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To Richard
1
MY NAME IS Mattie Stacey and my mother runs a lodging house in Wakefield-street near Kings Cross and I was that angry at everything that happened about Freddie and Ernest, that’s why I stayed awake in my room after the others had gone to bed, sitting at my long work-table next to Hortense, and just writing everything down. Hortense is a plaster head. Ma got it from a theatre long ago and I painted red lips and big dark eyes on her and we chat. But really she’s for trying hats on when I’m making them.
If your house got rude words writ on it and people yelled WHORE at you in the street and if your address was published in the newspapers and called a bordello and ‘the seedy headquarters of criminal activity’ and other lies wouldn’t you pick up a pen and dip it in the ink and write what you know happened? course all the other people we found was involved, they didn’t get their houses writ on, no one wrote on the grand houses did they?
And it’s true my heart was caught up, and I know that part is stupid and you’ll think I’m stupid, well – well that just cant be helped, you cant always tell your heart what to do.
1870
2
The sharp, brisk sound of a door-knocker echoed through the house in Wakefield-street, near Kings Cross.
A young woman opened the door.
An elegant, top-hatted gentleman stood there; behind him she could see a carriage shadowed in the crisp darkness of the chill February evening, and the lights of the rattling, passing carts, and cabriolets. Yelling street voices blasted in and she heard the bells on several of the nearby churches tolling the hour of ten, not necessarily in unison.
The young woman smiled at the visitor, and when he had haughtily stated his business, she called loudly up the stairs. ‘Ernest! Freddie! A carriage is here! And a gentleman!’
‘We shan’t be long!’ A man’s voice shouted down.
‘Shall I send the gentleman up?’
‘No, no, Mattie! Certainly not!’ Loud laughter. ‘Advise him we shall be down in just a moment.’
The top-hatted gentleman at the front door, thus dismissed, felt in his waistcoat pocket for a cigar.
The young woman politely offered him the small parlour where a fire was lit; she saw him glance amusedly, dismissively, at the hallway and the narrow staircase, although everything was impeccably clean and tidy and there were flowers on a polished table by the door.
‘I would prefer to wait outside,’ he said.
She left the front door part open, deciding not to be rude by closing it in his patronising face; cigar smoke drifted in from the front steps with the cold air. Above the never-ceasing noise of passing traffic (even though the street was back from the main Euston Road) the young woman heard the waiting horse shift its feet on the cobbles, the bridle shook and jingled, and as usual there was the sound of angry, screaming voices further down Wakefield-street as if people were killing each other; occasionally they were. She also heard old Mr Flamp telling himself the story of his life as he often did, for company, in his room under the stairs of this house.
Then running footsteps and laughter exploded from above, and perfume and powder swirled downwards excitedly with Ernest Boulton and Frederick Park: the flattering light of the lamps caught them softly, petticoats rustled, silk-and-tulle and satin shimmered, corsets held, chignons towered upwards, bracelets tinkled. Ernest came first in a low-cut white gown decorated all over with pink roses; pink roses too in the fair chignon and wig. Freddie was in blue with a train, with a bright red shawl around his shoulders, and a red feather decorating his flaxen hairpieces.
The landlady, Mrs Isabella Stacey, appeared from the basement, carrying a large teapot. ‘Oh my heavens, Ernest, look at you! You look fit for a royal ballroom – you could dance with the Prince of Wales himself! But – ah – there’s two hooks broken! you can’t go out like that – here, Mattie, we’ll give old Mr Flamp some tea in a moment, to cheer him.’
Mattie took the big teapot from her mother, and Mrs Stacey took a needle and cotton from her apron and sewed Ernest together, and Mattie, even as she balanced the teapot, managed also to smooth Freddie’s red shawl over the blue gown and she smiled and said, ‘You look lovely, Freddie.’ Freddie put his hand to her cheek in a brief thank-you and her face lit up with a bigger, warmer, beautiful smile even as he then put his hand to his own cheek in the manner of a coquette, and laughed.
‘Where’s Billy?’ said Ernest, peering over his shoulder impatiently to see why the landlady was taking so long. Mrs Stacey caught a drift of gin. ‘We would like a masculine opinion of our gowns!’
‘He’s not home from his work. He often has to work late.’
‘Running the country,’ said Ernest, preening and smiling, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Of course he is!’
‘He wouldn’t be half bad at it if he was,’ said Mrs Stacey dryly, satisfied now with the propriety of the hooks on the pink and white gown, and retrieving the large teapot from her daughter. ‘Are you performing tonight?’
