May 1st, 1926. Dear Alec, Just when those who should be working are all downing tools for this wretched strike (and I still can't believe it—I mean to say: riots, Alec—in Edinburgh of all places) guess who is setting her virgin shoulder to its very first wheel? I am dressed in serge and sensible footwear, sleeping in an iron bed and dining off pickled tongue at six o'clock each day. I am, in short, that nice young Mrs Fleming's new maid. But don't worry, Alec dear: things haven't got as bad as all that. It's just that that nice young Mr Fleming is going to kill his wife. At least, she thinks so, and the more I hear about him from butler, cook and bootboy the more I'm inclined to agree. So I'm undercover, in disguise, bent upon foiling. And jolly hard work it is too – tomorrow is my half-day free if you'd care take me out for a restorative bun. (Every maid needs a nice young man to buy buns for her.) Yours, Dandy xx p.s. Ask for Miss Rossiter: below stairs I am she.
