottage in the other Martha’s well-organised cupboards. I decided on a pair of comfortable-looking black polyester trousers with an elasticated waist. I could wear short nylon socks and black flats with those. I found a pretty floral blouse to go with them and tried it all on.

It was the first time I had worn trousers since my transformation. My maid’s uniforms didn’t exactly conceal my over-generous curves, but this ensemble emphasised them to an embarrassing degree. When I examined my rear view in the wardrobe mirror, I was astonished at the dimensions of my backside. How could I go out looking like this?

But as I twirled and stared at myself critically in the mirror, I gradually found myself letting go of my other identities – Rob Dixon, schoolteacher, Lord Marsham, Earl of Hadleigh, etc, etc – and found that Martha Manners, housekeeper, lady’s maid, and soon-to-be cleaning lady, was taking me over. She – I – looked fine for what I was, no supermodel, but a decent-looking, working-class woman with nothing to be ashamed of (and with a world-class butt).

I could do this. I might even enjoy it. I wondered again if Susie had been right. Would I prefer being a maid to being an Earl?

* * *

J & J’s headquarters were on the ground floor of a small office block in a business park on the outskirts of town. Four parking spaces were reserved for them round the back of the building. Two were occupied by nine-seater minibuses; a BMW 5-series was in the third. The fourth was vacant, so I parked the Polo there.

Sally’s office was small, tidy and utilitarian, a reflection of her efficient, no-nonsense personality. The outside door was open, so I went straight in, fervently hoping that my disguise was as good as we thought it was.

Sally was the only person in sight and she was on the telephone. She smiled and waved me to a seat. I took off my outer coat (pink reversible quilted bomber jacket, Marks & Spencer) and hung it and my handbag on a coat hook behind the door. I took my tax and National Insurance documents out of my bag, and sat down. I looked around me while I waited for my new boss to finish her call.

Sally’s workstation was a big L-shaped desk in the corner of the room next to a window which looked out onto the street. Apart from a small computer and its accessories, the only things on the surface were about half a dozen green folders with names on the covers in large, neat writing.

A similar desk, currently unoccupied, was to her right. It had several computers on it, some of which didn’t look like bog-standard office machines at all. I wondered, idly, why a cleaning company would need so many. Presumably, this was J & J’s IT Department, run by her husband, the software engineer.

There was a cupboard with sliding doors along the wall to my right. The other walls were covered in A1-size laminated weekly planners showing customers and their allocated cleaners for each day of the week – including Saturdays and Sundays, which were less crowded than weekdays but far from bare. J & J was obviously doing very well. I noticed that ‘Hadleigh Hall’ cropped up often, as far as I could remember, always the morning after we were hosting some society meeting.

I heard Sally making goodbye noises to her caller, so I turned back to give her my full attention.

“Good morning, Martha,” she said, with a smile. “Do you have your documentation?”

I confirmed that I had brought everything she had asked for. I placed the papers on her desk. She was rummaging in a drawer and brought out a form.

“Could you fill this in, please?”

She passed me a ballpoint pen with ‘J & J Home Counties Housekeeping’ embossed on the barrel. I pulled my chair up to the other side of her desk and started. I just hoped I would remember everything I needed to know about my Martha identity. When was my date of birth? Oh yes, 23rd June 1981, which makes me thirty-nine. That would mean the real Martha was deemed a ‘geriatric mother’ to have a first baby at her age. I hoped her fiancé was looking after her properly.

Meanwhile Sally had taken a key from her handbag and gone over to the cupboard. She unlocked it and slid the door back. I saw several pink and grey smocks with the ‘J & J’ logo on the left breast. There were also a few maid’s uniforms in similar colours. She reached in and fetched down a grey smock, checking the size as she did so.

“I think you’ll need a ‘Large’,” she said, with a smile, “but not ‘XL’.”

I slipped it on over my blouse and leggings, and she showed me how to fasten it. I glanced at myself in a small mirror on the cupboard door. I looked like a proper cleaning lady. I stopped worrying about the effectiveness of my disguise. No one could possibly doubt what I was. I was a middle-aged, working-class charlady with no resemblance whatever to a reclusive male peer of the realm.

I thanked Sally, then sat back down to carry on with the form. No one memorises their National Insurance number, do they? So I had to refer to one of the papers on the desk. After the personal details, most of the form was about diseases and criminal convictions – ‘none’, ‘none’. The rest was a checklist of indemnities. Apparently, we cleaning ladies are self-employed contractors, so J & J weren’t liable if I was injured on the job. Better not get injured then, I thought, as I doubted I had the necessary personal insurance for a cleaning injury. I finished the form with no trouble and gave it back to her.

“Fleur will be back a little after twelve,” she said. “The two of you can go to lunch and get to know each other. In the meantime, please would you read this? It’s our company’s standards. We have work instructions for every type of cleaning job. All new members of staff get these when they join. We have a reputation to uphold, you see. We are a premium service. Our staff are required to be conscientious. We don’t tolerate slapdash work and I conduct surprise inspections to make sure everyone follows the guidelines.”

I hope I can live up to all that. I settled down to study the ‘work instructions’ for my new job. Teaching Maths to rowdy thirteen-year-olds looked easy by comparison.

