by Granger, Ann
‘But what is she doing under there, that dirty tarpaulin and those unspeakable rags?’
‘Keeping warm, ain’t cha, Sukey? Cold night. She’s nice and snug in there.’
‘But the risk of disease!’ I protested.
‘She was born among the rags and she lives among the rags, same as her mother and all my family. We don’t catch no diseases. We’ve got what you’d call natural protection. There’s no healthier man than a rag-picker. Say goodnight to the officer, Sukey.’
‘’Night, sir!’ piped the child and scrabbled back under the tarpaulin.
‘We’ll be home afore long, sir,’ said her grandfather (if, indeed, that’s what he was). ‘She’ll be out of there soon.’
With that, he shoved hard against the weight of the barrow and trundled it away.
I watched him leave. A door was suddenly opened as he passed by; and he and his load were briefly illuminated by a shaft of brilliant light. Then he was gone, around the corner and off to whatever den he and his wretched family inhabited. Whoever had been curious enough to open the door had spotted me. The door was slammed shut again, sending me back into the gloom.
I had not physically touched the fellow or his unsavoury load of rags, but my skin itched.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth Martin Ross
IF YOU are married to an officer of the law, there is no telling what time he will arrive home of an evening. As a result, our little house near Waterloo Station saw a procession of overcooked suppers varied, on extreme occasions, with plates of cold cuts left out to await Ben’s return. Today Ben would be later than usual because he had travelled out of town to Cambridge. This had given me some unexpected free time which I had used to pay a duty visit to my Aunt Parry, across the river. She is a woman of some property, who lives in the smart district of Marylebone, in Dorset Square.
Because of this, I had also been late arriving home. I’d more than half expected to find Ben already there, even allowing him the travel time from Cambridge. But the parlour and upper floor were dark and empty. I had taken Bessie, our maid, with me so the house was cold. I set Bessie to the task of building up the sitting-room fire before she went into the kitchen to peel potatoes. Then I went upstairs to take off my best hat and tie on an apron before joining her there. I had stopped at a meat pie shop on the way home and bought a large dish of steak and kidney with a well-browned crust. If all this sounds a scraped-together hurried meal, it was.
I should explain that Aunt Parry is not really my aunt, but the widow of my godfather, Josiah Parry. She had been good enough to offer me a home and a situation as her companion when I had first arrived in London. That I had left her to get married and, to her further dismay, to marry a policeman was something she found difficult to forgive me. Not that I had been a great success as a companion, with a tendency to become involved in matters no lady should trouble with (like murder). But Aunt Parry easily felt neglected and liked to remind me I had abandoned her. Bessie had worked in Dorset Square as kitchen maid and, when I left to set up my own home, I had taken her with me. Aunt Parry occasionally chose to complain about that, too, although a kitchen maid was easily replaced. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Aunt Parry had never set eyes on poor Bessie, toiling in the basement; nevertheless it added to her list of grievances.
Today my visit had been even more difficult because, to my astonishment, I had discovered Aunt Parry in greater distress than usual. Her medical man had imposed on her a strict regime: in short, a diet.
‘A regime?’ I asked.
‘A regime!’ Aunt Parry’s voice quivered with emotion. The quiver rippled outward like the circles caused by a stone thrown into a pond, until the whole of her substantial form was a-quake.
When I’d been her companion I had often been present when Aunt Parry had made her morning levee. While Nugent, her maid, carefully tonged her hair into elaborate curls before pinning the whole lot up into a wedding cake of an arrangement, I had listened to my aunt list the tedious calls I was to make with her that day. My eyes had often sought escape by studying a portrait in oils hanging on the wall. I knew that the sitter was a young Aunt Parry and the likeness had been done just before her marriage to my godfather Josiah. She had been his second wife and there had been some age difference. The painting showed a young woman in a pink silk ball gown in the style of around 1830, with the low-set ballooning upper sleeves of the period, attached to a ‘bateau’ bodice cut straight across the bosom. The girl is sitting with a freshly picked assortment of wild flowers in her lap; as if going out to pick flowers in the countryside, while wearing pink silk, was the most natural thing in the world. Her hair is dressed in fat ringlets, framing a round but attractive face, with small mouth and large blue eyes. An enigmatic smile touches the rosy lips. Atop her head, her hair (real or false) is twisted, with the help of a hidden frame, into an ‘Apollo Knot’. The image reminded me of a large cherub forced into a corset, but I could see what had attracted Uncle Josiah.
