Respectable? For someone like Jenny, respectability meant clean sheets and clothes; a man with a steady job, food on the table. Respectability was morality, and morality was order. Respectability was survival. No wonder then that it was so highly valued by so many of the working class.
The meeting that Saturday had been the same as all the others. They had sat, talked a little. She had brought little presents for her six-year-old nephew and his little sister. She had played with the youngest, a baby girl of only two. She had wondered if perhaps she should mention Percy, but although she was going to see his family at Crystal Palace the next day, there was nothing really, as yet, to say. And the visit would have ended inconsequentially enough, like all the others, if it had not been for the pale and scrawny woman who appeared at the door, just before she was due to leave.
She had red hair, which might have been striking enough, though it was stringy and unkempt; but what made an even greater impression upon Jenny were her eyes, sunken with fatigue and staring. Holding her hand was a filthy child who was bawling because he had cut himself. A quick inspection showed Jenny that the cut wasn’t serious, but the poor woman claimed she had nothing to bandage it with. They found something, quietened the child, and also two more of the woman’s children who came wandering in. They all looked undernourished. After they had gone her brother had explained.
“Her husband died two years ago. Four children. We all give her a bit of help but . . . .” He shrugged.
“What does she do?” she had asked. “Matchboxes?”
“No. You can get more stuffing mattresses at home. But it’s heavy work, you see. Wears you out.” He shook his head. “Lost her man, see?”
Soon after that she had left, kissed her father and the children goodbye, and her brother, unusually, had walked with her a little way. At first he remained silent, but after they had gone about a quarter mile he said quietly:
“You done well for yourself, Jenny. I don’t begrudge you that, you know. But it’s more than that.”
“How do you mean?”
“You did right not to marry.” He shook his head. “That one you saw. Her husband had a good job, you know. Plasterer he was. And now he’s gone . . . .”
She was silent.
“If anything ever happened to me, Jenny, you’d keep an eye on my little ones, wouldn’t you? I mean, not let them starve or anything? You not being married, that is. You could do that, couldn’t you?”
“I suppose,” she said slowly, “I’d do my best.”
It was a very jolly party the next day. Percy was looking so pleased and happy as he met her at Crystal Palace Station. She was wearing a pretty little straw hat she had bought herself, a very nice green and white dress, quite simple but very good material, that she had got from Mrs Silversleeves. She had even, though she had never done such a thing before, taken a little parasol. She could see Percy felt proud of her.
The villa where Herbert lived was a nice little house, two storeys over a half-basement, the front door being up a few stone steps. There was a little patch of lawn at the front with a privet hedge around it. There was an evergreen tree in the garden next door which perhaps made the place a little bit dark, but inside it was very nice. Indeed, Jenny’s practised eye took in at once, every square inch of the place was polished and gleaming. As soon as she met Maisie, she could see why.
For the greatest social change wrought by the Industrial Revolution in London concerned the suburbs. The vast scale of trading operations, the growing banks, insurance companies and imperial administration in Victorian and Edwardian London required an army of clerks. And because there were now trains, and the spreading suburbs were both cheaper and more salubrious, this hugely expanded class commuted into work in their thousands and their tens of thousands. Men like Herbert Fleming, whose parents or grandparents had been shopkeepers or craftsmen, put on their suits and took the train to the office. Their wives, who would formerly have lived by their workshop or helped in their shop, were left alone at home and considering themselves a cut above women who worked, took on, in whatever small ways they could afford, the mannerisms of ladies of leisure.
Maisie was rather short. The first thing Jenny noticed was that she had a small birthmark on her neck; the second that she had a red mouth and tiny, sharp-looking little teeth. She had a single housemaid, whom she worked to death, and another girl who came in to help. Her sitting room had antimacassars on every chair, a large potted plant in the window and, in pride of place on the wall, a painting of a mountain which, she explained, her father had bought in Brighton. Had Jenny ever been to Brighton? she politely asked as they sat before the meal. Jenny said she had not.