* * *

I recognised Fleur immediately, as she had been to clean Hadleigh Hall a couple of times after LADS rehearsals or other society meetings. She was lovely: open, friendly, and very attractive. She remembered seeing me – actually the other Martha – around Hadleigh Hall when she’d been there, but she’d never spoken to her (me) and wasn’t clear what her (my) role was. I explained that I was officially the housekeeper, but thanks to the previous Earl’s extravagance, they could only afford a part-time maid, so I had to supplement my income by working for J & J.

Fleur was gossipy, even with a near stranger like me, but she talked about her friends, relatives and co-workers with no hint of malice. She seemed to be laughing all the time. Over lunch at the local pub she told outrageous tales of her many boyfriends, two of whom called her within the same ten-minute interval to ask her out. She happily agreed to dates with both of them. As she had just been telling me about the oversized penis of one of the lucky applicants, we both burst into hysterical laughter the instant she hung up. I soon felt like I had known her all my life. But I was glad I was just her new girlfriend, and that I wasn’t competing for her favours with all the young men in the Eastern Counties.

She was about the same as my real age, and therefore about fifteen years younger than my new Martha self. She was single – obviously – and lived with her mother, who she said had worked as a cleaner too when she was Fleur’s age. Indeed, the firm had been set up by her grandmother. I wasn’t sure how that worked, as I’d thought J & J was founded by the Jacksons, but maybe her granny had founded some other firm. Sally Jackson seemed to be very busy buying or merging with other cleaning companies. Anyway, Fleur wasn’t interested in such details. I soon realised that she wasn’t stupid; she was just ‘differently clever’. She certainly remembered all the details about her suitors and the complicated schedule of her dating life, and that was all that really mattered to her.

We had just about finished our burgers and white wine spritzers when another pretty young woman joined us. This was Chloe, Fleur’s cousin. She was a little older, a little more sensible, and at least six months pregnant. It was soon evident how close the two girls were. They had a long, shared history of childhood, adolescence and young womanhood; they laughed at the same things, an instant before I had got the joke; and they finished each other’s sentences. They were both looking forward to the birth of Chloe’s child, who was clearly going to be blessed with the equivalent of two mothers. That got me thinking about when Susie and I would be starting our own family.

“I know that look,” said Fleur, with a twinkle in her eye. “Chloe’s big round tummy is making you broody, isn’t it, Martha?”

I laughed and nodded. I was relieved that neither girl had any inkling that I was anything other than Martha, thirty-nine, housemaid, single.

“But you need a man for having a baby,” I sighed, theatrically, “and that pleasure seems to be passing me by.”

It didn’t seem appropriate for me to be claiming Davey as mine. Fleur had already shown how nosey she was, albeit in a friendly, inoffensive way. I would have to make things up to answer her inevitable questions about my lover. That would lead to unnecessary complications.

“Hah!” she snorted. “OK, Chloe’s lucky. Harry the Plumber is a real catch; a proper gent, loyal, and hard-working. But you only need a man for a very short time – about five minutes in most cases, I find. Often less, unfortunately.”

Chloe laughed and I joined in, but I don’t think either of us agreed with her thinking.

“I wouldn’t want to be doing this without Harry,” Chloe said, serious for a moment. “It’s scary sometimes.”

* * *

I pulled the Polo into the driveway of a mock-Tudor four-bedroom detached house in a leafy boulevard named, almost inevitably, Acacia Avenue, although I was pretty sure the majority of the trees in view were planes and birches. We were on the opposite side of town from Hadleigh village, and I couldn’t remember ever having been here before. The neighbourhood wasn’t familiar to me but there was plenty of wealth in evidence here.

Today was to be Chloe’s last day at J & J, at least for the moment. She would come along to the afternoon cleaning job. I would be shadowing her; or perhaps I should say that I would be doing her work while she told me what to do and how to do it. From Monday I would be expected to take her place completely.

“You’ll have to be the sensible one now, Martha,” Chloe said, struggling to get her ungainly figure out of the passenger seat of my little car.

“I thought I was the sensible one,” declared Fleur from the back, pretending to be offended.

Chloe and I both laughed. She went to ring the doorbell. Meanwhile Fleur fetched a basket of cleaning materials from the boot. We would always use detergents and disinfectants provided by the client if we could, but we took our own in case she didn’t have what we needed (and we were supposed to charge her for it with a decent mark-up – Sally Jackson didn’t miss a trick). I put on my headscarf and locked the car.

Our Friday afternoon client was a Mrs Trubshaw. She kept us waiting for a couple of minutes before she opened the door. She was a young, run-off-her-feet mother of two. She held a grizzling baby on her hip, a little girl judging by the amount of pink she was sporting. Bangs and thumps from upstairs indicated the presence of an older child running amok.

“Come in, girls,” said Mrs Trubshaw happily. “How are you, Chloe? Stopped throwing up yet? Bet you’re looking forward to it all being over. Just don’t go thinking life will get any easier afterwards.”

She laughed. I thought that if all our clients were as nice as her, this coming week would be quite tolerable. We trooped in, at which point Mrs Trubshaw noticed me.

“So this is Martha, is it?” she said. “I’m Linda. If you’re half as good as Chloe, you’re very welcome, and I might not miss her too much. Tea, everyone?”

We followed Linda into a large L-shaped kitchen-stroke-morning room.

“Would you do the honours, Fleur?” she said. “I’m gasping and this one needs feeding.”

Fleur went to put the kettle on and get the tea things out. Linda sat down at the dining table and undid her front-fastening maternity bra. The baby latched on to the exposed breast hungrily. As a naïve male (underneath my ample feminine curves) I wasn’t used to strange women exposing themselves so casually, but I tried to take it in my stride, as no doubt the real Martha would have done. Welcome to the distaff side, Rob.