Sadly the cherub had since become a vastly overweight middle-aged woman with a peevish expression. The blue eyes now held a look of disappointment with the world, except when contemplating a groaning dinner table. So I was not surprised to hear a doctor had finally summoned the courage to suggest a diet. Still, it had taken a brave man . . .
‘Is this the advice of your usual medical man?’ I asked.
Aunt Parry’s turquoise drop earrings danced furiously as she shook her head. ‘Dr Bretton is a dear man. I don’t think he would ever have been so harsh. But he was at a loss to explain my breathlessness, my fatigue, the terrible heartburn I suffer. He referred me to a specialist, Dr Bruch.’
She heaved a deep sigh. ‘He is a German and, apparently, very distinguished.’ She brightened. ‘He is consulted by all the very best people.’
‘I’m sure Dr Bretton would not have sent you to anyone less well recommended,’ I said. So Dr Bretton had balked at the idea of making the suggestion himself and ‘passed the parcel’, as in the party game, to the nearest person as fast as possible.
‘Certainly not. Dr Bretton has always been dedicated to my health. Well, anyway, Elizabeth,’ went on Aunt Parry briskly, ‘I called at Dr Bruch’s consulting rooms in Harley Street with the utmost confidence. I described my symptoms in detail, including . . .’ She lowered her voice again. ‘Including the repeated gastric disorders.’
She threw her pudgy hands in the air. ‘And this is his advice! That I should exercise! A woman in my delicate state of health? How can I? That I should lose weight! Even if such a thing were desirable and possible, his horrible diet means that I am deprived of the innocent pleasure of a decent afternoon tea. You no doubt wondered why Simms brought in such a paltry tray this afternoon.’
Aunt Parry gazed sadly at the crumbs that were all that remained of a seedcake, and the now-bare plate that had held thinly sliced bread lightly smeared with strawberry jam. It was true, I had wondered about the unaccustomed frugality.
‘No scones.’ Aunt Parry spoke with quite sepulchral regret. ‘No muffins, teacakes, Welsh cakes or any sort of biscuit, even the plainest. As for any more dainty treat, and an éclair or two, a meringue . . .’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I have almost forgotten what they look like.’
‘And the exercise?’ I inquired, wondering if mention of it would cause further upheaval in the layers of silk and lace opposite.
The reaction was quite violent. Aunt Parry gripped the arms of her chair. Her complexion, always florid, darkened to an alarming shade of magenta matching that of her gown. Her eyes flashed outrage.
‘As you know, Elizabeth, normally I would attend to my correspondence from my bed and only rise when it is all answered. Then Nugent helps me dress and arranges my hair. In happier days, it would then be time for a light luncheon.’
I had eaten at Aunt Parry’s luncheon table when I’d lived here and the quantity provided by the indefatigable Mrs Simms, toiling at the stove in her basement kitchen, had always been more tha
n enough to last the rest of the day. Needless to say, in Aunt Parry’s case, it only lasted until afternoon tea and cake, followed by dinner in the evening.
‘However, thanks to Dr Bruch, I must now rise and dress at ten in the morning, ten o’clock, Elizabeth!’
‘Our household is astir at half past six,’ I said unwisely.
‘By your household, I suppose you to mean that one maid you employ. She should indeed be at her work at half past six. But what time do you rise?’
‘Not long after,’ I confessed. ‘You see my husband has to be at Scotland Yard by eight.’
Aunt Parry gazed at me more in sorrow than in censure. ‘You would marry that policeman. You could have stayed here with me, in a comfortable home.’
‘I shall always be grateful for your kindness to me, Aunt Parry.’ I didn’t ask where her latest companion was that afternoon. Had she, like her predecessors, fled?
