The Brontës Went to
Woolworths
A Novel
Rachel Ferguson
To
Rose Geraldine Ferguson
and to our ‘Horry’
about whom we know nothing
and everything
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
A Note on the Author
1
How I loathe that kind of novel which is about a lot of sisters. It is usually called They Were Seven, or Three – Not Out, and one spends one’s entire time trying to sort them all, and muttering, ‘Was it Isobel who drank, or Gertie? And which was it who ran away with the gigolo, Amy or Pauline? And which of their separated husbands was Lionel, Isobel’s or Amy’s?’
Katrine and I often grin over that sort of book, and choose which sister we’d be, and Katrine always tries to bag the drink one.
A woman at one of mother’s parties once said to me, ‘Do you like reading?’ which smote us all to silence, for how could one tell her that books are like having a bath or sleeping, or eating bread – absolute necessities which one never thinks of in terms of appreciation. And we all sat waiting for her to say that she had so little time for reading, before ruling her right out for ever and ever. And then Katrine blinked at the woman and said, ‘Yes, a little.’ And had she read the latest Ruck, and wasn’t it a pretty tale?
Katrine is great fun when she chooses, and gets no end of laughs out of the Dramatic School where she is studying. The course appears to consist of doughnuts and pickles and tongue in the basement, saying ‘Oo-er’ in the Voice Production class, and floods of tears at being given the Nurse instead of Juliet at the term-end shows. Poor Katrine is absolutely sick of elocuting indecencies, and always says that when anybody gets taken pornographic in Shakespeare’s plays, the part is allotted to her automatically. We hope it will break her in for the time when she plays in drawing-room comedies in the West End. Mother and I often get a rise out of her when we meet suddenly, and say:
Pox! how my guts do boil!
or,
Now by my morning sickness! - I have lost
My virtue to this rude and rammish clown.
And once mother forgot, and when there were people to dinner called out to Katrine, ‘Well, my lamb, how many times did you mislay your virtue this morning?’
We often wonder what Katrine’s future will be, and I suspect it will be matrimony, or tours that land up on the West Pier at Brighton. Most of the students seem to go one way or the other.
At school, Katrine and I were much worse stage-struck than anybody. We loved certain actors and actresses so that life was a misery, and Katrine got turned right out of a history class once for kissing a post card of Ainley and murmuring, ‘My dear love!’ And glorious was her martyrdom that night, with Henry under her pillow, if I know the business.
She certainly has enterprise, for about a year ago, when she was in the thick of a passion for an actor who lives quite near us, she went up to him in the street, beaming, and said, ‘Now don’t say you’ve forgotten me!’ And the actor peeled off his homburg and glove and cried heartily, ‘Well, well, well, this is charming.’ And Katrine, in great detail, reminded him of the tour of Eastern Gods, and (plunging) said wasn’t that week at Bradford the limit? And the actor said, ‘A hole, dear, a hole.’ And they fell into a perfect orgy of shop, and when they parted, he said, ‘By the way, what was the name, again?’ And Katrine actually told him her real name, and his face lighted and he said, ‘Of course! stupid of me. Well, bye-bye, dear. Remember me to Birdie.’
Katrine could do that sort of thing, although all three of us (for I am certain that Sheil is going that way, too) learn everything there is to learn about people we love. We get their papers, and follow their careers, and pick up gossip, and memorise anecdotes, and study paragraphs, and follow their moves about the country, and, as usually happens if you really mean business, often get into personal touch with their friends or business associates, all with some fresh item or atom of knowledge to add to the heap. Katrine had never even seen Eastern Gods, but she knew more about it than half the chorus, and how and where it was going.
It isn’t, of course, limited to actors. It may be anybody. And while it’s ‘on’ it’s no joke. I resent it awfully, sometimes. It takes it out of one so. Katrine once said to me, helplessly, ‘Why has one got to do it? ’ It is even apt to ruin one’s summer holidays, the going away and leaving the individual in town, or with some obsession that is probably doomed. Years ago, Katrine and I used to eye the strapped trunks, and then each other, and one of us would say, ‘Are we all clear?’ We meant, was the holiday going to be shorn of fantastic mental disturbance, and, therefore, a normal success?
Sometimes, we found conflict awaiting us, as in the Arcaly year when we both suffered a frenzy of desire to join the resident pierrot troupe, and almost projected ourselves into it by sheer concentration. And that made the return to London all wrong. But that, at least, was shared. Also, we brought Dion Saffyn, our pierrot, home with us, and established him and his wife and two daughters in Addison Road, where many and trying were their ups and downs. For gradually it appeared that ‘Saffy’ had married above his class a Mary Arbuthnot, only daughter of a Somerset squire, and when they fall out, she becomes stately and ‘county,’ and, generally speaking, makes Saffy feel his position.
But the girls are dears. Ennis designs for a famous French dressmaker, and Pauline is secretary in Saffy’s London office, and he often rings us up when Polly is being Arbuthnot, and hurries round to us to be made a fuss of. His name is Dion Saffyn, and he has two daughters, who we often saw at Arcaly, though we never traced his wife.
I wish we knew the Saffyns.