“So what would you like us to do this afternoon, Linda?” Chloe asked.

“Oh, the bathrooms as usual, please, dear,” she said, “and there’s a pile of ironing; a once-over everywhere with the vacuum; and if there’s any time left after that, could you have a go at the kitchen? It’s ages since my last spring-clean, and it’s starting to look a bit grubby. I never realised how much gets spilled with two little ones about.”

“We should be able to manage that,” said Chloe, “especially since there’s three of us this week.”

“Oh I thought you weren’t going to be working today, what with… your… you know?”

“As I keep telling my husband, I’m pregnant, not disabled,” laughed Chloe. “I can at least do the ironing. Martha can do all the bending and scrubbing.”

I wasn’t sure that ‘bending and scrubbing’ would be any easier for me with my unfamiliar excess blubber than it was for Chloe with her little baby bump, but I could hardly say so.

Linda swapped the baby over to her other breast. We chatted quietly and inconsequentially over our tea while the little one was filling her tank. All three of us watched the tiny glutton with undisguised affection.

“Broody,” said Chloe, pointing at me. Fleur and Linda chuckled quietly.

When it seemed the baby was starting to doze off, her mother rose carefully, rubbing the little one’s back gently. She burped suddenly and a mouthful of undigested milk dribbled down onto Linda’s shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m going to put her down for a nap,” she said. “Then I’ll see what her brother’s up to. He was supposed to be building something with his Lego, but it sounded like he was more into demolition.”

After finishing her tea, Fleur went off upstairs to do the family bathroom and the master bedroom en suite. Chloe had me start the ironing, at which I quickly proved myself to be inept. I began with one of Linda’s husband’s shirts but was taking much too long over it.

“Gosh, anyone would think you’d never done any ironing before,” she tutted, probably not suspecting how close to the truth she was.

“Sorry, Chloe, but I’ve never had to iron a man’s shirt,” I said, a little embarrassed. “You’d better show me.”

Well, fair enough, I thought. As Martha I had no husband with shirts to iron; and Rob’s shirts had always been ironed by my wife, the Countess, or my mother, the Dowager Countess.

“I better had,” she agreed. “Fleur hates ironing, so you’ll have to get used to it.”

In the next half hour I learned how to iron every kind of garment efficiently. I also learned how to make sure the iron was at the right temperature for every fabric, and not to use a hot iron to get creases out of bras. We both wondered how there had come to be so many gaps in my education.

When my lesson was complete I was sent off to do the vacuuming while Chloe carried on with the remaining ironing. She had to remind me to flick round each room with a duster before vacuuming, which I had never done in the private quarters at Hadleigh Hall. It made sense when I thought about it, although it had never occurred to me. I realised I still had a lot to learn to become a decent cleaning lady. I vacuumed all the main rooms and found to my surprise that I was quite enjoying myself. It was calming, almost zen.

When the three of us had finished our individual jobs, we still had half an hour left, so we convened to blitz the kitchen, as Linda had requested. Fleur and Chloe emptied the cabinets, sorting out all the tins and bottles and condiments and preserves, and putting aside for disposal all those that were past their ‘Use By’ dates. Then they set to work cleaning cupboards which had probably been undisturbed for decades. As the new girl, I was tasked with cleaning the oven, a job which I did not enjoy as much as I had the ironing and vacuuming.

Linda was delighted with our efforts. She was even happier when Chloe assured her she would only be charged for two people’s time as I was still ‘in training’. She insisted in giving us each a £10 tip, which I realised was practically the only cash I had in my purse.

As I drove my two fellow cleaning ladies back to town, I decided I hadn’t had as good a workday for as long as I could remember. It was much better than teaching surly teenagers who couldn’t see the point of Maths.

I dropped the girls back at the J & J office and arranged to meet Fleur there at eight o’clock on Monday morning. As I turned the Polo back towards Hadleigh Hall, I realised I was looking forward to it already.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” I said, my head stuck in one of the huge ovens. I backed out to address my mistress – I mean, wife – directly. “What does it look like?”

“Don’t be cheeky, Martha,” she said with a grin. “It looks like my beloved husband, the Earl of Hadleigh, has started taking his masquerade a little too seriously. Mind you, your big round backside poking out of that oven made me think the real Martha was back.”

I sighed and stood up. I had been kneeling on a folded towel to protect my tights from laddering. I reached up to tuck a strand of hair back up under my cap, but I was wearing yellow kitchen gloves to protect my hands from the harsh oven cleaning chemicals, and I didn’t want them anywhere near my face. I brushed down my disposable polythene apron, which had ridden up while I was down on my knees.

“I had to clean an oven at a client’s house today,” I explained. “I’d never done it before, and it was hard work, but it looked so much better afterwards. I just wondered when our ovens were last cleaned. I don’t think J & J ever did it – well, we never asked them…”

“So ask them next time they’re here,” Susie said. “You don’t have to do it. You’re the master of the house, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Not at the moment, I’m not,” I sighed. “Anyway the other Martha always did several hours of cleaning after we’d had an event here, even when J & J had done most of the tidying up.”

“So because she did it, you think you have to?”

