The diary of Delia : Being a veracious chronicle of the kitchen, with some side-lights on the parlour

I got up at siven. Washed. Dressed. Made me bed. I set the kittle on the gas stove and then furyissly rung the brikfust bell. The famly begun to get up about 9. Mr. John was the first to ate. He guv a look sideways at the appytising eggs befure him and the luvly staming coffee and thin wid a shuv pooshed thim aside. He tuk up his paper and begun to reed ignoaring me and the brikfust as if we wus durt. Me mouth being open I spoke up.

“Won’t you be after ating this morning” says I.

“Its all rite” says he. “Its all rite Delia.”

I lingered hoping to help him a bit. He russelled up the paper the way he has of doing when provoaked and says in that cam and gintle way he talks when turribly excited:

“Delia—what are you waiting for?”

“Nothing—says I—but won’t you be ating a bite Mr. Johnny.”

He controlled himsilf wid diffyculty his voyce all the cammer for his inwurd anger.

Now me girl says he—you attind to your own ating. Never mind me.

I shugged me sholders in the disdainful way I have and walked kitchen-wurd. I’d jest reeched the swinging door when “Delia!” ses he, calling very perlitely now.

“Well sir?”

“Will you kindly bring me” ses he “a cup of hot water.”

“Hot water is it?”

“Yep. I’m dying Delia” ses he.

“Dying!” ses I, shocked so that I drapped and broke the china in me hands.

“Confound you!” ses he, starting up in his seet “Dy-et-ing I said.”

“Its the same thing!” I showted back at him, and I marched out in a huff.

By and by I heard Miss Claire go into the dining-room and I let her ring the table bell awile befure ansering. Her payshunce gitting the better of her sense she pokes her hed into me kitchen. Now I happened to be standing neerby the dure, wayting for further ivints. Well, as I sed, out popped Miss Claire’s hed throo the dure which banged against me own, while me frying-pan wint flying up on hers.

“O! O! O!” crys she.

Her mother come running down the passage in her nitegown her hair scrooed up in them kid curlers.

“What is the matter?” crys she. Thin she seen the cundition of her dorter. The eggs had landed on her hed, and the fat run down her face in streams wid the yokes for company. The mother guv me a shove, and at that I boorst out in me rarth.

“Its no lady you are” ses I. “The whole boonch of you is bad. Gitting up at these unairthly ours and bullying the life out of a poor loan hard working girl.”

Wid that I tuk aff me aprun and throwed it at the madams feet.

“Will you be good enuff” ses I “to pay me me wages, for I’m for going.”

“Delia” ses she in the voyce she spakes whin drissed up fine for the opery or there’s company for dinner. “Delia” ses she, “Your month is up on the 24th. You will get nothing till then.”

“Indade” ses I, “Then I’ll set here till the 24th, but divil a bit of work will I be doing,” and wid that I set down on me chare and faulded me arms firmly across me brist.

“Delia” ses the lady, “Mr. Wolley will want his chop in a minit. Master Willie will have fareena and a poched egg. Shedded weet biskits for Miss Claire——”

“Mummer” ses she, washing her hed over me tubs, “I want nothing—nothing.”

Just then Mr. James wint into the dyning-roon and rung the bell lowdly.

“Peeches and pancakes” ses Mrs. Wolley coldly.

Miss Claire has her hed washed be this time, and she stands oop, wid it rolled oop in a towl. She guv me wan look—a cross betwane a shmile and a frown, and ses she:

“Delia, do you wish me to get brikfust to-day?”

“God forbid, Miss” ses I, and wint to wark.

Miss Claire is horty agin, and she ses wid a cold look at me:

“Very well thin Delia, till the 24th then. Come mother.”

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