A London Home in the Nineties

by Hughes, M. V. ;

  Yetta, who provided me with everything she could think of, had arrived one day with a modern book on the subject. This spared nothing in its details of possible disasters (with names for them, too), and I soon saw what Alfred meant by banning books. A chapter headed ‘Minor Ailments’ provided much amusement for Mary Wood and me. She would burst in with, ‘How are you getting on?’ and I would reply, ‘All right. Only suffering the minor ailments.’ One day I had a puzzle for her: ‘Look here, Mary, it says in this book, “Have ready for the nurse a pair of blunt scissors.” Now my old historical scissors are blunt enough, as you know only too well. But why on earth do they want them blunt?’ ‘They just can’t write English,’ said Mary, ‘they don’t mean blunt, they mean rounded at the point, so as not to prick the baby. I’ll bring you a pair next time I come.’

  When Bronwen was actually on the scene hardly a day went by without a visit from some old friend or relation to greet her. Alfred was now at work in London, and Arthur repeated to me the sympathetic words of this most beloved brother. ‘You know, Arthur,’ said he, ‘when I was first engaged I was brimming with happiness. Then when I was married I knew I was completely happy. But when the first child was born…well, I felt that I hadn’t known the meaning of the word happy before. So I know all about what you feel.’ When he came to see Bronwen he regaled us with a ‘turn’ he had lately seen: the famous comedian, Arthur Roberts, describing how he had been left for a little while to look after a baby. ‘Just keep an eye on it, we shall soon be back,’ said its parents. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll keep an eye on you,’ said he to the baby as soon as he was alone with it, ‘but nothing shall induce me to pick you up.’ ‘But,’ said he to the audience, ‘I picked him up.’ ‘Well, I’ve picked you up,’ said he to the baby, ‘but I’m blowed if I walk about with you.’ But he walked about with him. ‘I am walking about with you, but I will not toss you up and down.’ But he tossed him up and down. ‘I don’t so much mind a little walking and tossing, but nothing on earth shall make me sing to you.’ But he sang to him.

  All these visits were a great pleasure for me, but what Emma liked best was for us to have Bronwen all to ourselves. What with planning new clothes for her, cutting them out, and creating them, taking her for walks, arranging the cot, going through the ritual of the bath, and preparing dinner in time for Arthur’s return, the days flew gaily by, and any little mishap was of no importance at all. One day I was certainly distressed to see my complete stew tilt over into the fire. While I stood looking in dismay at what could not be retrieved, I heard Emma’s voice at my elbow, ‘Never mind, think of your little Bronwen.’ This was apropos of a story I had told her of a small boy who had been given a toy lion—a toy that he lived for. Soon afterwards he was taken to a children’s party which had no attractions for him, and he sat gloomy in a corner. Someone looking at him noticed his face suddenly brighten and heard him say, ‘I forgot my lion!’

  The great moment of the day was seven o’clock, when Arthur was due to come home. There was no music in the world like the sound of his latch-key. His first words never varied when I went to greet him: ‘How is she?’ Not that there was ever anything the matter with her; but there was always some new accomplishment to relate—a smile, a palpable smile; what looks like a tooth coming; an attempt to pull herself up; an enlargement of the appetite; and, of course, an extraordinary intelligence, for which ‘taking notice’ was a feeble word.

  On Saturday afternoons we hoped there would be no visitors or anything at all to disturb Arthur in his complete enjoyment of Bronwen’s company. He had bought a kind of weighing machine for recording her progress in pounds and ounces. For this ceremony she was put in one half of my Japanese basket, but it wobbled about so much that I placed no confidence in the weight that was registered. But my arms told me she was getting on.