Freddie shimmered and quivered, unable to keep still. ‘Ernest has been prevailed upon to sing, Mrs Stacey – and it is indeed a ball, although not a royal one! – at Mr Porterbury’s Hotel by the Strand, and the Prince of Wales has been known to occasionally attend such soirées. Although I expect, this month at least, now that his unmatrimonial royal activities are being discussed all over London, he is being somewhat more discreet than usual!’ and everyone laughed.
‘But I do assure you, my dears,’ said Ernest as he pulled up his elegant gloves, and his eyes glittered in the lamplight and fumes of gin mingled with strong perfume, ‘that, unlike that wearisome little martyr Cinderella, our fairy tale shall not end by midnight, nor in a pumpkin!’ and he looked coyly at the landlady and her daughter from under his eyelashes. All the petticoats rustled with further impatience; both men were laughing and the perfume and the powder swirled again – and then they were gone, disappearing into the night in a fever of anticipation and excitement and – some other thing also: a frisson – daring? hazard? danger?… something…
As the sound of the horse’s hooves echoed away in the darkness, the scent of the powder and the perfume and the gin lingered for a moment in the hallway of the house in Wakefield-street (they preferred brandy, but sometimes gin was a cheaper way to prepare themselves). And something unreadable lingered for a moment also in the face of the young woman, Mattie, as she listened to the last sounds of the carriage dancing away into all the other traffic, towards the Strand.
And then the house sighed and settled and became itself again, a tall, narrow terraced house near Kings Cross Station among a hundred such houses, and the mother and the daughter took the large teapot into the lonely room of Mr Flamp, another – less glamorous – lodger, so that he could, for a little while at least, have someone to tell his stories to, other than himself.
Mr Amos Westropp Gibbings, a very wealthy young gentleman of independent means, had hired for this particular, private soirée the whole first floor – that is, a large central room with much smaller rooms leading off it – of Porterbury’s Hotel in Wellington Street, just off the Strand.
‘A few particular friends,’ he had said to Mr Porterbury some weeks earlier, ‘perhaps thirty? Let us cheer up these chilly days with beauty and pleasure! Music, entertainment, supper, etcetera, etcetera – the etcetera to inc
lude the best champagne. I shall also expect to pay for all extra accoutrements of course.’
And now, tonight, a clock in the distance striking ten, they waited at the top of the first-floor staircase: Mr Gibbings, and Mr Porterbury the proprietor, almost as if they were a couple, for although Mr Porterbury was attired in his best gentlemen’s evening wear, Mr Amos Gibbings was dressed in a mauve gown and pearls.
There were fires burning for warmth. Everything looked beautiful. Large baskets of flowers scented the already heady room; straight-backed, gilt chairs lined the wall as was the custom at soirées; bowls of fruit and little plates of breath-enhancing pastilles stood on small tables, and the chandeliers threw soft shadows across the floor, embracing the visitors with that warm, flattering glow. The musicians were already playing a cheeky polka and many guests in their colourful evening gowns and sober dress suits had already arrived; excitement mounted as the room filled. And Mr Porterbury the proprietor smiled and smiled and rubbed his hands together slightly (for Mr Gibbings was a valued customer, and money had already changed hands, and it was clear that more than thirty guests had already entered the large room, therefore more money would be changing hands at a later date). Despite the extra guests it appeared to be a most respectably patronised occasion: a Member of Parliament and a member of the judiciary arrived together, followed by two members of the clergy; all were immediately served champagne by the handsome young waiters who looked so fine in their smart jackets and very well-fitting trousers.
Excitement and laughter rose as the orchestra played ‘Camptown Races’ with much panache, and champagne glasses were generously refilled. Already ladies and gentlemen leaned nearer and nearer to one another, waving dance programmes: ladies? gentlemen? – sometimes it was hard to tell.
‘An interesting guest list,’ murmured Mr Porterbury urbanely, observing them all.
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Gibbings as he smiled and waved, ‘several young gentlemen from St James’s of course. And as you know the Prince of Wales himself has occasionally honoured us with his presence.’
Mr Porterbury’s jowls quivered. ‘Will he come this evening?’
‘I expect he is being very careful of his whereabouts just at the moment, considering the newspaper coverage of the Mordaunt divorce case!’ And they both laughed.
Mr Porterbury, taller, suddenly nudged Mr Gibbings. ‘However, several attractive ladies from St John’s Wood are ascending the stairs, Mr Gibbings, if I am not mistaken,’ and he smiled urbanely, (St John’s Wood being an area where high-class but not necessarily entirely respectable ladies were known to dwell.)
Mr Gibbings stepped forward. ‘Alice! How utterly delightful to see you, my dear. So glad you have honoured us with your presence!’
‘Ah, Amos, I was whisked here by some gentlemen friends, and I have whisked also my little niece, Nancibelle, who has not graced such a soirée as this before. I thought it would be good for her education,’ and Alice twinkled at Mr Gibbings, ‘so I do hope you will make her welcome!’