The dining room was rather small. There was a round table in the middle and Jenny found she could only just squeeze into her place.
“I always like a round table. This is the one we had when I was a child, though it went in a bigger room,” said Maisie. “Do you like a round table?” Jenny answered that she liked them well enough.
They had roast chicken, with all the trimmings, carved with a number of theatrical flourishes by Herbert.
Despite these high domestic standards, it was soon clear that Herbert and Maisie also prided themselves on being very jolly. Once a month, without fail, they went to a music hall. “And then I get the whole performance back from Herbert the next evening!” Maisie laughed.
“She’s no better with her drama society,” Herbert rejoined.
“Maisie has a lovely singing voice,” Percy added.
But their favourite activity in summer, Jenny learned, was to go for a bicycle ride on Sunday afternoons.
“Have you tried it?” Maisie asked her. “Herbert and I go for miles sometimes. I do recommend it.”
It had not escaped Jenny’s notice that Maisie’s eyes, which were sharp, had been looking thoughtfully at her clothes ever since she had arrived. When the chicken was done and a fruit pie had been served, she evidently thought it was time to make a few enquiries.
“So,” she said brightly, “Percy tells us you live at Hampstead.”
“That’s right,” said Jenny.
“It’s very nice up there.”
“Yes,” said Jenny. “I suppose it is.”
“Before we bought this house,” said Maisie, with just the tiniest extra clarity on the word “bought”, so that Jenny should understand their financial position, “we did think of living up there.” Just before she had married, Maisie had inherited the sum of five hundred pounds. It was not a fortune, but enough to buy the house and leave some over. She and Herbert were quite well set up, therefore. “Your family’s always lived up there?” she enquired.
Suddenly Jenny realized they didn’t know anything about her. Percy hadn’t told them. She looked at him for guidance, but all he did was smile. “No,” she said truthfully. “They don’t.”
Percy had never brought anyone to meet Herbert and Maisie before. He had supposed vaguely that they would all like each other. He realized of course that Jenny might not seem a great catch in Maisie’s eyes; but it had not occurred to him that she would feel it affected her. Maisie’s social aspirations were quite modest and with her house and her popular husband they were nearly satisfied. But if her husband’s brother, living nearby, went and married beneath them, what did that do to the name of Fleming in the locality? She had planned – it had been her little project – to find him a nice girl who would do credit to them all. She had to make sure this mysterious girl from Hampstead was safe.
“So what keeps you in Hampstead?” Maisie persisted, quietly.
“That’s what I keep asking her,” Percy cut in, rather cleverly he thought. “She’s so far away up there I never get to see her.” And he started to describe in detail the time he had had the week before when he had missed the last train home from Victoria. He and Herbert had a good laugh about that. Maisie was silent.
As for Jenny, she felt only a kind of sullen misery. Was Percy trying to conceal what she was from his
family? What was the point?
The meal was over, and the two brothers had just gone outside together when Maisie quietly turned to her.
“I know what you do,” she said softly. “You’re in service, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” said Jenny.
“I thought so. Those clothes.” Maisie nodded. “We’ve never had anyone in service in our family, of course. Or Herbert’s.”
“No. I don’t suppose you ever will, either,” said Jenny.
“Oh.” Maisie looked her straight in the eye. “That’s all right then.”
When, an hour later, in the handsome park around Crystal Palace, Percy asked her to marry him, Jenny said: “I don’t know, Percy. I really don’t know. I need some time.”
“Of course. How long would you like?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry, Percy, but I want to go home.”
Esther Silversleeves waited two weeks before she spoke to Jenny. By then she was worried.
“Jenny, you’ve been here most of your life. Now please tell me what’s the matter.” She waited patiently for her to speak.
