A card in a shop window near the seamier end of London Bridge advertised rooms in a boarding house called Wyngate’s Buildings, a converted warehouse. Run by a landlady called Mrs Shinkfield, her lodgers – depending on their ability to pay – could rent a bed in a collective dormitory (for manual workers, young clerks or shop assistants) and pay for meals. Or they could, like Ruth, secure a room on a long-term let for four shillings a night. Installing her few clothes and buying a methylated spirit stove with kettle and frying pan, Ruth told herself that the dreary room, without any natural light, was fine and only temporary until she could get back on her feet.
One bathroom served her entire floor of eight similar genteel transients. Although she looked for a position teaching music, Ruth found a job nearby as a scullery maid in Belgravia. Stoically she would start early, setting the fire, cleaning and scouring, preparing vegetables, plucking fowl and scaling fish, clearing away, washing dishes.
The work was menial and the hours were long but Ruth told herself, as always, that she was lucky to be alive, able-bodied and just about self-sufficient. In this way, as with many others of the lower class in the monochrome world of London in the early 1960s, she rationalised that she could survive indefinitely. It was not how she imagined her life would be. Sometimes she remembered. Sometimes, by the flicker of a candle in her sparse room, she would allow herself a little sadness. Eventually, though, she told herself that she should keep her head above water and be grateful for what she had.
*
In the summer of 1964, there were rich pickings for the gossip columnists. Society journalists for the London Evening News, Daily Express and other more sensationalist papers were morbidly fascinated by the story of Harriet Villiers. Already a frequent visitor to the low-life columns because of her title, her wealth and her penchant for calamitous relationships with untrustworthy and indiscreet young men, the death of the Earl had precipitated more speculation. Eventually, after a series of clandestine payments, the full story came to light.
The ‘Honourable’ Harriet Villiers was nothing of the sort. The Earl’s will had been published then contested by a cousin and Harriet had effectively been disinherited by a basic drafting error in probate. The solicitors blamed the dead Earl. Further sensational news was that Harriet had been adopted and it had all been kept a secret. The only story that excited the public’s attention more than rags to riches was riches back to rags.
The prurient press raked over the money, the properties, the art collections, the titles, the characters of the main protagonists, the flamboyant lawyers and the litany of disreputable boyfriends looking for cash for news of indiscretions. Harriet challenged the will. So for the time being at least she was able to remain in the Hampstead house, being photographed as she came and went.
In her rented room, Ruth read of the unhappy experiences of her former pupil and bled with her as the miserable events unfolded for the delectation of a slavering public and for the enrichment of intriguers and troublemakers.
Ruth resolved to go and see Harriet to see if there was any small way in which she could offer support. As a humble ex-refugee living in rented rooms and working as a scullery maid, she expected that she might be politely received at best or, probably more likely, shown the door if the stories of Harriet’s hauteur were as true as the press portrayed.
On her day off, a Sunday, Ruth found the mansion in Hampstead and diffidently rang the doorbell. A uniformed maid opened the door slightly, now wise to the tricks of journalists and photographers.
“Yes?” she asked, looking at the diminutive down-at-heel figure in an old overcoat.
Ruth summoned her courage.
“Is it possible to speak to Miss Harriet, please?”
The maid enquired formally,
“Can I ask what is the nature of your business?”
“Yes, you see I used to be…”
A voice came from the hall, recognising the slight German inflection.
“Miss Frankel? Is that you Miss Frankel? Good heavens!” She now appeared at the front door. “What on earth are you doing here? But how nice to see a friendly face. Maud, let her in, show her into the dining room and please organise some tea for us. Well, I never. How long has it been? Where are you living? Are you still teaching? I suppose you have heard of my fall from grace? Can’t trust anybody. Lawyers, boyfriends, journalists. It’s so nice to see someone genuine.”
They spent several hours recounting the changes to their lives. They both agreed that times had definitely been more carefree in the sunlight in the walled garden at Knightsbridge Preparatory School. Harriet gave an unvarnished account of her troubles with food, drugs and money. Ruth, playing down her misfortunes, tried to maintain a positive and optimistic slant on her circumstances, though Harriet could see from her appearance and the details of her current employment that Miss Frankel had fallen on hard times.
“But are you still playing your violin? How I remember its ethereal tone as you introduced a slow-witted girl to great music. Between you and that violin there was… an understanding… a sixth sense. You could make it sing like a human voice. I’ve never quite recaptured that sound although I can hear it in my mind if I listen hard. I assume you still have it?”
Ruth looked at the floor and clasped and unclasped her hands in apology as she gave a slight shake of the head.
“No! No!” exclaimed Harriet. “That violin was part of you. What happened?”
Ruth, without seeking sympathy, told Harriet of the combination of events that had led to the distressing sale.
“But perhaps someday we may be reunited. Well that is my hope although perhaps a forlorn one. However, I must, as they say, count my blessings and give thanks for what I have. And I am particularly thankful to see you again and perhaps offer a little modest support. At least my poor life is not played out to a hungry press. I just get on with working and living quietly and thanking my parents for instilling in me the fortitude to carry on.”
