by Carol Hedges
“Why does that damn cook have to burn the toast every morning?” he snarls. “Cannot a man enjoy a half-decent breakfast in his own home?”
He rises, his face a rictus of disgust.
“Enough of this rubbish. I’m off. I’ll get something on the way into town.”
She does not look up.
“When will you be back?”
“How do I know? I have a full day’s work ahead of me. Maybe I shall call in at the club and dine there.”
“I see. So, shall I tell Cook to prepare dinner for one tonight?”
“Tell her whatever you damn well want. It is of no matter either way as far as I am concerned.”
He tosses his napkin onto the table and strides out of the room. As she hears the front door bang shut, a feeling of relief settles over her. She sips her coffee, relishing its taste.
Life is so much easier without her husband’s malign presence, confusing things by his coldness, making her bite her tongue for fear that she let slip something that she will regret later. Or something that he will make her regret later.
Georgiana Undercroft finishes her breakfast alone, then goes upstairs to her bedroom to choose a suitable dress to wear. She is going out for the first time for ages. An old friend from her golden girlhood has unexpectedly got back in touch, suggested that they meet in town for shopping and a spot of luncheon.
She is fed up of modelling the betrayed and helpless woman suffering in silence. She rifles through her wardrobe looking for something more colourful and upbeat, suggestive of a woman who can still maintain a successful public persona. Her life, her marriage, are both one big sham. What does another lie matter now?
***
In another bedroom in another part of London, Belinda Kite lies on her back imagining herself back in the warm hotel sitting-room. Once again, she feels the delicious weight of Hawksley’s body on hers, hears his sighs rising to a crescendo.
It is not just the lovemaking that occupies her thoughts, but the realisation that her body has a power that she never knew it possessed before last night. In a world where her life has been blown about by any wind of chance, such knowledge comes as a revelation.
She is not sure what she will do with her new-found power. For now, just the mere fact of its existence is sufficient to lift her heart, raise her flagging spirits and cause her to spring out of bed with a smile, newly invigorated, to face the day ahead.
Humming happily to herself she breakfasts well, dresses herself, then sets about the business of the morning, which is to dispose of some more items from Grizelda Bulstrode’s extensive and largely unworn wardrobe. She will sell them off for the best price she can get and then pocket the money. With a lover comes ongoing expenses.
She intends to spend the money that she makes this time round on a new dress for herself. Not a handmade dress (that is still beyond her wildest dreams), but a machine-made one. She has seen some in a shop in the West End. They are not cheap, but with a bit of haggling and a lot of charm, she reckons she can raise the money she needs.
In the evening, she is meeting Hawksley in town for supper. A full day of work lies ahead of her. Followed by a full night of pleasure. Belinda Kite bundles up half a dozen brand new dresses and sets off in search of a cab.
***
Later that morning Emily Cully picks her way down the dingy side alley that leads to the sewing-room in the basement of one of the big department stores in Regent Street.
As she circumnavigates the filthy puddles of standing water, she breathes a silent prayer of gratitude for her deliverance from the sweatshop slavery of the sewing-room. She recalls Mrs Crevice, the sharp-eyed, scissor-lipped overseer, whose only mission in life seemed to be to make her young dressmakers’ lives as hellish as possible.
Entering the busy confines of the sewing-room now, she is immediately struck by the difference. The light is brighter. There is a pleasant hum of conversation. Even the mite sweeping up the scraps of material and bits of thread and lace looks clean, happy and reasonably well-fed.
Emily is greeted warmly by her best friend Caro. The two young women used to work together as shop dressmakers until Emily married and Caro took over the sewing-room as overseer. Under her kindly (if somewhat rough and ready) regime, the girls are at least allowed regular breaks from the eye-straining, backbreaking work.
“You here again, Em?” Caro grins. “Business must be good.”
“I have another order for a ball gown. I wanted to look at your new silks.”
“Come this way and I’ll show you what’s in stock.”
Caro leads the way up the familiar dusty stairs to the busy ground floor of the store. She pushes open the baize curtain that separates the shoppers from the slavers.
Emily is confronted by floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves stacked with bolts of cloth. Lemon, puce, violet, forest green and pale ivory silks and satins jostle for space.
She feasts her eyes on the material. She loves making dresses, and this is always the best part of the job: choosing the right colour for the client. Caro goes behind the counter, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the young male floor-walker who clearly does not approve of overalled women appearing on his floor.
“Oi! You can take that fucken look off yer face, Thomas Hinde,” Caro remarks, tossing her head. “I remember you when you was a snotty kid, yer backside hanging out of yer breeches. C’mon, Em – have a close look and take your pick.”
Emily points to a couple of rolls. Caro lifts them down and spreads them on the wooden counter. They study the silks carefully, looking for any flaws. When none are found, and Emily has chosen her material, Caro orders the shop assistant to cut off the required amount and parcel it up.
“Now let’s go and look at matching thread and trimmings,” she says.
