Britannia Mews

by Margery Sharp

  “One can always use three yards of tussore, dear. Let me see.”

  Alice whipped open her parcel, shook out a length of green silk, and draped it expertly over her own bust.

  “Too yellowish,” she lamented. “Poor Archy will look positively seasick. But Mamma, wasn’t it extraordinary, meeting Adelaide like that? She must be living somewhere in London, even if they’ve left the Mews.”

  “How did she look?”

  “Very well. She was wearing that brown cloth coat with the black braid she had when I had my blue with the blue braid, it must be at least seven years old; but she looked very well. And, Mamma—she looked so happy!”

  Mrs. Hambro removed the silk from her daughter’s shoulder and examined it carefully. She had never really loved Adelaide, even while allowing her the greatest intimacy with Alice: two cousins, girls, living in the same neighbourhood, were intimate as a matter of course. Now she thoroughly agreed with her son-in-law that the less they saw of each other the better. It was unpleasant to drop such a close relation, but at least Adelaide had made it easy. She had made it inevitable. Alice, sitting there bursting with family affection, showed considerably less wisdom than her cousin.

  “My dear,” said Mrs. Hambro, rather impatiently, “I hope Adelaide is happy. At least she has had her own way. But she has shown very clearly that she means to have nothing to do with us.”

  “All the same, I wish I knew her address.…”

  “If she wants you to know it, she has only to write. But she doesn’t even write to her mother.”

  “Because she feels she’s still in disgrace. Mamma, have you ever thought that perhaps they never left Britannia Mews at all?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Hambro repressively.

  “Because she didn’t want to see Aunt Bertha, so she pretended she had?”

  “Alice, if you don’t go, Freddy will be home before you.”

  “I shall ask him what he thinks.”

  “He’ll think exactly as I do,” said Mrs. Hambro.

  Perhaps because she knew this to be so probable, Alice on second thoughts did not mention the incident to her husband. But she felt vaguely defrauded; she had to tell someone; and in the end she told Treff.

  5

  The great event of the Farnham summer was always Mr. Vaneck’s garden-party. The first year the Culvers were invited Alice chanced to be staying with them; the invitation was extended to include her also, and subsequently, owing to Alice’s genius for family reunions, became an annual engagement. Mr. Vaneck blandly co-operated by inviting Hambros and Bakers to any number, and if Alice had commanded a motor-car she would have undoubtedly packed all her family in and driven triumphantly to Farnham; as it was, making the journey by train, she regularly produced her mother and father and Freddy. (The twins despised parties, Sybil and Ellen spent a rapturous day with the babies, and even Alice hardly regretted them.) They went first to Platt’s End, where the ladies refreshed their toilets, and then walked all together to the scene of the festivities. Alice organized the whole thing.

  This year, for the first time, she was struck by a change in Mr. Culver’s appearance. It was only momentary, but as she waited with Treff to speak to Mr. Vaneck, she happened to see her uncle step back from the crowd and stand a moment alone. His face had a greyish tinge; he held his left shoulder hunched forward as though to ease a pain in his chest. Alice exclaimed in sympathy.

  “Treff! Isn’t Uncle Will well?”

  Treff however followed her glance without any sign of apprehension.

  “It’s just the walk up the hill,” he said casually. “We came a bit fast for him.”

  Alice took a step forward, and paused. Even as she watched, Mr. Culver’s distress passed; she saw him turn and speak to Mrs. Howard with his normal slow politeness; but she was still uneasy. In the time it took her to raise her parasol a whole train of anxious thought flashed through her mind; and she came to a rapid decision.

  “Treff … I’ve seen Adelaide. In London.”

  He at once looked blank.

  “Have you?”

  “I mean your only sister,” said Alice sharply.

  “How was she?”

  “She looked very well. I didn’t speak to her. And I’m not trying to interfere in your affairs, and I haven’t told Aunt Bertha. I’m simply mentioning it because if ever Adelaide has to be sent for, I should try Britannia Mews.”