“Yes, I do! Look, My Lady, you’re our only breadwinner and you’re working so hard. I have to do everything I can – look after the house, and so on – to be sure I’m doing my share. Anyway, I’m just trying to make my impersonation as accurate as possible. I can’t afford to give myself away when I’m out and about as her. If I think like Martha, I’ll act like Martha. If I act like Martha, no one will suspect me of being Rob. It’s quite an interesting challenge actually…”

I stopped, and looked hard at Susie, trying to read the expression on her face.

“Is this a problem?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said. “Any woman would be happy to have such a diligent maid. You’re a blessing for a busy Countess.” She grinned with a calculating look on her face. “I can go back to treating you as the maid properly, if you like.”

“Well…” I wasn’t too sure about that. “…I suppose that might help… but you have to drop it when we’re alone together – in the bedroom, I mean.”

“I think I can manage that,” she smirked. “By the way you have a ladder in your tights, Martha. I’m very disappointed in you.”

“I’m sorry, M’Lady.” I found myself curtseying. “I’ll see to it immediately, M’Lady.”

She laughed and turned to go back to work. I returned to scouring the oven.

“You can vacuum my office area when you’ve finished that, Martha,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s a pigsty.”

“Yes, M’Lady,” I answered, automatically.

* * *

“Maiding is dangerous work,” I said in bed that night. “I’ve got cuts all over my hands.”

“Really?” Susie said. “How did you get them?”

“By catching them on sharp edges while I was scrubbing the oven, the kitchen cupboards, the shower door, the double-glazing… I burnt myself on the iron too. Also I have bruises on my elbows and hips, from banging into things when carrying heavy buckets, or vacuuming in tight spaces.”

“Have you got Housemaid’s Knee yet?”

“Very funny. No.”

“Well, if your knees are in good shape, you can make use of them while I lie back and think of England.”

“OK, but you’ll need to unzip me first…”

She reached under my nightie to liberate my weaponry. After a little practice we could do it in the dark now.

* * *

On Saturday morning we notified the Empire people that we were going out for a while. I put on one of Martha’s summer dresses, while this Indian Summer lasted, and a warm cardigan, in case it didn’t. The skirt was a little short on me and, being inexperienced, I overdid my make-up. Susie didn’t tell me that until we were well on our way. She laughed and said I looked like a floozy, and I’d better be careful to keep my legs together or the boys could get the wrong idea.

First we went round to the cottage to pick up Martha’s mail. There was nothing much there as she had arranged to forward any important letters to her fiancé’s address. I also collected some more clothes, mostly warmer dresses and tops. I had hoped that I wouldn’t need to be Martha for this long. I wondered how on earth I was going to explain it to my mother if I was still a maid/cleaning lady at Christmas.

Susie dropped me at Transformations for my check-up, while she went off to do some shopping in town. Vera was her usual upbeat self, assuring me how well I was doing at being Martha, clearly under the mistaken impression that I would regard that as a good thing, rather than an acute embarrassment. Still, being found out would have been even more embarrassing, and quite possibly lethal. So… swings and roundabouts.

The adhesive on my prostheses was still holding fast, and it took her quite some time and a lot of solvent to remove them all. She washed each piece carefully with detergent and put it on a side table to dry.

It’s amazing what you can get used to. I’d been a housemaid for a while now, and it was quite a shock to see Rob Marsham emerging from underneath Martha’s flabby figure and plump cheeks. Rob seemed… insubstantial. As Martha I was anything but. And not just because I was bigger and heavier. I was confident as Martha, and she had real presence – even when I was required by my role to fade into the background. But after twenty-five years on the planet, I still didn’t really know who Rob was. It seemed the only person who did was Susie.

Having gently pried the prostheses off, Vera subjected me to another waxing.

“Much less stubble to clear up,” she said. “It shouldn’t be anything like as bad this time.”

And it wasn’t, but my skin was red and raw after the removal of the prostheses and the waxing, so she gave me a delightful massage all over with a sweet-smelling lotion. And I mean ‘all over’.

“That’s the hormone cream again, is it?” I asked.

“Same as last time,” she said. “It definitely makes the removal of your body hair easier though, doesn’t it?” I had to agree. “And you haven’t noticed any side effects?” No, I hadn’t.

“Your beard growth is much less noticeable this time too,” she added. “Close shave next, then I can put your face back on, and after that, your body.”

Three quarters of an hour later Martha was back in all her glory.

“I think we can leave it two weeks till your next appointment,” Vera said, reaching for her iPad.

I agreed and we arranged a date. Privately I thought I would be back earlier than that to be rid of my disguise for good. Either that or I’d be in hospital after a confrontation with Beckett.

Her work completed, Vera went off to get us some coffee. As I was putting my bra and knickers back on, I took the opportunity to examine myself properly in her mirror. I felt fat and… unattractive. I told myself it was illogical to care about that, but then logic isn’t everything, is it?

I put my dress and cardy back on, then went to wait at Reception for Susie to return.

I told her all about the appointment and she commiserated with me for its unpleasantness. It was obvious she was glad to see her lady’s maid back. I had the feeling she would have been disappointed if I had returned as her husband. But maybe that was my paranoia.

* * *

Sunday, we decided, was Martha’s day off, and her mistress would treat her to a pub lunch, after which we would go for a walk to take our minds off our troubles. We looked for somewhere far away from anyone who might know us, where we could be equal companions, rather than mistress and maid. With a restricted choice, I put on another old-fashioned summer dress, and Susie picked out one of her older and shabbier ones, so I didn’t look too much the poor relation. We texted Empire that we would be out for the afternoon and set off in the Audi convertible, Susie driving of course.

