by Fay Weldon
So Tessa worried and agitated on the first day at sea. Grace did what she could to soothe her. Her own opinion was that probably Minnie had fallen in love with some mad artist and run off: like mother, like daughter. The Irish enjoyed their sensuous pleasures and were romantics. On the other hand Minnie did not seem the hard kind of Irishwoman who would countenance leaving her own children in the name of love. So perhaps it was that her husband Arthur had been unfaithful – that too was most definitely in the blood – and Minnie, coming from God’s Own Country and expecting more of life than an Englishwoman might, had taken offence.
On the first day of the voyage Grace did not say so: she did not want to upset Tessa further. After five years away from England she had forgotten what it was to be a skivvy, and had graduated to valued companion, even friend. Tessa still sought her advice on the art of cultivated and cultural living. Grace had developed her own little business selling art works and pottery, but she still lived in the O’Briens’ household as one of the family and knew that alarming Tessa could be a noisy to-do. On the second day the Carpania hit bad weather and Grace was too ill to say very much at all.
‘I wish I were dead,’ was all Grace kept on saying, while Tessa, concerned, mopped her brow and held basins for her one-time lady’s maid. The steward, since they were travelling first class, was attentive. He came quickly with fresh towels and bowls, and glasses of lemon and orange juice mixed, which Grace did her best to keep down. ‘I wish I had never come.’
‘May God forgive you, no you don’t,’ said Tessa. ‘It’s only the seasickness. Set foot on solid land and it passes over. And you’ll be wanting to show yourself off to your old friends, won’t you, and prove what a success you’ve made of yourself – the Barnardo’s girl made good.’
Grace was unimpressed. She looked at Tessa with glazed eyes and vomited again.
The steward, a lanky Irish lad who when asked what his name was said, ‘Finn – son of Erin’, took Grace’s forearm and pressed an inch or so above the wrist, saying it was a cure for seasickness he had learned from his father, a trawler man in Dublin Bay.
Grace recovered sufficiently to say to Tessa, ‘What do you think I am? A cock to crow on a dung heap? All I want is to help your poor daughter out of a fix, same as you. It’s all my fault anyway, that’s all. I should have spoken up when I could, but I didn’t.’
‘What do you mean by that? Spoken up about what?’ asked Tessa.
‘About your Minnie marrying Master Arthur in the first place. I know what he’s like and he’s no gentleman for all he’s a Viscount. He had his way with me and by the end of the school holidays couldn’t so much as remember who I was.’
Tessa took time to take this on board and then said serenely: ‘Well, he was a young man, wasn’t he. What do they care for, but a notch on the bedpost? Many a man in my own lifetime has quite forgotten my face. Don’t distress yourself, Grace. I was too busy selling the lace on my poor Minnie’s petticoat to take any notice, and as for Minnie, she always did have an eye for a rotter. Let’s face it, it’s as likely to be her fault as his.’
Finn the steward, who had been doing his best to work out the relationship between the older lady and the younger, overheard this last and came to the conclusion they had switched cabins. Tessa, who was Irish, was the maid and Grace, who was English, was the mistress. He had no love of the English. He let the pressure on Grace’s forearm go and she felt ill again at once and brought up the orange and lemon juice. Finn relented and went to fetch some Allen & Hanburys’ morphine pastilles, and gave them to madam to suck and after that at least she slept a great deal more and vomited less.
Finn, considering himself in servitude to the English as he did, saw Mrs O’Brien as a true daughter of Ireland, and had a friendly exchange or so with her: he was jumping ship to join the Sons of Finn McCool when the ship docked at Queenstown. Tessa passed the time on the voyage purloining food from the groaning tables of the first-class lounge and giving it to Finn. He in his turn would smuggle the booty down to the third-class passengers. They were quartered in dormitories and dined on bread and cheese, stringy stew and watery potatoes. Tessa went down in person once, and found to her surprise that conditions below were not as bad as she had imagined, or certainly as Finn claimed, leaving the seasickness out of it. But then steerage was half empty – immigrant boats left for the United States full, returning only with those few who were disappointed with what they found, or single women who had been barred entry at Ellis Island, unable or unwilling to find someone to marry them on the way over. Their quarters were clean if Spartan; nurses tended to the sick, the food was plentiful if plain. Tessa’s gifts were welcome enough: the oysters, filets mignons, whole roast duck, chocolate cream gâteaux, little bottles of whisky and brandy; anything Tessa managed to secrete without being seen, with the aid of napkins and pockets. Tessa’s pleasures might now belong in first class but her heart belonged in third, as is so often the way with those who start poor and end rich.
