Old Baggage

by Lissa Evans

  Ida’s aunt had given her a bundle of plain lawn squares, which, when hemmed and embroidered, could be re-sold as handkerchiefs for a shilling each. Ida was working on a moss-stitch rose, concentrating every speck of her attention on the task because that way she could avoid having to think about anything else. She kept forgetting to blink, so that her eyes felt roasted.

  ‘Drink your tea,’ said Aunt Lilias. ‘And you needn’t make it so perfect, it’s not worth your time for what people will pay for them. If you cross-stitch a double border, that’s enough.’

  Ida took an obedient mouthful and pulled a face. ‘Too much sugar.’

  ‘It’s good for you. There’s a nice pear if you’re hungry.’

  ‘I’ll have it later.’

  The knock made both of them jump.

  ‘It’ll be the tally-man …’ said her aunt, rising, but it wasn’t. The sound of Miss Simpkin’s voice rose above the blare of a passing train, and Ida started up, the handkerchief dropping to the floor.

  ‘You can just turn right round and go away again,’ said her aunt. The view to the door was blocked by a drying rack, and Ida edged forward until she could see between the pillow cases. She could tell from the angle of her aunt’s back that Miss Simpkin would be coming no nearer than the outside landing, and from the tone of her aunt’s voice that there would be no interrupting her, no wedging of justifications between the hammered sentences – every word had been waiting, primed for use.

  ‘No, she doesn’t want to see you, and for two pins I’d chase you down the road. Miss Lee said you’d stick with Ida. She said, “Mrs Beck, I can promise you that Miss Simpkin’s a sticker,” but you didn’t stick, did you? You didn’t stick and you let Ida down, you got her hopes up and then turned your back on her and gave a leg-up to someone that didn’t need it, someone who has it all on a plate, and then afterwards nothing – you didn’t come here then, did you, not a word of apology, you might as well have slapped her down, and I hold you, Miss Simpkin, I hold you responsible – you should be ashamed of yourself, with all your talk of everyone together and all’s fair, and telling the girls that the Empire lot were bad when Mrs Cellini’s been ten times the help you have, ten times. If it wasn’t for Mrs Cellini …’

  There was a fractional pause. Ida held her breath.

  ‘… So don’t go thinking you’ll get round her now,’ said her aunt, violently changing tack, her tone relentless. ‘It’ll take a hayload more than “sorry”. No,’ she continued, over a comment from Mattie, ‘she’s not ill, who told you she was ill? There’s nothing wrong with her. No, she’s helping me, she doesn’t have time for running about, she’s got to make her own way, just like I had to make my own way, the world’s not moved on an inch, all those new women in the magazines, it’s all lies, it’s all nonsense, it’s – what’s in that? Is that her wages? About time. Yes, I’ll give it to her, and you can go now.’

  The door clapped shut.

  Ida’s aunt stood, breathing heavily, an envelope balled in her hand. ‘Don’t, Ida,’ she said, not looking round. ‘Don’t cry. You won’t get anywhere by crying.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Though she was. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and then her aunt was back by her side, taking one of the handkerchiefs that Ida had embroidered – a tumble of pastel flowers on one corner – and pressing it into her hand.

  ‘Blow your nose.’

  ‘I’ve just finished making it.’

  ‘And it’s a pretty thing. Almost good enough for you.’ Her aunt gave Ida’s hand a swift pat – half admonition, half affection – and went back to her ironing.

  Dear Florrie,

  I have spent the day with Mr Arnold, who came this morning to clean out the gutters. Since he arrived with the same ladder as last year (do you remember? It has a distinct starboard slant) and no boy accompanying him (Reginald has had enough of working outside in all weathers, and is now on the glove counter at Debenhams, much to his father’s disgust), I felt obliged to act as anchor, and was therefore unable to escape a two-hour monologue on the history of the British Monarchy, of which Arnold senior appears to be chief archivist. In case you didn’t know, Florrie, the Regency Act of 1830 made provision for a change in the line of succession had a child been born to William IV after his death, a fact that I shall doubtless mull over during the long winter evenings.