In the pub we still had to be careful. Susie had to call me Martha and we couldn’t show any more affection than was appropriate for a twenty-something woman and a female companion nearly twice her age. This was tiresome, but we didn’t want to attract attention. She suggested I could be her aunt, and insisted on calling me ‘Auntie’ throughout lunch in case anyone overheard our conversation.

Afterwards we changed our high heels for trainers and went for a walk in the Chiltern Hills. It was a beautiful day but we had apparently chosen one of the less popular routes, because we came upon very few fellow ramblers. So we could be ourselves for pretty much the first time since the fateful Pink Ladies meeting. I had almost forgotten what the name, ‘Rob’, sounded like in Susie’s voice. It was wonderful.

But the thought of my new life as Martha, the cleaning lady and undercover detective, was never far from my mind, and the working week would come round all too soon.

* * *

Bright and early on Monday morning, neatly turned out in my stretchy black trousers, another floral blouse, and my J & J tabard, I picked Fleur up at the company office. She brought a basket of cleaning products and dropped it in the boot of the Polo.

We met at eight o’clock so as to get to the client by eight-fifteen. She had the school run to do and then had to get to her office in town. She had yelled at Fleur and Chloe when they were a minute late once. So after Linda Trubshaw, who was a sweetie, I wasn’t looking forward to working for Alice Battersby, who sounded like a bitch. But I never had the chance to assess my second client properly, as the moment I pulled the Polo onto her drive at eight-thirteen-and-a-half, she and her three children were out of the house and into their huge Chelsea tractor.

“Morning!” she yelled. “There’s a list of jobs on the kitchen table. Don’t forget to lock up after you!”

There was a moment’s pause when she realised I wasn’t Chloe, but it was only a moment. She obviously didn’t think I was worth stopping to chat to. Then with another brusque cry of “Seatbelts!”, which I assumed was aimed at the kids, the giant SUV roared off towards town.

“She’s always like that,” Fleur grinned, and led the way into the house, Mrs Battersby having left the front door open for us.

The Battersby residence was bigger than the Trubshaws. It looked like a standard four-bed but had a large single-storey extension at the side. We went straight into the kitchen/dining room, a big open-plan area running all the way across the back of the house. I put the kettle on to make us coffee while Fleur scanned the job list.

“Crikey!” she said. “Can’t see us doing this lot in two hours.”

She looked round into the dining area. I followed her gaze. Mrs Battersby had set up the ironing board there with two laundry baskets full of clothes.

“So, d’you fancy putting Chloe’s lessons into practice then?”

I sighed a theatrical sigh. I didn’t mind actually. I found ironing therapeutic, though I wondered at the direction my life was taking: from hopeless schoolteacher to incompetent Earl, then finally finding my métier ironing strangers’ shirts and knickers.

“You’re the boss,” I said with a grin.

Fleur did three bathrooms in the time it took me to do the ironing. Then while she did the kitchen I moved onto the bedrooms, changing the sheets and running the vacuum cleaner round. Finally we worked together to tidy and clean the lounge and family room. This was maintenance cleaning – vacuuming and wiping down surfaces with ‘Mr Muscle’ and a damp cloth.

I recalled the J & J ‘work instructions’, which told us to be sure to move the furniture to vacuum underneath. Apparently, this was a well-known test that houseproud clients applied. Have the lazy maids left crumbs beneath the sofa? I had shifted a couple of easy chairs and swept underneath to show how conscientious I was, and was just approaching the sofa, when Fleur stopped me with a laugh.

“You did well with those armchairs, sweetie,” she said, “but you’ll never be able to move that by yourself!”

Actually I would – easily – but if I did, my male strength might have given me away. That was a narrow squeak. I was a member of the weaker sex now. I would have to take greater care to play the part. She helped me shift the sofa and I tried to grunt and groan realistically.

With my new cleaning lady’s expert eye, I noticed there were places in Mrs Battersby’s house where considerably more was needed – the oven, the kitchen cupboards, the utility room floor, for example, and the wooden dining room table and bookcases could do with a polish. But we weren’t there for spring cleaning.

We did everything we were supposed to do within two hours – just. We closed Mrs Battersby’s front door behind us at a little after twenty past ten. We were due at our second client at eleven, so there was time for a coffee and a doughnut at the little café in the High Street.

We made a good team, Fleur and I, but I was afraid she would start asking questions about me when we had a few minutes off the clock, and she did.

“So what’s your plan, Martha?” she said, stuffing her face with chocolate cake.

“Plan?”

“Well, you don’t see cleaning as a long-term career, do you? I mean, most of us do it while waiting for something else to happen, or to help make ends meet when our main breadwinner is just starting out, or is temporarily out of work…”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” I said.

“But none of that applies to you, as far as I can see,” she said. “You’re not married. You’re not studying…”

“No, well, I’ve sort of fallen into it, I suppose…”

I went on to give her a summary of Martha’s history, as far as I knew it.

“I went to work at Hadleigh Hall as a junior housemaid straight from school, so by now I suppose I expected to be running the place as the Housekeeper, in charge of a team of maids and footmen and so on. But it hasn’t worked out like that. The old Earl overspent a lot and had to let most of his servants go. I was lucky that he kept me on. Anyway, he died with no proper family. The new young Earl has no children yet and he and the Countess are struggling financially. With only the two of them, they don’t really need a team of servants, and couldn’t afford them anyway.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll look for another job as a Housekeeper. I mean, there are still plenty of big houses and noble families. I’m sure the young Countess will give me a good reference.”

