``There's a secret,'' she said.
``A secret?''
``In our family. A secret. Its time you knew -''
The old lady was dying.
``What is it Gran? You can tell me -''
``Its a long story - from long ago, and it don't matter any more -''
She had been so young. Raised on the Isle of Dogs where the sun never reached into the tall old buildings. Raised to be a scullery maid at twelve years old, to spend her days in the dank basement kitchens of a great London house.
To rise before dawn to shovel coal ash from the grates of the drawing room, the dining room, the breakfast room of the icy old house, to lay new fires and clean and polish the hearths and fenders and above all to retreat to the basement long before the family should venture from their beds. To wash the greasy dishes in lukewarm filthy water then to scrub the cold stone flags of the sculleries, the pantries and the big, hectic kitchen.
She did not think because she had not learned to think. She did what she was told sixteen hours each day then she slept the dreamless sleep of the exhausted and rose to repeat the process. Her name was Dulcey.
It was a splendid house, a center of the social life of the city. No matter what the season great dinners took place several times a week, and also on occasion more intimate events were arranged where dear friends allowed themselves the freedom of unguarded words and lewd speech. Among the frequent guests at these intimate soirees was the Prince himself who came for the discreet pleasure of the company of certain ladies.
And so one night the gentlemen had enjoyed their Madeira and cigars and the disheveled relaxation of the after dinner table - had allowed the comfortable emanation of certain bodily gases in the absence of the ladies who were condemned to repress their own digestive processes in the politeness of the drawing room.
But now the gentlemen had joined the ladies. Today the Prince had made plain his wish to enjoy the company of Lady Esme. But first it was necessary to play a few hands of bezique.
It was time for Dulcey to clean out and add coal to the fire in the dining room. The fire should remain though no one would use the room again.
If Lady Esme had not rapped the Prince on his bald head with her fan and displeased him enormously, the Prince would not have retreated to the dining room to rearrange his undergarment. He would not have seen little Dulcey in her meager cotton dress kneeling at the grate.
If Dulcey had been a different person she might have completed the job that Lady Esme started with her fan - she might have bashed the Prince over the head with the coal scuttle and earned a place in history - but she was an obedient girl.
And so her life was changed for ever. The Prince soon forgot a rather distasteful experience, but Dulcey had no opportunity to forget. Eighty years later she slipped the secret into her great grand daughter's mind.
``It don't matter,'' she said, ``there's lots like me. There's lots like you that have the blood, but it don't matter none.''
And her great grand daughter went down to the pub and spread the word and people said well I never, who'd of thought it. Old Dulcey. Fancy that. Then they turned their attention back to the dart game.