  All of which lengthy preamble is merely a way of delaying having to tell you that I did not manage to speak to Ida. Her aunt, a tigress of rare stripe, sent me on my way with a clawed ear, and I barely glimpsed her niece amongst the washing.

  After giving some thought as to what course I should take, on Tuesday I visited Pomeroy at his office. I have settled money on Ida, to enable her to continue her education, should she wish; Pomeroy will deal with all correspondence, since I think it would be expedient to keep myself at a remove. I have also given him a letter for Ida, which I hope she will be generous enough to read.

  An unexpected and tangential result of the above events has meant that I can now introduce myself to you as Mademoiselle Simpkin, as I am styled for my weekly French lesson at the Euston Road Continuation School. I am also teaching English, and have chosen to begin with Macbeth, given the ample opportunity it provides for re-enacting scenes of gore and violence – I have never before taught boys, but this has always proved a fruitful approach with the gentler sex.

  You would like my pupils, Florrie; they are raw and loud and eager. The answers they gave to my question ‘Describe Lady Macbeth in a single sentence’ might not be acceptable in an examination – or, indeed, in polite society – but nevertheless strike truly at the heart of the matter.

  I am writing to you from the drawing room, and among the cards and invitations on the mantelpiece is one from Roberta, asking you to The Beeches for Christmas. I hope you will accept it. Or, if not, I hope that your current lodgings will provide you with congenial company. I have an errand or two to run, and shall therefore remain at the Mousehole for the festive season, should anyone wish to drop by. I have been making sloe gin, as evidenced by the indelible stains on my fingers. Out, damned spot …

  In friendship,

  Mattie

  Fifty-three, Ailsbury Gardens had a pokerwork sign on the gatepost which read ‘Beware of the Children’, and an obviously home-made holly wreath drooping asymmetrically from the door knocker; the pleasantly informal impression was deepened by a distant woofing that became rapidly louder and nearer the second Mattie lifted her finger from the doorbell.

  ‘Get in there,’ said a female voice. ‘Get in!’ There was the scuffle of toenails on tile, and then an inner door slammed, muffling the barking. Shortly afterwards, the front door opened to reveal a parlour maid, apron askew, her breath somewhat short.

  ‘Good afternoon, Madam. Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I have something for Inez.’

  ‘For Miss Inez?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mattie took the square, well-padded parcel out of her bag. ‘Could you please tell her that it’s fragile, and to unwrap it very carefully?’

  ‘May I say who called, Madam?’

  ‘Yes, my name is Miss Simpkin, but there is a card attached.’

  The maid took the package with requisite care, and Mattie had just turned to go when there was an exclamation from within the house and a Jack Russell shot up the passage and halted at her feet, yipping insistently, teeth bared, eyes boggling with hatred.

  ‘Sorry, terribly sorry,’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘What are you doing, little chap?’ asked Mattie, bending to scratch the dog’s head. It instantly stopped barking and writhed on the doormat, belly uppermost. The maid stooped for its collar and dragged it back up the hall.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the man again. ‘Paddy thinks everyone’s a burglar. You’re not hurt, are you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Campbell. Leo.’ He held out a hand.

  ‘Matilda Simpkin,’ said Mattie, shaking it.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked at her, apparen
tly startled. ‘You’re Miss Simpkin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said again, shoving his hands into his pockets like a schoolboy, and then straight away removing them, as if he’d just been reminded of his manners; he was in his late forties, with sandy hair in a tonsure and a mild, anxious face. ‘Do come in,’ he added.

  ‘I was not, in fact, visiting – merely leaving a gift for Inez.’

  ‘But if you have the time. I’d actually been intending to … now you’re here …’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but opened the door more widely, and Mattie managed a nod. It was not an interview she would have sought, but it was one that it would be cowardice to avoid.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  In the study, Campbell cleared a flotilla of paper boats from a chair, and gestured for Mattie to sit.

  ‘My wife’s taken the children to see a pantomime – the three youngest, that is; the other two are in the house somewhere … too old for Mother Goose. Should I ring for some tea?’