I was surprising myself now. Where was all this coming from?

* * *

“Were you happy with how we divided the work up this morning?” Fleur asked while we were driving over to our second client. I nodded. “So shall we do that again? I hate ironing!”

“Sure,” I said, “but I think I’d like to watch you do one of the bathrooms. The work instructions seem pretty detailed, but you must have some tips.”

“That’s a good idea,” she agreed. “Actually, I haven’t looked at the rules for ages, but I don’t think they’ve changed. I’d only add a couple of things.” She looked thoughtful. “I’ve always wondered where Mrs Jackson got them from. She’s certainly never worked as a cleaner. The only other girl who was in the company before Chloe and I joined was Maria, and I can’t see how she could have written them – not with her English.”

“Mrs Jackson probably got them off the web somewhere.”

Our next client, Myfanwy Griffiths, was small, dark and Welsh. She had piercing blue eyes and a lively sense of humour. She was a features writer for the local paper and usually worked from home so as to be able to look after her two small children, who were now at school. She insisted on making us coffee, even though we told her we’d just had one.

We had a very companionable half hour. I started the ironing, while Myfanwy buzzed around the kitchen, moving things so that Fleur could clean around them, and talking all the time.

“According to my husband, Myfanwy is Welsh for ‘My fine one’,” she said. “He works at the zoo. As soon as I saw him in his uniform I knew he was a keeper.”

Fleur burst out laughing. Then I saw the joke and joined her. Myfanwy smiled.

“I liked that one too,” she said. “That butch girl comedian told it at last Friday’s Open Mic night at our club. My Paul’s not actually a zookeeper. He’s an accountant. Oh well, must get on. Let me know if you need anything, girls.”

She retired to her study. Fleur and I carried on being cleaning ladies. As I ironed and scrubbed, vacuumed and polished, I realised there are worse things to be. Like a shy Earl, for example.

* * *

It was a fine day, so we found an unoccupied picnic table on the common to eat our sandwich lunches. It was glorious. We had got the last space in the car park, which was only a hundred yards from where we were sitting, right by the duck pond. Two toddlers were feeding the ducks and their mothers were running about frantically trying to prevent their offspring from falling in. The sun was strong and a bright glare was reflecting off the water. I made a mental note to dig out some ladies’ sunglasses in case Fleur wanted to come back here tomorrow.

The conversation flowed. I found it wasn’t too difficult to keep up my end. What I didn’t know about Martha’s back story, I made up. I just hoped I could remember later what was known fact and what was plausible fiction.

“This is nice,” said Fleur, stretching out and slurping her Apple and Mango J2O. “I love cousin Chloe dearly; she’s my best friend; but I’m getting just a little fed up with baby talk. It’s good to chat with somebody different.”

“You can understand though, can’t you?” I chuckled. “She’s just coming up to the most important event in her life. It’s what a woman’s for. Chloe’s whole existence has been leading up to this, even if she doesn’t realise it.”

“I was really only complaining that I’d heard enough about the colour Harry’s painting the nursery, and whether maternity dresses are more comfortable in the last trimester than dungarees.” She looked at me sceptically. “You’re not much of a feminist though, are you, babe? You’d probably be no-platformed if you tried to say anything like that at Oxford or the LSE.”

I shuddered at the thought of being on a platform, speaking at any institute of higher learning, especially dressed as I was.

“No, I am,” I said. “The way I see it, motherhood is something no man can ever experience or even understand. So they have to do something else to give their lives meaning, like make lots of money, or climb mountains, or win football matches. But how can any of that compare with bringing new life into the world?”

“Wow, deep!” she replied. “Does that mean you think a woman should be satisfied with being a mother?”

“Oh no, I’m all for choice,” I said hurriedly, fearful that she might think I was betraying the Sisterhood. “A woman should have it all, if she can – a career and a family. It’s just that most women I know have found that really difficult.”

“I know what you mean,” she said, being serious for once. “I feel a little jealous of Chloe sometimes, but then I think about labour, and babies, and nappies, and getting no sleep, and never going out dancing… and I think, no; not for me.”

“You’ll probably feel differently when that time comes.”

“Maybe,” she said. “If it ever does… But I don’t really know what I do want.”

I nodded. We munched quietly for a moment or two.

“My mother’s generation – your grandmother’s – did the hard work with the Women’s Lib Movement back in the seventies,” I said. “That started it all. Now in even the most backward and religiously conservative countries we’re getting the vote; better education; more equal pay; and the right to divorce. Domestic violence is way down too.”

I vaguely wondered how I knew all this. My mother? Susie? Or was it something I had remembered or worked out for myself?

“Wow! You really do know a lot about feminism, don’t you?” Fleur said. “Don’t forget the pill – and abortion!”

“Right,” I agreed. “Now we can make our own decisions regarding pregnancy. That’s a much bigger deal than most modern women think. Before the pill, it was pregnancy after pregnancy if you were married, and even worse if you got pregnant when you weren’t.”

“Yeah, we’re much better off today. It’s all good,” she said, in a tone that suggested that maybe it wasn’t.

“But…?” I said, enquiringly.

“I miss romance.” She snorted. “Well, you can’t miss what you’ve never had, I suppose.”

“Hey, come on! You never stop talking about all your boyfriends!”

