by Wendy Jones
‘Get a wiggle on,’ Hilda whispered, as if talking among themselves was a conspiratorial act and they oughtn’t to be speaking. Grace followed Hilda along another long quiet corridor. She pushed the trolley in front of her; it was heavy with crumpled white linen, the remains of expensive nights of tranquil sleep. Grace understood that maids were to remain unseen, like mice, busy at the business of earning a crumb, living in the hotel but unwelcome, creeping by when no one was looking.
‘Room service!’ Hilda parroted politely, tapping on a door with professional obsequiousness. ‘You must always knock,’ she warned Grace. ‘Don’t want to find them doing it.’ She plucked a key from a huge ring of keys in her pocket and unlocked the door, like a thief without guilt. Inside, the room was in disarray. Trunks stencilled with P. A. Lytton lay open—one with a fur coat half-tumbling from it—and lingerie and Chinese pyjamas were splayed on the bed. Draped over the headboard was a Poiret black and white fancy-dress costume. Someone, a lady of means, had been trying on dresses and discarding them, considering ensembles of her clothes until she came to the right one, the dress she had chosen to wear, a dress which—inconceivably to Grace—must have been even more beautiful than those lying crumpled and abandoned on the unmade bed.
‘See?’ murmured Hilda, indicating the umpteen trunks, hatboxes and rails of exquisite clothes.
‘So many dresses,’ Grace stated, and wondered how life would approach a woman who wore dresses like these. She imagined débutante balls, grand invitations, opulent dinners, proposals of marriage and promises from men—promises kept. Grace only had one lovely dress—a yellow one; beyond that, her wardrobe was a selection of routine skirts and drab jerseys. She had been proposed to in her yellow dress. She liked her yellow silk dress, she felt beautiful in it, and it had been easy to laugh when she was wearing it. Grace remembered sitting on the picnic blanket, serving the trifle when he asked her. Clothes could change a woman’s life. She recalled afterwards, taking off her yellow dress in her bedroom, and how she saw her future as a wife, which was what she had always wanted—a home of her own and a kind husband, perhaps time to read books. She remembered her reflection in the looking glass, her girliness in her chemise. Then she felt her breathing tighten.
‘Stop gawping. Start working,’ Hilda ordered.
Grace picked up a pearly-white dress, its under-slip dangling out, turning it into two garments, like two bodies sewn together at the shoulders. The inside was on the outside and the outside was on the inside. She tried to unravel it but the dainty crystals and taupe sequins caught in each other. It was like a puzzle of right-way-roundness. Grace felt overwhelmed by so many new impressions, and by having so many new skills demanded of her.
‘Give it here.’ Hilda held the dress with her reddened fingers, shook and unravelled it and slipped a silk-padded hanger through the neck. Then she hung it in the wardrobe that stood in the room as if it was a stern chaperone assigned to the protection of delicate clothes belonging to ladies.
‘Like this,’ she said, picking up another garment and putting it neatly on a hanger.
Grace watched Hilda’s deft fingers. It occurred to her that swollen red hands were capable hands; the hands that made the world go round. Hilda had strong square fingers that could do what they needed to do and would put the world to rights.
The Louis XIV Suite was cleaned as swiftly as possible, the carpet swept with a Eureka cleaner, the gold-plated taps buffed and the sinks scrubbed and swilled, and Grace followed Hilda on to the next room in a long corridor of guest rooms, all in need of order and cleanliness.
‘Wait!’ Hilda whispered, later that afternoon on Grace’s first day. Grace stood behind a doorway in the foyer of the Ritz while a bride passed, walking jauntily, followed by three men in military uniform, officers perhaps. A grand piano tinkled both elegantly and jerkily—maybe it was jazz music the pianist was playing. Grace peeked out from behind the door and saw the hotel foyer for the first time. Everything glimmered as if it had been washed in the cleanest, freshest water and then lit with pearly starlight when it was still moist and glistening. Oval mirrors were painted with leaping deer and golden harts. The chandeliers were like transparent jellyfish floating on the ceiling. She saw Pan playing his pipes in the Lalique glass, and thought it was like the Elysian Fields in Homer’s Odyssey: a quiet heaven where the worthy might come when they died, should they so choose, and, to the accompaniment of the grand pianoforte, sip exotic tea from exquisite bone china.