  ‘Not on my account, thank you.’ Glancing at the books on the nearest shelf, she adjusted her eye-glasses and peered more closely. There were seven copies of the same volume.

  ‘Xylem Transport by Dr L. Campbell. Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a botanist?’

  ‘A dendrologist, specifically. Though my youngest thinks I’m a woodcutter, like Hansel and Gretel’s father.’

  ‘I had no idea. I thought …’ What had she thought? That Venetia’s husband, who had insisted that she left the WSPU, who had kept her in seclusion, must be a thoughtless brute, a blank-faced gaoler? Campbell shifted in his chair, and removed something from beneath one buttock.

  ‘French militia,’ he said, inspecting the lead soldier, before placing it on the desk and looking at Mattie. ‘I … um … wanted to thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Thank me?’

  ‘For your efforts with Inez. Who doesn’t usually take kindly to outdoor activities. Or any activities at all, it has to be said, beyond visiting Regent Street. But you managed to get her camping and lighting fires. And throwing a javelin.’

  ‘She has quite a good arm. As had her mother.’

  His smile faded. ‘You knew Venetia well, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s hard to see her in Inez, isn’t it?’

  ‘Quite hard.’

  ‘Ralph, too, for that matter. He’s a tremendous stickler. Martinet. Chief whip in the making, Jenny says.’

  There was a pause. ‘That’s my wife. My second wife,’ he added. ‘Jenny.’

  He stopped speaking again, and rubbed his forehead, as if wiping the smears from a window; in the silence, Paddy could be heard, sniffing at the door.

  ‘Of course, neither of them really knew their mother and we’ve never told them the whole truth; it seemed too brutal. When Venetia was in the asylum for the first time—’

  Mattie wasn’t aware that she’d spoken or moved, but Campbell glanced at her. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She had, um … it was quite a specific condition. Postpartum psychosis. It began just a day or two after Ralph was born. Venetia kept trying to hide from us, she was terrified, she told the nurse she’d been kidnapped, she couldn’t remember having had a child – it all happened within hours – the speed of it was …’ He shook his head, lips pinched at the memory. ‘She was in the asylum for weeks and weeks and then she started to come back to her old self again. I suppose you would have first met her a year or so after that – my own mother was a keen suffragist. She took Venetia to a meeting and there was a speaker there from the WSPU. It was like lighting a match, she said. Like setting off a firework.’

  He picked up the lead soldier again, and idly, perhaps unconsciously, scraped its tiny bayonet along the desk top.

  ‘She had splendour,’ said Mattie. ‘I recently came across a magic-lantern slide that I hadn’t seen before – it shows Venetia striding along like a Valkyrie. I brought it with me, as a gift for Inez.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased,’ said Campbell, but he sounded distracted. ‘There’s actually another reason why I wanted to see you—’ He stood up, abruptly, and went over to the window. There was no view; merely the sidewall of the next house, the bricks purplish in the early twilight, but he stood looking out at it, the back of his head towards Mattie, hands once again plunged into his pockets.

  ‘We were … um … we were told that Venetia should never have another child, which, of course, we accepted. So when she … it was … we both knew that Inez wasn’t mine. And then, just a day after the birth, the same thing happened, exactly the same thing, the terror and the confusion – only my mother was unwell by then and couldn’t help with the children, and it was the war and there were factory jobs, no one wanted to be a nursemaid. And then one day in the asylum someone left Venetia’s room unlocked and she found her way to a medicines cupboard. It was … well, you can imagine. Much later on, months later, I found a letter hidden in one of her shoes, in this house. From …’

  ‘From my brother, Angus.’

  ‘Yes.’ He swung back to look at her, relief flooding his face. ‘Jenny was right – she was certain you knew. So when did you find out that you had a niece?’

  ‘I had no idea that Inez existed until she came to see me. And then I guessed.’

  ‘Because of a … a strong physical resemblance?’

  ‘Yes. You know – you do know that my brother was mortally wounded very early in the war?’