“I know, but…” She sighed. “But none of them are actually romantic. Everyone says chivalry is dead. Modern men seem to think… that modern women think… that moonlight and flowers and dancing cheek-to-cheek went out with The Sound of Music. Sometimes I just want a hug and strong arms around me, but as a feminist I’m supposed to think that’s weakness, a ploy of the patriarchy to undermine my independence. But it isn’t. It’s just… nice.”

“Ah, yes, I know what you mean.”

I really did, and it wasn’t only women who sometimes needed loving arms around them. Often Susie and I turned the lights down low and just cuddled on the sofa, not even watching the TV. Once we even put some waltz music on the sound system and… waltzed (except that neither of us knew the steps).

“It’s probably my own stupid fault,” Fleur said. She sounded genuinely annoyed with herself. “I’ve probably got a reputation for being… easy. So the boys think they don’t have to try too hard to get me into bed.”

“You have to get really close to someone for romance,” I said, sympathetically. “Sex alone doesn’t do it.”

She sighed again and stood up, collecting our rubbish to put in the waste bin by our bench.

“And what about yourself?” she said brightly. “What romance do you have in your life?”

“Oh, I have had a long-term steady,” I said, carefully, “but things are a bit difficult just at the moment.”

Which was putting it mildly. Susie and I were fine in our bedroom, in private, but there couldn’t be any romance when anyone could see us. No going out dancing for the moment. No walking hand-in-hand on the beach. I even have to be ‘Auntie’ at a candle-lit restaurant. Also having to curtsey and call your lover ‘My Lady’ would be a bit of a romance-killer for any man. Thank goodness we still had the sex.

“So has feminism stopped you having both a career and a family?” she asked.

“No, being fat and ugly has done that.”

I winced internally. How could I have said that? It just slipped out. I would have hated Martha to have heard me.

“You’re not ugly!” Fleur rushed to say. (I noticed she didn’t say I wasn’t fat.) “I’m sure you’ve just been unlucky not to have met the right man yet.

I decided I had been too hard on Martha. She was a little overweight, yes, but it suited her. In a certain light she could even be quite good-looking. I could understand how she had attracted a good man, and from what I had seen of her, he was the lucky one.

But why on earth should I care anyway? This whole disguise was only a short-term ruse to get us out of a desperate situation.

Wasn’t it?

* * *

Our afternoon client, Mrs Hanson, was friendly enough but she complained of a migraine and said she intended to lie down for a while. Fleur asked if she wanted us to do anything special.

“No, no, the usual, please, but don’t bother with the master bedroom this week.”

“Are you sure the noise of the vacuum won’t make your headache worse?” Fleur asked.

“Oh… er, no,” she said. “I’ve got earplugs, and I’m going to take a sleeping pill.”

Then she made herself scarce. So we got on with the allotted two hours’ work. We each had our agreed roles now. Fleur was vacuuming and dusting while I was ironing. Then we would split the kitchen, bathrooms and toilets between us.

Mrs Hanson had left the exact money in cash on the kitchen counter, so at four o’clock we let ourselves out and didn’t see her again.

“Is she always like that?” I asked as we climbed into the car.

“She usually arranges not to be around while we’re working,” said Fleur. “I think she’s one of those women who are embarrassed at having cleaning ladies at all. Her mother probably did all the housework by herself and thinks her daughter’s lazy to be paying for home help.”

“Ha, yes,” I said. “My mother’s the same. It’s a good thing not everyone feels that way or you and I would be out of a job!”

* * *

When I got home it seemed right – it seemed necessary – to change into my maid’s uniform. I put on dark tights, a clean black dress, and an apron. I got out the vacuum and a duster and did a little cleaning in our living areas at the Hall.

When I reached our bedroom’s en suite I noticed some stains on the tiled floor around the toilet. I reached for the cleaning fluid and a cloth, realising as I did so that Rob probably wouldn’t even have noticed the stains, but I was seeing everything through Martha’s eyes now, and I could no sooner ignore dirt and stains than fly to the moon.

I didn’t hear my wife come in, and she caught me on my knees scrubbing away. Just as on the previous Friday afternoon, her first sight of her husband was his plentiful feminine behind waggling from side to side as he rubbed and scrubbed.

“I would have thought you’d have had enough cleaning at your day job, Martha,” she said.

“Oh! I didn’t hear you come in…” I said, leaping to my feet.

“Oh! I didn’t hear you, My Lady…” she said, with a pretend angry expression. (At least, I think it was ‘pretend’.)

“Oh! I didn’t hear you, My Lady,” I corrected myself, and naturally curtseyed.

“That’s better,” she said, with a laugh. “Now come and give your mistress a kiss.”

“I can do better than that, M’Lady.”

I quickly checked that the bedroom curtains were closed. Then I grabbed her and hoisted her up into my arms. She squealed in surprise. I carried her out of the bathroom and flung her onto the bed. Then I jumped on top of her.

“Oof!”

She let out an involuntary exhalation as my padding-enhanced weight landed.

“Oh God, I’m sorry! I forgot how much heavier I must be now!”

I shifted my weight to my knees and propped myself up on my hands.

“That’s all right, Tubby,” she panted. “It’s rather sexy, actually.” Her hands were finding their way under my skirt and into my knickers. “If I ignore the maid’s dress and the silky panties, I can pretend My Lord and Master is having his way with me. It’s a nice change.”