On the third day the waves abated and Grace felt better. Finn had a word with the Purser to the effect that the ladies’ cabins had been wrongly assigned, and Grace accepted an invitation to dine at the Captain’s table, where she conducted herself with the manners and grace of a fine lady. Tessa dining without her companion was received with that excess of cool politeness which the English reserve for the Irish, a mixture of pity and a profound conviction of their own superiority. No wonder Finn resented them.
Tessa felt for her daughter – Ruth amid the alien corn: an American amongst the English, and Irish–American at that. Worse, Chicago Irish, not even lace-curtain Boston Irish, but stockyard Chicago, hog-baron Irish. What had she and Billy done to their daughter? Bartered her, sold her, used her lace petticoats to charm a Lord and boast about having a titled lady for a daughter.
By the time the Carpania docked at Liverpool – they had a different steward after Queenstown where Finn jumped ship and many of the steerage passengers disembarked – Tessa was thoroughly ashamed of herself and the more determined to bring her daughter and grandchildren home. As for Grace, she was the more secure in her right to be considered a lady. Anyone who could tell a kid glove from a suede glove, as could any lady’s maid, but very few ladies, had, she decided, a right to consider well of herself.
They took the train to London and stayed at the Savoy on the Tuesday night. Tessa had thought Grace would prefer to stay at Brown’s, where she had been so close to Eddie the concierge during her skivvy days. But Grace shuddered at the very idea, afraid of being sucked back into the humiliations of the past.
They took a fine breakfast in their suite; even Grace could find no fault. A team of three served it impeccably: the tablecloth was snowy and crisply starched, the silver salvers and coffee service polished to perfection, the Bircher Muesli (Lady Minnie’s favourite) lavishly made with thick yellow cream, the sausages moist, the grilled tomatoes sweet and crisp, scrambled eggs from the freshest eggs and the apricot jam for the toast had been cooked French style, the apricots tiny but still whole, more compote than jam.
Later in the morning Grace wanted to take a taxi to No. 3 Fleet Street, where Minnie had last reported her whereabouts, but Tessa wanted to go on foot.
‘Sure and it’s a fine soft morning,’ she said, ‘and I need to walk, I’m bursting, fat as a stuffed pig.’
‘It’s a most pleasant morning,’ corrected Grace, ‘and never draw unnecessary attention to your physical state.’
‘I’m done with all that malarkey,’ declared Tessa, ‘I speak as I find, I am what I am.’
And she led the way down the Strand, a round, brave, squat, bright figure in a tightly-waisted, pink bombazine coat-dress, its skirt cut fashionably short to show the ankles, which was, Grace thought, unfortunate, since the ankles were rather fleshy and hung over the tops of her brown suede and very expensive lace-up boots. But one-two, one-two, one-two she went – to rescue her child, defiant in the face of fate and oblivious to others’ opinion.
Grace felt very fond of her, she herself being in a navy-blue coat with a fur muff and little felt cloche hat that kept her ears warm. She had a beau back in Chicago, a lawyer with the Board of Trade, who much admired her ears.
It was a fifteen-minute walk – it had looked shorter on the Baedeker map the concierge showed them – past the Aldwych corner with the new Waldorf Theatre, where Eleanora Duse was putting on Lights Out (with, so it said, Henry Irving acting: they must go when they had time), past pretty St Mary le Strand and St Clement’s, into Fleet Street, and opposite St Dunstan’s church there was No. 3. It was a small house, squeezed in between more august buildings, with a shop door and glass windows running across the frontage. It could have been a business or a home. It was certainly not likely to house a Viscountess, and Grace’s immediate thought was that her ‘run off with a mad artist’ guess about the runaway daughter was perfectly possible.