Aunt Parry had already returned to her first concern: herself. ‘So now, I must dress, and eat a ridiculous breakfast of a single boiled egg and two slices of toast. Dr Bruch told me I could also have a bowl of porridge, if I wished. Porridge, Elizabeth! It is made from oats! Am I a horse? After that, I am to ignore my correspondence and have James drive me to Regent’s Park. There I walk for half an hour, attended by Nugent. At this horrible, cold time of year, mark you! I have told Dr Bruch that if I succumb to a chest infection of the very worst sort, it will only be because I have followed his advice.’ Aunt Parry’s well-corseted upper body tilted towards me. ‘He laughed, Elizabeth!’ she told me in a strangled whisper.
‘Laughed, Aunt Parry? Surely not . . . A professional man?’
‘Well, chuckled, then,’ Aunt Parry conceded. ‘He received my words with undue levity. He told me I had only to wrap up well, and I should be perfectly all right. Anyhow, after that, James drives me home here, to a frugal luncheon of cold meat and rice pudding. And no decent afternoon tea to compensate for it! However,’ she concluded, ‘when Patience arrives, I’ll ring for some more tea and I am sure Mrs Simms can find something suitable to accompany it.’
‘We are to be joined by Miss Wellings, Frank’s fiancée?’ I asked in surprise.
Frank Carterton was Aunt Parry’s nephew. He had recently been elected to Parliament – and become engaged to be married – in quick succession. Aunt Parry worried about both things. I had met Patience Wellings briefly, when she had travelled down to London just after the engagement had been announced, together with her parents. Mr and Mrs Wellings had clearly been in awe of Aunt Parry. Patience had been much more at ease. She had struck me as a cheerful, practical sort of girl, with pretty dark curls. I had liked her very much. This was just as well, because Frank had drawn me aside to ask me seriously, ‘What do you think, Lizzie?’ I had been able to assure him I thought he had made an excellent choice. He’d seemed relieved to hear it.
‘I shall be pleased to see Miss Wellings again,’ I said. ‘Are her parents also in London?’
Aunt Parry shook her head. ‘No, her father’s business requires him at home and her mother has other obligations. Patience is staying with some relatives who live in Goodge Place. Their name is Pickford.’ She hesitated before tilting her upper body forward again, signalling another confidence was to be made.
‘Elizabeth, I fear dear Frank is rushing into wedlock! The engagement was so sudden. I am sure it was brought about at Mr Gladstone’s insistence. I am not finding fault with Patience. She is a nicely brought-up, polite, cheerful sort of girl. One can easily be fond of her. In a year or two, with encouragement and the right influences, she could shine. But her family is provincial, lacking experience of fashionable society. Patience is very young and could easily be led into some awful faux-pas. She is scarcely more than a child, only nineteen. Oh, Elizabeth! She is a veritable little savage in her lack of knowledge of the world. Every time she opens her lips, I fear to hear what she will say. Dear Frank, of course, finds this enchanting.’
‘She will learn,’ I comforted her.
‘From whom?’ demanded Aunt Parry sharply. ‘Have I not just said that her close circle is not sophisticated?’ Perhaps she felt she was sounding over-critical. More graciously she went on, ‘I gather they are a leading family in Frank’s constituency, well respected, and have played their part in local affairs. There is a statue of her grandfather in the park there. But I think that is because he was instrumental in bringing the railway to the town, adding greatly to its prosperity. Frank tells me her father has built a fine house in the Gothic style. However, the town remains a workaday place. Frank told me it is permanently under a dense black cloud of smoke from the kilns.’ She sighed. ‘I am afraid that dear Frank himself remains – despite an excellent education and the advantage of spending much time here in Dorset Square – an innocent!’
It was a good thing I had set down my teacup or I should have dropped it. Frank? An innocent? Hardly that. Kind-hearted, yes, and well meaning. But when I had first met him he had been busily sowing his wild oats. He’d been very clever at hiding this from his doting aunt. What’s more, after a brief diplomatic career, he now sat at Westminster representing a constituency in the Potteries, with all the problems of industry. I doubted Frank lacked knowledge of the world.
‘Um . . .’ was all I could find to say.