They are just making their way to the next counter, when a very striking young lady and a fitting-room woman emerge from the showroom and pass them by. The fitter carries a beautiful ready-made leaf-green tiered velvet dress, with puffings and gathered sleeves. The smiling customer follows her to the till, her eyes fixed on the lovely gown.
Emily Cully pauses and frowns. She looks at the pretty young woman, observing her slim straight back and her russet-coloured curls tumbling down from a very fashionable bonnet. She recognises her as the companion of the Tartan Dress (a true professional, Emily tends to think of her clients in terms of their clothes rather than their names).
Caro catches her gaze.
“Nice dress, that one. Sewed it myself on one of them new machines. Got to have the right complexion to carry it off though.”
Oh, she has, Emily thinks, mentally visualising the young woman wearing the tight-bodiced green dress. It will suit her down to the ground.
“Not cheap neither. Top of the range,” Caro continues. “We’re doing more of these ready-made dresses all the time. Not everybody can afford to have handmade or wants second-hand. Nor wants to wait for a dress to be finished either.”
Emily watches from a distance as the young woman produces a couple of notes from her purse and hands them grandly to the cashier. She wonders how a poorly-paid ladies’ companion can afford to purchase an expensive off-the-peg item. It is a mystery. But then, much about this particular young woman falls into that category.
“You look like you know her, Em,” Caro remarks.
“I might possibly have seen her before.”
“Well, there she goes. Good luck to her, whoever she is. I hope she enjoys wearing the dress. Velvet’s a bugger to sew, isn’t it? Creeps everywhere. And those French seams nearly wore my eyes out. C’mon, Em, let’s see what we can find to trim your silk. I’ll work out a good price for you, and then we’re going to have a cup of strong sweet tea and a good catch up. You’re looking a bit peaky, my gal. Thought as much soon as you stepped into the sewing-room. Anything the matter? That husband of yours not keeping you short on the housekeeping?”
“I’m fine,” Emily says with a gentle sigh. “But a cup o
f tea would go down nicely, dear Caro. I’ll not lie to you, it’ll be a long walk home.”
***
Belinda Kite lies in her lover’s arms. This time they are not upon the velvet sofa, but in Hawksley’s feather bed. He is drowsy, on the verge of sleep, sated by their lovemaking. She on the other hand, is wide awake. She feels his body relaxing, his arms growing heavy.
“It must be wonderful to own a diamond mine,” she murmurs. “Can I see one of your diamonds before I leave you? I should so like to do that.”
Hawksley looks at her with an expression of sleepy amusement.
“What diamonds, sweetheart?”
“The ones from the diamond mine. I have never seen a diamond close to, nor actually held one. I should so very much like to, if it is no trouble.”
He laughs.
“I’m afraid I have no diamonds to show you, lovely girl.”
“But what about the big diamond you showed us at the meeting?”
His expression changes. Just a fraction.
“That is locked away safely. You don’t think I carry diamonds around in my pocket, do you?”
She shakes her head.
“And the other diamonds?
“They are still waiting to be dug out of the earth.”
“When will that happen?”
“When I have got enough money. Digging for diamonds is not like digging up potatoes. You have to hire men to dig, and equipment to aid them.”
She frowns.
“When will that be?”
“Soon, my pet. Very soon.”
“But there are diamonds,” she persists.
He props himself up on one elbow and regards her, his face almost tender.
“You really like them?”
“All my life I have always wanted a beautiful sparkling diamond necklace,” she sighs, her eyes gleaming in the waning candlelight.
He smiles down at her eager face.
“Well, I cannot promise you a necklace, lovely Belinda Kite, but you shall have some diamonds, if that is what your heart desires. Give me a day or two to arrange my affairs, then I shall take you to Hatton Garden, to the finest jeweller in all of London, and buy you a pair of diamond earrings that would grace the ears of the most beautiful lady in the land. How does that sound?”
She likes the sound of that very much indeed. Her eyes sparkle at the prospect.
Hawksley’s arms tighten around her slender waist and he gently puts his lips against her poppy-red mouth.
“Ah, what a face you have – let me kiss it. Come, my girl with the Autumn hair, we have much better things to do than discuss diamonds.”
His hands caress her, his lips place soft seductive kisses along the line of her throat. Belinda relaxes, letting him have his way with her body. But even while he is making love to her, she is already imagining the diamond earrings, and seeing them sparkle as she holds them in the palm of her hand.
***
London by night. A church clock strikes one, the spreading circles of vibration opening out into eternal space. Walk the streets after dark and you take flight from the familiar everyday existence of the daytime city, and cross the threshold of a strange new world, where the ghosts of the past commingle with the outcasts of the present.
The late public houses have turned their lamps out, the last shouting drunkards have been ejected by the potman into the street. Now there are only stray people and stray vehicles.
Walk on. A cab rattles by, followed by two others, the sound breaking the silence like a glass dropped onto a flagged floor. There are few lights in the windows now. Only the pattering rain accompanies you as you walk the interminable tangle of streets.
You reach the river, which at this time of night has a dead and terrifying look. The houses on either bank rear up, black and forbidding, windows shuttered, as if wrapped in black shrouds. Pause on the bridge and look down. This is the last sight seen by those poor souls who choose to make their bed in the shadowy depths below.