And then Grace stopped short. Parked in front of No. 3 was a familiar-looking Jehu automobile, and who but Reginald sitting up in front waiting, well-scarved, but recognizable at once. Tessa had gone ahead and was banging upon the shop door. It did not open.
‘Reginald, is that you?’ It was a moment or so before Reginald recognized Grace, moments which, in spite of her protestations to Tessa, she did indeed savour. Why should she not?
‘Grace,’ said Reginald startled. ‘You! What are you doing in London?’
‘I am staying at the Savoy,’ said Grace.
‘Still the lady’s maid?’ asked Reginald.
‘As a friend,’ said Grace, haughtily.
‘But still with the mother-in-law, I see,’ said Reginald. ‘Turned up like a bad penny. Young Arthur’s come to claim his wife – so it’d be better she stays out of it. I don’t think it’s going too well.’
And indeed it seemed so. Grace could hear the sound of altercation and male shouts from within, over the noise of Tessa’s knocking, now more like hitting. The little red hands were surprisingly strong; she was using the muff to protect the knuckles.
‘You devils, you dirty skuds, you bastards, let me in! Minnie, are you in there? It’s your ma!’
Scuffles, shuffles, and bangs came from inside, and little female moans of dismay and protest. Tessa shouted and hammered: passers-by stopped to stare.
‘Do something,’ begged Grace, but Reginald seemed to be enjoying himself.
‘It’s always been like this, Lord Arthur and Mr Robin after the same woman, as you know from of old, Grace.’
‘But she’s not just some woman,’ protested Grace. ‘She’s his wife!’
‘She was never any better than she ought to be either,’ said Reginald. ‘What did anyone expect?’
At which point the door burst outward and the Viscount and the Hon. Mr Robin fell into the street, knocking Tessa onto the ground. Grace ran to help her up. Arthur and Mr Robin continued their scuffle too closely entwined to render the other completely helpless, until Mr Robin banged Arthur’s head upon the pavement and he lay still for at least a moment. This allowed Mr Robin to extricate himself and lean against the doorpost, breathing heavily, laughing horribly, every now and then crowing, ‘Too late! Too late!’ A couple of street urchins cheered. A few more respectable passers-by stood and gawped – most hurried by. Minnie, barefoot, but at least fully clothed, came weeping to the door. Lady Rosina and another young woman whom Grace did not recognize peered out from behind her.
‘It is not true, Anthony,’ Minnie wept at Mr Robin. ‘You know it isn’t true! Why are you lying?’ and to her husband, ‘Arthur, my darling, he’s lying. Please believe me!’ And she tried to help her husband up, but he shook her off saying, ‘Why should I believe you! Harlot!’ so she shrank back. He might as well have hit her.
Grace was appalled. First a fight which reminded her of little boys in the school yard back at Barnardo’s, now one of those melodramas you saw at the Selig five-cent moving picture theatre on a Saturday afternoon. Reginald was smirking. But Minnie was at least in Tessa’s arms, her mother weeping and laughing all over her.
‘My darling girl, my darling wee chick…’ It was a hopeless task to make a lady of her; the Irish in her would always out. ‘What have you been and gone and done now?’
‘I’ve done nothing bad, Ma, nothing bad at all,’ Minnie wailed. ‘He’s lying! I’m a good girl. He’s making it up. It’s because I wouldn’t when he wanted—’
And this girl was a Viscountess. Grace didn’t believe Minnie for one minute. She even felt sorry for Master Arthur, who even as she watched spat upon the ground, and Grace bent down and used her little lace handkerchief to pick up a bloody tooth from the gutter, and hand the small package back to him. When she was a girl of fifteen he had stood with golden-haired bare legs beside her iron bedstead in a sloping attic bedroom, and she had welcomed him in under the bedclothes, but he would hardly remember that now.
‘A dentist may put it back, Master Arthur,’ she said. ‘I don’t know about here but in Chicago they would. They’re very ahead.’