Fortunately, at that moment, we heard the distant front doorbell.
Aunt Parry sat up straight. ‘Oh, good,’ she said brightly, ‘here is dear Patience. We shall have more cake. Mrs Simms must have more cake downstairs.’ Quietly, she added, ‘We’ll continue this conversation another time, dear Elizabeth.’
Whatever was worrying Aunt Parry, I was not to learn it, not just yet, anyway.
Shortly after that, Patience herself fairly bounced into the room. Her glowing cheeks were framed by bunches of black curls that seemed to quiver with a life of their own. She wore a dark blue gown, trimmed with braid and looking brand new. The gown was pinned up around the hem to protect it from wet pavements. The colour had perhaps been chosen to enhance the blue sapphires set in her engagement ring. Apart from the ring, she wore no jewellery except small coral earrings. She brought a breath of fresh air with her into Aunt Parry’s overheated drawing room.
‘My dear child,’ said Aunt Parry to her when first greetings had been exchanged. ‘You looked very flushed.’
‘It is because I walked here, Mrs Parry,’ said Patience cheerfully.
‘Walked – from Goodge Place to Dorset Square!’ cried Aunt Parry in disbelief.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Patience. ‘It is cold, but the rain has stopped, the sun is beautiful and I am used to walking, you know. At home, I walk all the time. I have good boots,’ she concluded. Indeed, we could see, beneath the pinned hem, her neat little walking boots of the type called ‘balmorals’ and made popular by the ladies of the royal family, with their liking for walking during their Scottish holidays. Patience’s boots had begun the day highly polished; now they were heavily smeared with mud.
‘Alone?’ asked Aunt Parry, raising hands in horror, both at the idea and at the mud. ‘They did send a maid with you from Goodge Place, I trust?’
‘Oh, no. Well, my Aunt Pickford offered to send one with me, but I told her I was sure of the way. I have a street map,’ she added.
‘Map?’ Aunt Parry’s voice was barely audible.
‘Yes, Mrs Parry, a street map. Frank gave it to me. It’s very useful. And, of course, I allowed myself plenty of time.’
Aunt Parry cast me a look said that clearly, You see what I mean?
To Patience she said firmly, ‘A map, dear child, is not a substitute for a companion of some sort. An unmarried young woman, Patience, does not wander around London with no protection other than a map! I shall speak to Frank.’
‘Oh, Frank doesn’t mind,’ said Patience, not at all dismayed at the criticism.
I remembered that when I’d arrived in London all alone, to be companion to Aunt Parry, not even a maid had been sent to meet me at th
e station. I had taken a cab and arrived in Dorset Square without mishap. Subsequently, I had walked everywhere on my own. But then, I had not been engaged to Frank.
It was clear that Aunt Parry found conversation with Miss Wellings a strain. With the arrival of fresh cake and tea, few words were exchanged. Once the last few crumbs had disappeared, she retired to her room to rest; and left entertaining Frank’s fiancée to me. As she passed by me on her way to the door, Aunt Parry gave me a meaningful look. Something was expected of me.
What was I supposed to do? Turn Patience into a society belle with the help of a few instructions? I was never any kind of society belle myself and couldn’t have done so, even had I wanted. Anyway, I liked Patience as she was. So, more importantly, did Frank.
I need not have worried how to begin the conversation now Patience and I were alone. As soon as Aunt Parry had left us, Patience leaned forward and began, ‘Dear Mrs Ross, I am so glad you are here. You are the very person I wanted to see.’
‘Please call me Lizzie,’ I said, wondering what was coming next.
‘Thank you!’ Patience beamed at me. ‘I have wanted to do so, because Frank always calls you that, but I did not want to seem forward. Aunt Pickford tells me every day I must observe all the niceties, and not put my foot in it. You will call me Patience, I hope?’
Mention of her feet drew my eye back to the muddy boots and I wondered if I should . . . No! I decided. This was none of my business. But clearly, there was something that Patience was anxious to make my business. My heart sank. Surely Frank had not got into a scrape? I really had thought him older and wiser. At least, one hoped so, for his constituents’ sakes.