Walk on. Here is a prison, heaving its massive sides into the night sky. Touch its stony walls as you pass, and imagine all the prisoners inside, locked in their cells, turning fitfully in tormented sleep as they wait for a dawn that brings no cheer, no hope.
From this dismal place, you walk until you reach one of the great city churches, whose dark arches and pillars are guarded by an elderly watchman. He walks among the graves with a dark lantern, making sure none have been disturbed. Here the air is heavy and full of ghosts.
Stand awhile and consider all the millions and millions of dead buried throughout time, and imagine how if they all came back to life and filled the streets once more, there would not be space enough to place a hatpin between them, and the vast armies of the dead would overflow the great city, filling the fields and hills and byways that stretch away into the distance, almost to infinity and beyond.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, you reach a great railway terminus. Now there is light and company aplenty, for the early morning mail is coming in. The lamps are ablaze, and post office carts and cabs are drawn up ready. Porters rush around with trolleys, and then, with a screech and a hiss and a cloud of white smoke, the night train comes in.
The guard in his red coat opens the van doors and the nets of letters and parcels are disgorged and taken away to be sorted. A few sleepy passengers step down and are hustled away in cabs. And then the lights go out and the porters scurry away to their place of concealment, to await the next train.
Look. The night is fading. Dawn is rising over the hills of Highgate and the houses of Hammersmith. The first straggling workers are already in the streets; the first street-corner breakfast sellers are lighting their braziers. It is time to quit the desert regions of the night and make your solitary way back home to your own hearth.
***
November is a cruel month. Bare trees, frost that seizes the ground and won’t let go. Belinda Kite sits in the breakfast room, wearing her new warm woollen wrapper, a cup of hot coffee at her elbow. The parlour maid enters, carrying a silver tray.
“A letter has come for you, miss.”
She grabs it, her heart beating wildly. It has been two days since she last lay in Hawksley’s arms and he promised to take her to Hatton Garden to buy some diamond earrings.
For two days, she has suffered the pains of waiting and longing, her mind ticking over with him, so loud it is as if she hears it. Without bothering to turn the letter over and check the superscript, she seizes the butter-knife and rips the letter open.
Dear Miss Kite (she reads),
All good things must come to an end and so Sissy and I are bidding farewell to our friends in the north and coming back to London. By the time you receive this letter we will be on the train, to arrive Tuesday afternoon.
We shall return without Mr Hawksley, however, as he has been suddenly and unexpectedly called away on business. I am delighted to report that prior to his unexpected departure he and Sissy have been getting on like a house on fire, as the saying goes.
While he was with us, they spent much time in each other’s company and I think it fair to say that he is well on the way to being truly smitten with my sister. As she is with him. We hope to meet up with him again when we are all back in London.
Please make sure the house is well aired for our return, and the fires lit in our bedrooms. I should like cook to prepare a hearty beef stew with dumplings for our first supper. We look forward to renewing our acquaintance with you and hope you have not felt too lonely in our absence.
Yours sincerely,
Josiah and Grizelda Bulstrode
Belinda Kite’s spirits plummet. Somehow, in the transforming events of the past week, she has lost sight of her true reason for being in London. Now she feels the prison bars of the paid companion getting ready to enclose her once again.
No more venturing out to the shops on her own. No more leisurely tea and cakes in some nice little tea room. Definitely no more delicious lovemaking with Mark
Hawksley. And no diamond earrings.
It is enough to make a lesser woman burst into tears and beat her fists on the table in frustration. But Belinda Kite is made of stronger stuff. Finishing her coffee, she goes straight out into the hallway and lifts down her shawl.
Then, cramming on her bonnet, she sets off briskly in search of the finest jeweller in all of London. Maybe she will never own a pair of diamond earrings, but she can still look at them. And dream.
***
Sally’s Chop House is a dark low-ceilinged place off Fleet Street. The customers sit on rough-hewn wooden benches and eat off chipped plates set on rough-hewn wooden tables.
The sawdust on the floor is patterned with boot prints, gravy and the odd chop bone. It is the sort of place that Bradshaw’s Guide Through London And Its Environs (purchasable at any railway station) might probably describe as: Best avoided.
It is, however, Detective Inspector Stride’s favourite watering hole. Here he is, sitting in one of the back booths, a plate of mutton chops and a baked potato in front of him.
Sally, the eponymous owner dressed in his traditional food-stained apron, hovers in the background. There is a copy of The Inquirer on the table. Stride is reading it while he eats. Every now and then he stabs at it with his fork and splutters, lost in the maze of his own thoughts.
Sally bends forward from what would have been a waist if he wasn’t spherically built, and peers down.
Red-Paint Outrage!! Reward Offered!
Detective Police Have ‘Nothing to Say’!
“Everything to your satisfaction, Mr Stride?” he inquires.
Stride glowers.
“No, Sally, it certainly is not! Look at this! If newspapers are going to go around offering money left right and centre, I can see a time coming when people will start doing things just to get paid by the newspapers for doing them. Then where will we be?”