  Treff nodded and walked away, leaving Alice to many sad reflections. What a state that family had got into! But Alice could not be sad for long at a garden-party, especially at Mr. Vaneck’s garden-party, where there were so many people to talk to, and so many dresses to notice, and so many strawberries to be eaten; and conscious of looking very pretty herself, and of having the prettiest parasol, she whisked into the crowd and gave herself up to enjoyment.

  It was one of the best parties Alice remembered. By this time she knew all the Farnham ladies, and year by year gave them the latest news of her children, to which the Farnham ladies listened very amiably, considering such a topic natural and proper to a young matron. Farnham gentlemen appreciated her prettiness, and voluntarily admired her parasol. (It was of white lace, with an enormous white moire bow on top.) Nor were the rest of Alice’s party discontented with their fare of strawberries, strolling, and mild conversation; in a beautiful garden, on a fine afternoon, nothing could have been more agreeable; they were sorry to leave, but glad to find a first-class carriage to themselves on their way back.

  “What a lovely party it was!” cried Alice, throwing herself into the corner seat. Coming, she had sat bolt upright on one of Freddy’s handkerchiefs, to save her muslin; now she could relax. “Didn’t you enjoy it, Papa?”

  “I did indeed,” said Mr. Hambro. “For once I had a talk with my host. He’s a nice fellow. I said, ‘Look here, sir, for several years I’ve enjoyed your hospitality, I don’t quite know why—’”

  “Papa! You didn’t!”

  “I did, my dear—‘And if ever you’re in Surbiton on a Sunday, you’ll find a minor affair going on at the Cedars in Elm Road. I’ve four other children,’ I said, ‘and two grandchildren, and if you care for that sort of thing we’ll be delighted to see you.’ I gave him fair warning, you observe, and at the same time delicately pointed out that there might have been six more of us.”

  “I call that a very honest statement,” said Freddy. “How did he take it?”

  “With a gentlemanly bow and three words. He looked me in the eye and replied simply …”

  Mr. Hambro paused, while his daughter bounced with impatience.

  “Papa! What did he reply?”

  “He said, ‘I like Alice.’”

  Alice turned quite crimson with pleasure. Freddy Baker looked gratified. Mr. Hambro turned to his wife and smiled indulgently; but he too was sensible of the compliment. There was a prestige about Mr. Vaneck which none of them attempted to deny.

  CHAPTER VI

  1

  As Alice had guessed, Adelaide and Gilbert were by now permanently settled in Britannia Mews. If from time to time they talked of moving to a more respectable neighbourhood, nothing ever came of it; they had got used to the Mews; and they had also, as Adelaide pointed out, got used to being well off.

  “And where else could we be well off, Gilbert, on two pounds ten a week? I’ve got used to having money to spare; if we moved only a step up, I should have to pinch and scrape. And we live very comfortably here?”

  “Very. You’re such an admirable cook.”

  “It is such a pleasure to me to see you enjoy your meals. No, dear, if I can’t have three maids, I’ll have none.”

  “I wish I could give you three maids.”

  “You give me everything I need,” said Adelaide.

  It was true. His constant thoughtfulness for her had never flagged; he was never ill-humoured, or even casual in his manners; as for his drinking, it was automatically cut down by the fact that he gave Adelaide five shillings a week. Unlike Henry, he refu
sed to become indebted to her; he even brought her small presents—a bunch of flowers, a piece of china from a street stall; his raffish side was catered to at the Club, and outside it he genuinely preferred Adelaide’s society to that of the public-house. Never had one man more literally stepped into another’s shoes, for Henry Lambert’s wardrobe, so fortunately saved from the rapacity of the Sow, was now Gilbert Lauderdale’s; but with what a difference he wore it! Adelaide sometimes smiled to think how she had promised not to try to reform him: it was he who had reformed her. Under his influence her character gradually shed its acquired harshness, its acquired brutality: gratitude at being treated like a lady made her once more ladylike, she recovered her old delicacy of thought and speech. They were devoted to each other; and because their relation was not passionate, it was serene. At night and morning they kissed, but their most familiar gesture of affection was a quiet caress, Gilbert’s arm about Adelaide’s shoulder, or Adelaide’s hand slipped through the crook of his elbow, a dozen times a day.