Lord Arthur looked at her blankly but took the handkerchief. It meant a lot to Grace. She had bought it from haberdashery at Marshall Sears as a symbol of her new earning and spending life in the land of plenty. It was a lovely if tiny thing, ever so light and lacy, the body made of écru net, embroidered with flower-of-life motifs, tambour style, enhanced with lace appliqué and cut work, and frilled with the most delicate coffee-coloured Belgian lace. She was glad Master Arthur had it. It had seemed something of a wicked waste at the time, two dollars, but now it was at least useful, if bloody.
Arthur moved past Grace and into the Jehu without looking back.
‘Lincoln’s Inn, Reginald,’ he said, his voice hoarse and desperate. ‘Courtney & Baum. To my lawyers.’
Reginald gunned the engine as once he had whipped up the horses, and the Jehu roared away to join the main throng of traffic, both horse and automobile, which now jammed the Strand as it narrowed into Fleet Street. Its progress was marred only by a series of rude bangs from the exhaust.
Lady Rosina and the other girl attended to Mr Robin, looking witheringly at Minnie the while.
‘I never thought you would be so completely bloody silly,’ Rosina said to Minnie and Minnie looked too shocked to retaliate.
‘Oh Minnie, how could you!’ sighed the other girl.
‘But I didn’t, I didn’t! Nothing happened. Believe me!’ begged Minnie.
‘You leave my girl alone, you preening nancy boy,’ said Tessa, pushing Rosina aside, and then to the other girl, ‘and don’t you lay hands on her or I’ll be having to disinfect her.’
‘Oh Ma, oh Ma,’ wailed Minnie.
Not even Mum, thought Grace, let alone Mummy, let alone Mama. Just Ma. What kind of mother to an Earl would the girl make?
Then Tessa said to Mr Robin, pink bombazine quivering in rage, ‘As for you, you nancy man, don’t think I don’t know one when I see one. I’ve no idea what you’re playing at but I’ll find out.’
Tessa bundled Minnie into a motor taxi that Grace had found, and they went off to the Savoy. Anthony Robin, Diana and Rosina went back inside No. 3 and they closed the door after them. The onlookers dispersed.
The Day After the Terrible Event
November 1905, Belgrave Square
Isobel, ignorant of these dramas, rose at ten the next morning and prepared for her day. Minnie would arrive at three for her Sunday visit to see the children, and her Ladyship rather dreaded the occasion. It was worse than any charity event where you had to dissemble, pretend to smile when you did not feel like it, and be friendly when you were not. The guests would pay their money and go away happy, and you’d sink back in relief that it was over, get on with your life, duty done, the evils of ignorance, poverty and illness duly battled. But it was a strain. You did not look forward to it.
This afternoon she would have to sympathize with Minnie about how badly Arthur had behaved when it was surely Minnie who had been at fault in her over-reaction. Her son said the
occasion had been entirely innocent and Isobel believed him. Minnie was bored and loved a scene and had been looking for reasons to find fault, that was all.
‘Minnie has everything she needs,’ Arthur had said. ‘She has a husband, a home, children, servants – for Heaven’s sake, what more can she want? If you can put up with Pater’s interest in politics I don’t see why Minnie can’t put up with my interest in the combustion engine. We both work for society as well as our families.’
He was quite right: women looked after the home, men looked after the progress of things, and women must put up with what went with having an energetic and handsome husband. Of course it was not pleasant to have a faithless one, as she herself well knew, but their infatuations quickly passed and meant little. If Minnie wanted her children back all she had to do was come home and live with them. No one was stopping her. As it was, it was she, Isobel, who was put to trouble, having to stop what she was doing just when there was so much to be done in Sussex, and haul the little ones all the way up to Belgrave Square for Sunday tea.
And Minnie going to stay with Rosina, at least it kept things respectable, and she was well and truly chaperoned by a married – well, widowed – family member, but it was an act of defiance and disrespect towards herself. If Rosina apologized all would be well – Isobel had made it easy for her by inviting Minnie to Sunday tea: simple for Rosina just to come along to hold Minnie’s hand, but Rosina had chosen not to.