‘Stop ogling again,’ Hilda admonished. ‘Quick, follow me.’ She clomped down the staircase to the Ladies’ Powder Room. ‘Clean in there,’ she instructed Grace, pointing to a line of cubicles.
Grace, the whalebone in the corset straining against her, began wiping the first lavatory. She didn’t like to do it; it made her feel nauseous and humiliated. Her father, a doctor, would disapprove of her not wearing Indian rubber gloves, for reasons of health. He vouched clean hands made for a long life, and he had spoken with admiration of Joseph Bazalgette who’d engineered the London sewage system—although Grace doubted he had ever imagined that his daughter would be cleaning some of it. That would not have pleased him.
‘There are rats in the Ritz,’ Hilda said, getting down on all fours to clean under a lacquered cabinet. ‘The kitchen lads swing them by their tails at the kitchen maids. The rats run up from the Thames.’ She pulled a dusty and forgotten comb out from beneath the cabinet, examined it and put it in her apron pocket.
‘Your hands are dripping on the floor!’ Hilda exclaimed. Grace’s hands were wet from cleaning the rim of the toilet bowl. ‘You are a ragamuffin. Here, look what I’ve got.’ Hilda took a heavily starched and perfectly folded napkin from her apron pocket to reveal one piece of shortbread, dusted with exceptionally fine sugar. She held the biscuit, cupped in both hands, as one might cup the face of a small and precious child. ‘Don’t tell. It’s from the Rivoli Bar. They serve it with the tea. Jack, one of the kitchen lads, gave it to me—he’s goofy on me. Pinched my bum!’ She smiled ebulliently. ‘Says he’ll marry me.’ She checked the door to see if a guest was coming. ‘One of us break it in half, the other has first pick.’
‘You have it,’ Grace replied. But Grace was hungry; she wanted it. She quickly rinsed her hands.
‘Are you on a weight-reduction diet?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are quite stout. Here.’ Hilda broke off a small piece and Grace put it in her mouth. The white sugar sprinkled down her front and she tried to flick it off but it clung stickily to her. The shortbread was like a mouthful of crunchy butter, almost fudgey, and the cinnamon gave it warmth. Grace wanted more. Hilda put the rest of the biscuit in her mouth, laughed, spluttered and then wiped her saliva-splattered hands on a dirty hand-towel. She bent and picked up a large crumb from the toilet floor and popped it in her mouth.
‘Stay here and clean the rest of them cubicles; I’m going to the linen room to get more hand-towels,’ she said, the crumbs falling from her mouth onto the gold-veined marble, commenting, ‘you’ve had tea at the Ritz now.’
When Grace had wiped the panels of all the lavatory doors with a damp cloth, she began to polish the glass door-handles. She felt uncertain of herself, surrounded by the opulence of the Ritz, but she did at least know how to clean a bathroom. Her mother had taught her that.
‘Goodness,’ an elegant woman in a navy dress commented, coming into the Ladies’ Powder Room and putting her parasol down on a small dressing-table, ‘one can still hear the pianoforte in here. Do you notice it?’ she asked, seeing Grace’s face for the first time and looking at her.
Grace did. Since she had arrived in London four days ago, she had been overwhelmed by the constant noise of the city. She was used to silence—a silence that deepened with the night and the dark and gave one space to think and expand. At night, at home—or what was once home—there were stars and starlight. Here, there were even occasiona
l gas lamps in the street. So yes, she noticed the noise.
‘Yes,’ Grace replied, wiping a washbasin with the clammy cloth scrunched in her hand. Last night when she lay in the dark in the maids’ dormitory, she could still hear the noise of the day; it filled her mind, surrounded it like a halo of chaos.
‘I suppose one becomes familiar with noise working in Piccadilly,’ the lady continued, regarding her reflection and patting the kiss curl at her temple.
Would she? Grace wondered. The Ritz—London—seemed busy. Always. Everywhere. Or at least, the fragments of the city she had seen. There were the throngs of people in the theatre of the streets. She noticed the white marble, embedded with ancient fossils, on the steps and staircases, and the flat façades of modern buildings made of stone polished into slabs of milky pearl. And the poverty, too. London was not a parish that cared for its parishioners.