  Yes, Saturday afternoon was the great time for us all. After a short outing, Arthur would settle himself in his deep old basket chair and have Bronwen on his knee. I took my parlour-work and Emma made any excuse she could to hover in and out. Bronwen’s idea of sport was to tug her father’s moustache till he cried ‘Ooh!’ Then she took to giving a proleptic ‘Ooh!’ herself, just before a specially hard tug. Toys had been given her in plenty but she took to none of them, sometimes hurling them out of her pram or into her bath. What she liked best was to play with anything that we ourselves were using or wearing. I had brought from Switzerland a brooch with a tiny cow-bell attached, and this she loved to ring. Some optimist had given Arthur a sovereign-purse, which he wore on his watch-chain to inspire confidence; this she would contrive to squeeze into her mouth as she sat on his lap. One afternoon she had become excited with some of these games, and I heard Arthur say, ‘Here, Emma, take her; there are ominous sounds.’ Ever after that Emma used to refer delicately to ‘omnibus sounds’. Sometimes Arthur would play a dance tune for her on his fiddle, while she would joggle up and down to it on my lap, and when it came to bed-time he would lull her to sleep with Gwynedd Gwyn. It had for long been his dream to have a daughter who should play the harp, and any pleasure she showed in sounds was a happy omen. Baby-talk he never used to her, but would chat freely to her of this and that, sometimes even appearing to be asking her opinion on some legal point. No doubt he interpreted her gay gurgles quite usefully. One night, in the small hours, she began crying for an extra meal, and continued her demands while I was getting it ready, drawing forth a sleepy protest from Arthur: ‘Bronwen, your complaint is not based on the necessity of the situation.’

  Days were full enough without the need, or desire, for outings of any kind; theatres, concerts, and picture galleries were things of the past for me; and as for Arthur, an occasional dinner in town was all that he indulged in. However, there was to be a great exception. On July 15th, ’98, Gray’s Inn was to give a ball, the only one (so far as I know) since the jubilee year of 1887. This one, I think, was to celebrate the jubilee of 1897. Arthur said that we must both go.

  Gray’s Inn had always held a peculiar fascination for me. Arthur had taken me to see the mellow old hall with its oak tables and famous portraits, and told me of the ceremony of the loving-cup on Grand Night, when they toasted ‘the pious, glorious, and immortal memory of Good Queen Bess’. On one most memorable occasion, too, I had been permitted to see an actual letter written by Bacon. It was at the time when Arthur and I were greatly interested in the Shakespeare-Bacon controversy, so I looked up at the librarian and said, pointing to the letter, ‘Was it this hand that wrote Hamlet?’ ‘That is as you like it,’ was the smiling response. The beautiful garden had been another delight—the gateway, the cawing of rooks, the trees and lawns, and especially the old catalpa tree, that was said to have been brought as a sapling from America by Raleigh as a present to Bacon. ‘Do you think he really brought it?’ I asked Arthur. ‘Well,’ said Arthur, ‘if he didn’t he ought to have done.’

  Prowling about the Inn like this was one thing, but a ball was quite another, and I immediately pleaded the excuse that I couldn’t leave Bronwen for so many hours.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Arthur, ‘you can see her safely asleep before we start, and surely Emma can be trusted to look after her for once.’

  Emma was so excited at the possibility of such a care, and at the idea of having the cot by her own bed-side for once, that it would have been cruel to disappoint her. My next line of defence—insufficiency of outfit—was useless, since my wedding-dress was all ready, even to the white shoes and stockings. I then abandoned myself to the fun of the thing. There was the usual sport of Arthur struggling into his dress suit, hunting for his studs, and getting his tie right. It always seems to me that men take much longer than we do over such affairs. Then there was the never-fading joy of a drive in a hansom.

  Gray’s Inn had let itself go. It was a gloriously hot night, and the whole place seemed to me a fairyland of coloured lights and gaily dressed people, as we all danced and wandered into the garden. I knew several of Arthur’s barrister friends, and di
dn’t lack partners. But one of them certainly alarmed me. This was Master Lewis Coward, enormously tall, in court dress, and I believe an extremely important man, a Bencher no doubt. I soon forgot my nervousness, for he danced divinely.

  § 2

  When August was upon us we had several invitations for the holidays to choose from. My special aunt, Tony, who had received weekly bulletins of the child’s progress, was longing to see her playing about where her grandmother had played. Then Arthur’s mother badly wanted her little grandchild. As on many another occasion I was torn between Cornwall and Wales, but decided on Wales, for I could see that Arthur was dying to show his possession to his people. No sooner had we settled on this than Yetta bore down upon us, and insisted on our going for a fortnight to a farm-house in Brecknock. Indeed she had taken the rooms, and would not hear of a refusal. As she rightly pointed out, it would be a shorter journey than to North Wales. So we agreed to go there first, then on to Aberdovey, leaving the visit to Reskadinnick till the following year, when Bronwen would be able to run about in its spacious grounds.