Harriet looked at Ruth. Here was a woman who had been through purgatory in her life. She had had to leave her home. She had lost her family. She had seen much of death. Conscientious, hard-working and talented as a teacher, she had been thrown out of her job because of prejudice and now washed dishes and scrubbed floors. She had relinquished her one true link with her past, her precious violin. Yet she sat here, self-deprecating and humble aiming to see the good in life and offering what support she could to someone undeserving of that sympathy.
In an instant of absolute clarity, Harriet realised that she had to change. She saw that she had trapped herself almost as completely as Ruth had been in that camp. Her life could no longer be artificially supported by chemical stimulants. Ruth needed no pills to be serene and accepting of life.
Harriet also, as she was later to articulate to her surprised lawyer Mr Hodge, no longer wished to fight over money, houses and titles. She would graciously concede to Roger Lyttleton without any further court cases. She would also change her personal and love life and stay out of the newspapers, cultivating only those friends, like Georgia, who were steadfast and honest, regardless of her status. Finally she realised she would have to support herself and she would need to turn her thoughts to looking for suitable work.
“Ruth,” said Harriet, reaching down and clasping the tiny hands of her former teacher, “I think today, although you don’t realise this, today you started me on a journey to become a different – and better – person. It’s as if I’ve finally taken control of my life. There are always forks in the road. Now I know which to take. Thank you.”
Ruth waved away the thanks.
“I just wanted to come and help that person who was that lovely little girl at the preparatory school. She is still there. There is still passion in her soul and goodness in her heart. I know it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
From that day, Harriet did begin to change. Her store
of stimulants and narcotics were thrown away forcefully. She took regular balanced meals and began to go for long therapeutic walks in St James’s Park and on Hampstead Heath with Crotchet, her new terrier. She was no longer a denizen of the London night clubs and, as she told Georgia, “I’m also taking a break from men. In any case most of them have disappeared now that I am unavailable for worthless sex.”
Her new and unexciting life no longer interested the tabloids so there was no scuttlebutt to retail.
She went to see Mr Hodge.
“I’ve decided not to contest the will. It’s clear who is the rightful heir. You tell me there is an arguable legal case and we should pursue it to extract an out of court settlement. Except for an error of drafting, I suppose I would be a wealthy woman – don’t look so concerned, Mr Hodge, I am not about to sue you – but there are more important things. So would you convey my warm regards to Roger Lyttleton, give him my congratulations on acceding to the title and estates, wish him well for the future and advise him that there will be no court case.”
Mr Hodge did as instructed then, some days later, called Harriet in for a meeting.
“Mr Lyttleton is up in London from Norfolk on business and has asked if a meeting is possible. I have tentatively arranged it in our offices for Friday morning.”
*
When Harriet attended the meeting there were two other men present in addition to Mr Hodge. Both stood as she entered. A tall, lean man of about forty in an expensively cut dark blue suit and restrained silk tie reached out his hand.
“Good morning. We have never met. I am Roger Lyttleton and this is my solicitor, John Marchamley. I hope you don’t mind him sitting in but I thought it might be useful?”
Harriet agreed. She liked the look of Roger Lyttleton, kind eyes in a kind face with a gentle country air about him.
“Well thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said, “and I don’t see any point in prevaricating so I will come straight to the point.”
“Go ahead,” said Mr Hodge after checking that Harriet was in agreement.
“We have never met, Miss Villiers, and if we had not been pitched against each other because of your father’s untimely death that might have been the case for the foreseeable future. Our side of the family generally like to lie low over in Norfolk and have never had much to do with the London set.
“Mother and the Earl’s family were always somewhat distant. But, here we are. As you were the only child, a girl, of the Earl and Lady Villiers, I always knew that, barring accidents, the title would pass to me. Also, John here advised me that the ancestral estates in Ireland would fall to me as part of the established legal settlement.
“What I did not expect was to inherit the remainder of the family property effectively by default. I say default because, in my view, your claim as a child of the family, regardless of your adoption, was much stronger than mine. By the way, we found out about your adoption almost incidentally. We did not go looking for a fight!
“Anyway, I hope I have the integrity to do the right thing. Your gracious concession of the legal argument finally persuaded me. Accordingly, I have instructed John here to draw up a transfer of the house in Hampstead – your home – into your name. There will also be a sufficient amount of money allocated to you to service your needs and live comfortably. I also hope, as a legal member of the Villiers family, that we can include you henceforth in all of those little ceremonies and rituals that punctuate family life – you know, christenings, weddings, etc.”
Harriet felt the tears starting in her eyes at this unexpected turn of events. When she was able, she thanked Roger for his magnanimity and they embraced awkwardly.
“So Jane and I will expect you for the christening of our second child at the end of April. You will come and stay I hope and I can introduce you to the rest of your family.”
John Marchamley felt this was a good break in the conversation to step in.
“I have taken the liberty of drafting up the appropriate documentation for the conveyance and transfer of assets. I will discuss this with Mr Hodge, acknowledging Harriet’s lawyer in conjunction with a joint application to withdraw the legal case from the courts. Matters should be concluded swiftly. In view of the beneficial circumstances you may simply wish to sign the deeds conditionally and leave it to Mr Hodge and myself to deal with the formalities.”