  When Adelaide saw Mrs. Mounsey in the Mews, she smiled and nodded to her. The Sow was no longer an object of fear. Indeed she had lost, Adelaide fancied, much of her local power, for Gilbert’s unprecedented and successful revolt undermined her prestige. Moreover, many of her victims had disappeared, flitting, shooting the moon, drifting east to the rookeries of Clerkenwell and Bethnal Green; a new class of tenant took their place. In 1892 rents were raised; Adelaide, faced with a demand for two shillings a week more, tartly informed the collector that unless certain amenities were forthcoming as a quid pro quo, she was prepared to lead a tenants’ strike. Something inspired her to mention the name of Miss Octavia Hill, and there was that in her appearance and manner which did most forcibly remind the collector of certain other young women—ladies sticking their noses in where they had no business to be—whom Miss Hill had apparently trained up with the sole idea of giving trouble to landlords. Apart from this, Britannia Mews was of comparatively modern construction: the fabric was sound, it was worth improving. Workmen came in; plumbing, and even paint, appeared where neither had been before. In a spirit of emulation, the brewers improved the Cock. Britannia Mews was on the up-grade.

  These changes did not take place all at once; many of the old inhabitants hung on—and among them, the Blazer and her child. The Blazer, after Mrs. Mounsey, had been Adelaide’s chief object of aversion; now Adelaide began to shrug off this enmity, as she shrugged off her taste for gin—as part of the old unhappiness she wished to forget. “We were all unhappy,” thought Adelaide, “I, and Henry, and perhaps the Blazer too …” For a time this new tolerance lay dormant, but in August an incident occurred which precipitated them both into something like friendship. It also had unexpectedly far-reaching effects upon the status of Gilbert Lauderdale.

  2

  A very fine morning led Gilbert to take the day off: Adelaide went out early to do her shopping (they proposed an excursion to Hampton Court), and as she returned met the Blazer and Iris in the Mews. It was so rarely that one saw the Blazer and her child together that Adelaide instinctively paused: there they stood, the magnificent brazen-headed woman, running now to fat, but still with something monumental, Caryatid-like about her—and the scrap of a child like a frightened white mouse. (What was it Gilbert had said about them? “Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus …”) Moreover, Iris had been smartened up; instead of her usual ragged shawl she wore a woman’s jacket—it came almost to her knees—and on her feet a pair of old dancing-shoes not many sizes too large. Adelaide, struck by this phenomenon, and in a very good humour, spoke without thinking and asked where they were bound.

  The Blazer looked at her suspiciously. No more than any one else in the Mews was she quite accustomed to Adelaide’s new manner. But she was also very full of the importance of the occasion, and replied civilly enough.

  “If yer wants to know—she’s goin’ for a fairy.”

  “A fairy!” repeated Adelaide in astonishment.

  “In Panto’. A bloke come into the Cock—an actor-bloke—told me there’s an agent wantin’ fairies. Kids as can dance. So I’m takin’ Iris.”

  Adelaide could not fail to be interested by this evidence of maternal care. In the Mews, in the Blazer, it was really remarkable; and seeing Gilbert appear at that moment on their balcony, she impulsively called up to him.

  “Gilbert, do listen! Mrs. O’Keefe is taking Iris to be a fairy!”

  These words produced an unexpected effect. Adelaide had not only remembered the Blazer’s proper name, but as an instinctive tribute to the occasion had given her her courtesy title; the Blazer’s whole person surged forward to receive it. She expanded, she beamed—and she returned the compliment.

  “Mr. Lambert’s bin a pro ’imself, I believe?”

  This was the first time that anyone in the Mews had given Gilbert a name; till then he had simply been “the New Bloke.” Adelaide met his eye and saw that he was as amused as herself by this regularizing of their position. She said good-humouredly:—

  “Yes, Gilbert, perhaps you can help. See which agent they’re going to.”