I think Katrine is working clear of it all, but I don’t believe I shall ever be free.
Three years ago I was proposed to. I couldn’t accept the man, much as I liked him, because I was in love with Sherlock Holmes. For Holmes and his personality and brain I had a force of feeling which, for the time, converted living men to shadows.
After all, isn’t most love the worship of an idea or an illusion? Isn’t flesh and blood the least part of the business?
I’m through with Holmes now, but I often think that he and I could have hit it off wonderfully well in Baker Street, as I am not at all demanding, and rather love old clothes and arm-chairs, and silence, and smoking, and dispassionate flights of pure reason.
It was Katrine who was upset over my refusing Stuart B. She sat on the edge of the bath while I washed out gloves in the basin, and said. ‘If ever I have a daughter, by God! her mind shall be a perfect blank!’
2
It’s lovely to have a London house with a schoolroom, and somebody in it of schoolroom age. To go upstairs and find Sheil sweating over the Wars of the Roses is like stepping into a new world. It takes one’s disillusions away like magic, and I often long for an old nurse as well, because I adore the kind of bed-sitting-room they make for themselves; it always reeks of mid-Victoria and the Boer War. I wasn’t alive in those days, but I have a very strong sense of them, and I can honestly say that I prefer them to our Georgian times.
Besides, I know a family which has an old nurse who has seen the boys and girls grow up into fathers and mothers, and I cultivate the family because of having tea with Lucy. And her walls are thick with Militia photographs, and her work-box has a picture of the Great Exhibition on the lid, and there is a glass ball on the mantelpiece with a snowman in it, and you shake it and there is a storm of flakes and he waves his broom. And we have jam sandwiches which nobody else ever thinks of giving one, and the tea is tawny and heartening, and afterwards, we lose ourselves in fat albums and old German picture-books with coloured cuts of Henny Penny and the pancake, and I go home simply suffocated with the feel of bygone days . . .
But with Sheil I am able to satisfy my craving to relive the best bits of childhood. Christmas trees and stockings (though we neither of us have ever been able to believe in Santa Claus); toyshops in country towns; the look of fruitballs in glass bottles in village shops; the delicious smell of children’s parties – tulle and gauze, warm candle grease and iced cake, and soft young hair, beautifully brushed; the bitter flavour of the gelatine on crackers; penny masks and fire-works in London side-street windows, and letting off harmless ‘starlights’ in the schoolroom when the governess is out of the way.
I often wonder if I am giving Sheil a fair exchange for all these things. I think I satisfy! She absolutely sees the fun of my ‘doing the grown-up’ at her parties, and handing her cream horns; knows that I am longing for one, too, and hoping that there may be a cracker left over for me; understands my keen disappointment when name after name is called to the tree, and the lights are blown out at last, and I had nothing. The twenties aren’t supposed to be interested in tiny spangled fans and drums full of little sweets. I spend all the time I can in the schoolroom. I even go through the lesson-books sometimes, and am really beginning to learn something at last, though the arithmetic and grammar is eternally beyond me. How right was Humpty-Dumpty to abuse words and then pay them on Saturday night! It was a really magnificent gesture, and one which slaves to split infinitives would do well to copy.
And then I play with Sheil’s theatre, when she is out on her afternoon walk. Our theatre (The Diadem) long ago scrapped the fairytale nonsense-literature which is written for puppets. I write our plays, and we have pantomimes with genuine illusions and ballets and properties we all make. Even Widow Twankey has her two-inch handkerchief with low-comedy fingermarks on it, in indelible ink. And we have charity matinées, because they sound so sonorous. Sometimes we invent the charities, too, and whenever I have finished a new play some benevolence springs into being. The Tabbies’ Protection Union has offices in Great Cream Street, and The Insolent Widows’ Aid (Sheil’s contribution) has premises in Crape Yard, EC. Others include The Depressed Charwomen Society and The Nautical Sailors’ Rest. As a result of a matinée for the latter, we were happy to be able to announce that our new wing of dormitories in Chatham was now completed, ‘and,’ chimed in Sheil, ‘the dear lads can now sleep in contagious rows, freed from the sadness of the sinful gutter.’ And we have a resident ballet troupe, called ‘The Kensington Palace Girls’.
I often rootle in the toy-box. Mixed with Sheil’s toys are Katrine’s and my own. As a family, we have never liked dolls, never believed in fairies and all rather hated Peter Pan. Poor Sheil, the latest victim of the whimsical, could make neither head nor tail of it, and the only doll we ever unitedly esteemed was the plainest one of the collection. Ironface. She was given to me when I was seven. Her face and forearms were of painted tin and she had a well-made kid body. Ironface, unfortunately, outgrew us. She developed an intolerably overbearing manner, married a French Count called Isidore (de la So-and-so, de la Something Else), and now lives in feudal state in France, whence, even to this day, she makes occasional descents upon us by private aeroplane-de-luxe, patronising us in an accent enragingly perfect and bearing extravagant gifts which we have to accept. Me she addresses as ‘Ah, Trotty! Ça marche, hein?’ She has composed two songs, both in praise of herself. The first, picturing the delight of heaven at the event of her death, began:
The angel at the Golden Gate
Says, ‘The Countess tarries late,
We want her hither.’