  Emma was to go ‘down hoom’ while we were away, and was quite able to see herself off. I gave her an addressed postcard to let me know that all was well. It came, bearing the simple message ‘’rived safe’. Our journey to Hay went off finely, and we were driven in the market cart up to Noyaddu farm, high among the hills. As Yetta had designed, it was a complete holiday for me, and a glorious change for us all after living in a flat. Oats were being carried, wheat being reaped, fowls and ducks and geese continually having something done for them, vegetables, milk, cream, eggs…everything in plenty around us. We had drives among the ‘Begwns’ where we had lovely views of the Black Mountains, or short walks about the fields. Arthur had a day’s fishing in the Wye, and brought home twenty-four trout and perch (caught with cock-a-bonddu and hazel fly); so we had trout for supper and perch for breakfast.

  Bronwen made rapid advance in weight and length (which we now called height, since she could pull herself upright). But it is her human surroundings that are most vivid in my memory. M’Jane and Yetta had not even a nephew or niece to spend their affection upon, and let it all pour forth on Bronwen. Yetta made garments for her, and M’Jane played baby games with her. The farm was run by a young man and his two sisters, and their aged mother sat in the chimney-corner of the kitchen, too old for work, but not too old to play with Bronwen. I think for her it was a kind of renewal of life as she joined M’Jane in games of peep-bo, pat-a-cake, and blerum. This last performance never never fails to charm a baby. It is done by pouting the lips and flicking the finger up and down them rapidly, at the same time emitting a bubbling sound. Arthur had discovered this in pursuing his hobby of studying old Welsh poetry. A very early poet, named Taliessin, was found (like Moses and Romulus) in the water, and when rescued burst forth into poetry—although he was too much of a baby to be expected even to speak! He was clearly inspired! It was a miracle! A large number of wise bards were assembled, so that they might listen to his wisdom. They sat round the baby in a solemn circle, but all he did was to play blerum at them. It is of course a long story, but that is the short of it.

  It was like parting with their own flesh and blood when M’Jane and Yetta said goodbye to Bronwen. We had a queer cross-country railway journey from Hay to Aberdovey, involving a change at Moat Lane, but Bronwen appeared to delight in it all, and was received with rapture by her grandmother. This was not her first grandchild, but it was the first that she was allowed to have all to herself, without any intervening nurse. She had had plenty of sorrow in her life, and in my long acquaintance with her I never knew her so genuinely happy as when she was riding Bronwen on her foot or lap, and singing strange baby doggerel to her. Verses long forgotten came back as soon as she had the child to say them to.

  Betsy Brig had a pig, and it was double-jointed;

  She tried to make it dance a jig, and she was disappointed.

  At such quips Bronwen would laugh as though she saw the joke.

  After much searching of the village we managed to hire a mail-cart, and with this we had triumphal walks through the one long straggling street of Aberdovey, where everybody knew us and came up to congratulate and admire. Since this street was open throughout its length to the sea, and faced south, Bronwen thrived faster than ever with the air and the sunshine. She had to be taken, too, by the toy railway up the valley to Aberllefeni, where endless friends and distant relations found striking likeness to her grandfather Hughes. In my heart I detected a likeness to her grandfather Thomas and her uncle Barnholt, whose sunny faces, always fresh in my memory, I longed to see living again.

  We returned to London in grand style. Alfred’s wife and three children with their nurse had been staying at Aberdovey, and a first-class carriage was engaged for us all. At Euston Alfred was there to meet his people, and Yetta to help us back to Ladbroke Grove. Emma had returned and done all she could think of to make the flat look cosy.