All was agreed and Harriet left the offices of Pinker and Hodge both wealthier but also with a new-found peace of mind that Georgia noticed when they met for lunch in Fortnum’s.
“What’s happened to you then?”
“Quite a lot actually,” said Harriet, enumerating her new resolutions and the uncluttering of her life.
“It has taken a while and I must admit that I have not distinguished myself but I feel as though I have made a new start.”
She recounted the meeting with Roger Lyttleton.
“Such a gentleman. One of those people you think only exist in films. And although I was a bit lost, what with the whole adoption business, I feel that now, although I don’t have roots, at least there’s a bit of hinterland to cling to. But the best thing is that I have a ‘project’ that I’ll tell you about but you must agree to keep a secret until I’m ready.”
Georgia’s eyes widened and she nodded her excited agreement.
A few months later, Harriet called Georgia and Ruth to afternoon tea on the sunny terrace in Hampstead. They were introduced to each other.
“Ruth, this is my best friend Georgia, and Georgia, I’ve told you all about Ruth and her life and how she’s taught me all sorts of lessons.”
Tea was served and the conversation ranged over polite inconsequential issues. Harriet gave an update on her changed circumstances and Georgia enthused genuinely. Ruth listened quietly, still embarrassed about being so humble and badly-dressed in the presence of these ladies about town. Harriet called them to order, signalling an end to the small talk.
“Now I have something important to say. Ruth, this mostly concerns you. I have never told you how sorry I am for the experiences and pain you have suffered in your life. When I think of you, bereaved, displaced and destitute at times, I remain in awe that you can see so much good in people and show such resilience and charitableness. You came to see me when I was at my lowest ebb and although you didn’t know it, your concern and friendship helped me change my life. Now that I am,” she smiled to herself, “a woman of leisure and means, I want to help you.”
Ruth demurred and waved away the thought.
“Not by offering charity. That would be condescending of me. No, I want to help in a different but no less significant way.”
Harriet rang a bell. A stranger entered, who seemed to have been sitting in the hall waiting for a signal. He was flamboyantly dressed with a red velvet jacket and a fashionable cravat. He carried a violin case, which he placed on a central coffee table with a flourish. With exaggerated care he opened the case and produced – the Italianate!
Ruth sat, stunned.
“Perhaps,” said Harriet, “you could introduce yourself to our visitors.”
“Of course,” he said in a thick Eastern European accent. “My name is Joseph Poray-Wicynska. I am a freelance expert on violins. You will want to know my bona fides, I am sure. I am Polish, a Mittenwald-trained luthier and former President of the Polish Violin Makers’ Association. I have worked with most of the makers and dealers of instruments – French, Italian, German and with such names as Florian, Leonhard, Hebbert, Cozio, Wurlitzer, Hill’s, of course, and so on.
“You can be sure that in this complicated and sometime dubious world of violin-making and trading, you need the assurance of an authority that what you have is genuine and traceable. That is my speciality,” he said, inclining his head in a small bow.
Harriet was delighted at her coup and looked at Ruth, relishing her astonishment.
“S
o Joseph,” said Harriet. “I have had the benefit of your report but perhaps you will summarise your findings?!”
“Most certainly,” agreed Joseph. “I was commissioned by Miss Villiers to report into the provenance, history, authenticity and valuation of this 1750 instrument from John Johnson. Perhaps you would wish me to begin with the dendrochronology findings?”
“Perhaps not just yet. Shall we concentrate on your main findings and leave the technical details till later?” said Harriet with finality.
“Very well then,” agreed Joseph. “I will begin with the most recent history and trace events backwards. Of course we know that this instrument was sold to M.E. Hill by a man named Welford, who has a record of a receipt given to a Miss R. Frankel.”
“Exactly,” said Harriet, “and this,” she announced, politely pointing out Ruth, “is Miss Frankel.”
“Thank you. I am delighted to meet you. This instrument is well known to Hill’s through whose hands it has passed several times. Apparently, before the most recent transaction, it was sold to Frankel Pere?” he looked to Ruth for confirmation, “by Emil Hermann, a New York dealer. I have taken the trouble, as part of my research, to visit Mr Hermann when I was last in New York.
“He is a man who keeps scrupulous and authoritative records and he was able to describe both the violin and the details of the sale in 1936. The instrument was for the use of Miss Frankel and, as we see, this links with the sale to Mr Welford and onwards to Hill’s. So we can safely assume that it was in her possession throughout the intervening period.”
Ruth nodded her agreement.
“Now, apparently – and Mr Hermann has a distinct record of this in view of the unusual circumstances – he bought it from a rather derelict street musician by the name of Farquharson, who was playing it – heavily daubed in boot polish apparently – on the streets of New York.
“Now the next official record we have is from 1880, when Hill’s documents a sale to a family called Farquharson, one assumes the precursors of the street musician, for the use of their son, Wilfred Farquharson, who was going up to Oxford University. It was in Hill’s possession because there had been an auction. A man called Joseph Gillott, a philanthropist and collector, had died having amassed a multiplicity of violins and cellos.
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