The second (immensely popular, thanks to Ironface, in the Parisian music-halls of the early nineteen-hundreds) ran:
This was one of my good-night songs, with mother tossing it off in the vaudeville manner at the foot of my bed; hands on hips, a rakish, challenging leer for the conductor. We sing it to Sheil, still. Ironface was lost, or given away, quite thirteen years ago, but it’s no good. Like the poor, she is ever with us. We’ve tried, half-heartedly, to humanise the other dolls, but their characters won’t emerge. They are rather like the servants and governesses who come and go; they won’t immortalise. But occasionally they get their own back on me. Miss Martin has only been with us about a month, but I rather think she is going to take toll of me. The devil of it is that her home is in Cheltenham, and I once spent a day there, and picked up its vibrations in no time and remember it photographically, and now the Martin has planked down her dreadful family in frames and my sympathy is going out to her quite against my will, in streamers, like seaweed. It’s a horrid nuisance. And, though we seldom talk for long together, I already know the feel of Cheltenham’s main avenue in July, and the way the light struck the teapot when, at breakfast, Captain Martin broke it to his daughters that they must clear out and earn . . . and I rather think the girls dispersed about the house and avoided talking much, that day. But they probably met in the town. One is always liable to run against people in stewpan sorts of places like Cheltenham. It’s part of the damnableness of it – and the fascination. Improvident, pathetic, reprehensible and blasted Captain Martin! How my heart aches for him and his heavy-faced brood. Will one never be allowed to possess oneself in peace?
3
Last summer we all went to Skye, where father was born, and I caught Katrine’s eye in our hall and muttered the ‘all clear?’ and she nodded.
The holiday was a success. The place got at me a bit, of course, but that wasn’t a tribute to its quality of eerieness, for a garden suburb can do the same thing, but, that year, I had a guard, a buffer.
I’ve always envied those people who own a place the moment they arrive. In my own experience, new places invariably own me, until I have fought them down. I remember one summer in a furtive Gloucestershire village and how it fairly pulled me out of the train before I set foot on the platform. And it wasn’t a pull of welcome.
Skye was a success for Katrine because she had just ended a term at the Dramatic School and was looking forward to the next, and for me because I was writing my first novel, so nothing could touch me very badly. Meanwhile, I was finding out that writing a book makes one singularly absentminded, and one’s conversation boring and laboured. It’s hard on the family, I suppose, but oh! what an internal lark! And what an escape from journalism. I shall loathe the word ‘nowadays’ and the phrase ‘modern girl’ till I am dead, and even then my heart will hear it and beat when I’m earth in an earthy bed. What I can never get my editors to realise is that every soul who is alive is ‘modern,’ and that when they use the word they privily mean depraved or racketty.
I never knew what an extraordinary thing it could be to write a book. In the first place, the characters take the bit between their jaws and canter off with you into places you don’t want and never catered for. I had smugly intended my book to be about a family rather like ours, but, lud love you! it’s already turned into an account of a barmaid’s career in an Edgware Road pub, and I can’t squeeze us in anywhere!
Odd things happen, too. I had called my pub, ‘The Three Feathers,’ and counted on there being heaps of pubs in Edgware Road, not called that, but looking a bit like my description. Before we left home, I went down Edgware Road to investigate, and found my pub, even down to the old-fashioned phonograph on the table in the upstairs sitting-room. And I thought, ‘I built that place.’
I wonder
how much one does create by brooding over it? The family is always asking me to read them ‘bits,’ and I always refuse. The general public (if I ever have one) I don’t mind a bit, but reading what one has written is like kissing a lover in a tram. Katrine agrees with me. That’s why the Dramatic School is probably going to be so good for her; you have to strip yourself morally naked there.
The evenings in Skye are rather wonderful. They seem to endure for ever, like the goodness of the Lord, and when the moon is high, one can read quite clearly at midnight. But the boating round Dunvegan is tricky for the amateur because of the narrow natural arches and the submerged rocks.
I came out one night to call in Sheil, for it was long past her time for bed, but didn’t appear to be, thanks to the leisured sunset, and saw her in the distance, sitting on the turf with a man, and my heart turned over. She is very pretty, and anyway, I ran. She seemed to be enjoying herself, and she had a paper bag in her hand, the contents of which they were sharing, their heads on a level. When I reached her she was alone. And then I knew that the creature was one of those nature spirits with which Skye is teeming, and England, too, wherever there are downs or wide quiet spaces. Father once wrote a book about them. He once got lost in Wales, on Cader Idris, and saw one of the members of the little subterranean race whose tappings have been heard by dozens of tourists. I asked him if he was frightened, and he said, ‘Oh no. I just said “hullo,” and the little man bowed and vanished.’
But Sheil?
I lit a cigarette and said, ‘Saffy thinks it’s time you came in, and Polly is in one of her Arbuthnot moods this evening.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘Because the shooting in Scotland has fallen through, and she is loathing having to go back to Addison Road.’
The Brontes Went to Woolworths Page 1