I laughed. “I thought you women hated to be treated as sex toys?”

“Well I wouldn’t want it all the time, obviously.”

I was feeling doubtful, and I must have looked it. She reached up and caressed my – that is, Martha’s – cheek.

“Hey, no worries,” Susie continued. “You’re an amazing lover – not that I have much to compare you with, so don’t get complacent. You’re gentle and considerate; and you know just where and how to touch me. You raise my passion through the roof without needing to rough me up. Still, a little throwing your weight about is nice once in a while…”

“…to remind you who’s boss?” I smiled.

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said. “I am. No, I meant I’m happy to let you claim your Droit du Seigneur forcefully from time to time, preferably when I’m in the mood for a little rough and tumble – like now!”

She had pulled my tights and knickers down as far as her arms could reach. I peeled them the rest of the way to my ankles.

“Actually,” I said, “I looked it up. ‘Droit du Seigneur’ was supposed to have entitled the feudal lord to have sexual relations with subordinate women, usually on their wedding nights, before their new husbands could get a look in. It probably never existed, but if it did, it went out in the Middle Ages. Maybe it’s time to bring it back…”

I gave her a leer and a wink, the impact of which was probably reduced by Martha’s plump, rosy cheeks. Anyway, it just made her laugh.

“You give those village girls a wide berth, My Lord,” she said, and hit me with a handy pillow.

“Yes, M’Lady.”

“By the way, don’t think I didn’t notice how you were moving to protect me when those two thugs were threatening rape. I really wouldn’t have wanted you to try to defend my honour. You’d have been badly hurt, but it’s nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

She grinned. Interesting that she was talking about chivalry, reminding me of my lunchtime conversation with Fleur… But she had unzipped my abdominal prosthesis by now and conversation gave way to the sounds of animal passion.

* * *

Tuesday was a repeat of Monday, except with three different clients: three lots of ironing (sigh); endless vacuuming and dusting; and I still seemed to spend half the day on my knees scrubbing baths, washbasins, and toilets.

Fleur and I were a well-oiled machine now. I was amazed to find that, not only did I not mind my new menial role, I was actually enjoying myself. I was afraid that Susie’s half-serious remarks might have been on the money. I might be a better maid and cleaning lady than I ever was a Maths teacher – or Earl. Maybe it was to do with liking to see the sparkling cleanliness we left behind us, but that couldn’t have been the only reason.

Fleur was a little quiet over lunch at our familiar picnic table in the park. Come to think of it, she’d been quiet – for her – all morning. I eventually asked if anything was the matter.

“Not really,” she began, hesitantly. “I’ve just been thinking about our conversation yesterday lunchtime.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interfere…”

“No, no, you didn’t. Anyway I did most of the talking – as usual.” She grinned. “But you’re a good listener. You helped me see things more clearly. I think I’ve ‘played the field’ enough. It’s time I started to focus on what I really want.” She paused and drew in a deep breath. “So I’m going to call Peter and have a proper talk with him. Then I’ll dump all the others.”

“Good for you,” I said. I’d noticed she had a slightly different look in her eye when she talked about Peter. “But he might be more impressed if you did it the other way round.”

“Huh?”

“Dump the others first, then pour your heart out to him.”

She laughed, then said, “You’re right! Proper commitment. No back-up plan.” She gave me a hug and a little peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Mum!”

I smiled. I was glad to share my many years of experience of the male ego with her. And I got a strange little thrill when she called me ‘Mum’.

We spent a lot more time then and on subsequent lunchtimes talking about what women want, and how it doesn’t always accord with what men want, and so we women had to be careful. I had no great difficulty seeing the mating game from the woman’s point of view. I wondered why that was. It seemed my inner persona was progressively adapting to match my outward appearance – intensified by everyone treating me as a maid and charlady, including my wife.

I thought about how the changes I was going through were affecting my relationship with Susie. Despite our current roles of mistress and maidservant, she was my lover and my best friend. Perhaps it was something we should talk about.

Or perhaps not…

* * *

“Which one is Fleur?” Susie asked, as we were getting ready for bed that night.

“Hmm?”

“Has she been here to clean up after one of our society meetings?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I think most of the J & J girls who live in this area have worked at the Hall.”

An alarm bell tinkled in the distance. I dropped the day’s bra, knickers and knee-highs in the laundry basket and reached for my nightie.

“So which is she? She’s the pretty little blonde, isn’t she? Curly hair? Always laughing?”

“That sounds like her, yes.”

The alarm bells were ringing loudly now. I slipped my nightie over my head. I was never comfortable being a plump female nude in front of my wife.

“So you two must be becoming close now, I suppose?”

“Actually, yes,” I said. “She called me ‘Mum’ today.”

“What? Why?”

“I gave her some advice on her love life – based on my extensive experience of men, and how they only want one thing. She’d been letting her many boyfriends take advantage…”

My wife was studying me with a look of wry amusement. The alarm bells had stopped.

“So if the bottom falls out of the cleaning lady business, you can fall back on being an Agony Aunt,” she suggested. “Come here then, Auntie, my sex life needs some expert advice.”

So that was OK. But really, how could Susie have thought I was up to anything with Fleur, however young and pretty she might be? She wasn’t attracted to plump, middle-aged women. We were co-workers, fellow cleaning ladies, and that was all.

And tomorrow we were going to clean Jack Beckett’s mother’s house. I needed to search it for incriminating evidence, and I would be taking the biggest risk of my life.