  With great willingness the Blazer passed over a dirty piece of paper, and Adelaide ran up the steps with it. It appeared that Gilbert knew the name, and could vouch for the man’s comparative honesty; but while he gave the Blazer more precise directions Adelaide, re-examining the grotesque figure of the child, began to be concerned. She said softly:—

  “Gilbert, is it any use? The child’s a perfect fright!”

  “Old Fitz won’t mind. He’s used to rags and tatters.”

  But now Gilbert too looked at Iris more closely, and his expression became dubious. The child was not merely lost in her hideous and unsuitable attire, she was not, so to speak, visible. There was nothing to notice in her pale face and light eyes; her almost colourless hair—though she had plenty of it, like her mother—fell lankly over her shoulders; she was worse than insignificant, she was positively depressing. Both Adelaide and the Blazer waited anxiously; though the latter had not heard the brief question and answer, she was aware that her child was being judged. She said encouragingly:—

  “Go on, Iris, do yer splits or I’ll knock yer block off.”

  At once the child collapsed, one skinny leg extended before, one behind; they stuck out like chicken-bones from a bundle of old clothes; Adelaide caught her breath in pity. With a powerful hand the Blazer hauled her offspring up again, and again waited for Gilbert’s judgement.

  Like a Solomon he delivered it.

  “Mrs. O’Keefe: you must wash her hair.”

  The Blazer looked injured.

  “I ’ave. Leastways, I’ve combed it. I’ve combed it meself, till there’s not a nit to be seen.”

  “But you must wash it. She’s got a lot of hair; it’s her best point. I don’t say it will ever equal yours, but it’s something.”

  “Wash it with carbolic soap,” put in Adelaide, “and then brush it.”

  “Wash it several times, and then brush it for an hour,” added Gilbert.

  The Blazer looked uncertainly from one to the other.

  “But we’re just goin’ off …”

  “I know these auditions, they last all week,” said Gilbert firmly. “And I tell you frankly that if you take the child as she is it’s a waste of time. Hair’s what they look out for. You wash it—and Mrs. Lambert will give you a pretty ribbon.”

  The washing of Iris’s hair turned out to be a major enterprise. Her mother supplied the soap, but it was Adelaide who, abandoning Hampton Court, went out and bought a new brush and comb, and the operation took place in Number 2’s coach-house. Apparently incapable of resistance, Iris was plunged headfirst into a bucket, lathered, scrubbed, rinsed, then lathered, scrubbed, and rinsed all over again. They used four bucketfuls before the water ran clear, and in the last Adelaide put a spoonful of vinegar. Iris was then set in the sun to dry, and to everyone’s surprise dried wavy: a strong natural ripple ran from a point level with her ea
rs to the extreme tips of the hair. She also dried tangled. Adelaide produced a second comb, and for an hour she and the Blazer sat on either side of the child patiently combing. (Halfway through the Blazer went for a drink. She brought Adelaide back twopennyworth of gin, which Adelaide gracefully accepted.) Then they brushed, ruthless of Iris’s whimpers, till their wrists ached. At the end of two hours Iris had to be helped to her feet; but she staggered up a new child.

  The change was amazing. Her hair was still colourless, but it was colourless like moonshine. It stood away from her head in an enormous bush, at once light and sleek, rippled as regularly as watered silk. “Now do your splits!” said Gilbert; as the child collapsed and bowed, her hair flew up in a silver spray, and the Blazer shouted with enthusiasm.

  There was some discussion as to how this phenomenal hair should be arranged. The Blazer wanted to cut a fashionable fringe, but at last Adelaide persuaded her to comb it all straight back, with a cherry-coloured ribbon drawn up behind the ears and tied in a bow on top. At this point Adelaide thought to give the child a mirror; and as Iris stared at her image expression flickered for the first time in her pale eyes. It was an expression merely of vanity, but it was at least better than her habitual blankness; and Adelaide, quite worn out, felt she had done a good day’s work.

  Iris slept that night with her hair in paper bags. The next day her mother led her in triumph to the agency, and in greater triumph returned with the news that Iris had been picked first go off. Her remarkable career, though none of them yet suspected it, had begun.