  Campbell nodded, soberly. ‘I can’t pretend that I wasn’t thrown when I found out who was running Inez’s club. But Jenny said, “Let’s just see what happens,” and you showed such … patience. And perseverance. And I gather from Ralph that it was your efforts to encourage Inez that led to the, er …’

  ‘Downfall of the Amazons,’ said Mattie. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So now you no longer have the chance to see her’ – he took a short breath, a nip of air to brace himself – ‘we’ve discussed this, Jenny and I, and we agree that if you wanted to visit us occasionally – as an acquaintance – a family friend …?’

  It took Mattie a moment to absorb the astonishing generosity of the offer, and in that disorientating second she had the sense of staring at a weather house, at one figure swinging back into the shadows while another came into the light, and it was Angus, her dear Angus, who was disappearing from view, and Campbell, shining with decency, who emerged.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I would like that. Although perhaps Inez would not.’

  ‘To be honest, we find it terribly hard to know what would please Inez. Harrods. She’s very keen on Harrods. But she’s still young, and we love her dearly and we hold out hope that, with time, there may be a change …’

  ‘It is never too late to be who you might have been,’ said Mattie.

  Campbell smiled and looked suddenly ten years younger.

  ‘My mother used to quote that,’ he said. ‘A sentiment true of all of us, I’d like to think.’

  It was windless outside, the air hazed with chimney smoke and Venus like a rusty pin above the rooftops. Mattie paused beside the streetlight and pulled on her gloves. She could still hear Paddy barking behind the closed door of number 53, and she glanced back at the house. On the first floor, in the uncurtained bay window, stood Inez. She was holding something up to the glass – a snowflake, cut from tissue paper, delicate and lacy – and she was speaking to someone over her shoulder; her hair had been bobbed since the summer, and she looked painfully young. After a moment or two Leo Campbell appeared, holding a glue pot and brush. Carefully, he anointed the snowflake and then feinted a dab at Inez’s nose; her shriek was audible even through the glass.

  Mattie, smiling, continued down the road, and turned on to Highgate Hill, taking her torch from her bag as she reached the shuttered tea-stall at the entrance to the Heath. The Mousehole was due west, no more than a mile and a half as the owl flew, and it was dry
underfoot, so that she was able to leave the gravelled path and take the slowly climbing track towards Parliament Hill. The Heath lay like a vast blanket dropped over the lit streets. Just visible to her left was the pale sombrero of the bandstand roof; beyond that lay the stretch of grass where the Sports Day displays had taken place, and the copse where Jacko had said of The Flea, ‘How well she looks after you.’

  She knew now how she should have answered. Instead of bridling at the implication, instead of feeling obscurely patronized, she should have replied, ‘Yes, and how lucky I am.’

  The dense shadow ahead of her separated into the trunks of a grove of beeches. I shan’t visit Inez, thought Mattie, with sudden certainty – or I shall visit only once, in thanks, and then never again. She is loved and cherished and I am not needed there – nor, in all honesty, wanted. And besides, she thought, as her torch beam slid through fallen leaves, besides, I have a close, true family of my own.

  1929

  BENDING TO FASTEN her shoes had left The Flea a little short of breath. She sat at the dressing table and rubbed cold cream into her hands and watched the morning light slide round the curtains; a bird was singing in the ivy, though she’d never been able to tell one birdsong from another – ‘A goldfinch,’ Mattie would announce, cocking an ear to an indistinguishable twittering. ‘Surely you can hear the sweesweesweeswee?’

  This song, though, seemed particularly distinctive, reminiscent of a street-corner fiddler tuning up, each line repeated with an identical flourish. Or perhaps it was simply that she had never properly listened before; there had always been reports to write and to read, buses to catch, appointments to meet, lists to be compiled, tasks completed and tasks begun. And now that she could no longer work, there was both plenty of time, and not enough.

  ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea,’ called Mattie, knocking.

  ‘Yes, do come in. What’s this bird?’

  Mattie listened for perhaps half a second. ‘That’s the wise thrush,’ she said. ‘He sings each song twice over, lest you think he could never recapture that first, fine, careless rapture. Now, I’m boiling you an egg. Would you like your breakfast brought up here?’