The woman adjusted her pink silk turban in the mirror, applied some lipstick and retied her red belt, although Grace was aware the lady was also watching her out of the corner of her eye. The guest appeared as shiny and sleek as the Ritz itself. Grace was flushed from working, whereas the woman looked serene and slightly dewy.
‘Do excuse me, I have a cold,’ the guest said. She took a House of Liberty handkerchief from her sleeve and gracefully dabbed her green eyes. She smiled brightly; her white teeth ordered and even. ‘I’ve been waiting in the Rivoli Bar for a friend. I wonder where she can be?’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘Well, there’s not much one can do but keep waiting, I suppose.’ She smoothed her auburn hair, then looked at Grace. ‘We’re going to the meeting—in the Conway Hall,’ she said confessionally. ‘Do you subscribe?’
‘To what, ma’am?’ Grace asked, straightening her stained apron.
‘To votes. For all women. My aunt says female emancipation is poppycock. She believes all a lady needs to know is how to make a gentleman do what she wants.’ The woman clicked open the silver clasp on her clutch bag and put a leaflet on the dressing-table. ‘Here. I’m supposed to distribute these. Do come.’
Grace picked up the leaflet out of politeness.
MASS MEETING
ON THE REPRESENTATION OF THE PEOPLE ACT
SPEAKER MRS. EMMELINE PANKHURST
WED NEXT 3–5
CONWAY HALL, RED LION SQUARE
Grace considered it irrelevant to her: a diversion for rich ladies, those who’d had governesses and those women—few and far between, and whom Grace envied—who were admitted to university to receive an education. As far as Grace knew, votes for women were for the most privileged; were something luxurious that only the wealthiest could afford, or would contemplate having in the first place. What use was that?
The woman put on a navy summer coat, buttoned the one enormous tortoiseshell button, glanced back at Grace and said, ‘The vote is only the start. It’s not all shorts and cigarettes, you know.’ She straightened her silver brooch, lingering. ‘If you don’t mind me being so impertinent, it’s only, I had an elder sister. She looked rather like you. I’m painting a portrait of her from a photograph.’ The lady composed herself. ‘Excuse me asking, but what’s your name?’
‘Grace, ma’am.’
The lady offered her hand to be shaken. ‘Lady Penelope Lytton.’
Then Hilda walked in, carrying clean towels, and Grace surreptitiously put the leaflet in her apron pocket.
3.
WHAT NATURE DOES
Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Wilfred.’
‘You are sure then?’
Flora Myffanwy nodded. She put her camera down on the chest-of-drawers.
‘Well, I . . . Well, it’s . . . Well, my dear, it’s wonderful. Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Women were a mystery to Wilfred; they appeared to know everything—and now here was his wife, Flora Myffanwy, saying this: she seemed certain and he didn’t want to argue. They had been married seven weeks and now they were going to have a baby. Wilfred imagined a big, fat chubby boy in a wool bonnet and a white cardigan, sitting up in a perambulator, smiling at him and clapping gaily. A real, living baby, here in 11, Market Street, doing the things babies do. Wilfred wasn’t entirely sure what babies did, but keeping itself busy, sleeping, drinking milk, gurgling happily. Well, it was wonderful. The bee’s knees. The caterpillar’s whiskers. A baby was a family—it was someone else to love.
‘That’s wonderful, my dear. Wonderful. I didn’t know these things . . .’ Wilfred paused, not wanting to be indiscreet. They hadn’t even talked about having a family, had been too shy to speak so frankly with each other. He had imagined it would happen, as it seemed to happen to everyone who got married in Narberth. ‘You are very clever, dear,’ he said, feeling unexpectedly quite proud of himself.
‘Thank you, Wilfred.’
‘Does that mean it will be born in the late spring?’
‘Yes,’ Flora said, in her quiet, dignified way. She looked delighted.
‘That’s a very good time to have a baby, that’s what nature does.’
Wilfred took Flora’s hand and looked down bashfully. He went and drew the flimsy curtains across the window of their tiny bedroom and pulled his wife onto the bed. He wasn’t sure if an undertaker was supposed to lie down and hold his wife after breakfast on a Sunday morning, but that’s exactly what he did because, he said to himself, this was a very special occasion.
As he lay quietly on the counterpane, holding Flora very carefully, her head pillowed on his arm, and trying to take in this most momentous of news, he heard a voice calling him.
