Nothing Said (Poetry)

It was a polite house, mid-Victorian
and aware of its heritage, formal —
even the flowers in the hall
stiff with respect.

The family firm run from a groundfloor office,
the partners cordial, old school types,
always tweed suited, coughing,
the eldest brother gruff.

Good manners counted plus a well-ironed blouse,
skirts spinster colours, plain, of modest length,
my duties junior in rank — much filing
of buff envelopes, numbered black, top left.

Some afternoons there wasn’t much to do —
recession hit, by autumn work dropped off
and a whisper of unease
added to that season’s languid chill.

One night, at the stuttering request
of Sir the younger (boyish, although grey),
I stayed late after work. His anxious face
grateful when I answered yes

to dusting.“...whole place needs a bit
of sprucing up...” he’d gone on to explain.
I wondered where the housemaid was —
dismissed perhaps? Better not to ask.

Upstairs, the private air was quiet,
unmoved, two heavy doors ajar,
inside each bedroom single beds
unmade since morning or some time before.

Female rooms, a trace of powder spilt
across a polished rosewood mirror frame,
faint perfume echoes in white sheets
still imprinted lightly with a sleeping form.

Plump, matching eiderdowns thrown back —
their spring green satin luxury a thrill
to touch — departure hurried as though
they fled a scandal closing on them, fast.

I tidied round, made both abandoned beds
and kept all observations to myself.
Payday brought an extra pound, acknowledged
only with a nod and absolutely nothing ever said.