  Arthur and I always managed some little celebration for October 2nd, our common birthday. This year we decided to keep it on the preceding Saturday afternoon. We took Bronwen in her pram to browse among the shop-windows of Notting Hill Gate. We got much pleasure from selecting all the articles of furniture and comforts for the home that it would be good to have, and still more satisfactory to do without. The only shop that it was difficult to get Arthur past was a combination of old curiosities and second-hand books. After enormous deliberation we actually set foot inside this shop. At least, Arthur did, while I stayed outside with Bronwen. I glimpsed him through the doorway as he examined in his short-sighted way pretty well everything on sale. At last he came out with a pair of brass candle-sticks.

  ‘One each for us,’ said I, ‘and now what for Bronwen?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea for her,’ said Arthur, ‘you see I have so little of her company, that I think it would be jolly if she could be more on a level with us at breakfast. Let’s buy her a high chair.’

  This was a tremendous success. The chair put her on a level with us physically, and almost mentally, for as Arthur read out bits from the paper she would bang with her spoon on the front tray in disapproval, or laugh with approval. And the chair could be let down to a lower level during the day, and seemed safer in this position; but for the most part Bronwen preferred to crawl about and make her own discoveries. As I sat and watched her it occurred to me that I might as well make studies of her little curly toes and, rounded legs and arms. These I could do fairly well after my assiduous copying from the old masters in the National Gallery. Then a bolder scheme rose in my mind. I hunted up my old sketch-books and saw that I could make a complete life of Christ in pictures, with the corresponding words from the Gospels underneath, and appropriate poetry from Milton, Herbert, Blake, Keble, and so on, to face them on the opposite page. It was all to be done in proper script, with illuminated capitals and borders, like a medieval manuscript. (Later on Ursula Wood and I carried out this idea together and got it published.)

  When Christmas came our difficulty lay in consuming all the good things sent us. As usually happens, our friends were also being overloaded. However, M’Jane and Yetta came to the rescue and agreed to come to dinner with us on Christmas Eve and help us eat an enormous turkey sent by Mr. Corner and reared at his own place. We could not say of it what the Cornish miner said of a goose—‘The worst of it is that it’s too much for one, and not enough for two.’ So enormous was it that none of our pans would hold it, and Arthur and I had to dash out into Portobello Lane to buy an outsize pan. Time was of the essence, for it was going to take hours to cook. Our next trouble was to get it into the oven, but with some bending and squeezing we managed this at last. It turned out beautifully, and our only regret was that our visitors’ appetites had very little effect on its size. They invited us to pay a return visit on Boxing Day. Some kind of high chair had been contrived for Bronwen, and she sat up to dinner and behaved beautifully. In the afternoon the grand drawing-room was at h
er disposal to crawl about as she liked; nothing was too sacred for her to handle and roll about. For a surprise at teatime the two sisters had decorated a small Christmas-tree, with tiny gifts for Bronwen hung about it, and some candles (placed very safely) and bright-coloured balls among the branches. They were amply rewarded for their trouble by her ecstatic little cooings and laughter and thumps on the table.

  Among our visitors that winter was Mrs. Keyes. Arthur came across her one day in Gray’s Inn, and told her, of course, about Bronwen, and invited her to come over to see us. ‘Come to tea next Saturday, and bring your husband.’ A child is such a solvent of social difficulties that Mrs. Keyes was obviously quite at home as soon as she had Bronwen on her lap. She declared (and she could have said nothing more warming) that Bronwen was the living image of Mr. Barnholt. Her husband was too nervous to say much and confined his few remarks to admiration of the flat. As they were going he put a hand lovingly on the dark-brown dado of the passage. Drawing me aside he said in a low tone: ‘The best of this, you see, Mum, is when you come home a bit late and that, and you lean against the wall, it doesn’t show the mark.’ How Arthur and I used to laugh afterwards about the uses of our dado. I am pleased at the memory of that visit, for not many months later we heard that both Mrs. Keyes and her husband were ill. I went to see them in their room in one of those depressing model dwellings somewhere off Gray’s Inn Road. The few comforts I had taken were nothing for people needing regular nursing, and I felt wretched and helpless about them, till in walked a Roman Catholic nun, and ‘took hold’. ‘It’s all right,’ said she, ‘we come in twice a day and do all that is possible for them.’ But she told me outside the door that there was no hope that either of them would live.