Though Jenny had a few friends, there was no one she really felt she could confide in; so for the previous two weeks she had thought about it alone. And the more she thought, the more it seemed that everything was impossible. For a start, there was Percy to consider. Maisie and Herbert have probably talked him out of it by now, she thought. I expect he’s wishing he’d never proposed. What’s Percy want with an old thing like me with no money? she said to herself. Maisie could find him a young girl who’d do him much better. There was her brother and his children, also. I may be poor, she considered, but working as I do, if anything happened to him I could keep those children from starving. And dear old Mrs Silversleeves really needs me, Jenny thought. I’d be walking out on her, too.
“It’s nothing, really,” she said.
“Tell me about him,” the old lady said quietly, and when Jenny looked surprised: “Out late and all dressed up on a Saturday night; then off with a straw hat and a parasol the next Sunday? Surely,” she continued, as Jenny looked up ruefully, “you can’t think me such a fool that I hadn’t noticed.”
So, haltingly, Jenny told her some of it. She said nothing about her brother and his family because that subject was forbidden, but she told her a little about Percy and his family, and her doubts.
“I couldn’t leave you, Mrs Silversleeves. I owe you so much,” she concluded.
“You owe me?” Esther stared at her, then shook her head. “Child,” she said gently, “you owe me nothing. I cannot possibly live many more years, you know. I shall be looked after. Now as to this Percy,” she continued firmly. “You only suppose he’s having second thoughts. If he loves you, nothing this Maisie says is going to affect him in the least.”
“But it’s his family.”
“Oh, damn his family!” said Mrs Silversleeves, surprising them both so much that they laughed. “Now,” she said, “is that all?”
It wasn’t. Every day the memory of the woman she had seen at her brother’s, the desolation of her own childhood, those last words of poor Lucy – “Don’t ever go back” – came to visit her. The stark reality was still, as far as Jenny could see, very plain. Marriage to Percy, some children perhaps: all right enough. But if Percy died, what then? A life like the poor folk in the East End? Probably not quite that bad, but hard. Very hard. Her brother had a point. She’d done well not to marry. She had the security of the Silversleeves house; a good character; some savings. After Mrs Silversleeves had gone, she knew she’d find a good position. A housekeeper even, or lady’s maid.
Young girls got married without a thought; women like Jenny didn’t, despite the fact that she longed to be loved and to live with Percy so much that it hurt.
The pains in her stomach had started a week ago. Sometimes they seemed like a knot. Twice she had been sick and she knew she was very pale. She was not surprised when Mrs Silversleeves said gently:
“Jenny, you don’t look very well. I’m going to call the doctor.”
If Mayfair had always remained a fashionable residential quarter, the area above Oxford Street had taken on a more professional air. Baker Street, on its western side, had been immortalized by Conan Doyle as the abode of his fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, but Harley Street near its eastern edge had achieved world fame all on its own.
Harley Street: it was, so to speak, the Savile Row of the medical profession. The men who practised in Harley Street were no ordinary doctors, but the most eminent specialists and were usually granted the title of “Mr”, rather than “Dr”. They also had the reputation for being rude – for the simple reason that they could get away with it. After all, if a man is only treating you for the common cold, you need not put up with much nonsense; but if he is going to cut a piece out of your liver, you normally prefer to humour him.
With some apprehension, the following week, Jenny made her way down Harley Street until she reached the door which a brass plate announced was the sanctum of Mr Algernon Tyrrell-Ford.
The Silversleeves’s family doctor had not been able to find anything seriously wrong with her; but he had confessed to Mrs Silversleeves that, had Jenny been able to afford it, he would have sent her to a specialist just to make sure. Esther had been adamant. “Of course she must go!” she said. “Refer all the bills to me.” And despite Jenny’s protests she had sent her there in the carriage.
Mr Tyrrell-Ford turned out to be a large, portly and brusque gentleman. He ordered her sharply to undress and then examined her. It left Jenny feeling awkward and humiliated.