‘Mr. Wilfred Price. Wilfred! You need to come quickly.’ Wilfred heard the sound of someone rushing through the front door and the furniture clattering. Bad news has good legs, he thought to himself, getting out of bed.
‘Oh Wilfred, Wilfred, whatever is to be done?’ Mrs. Emlyn Jacobs was standing in front of him, her stockings bunched round her ankles, her shawl awry.
‘What is the matter, Mrs. Emlyn Jacobs?’ asked Wilfred, knowing exactly what was the matter. Mr. Emlyn Jacobs was a stout gentleman who flushed mauve in the face with the slightest exertion and ate a surprisingly large number of pork pies, his false teeth clacking under his curled moustache. It wasn’t good to be exceptionally fat.
‘Oh, Mr. Wilfred Price,’ moaned Mrs. Emlyn Jacobs, as if saying the undertaker’s name was the answer to her predicament. ‘Wilfred. Price.’
‘Don’t fret now,’ consoled Wilfred, pulling himself up tall and assuming his undertaker’s face, ready for Mrs. Emlyn Jacobs to tell him what he had already surmised. She put her hands to her red round cheeks and started sobbing, her face crooked with pain. Yet there was something about Mrs. Emlyn Jacobs that suggested to Wilfred that, along with her shock, there was a thread of shame. To relieve her of her embarrassment, he said consolingly, ‘I’ll take care of everything for you.’
Mrs. Emlyn Jacobs told Wilfred she had gone to stay with her cousin in Wooden, only to return on the first train to find that, when she came through the front door, the house was silent with no sign of her husband. Unable to find Mr. Emlyn Jacobs anywhere, she did the unthinkable and pushed open the closed door to the indoor water closet. And there, to her eternal surprise, was her husband sitting down, dead.
That in itself wasn’t unusual, Wilfred knew. Far more folk conked out in the water closet than was ever let on, though to hear people talk you would think it didn’t happen. Relatives said, ‘He was feeling unwell and passed away at home.’ Wilfred knew from plentiful experience what that meant. But he could be relied on to be discreet about these things. He always was. Very few buggers died in a dignified way. His wise and experienced apprentice-master, Mr. Ogmore Auden of O. Auden, Wheelwrights & Cabinet Makers of Whitland, had told him that the last words of the late Bishop of St. David’s—who was renowned throughout the whole of Pembrokeshire for the profundity of his sermons—were:
‘Pass the spittoon.’
Wilfred reached for his top hat.
‘Let me accompany you to the house,’ he offered in an attempt to spare Mrs. Jacobs the torment of detail, ‘and I’ll be able to oversee the situation.’
But when Wilfred arrived at 4, Market Square—the large house in the Georgian terrace where the Jacobs lived—and saw Mr. Jacobs, he was rather taken aback. It wasn’t the deceased’s state of undress or frozen expression of consternation and straining, but that Wilfred knew immediately from the green colour of Mr. Emlyn Jacobs’s swollen face that he had sat in the same position for at least a day, perhaps two, and rigor mortis had already set in. Wilfred would be able to lift him—with some help from his da and his friend, Jeffrey, as Mr. Emlyn Jacobs must be a good fifteen stone. But even if the three of them could carry the deceased down the stairs and made the short walk across Market Square into Wilfred’s workshop, they would never be able to do it without anyone noticing. And it wouldn’t do for people to see Mr. Emlyn Jacobs—the long-standing accountant for Narberth who was famed for his almost supernatural ability to bend the books—carried upright, legs apart, dead as a dodo, across Market Square, even if he was covered with a sheet. There was nothing for it, Wilfred thought. They’d have to take him to the chapel of rest—his workshop—in the middle of the night.
‘The utmost confidentiality is assured, Mrs. Jacobs,’ Wilfred promised, gently prising the West Wales Guardian from Mr. Jacobs’s clutching hand. Confidentiality was, according to Mr. Auden, the golden rule of undertaking: ‘Don’t mention the unmentionable!’ he’d ordered. ‘And don’t mention that you’ve seen the unmentionable.’
Mrs. Emlyn Jacobs looked at Wilfred gratefully.
‘Nobody need know the manner of his passing,’ he reassured her, patting the widow’s arm. Mrs. Emlyn Jacobs dabbed her eyes, closing the door on her husband.