“Nothing wrong with you,” he stated bluntly. “I’ll write to your referring doctor, of course.”
“Oh,” she said weakly. “That’s nice.” She tried to mumble more thanks; but he did not seem interested. Then, just as she was nearly dressed he casually remarked: “You know you can’t have children, I suppose.”
She stared at him in horror for a moment. “But why not?” she managed at last.
Seeing no point in wasting words which such an insignificant woman could not possibly understand he merely shrugged. “It’s the way you’re made,” he said.
Percy had suggested by letter that they should meet at Tower Bridge and she had agreed. She understood it was his way of saying that he hoped the place would bring him luck.
Now that she knew what to do it was almost a relief. When she had told Mrs Silversleeves, the old lady was not sure. “He might not mind, Jenny,” she had suggested. But Jenny had known better. “He told me he wants a family,” she explained. “I know Percy. If I tell him the truth now, he’ll say it doesn’t matter. But it does.” The old lady had sighed.
Though it was summer, it was a dull day. As she had expected, he was waiting for her in the middle of the bridge, just as he had before. She gave him a smile, linked her arm in his in a friendly way, and then began to walk, leading him instinctively to the southern side, as if she were returning him to his own territory. They walked a little way down Tower Bridge Road then turned right towards London Bridge Station where there was a little tea shop where they could sit down.
“What’s it to be, then?” he asked.
“Just a cup of tea,” she said quickly, so he ordered tea and for a minute or two they talked about nothing at all, until the tea was poured.
“So,” he said again, looking at her meaningfully this time. “What’s it to be, Jenny?”
“I’m sorry, Percy,” she said slowly. “I’m so flattered, I mean, really honoured, Percy. You’re such a kind friend. But I just can’t.”
He looked shaken. “Is it something Maisie . . .”
“No,” she cut in. “It isn’t that. I don’t care about her. It’s my fault. I like going out with you very much, Percy. I’ve really enjoyed it. But I’m happy where I am. I don’t want to get married. Not to anyone.” She had thought of telling him there was someone else, to make it more final, but she knew that was absurd.
; “Maybe,” he said, “I can persuade you to change your mind.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t think we ought to meet for a while.”
“Well,” he began, “we can still . . .”
“Percy,” she cut him short quite sharply with a little show of cruel impatience that she had been practising in her mind for days. “I don’t want to marry you, Percy. I never did and I never shall. I’m sorry.” And before he knew what was happening, she walked out.
She walked quickly back towards Tower Bridge. She was just about halfway across when she noticed that a ship was approaching from upstream and that the bridge was about to open. She was already hurrying down the northern side when she thought she heard a cry, far behind her.
Percy had been running. For a moment or two he had been so stunned in the shop that he had forgotten to pay for the tea and had been called back. Then he had run as fast as he could back towards Tower Bridge. He saw her from the approach road, cried out, “Jenny!” and was just running out on to the great bascules when a burly policeman stopped him.
“Sorry, you can’t go now, lad,” he said. “Bridge is up.” And as he spoke, Percy saw the road ahead begin to tilt before his eyes as Arnold Silversleeves’s mighty mechanism went smoothly into operation.
The raising of Tower Bridge was an awesome sight. It happened about twenty times a day. To Percy it seemed as if the road before him rising up like a huge, hundred-foot wall blocking out the light, severed him with majestic finality from the one he loved.
“I’ve got to cross now!” he shouted foolishly.
“Only one way to do it, son,” the policeman said, and pointed up to the walkway which ran along the top. With a cry of anguish Percy ran towards the nearby southern tower.
He ran, panting and puffing, up the two hundred steps and more. Gasping he raced across the iron walkway that seemed to stretch before him like an endless, iron tunnel. Then he charged down the iron staircase in the northern tower to the other roadway.
There was no sign of Jenny. She had simply vanished. There was only the grim, old Tower of London behind the trees on the left, and on the right, the silent grey waters of the Thames.
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