‘My dear, of course! Welcome, Miss Nancibelle, indeed! How exquisite you both look.’ (And Nancibelle wriggled her shoulders slightly smugly, knowing that she was indeed exquisite, and looked about the room with great interest.) ‘And Mr Porterbury here is the proprietor,’ and Mr Porterbury bowed to both ladies and Nancibelle nodded her head haughtily as if to say, Really? The proprietor? as taught by her mother. Who was not of course present. Mr Gibbings then snapped his fingers. ‘Now here is a very handsome young man to take you to the powder room,’ and a waiter who had stepped forward escorted Alice and Nancibelle away.
‘Methinks Alice is showing her age slightly these days after all her life’s adventures,’ murmured Mr Gibbings to Mr Porterbury, ‘but she is now so desperate for a monied husband that she accepts invitations to my soirées unconditionally, thinking perhaps that certain gentlemen present may need’ – he paused, smiling slightly – ‘may need a particularly understanding wife!’ The orchestra suddenly burst into a gavotte. ‘And this of course is half the fun of it all,’ Mr Gibbings murmured further, nearer to Mr Porterbury’s ear above the music, ‘to mix everybody up! For of course as you know, Mr Porterbury, to forestall insinuations I always invite a certain number of “real” ladies – if we may call them ladies.’
And then Mr Gibbings’s face lit up as Ernest and Freddie swept up the winding staircase.
‘Stella!’ he called to Ernest. ‘Fanny!’ he called to Freddie. ‘I thought you would never arrive!’ And he turned once more to Mr Porterbury. ‘This dream of perfection in white with pink roses is my dear friend, Stella. As spring blossoms she will no doubt be the star attraction at the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race and another twenty balls; this cosy evening she is ours, she will sing for us, and will, I promise, bewitch,’ and Mr Porterbury bowed again, bewitched already, unable to quite take his eyes from the lovely figure in front of him.
‘My dear, you look ravishing,’ murmured Ernest to Mr Gibbings, although he was actually surveying the room from under his eyelashes.
‘My dear,’ Mr Gibbings answered, ‘I have spoken to the orchestra. They have the music for “Fade Away” and “Eileen Aroon”, and assure me they are familiar with both songs.’ He turned back to the proprietor. ‘And Mr Porterbury, this is Fanny, another dear, dear friend; Mr Porterbury is the proprietor here, Fanny, and the facilitator of our evening,’ and Freddie in his blue gown gave a small, graceful curtsey.
‘Fanny dear, blue is your colour, as I have often told you,’ said Mr Gibbings in mauve, ‘and that beautiful shawl is certainly the most ravishing scarlet colour I have ever beheld! Come now, a glass of champagne!’ and Stella and Fanny were at once surrounded, not only by trays of champagne carried by the handsome young waiters, but by many friends and admirers. Hands reached out for the fizzing glasses.
A swathe of ladies and gentlemen, all wearing the latest fashions, now filled the ballroom and waved their dance programmes at one another and called to friends across the large room. The orchestra was playing ‘Camptown Races’ again, by request, and voices rang out: doo-dah! doo-dah! in time to the music. Couples stamped and twirled, there was laughter and music and excitement. And, again, under the flattering lamplight, with the rising smell of perspiring men, layered with the aroma of pomade and strong perfume and pastilles and alcohol – again some other thing shimmered there also, in the air… the scent of something – something that seemed almost a dangerous perfume itself, heightening the animation and the exhilaration. (Philosophers have for many centuries debated this last point, of course: the proposal that human beings sense certain particular matters exactly as do animals – and indeed, it is believed, butterflies.)
Such exquisite, sparkling, shining gowns; such handsome men; such pretty ladies – an evening like many others in London except that perhaps the laughter became by degrees somewhat more feverish than might have been considered respectable by young ladies’ chaperones in other ballrooms. (Actually, the somewhat uninhibited laughter may in some circles have been deemed extremely vulgar.)
But of course there were no chaperones here.
Minutes passed, or hours: it is hard to keep count when the champagne is flowing so freely and the noise so loud. Many of the gentlemen in their elegant evening attire, including both bishops, wanted to dance, in particular, with the lovely figure in pink and white, with the pink roses in her hair. (Mr Amos Gibbings was heard to comment favourably on a bishop’s cassock and its suitability for the swirl of the waltz.)
Before the actual supper was served the handsome young waiters carried in plates of tiny savoury delicacies and, with little delighted screams, people swooped on both the waiters and the food like hungry, noisy, predatory birds, appetites aroused. In some corners ladies – perhaps they were ladies – sat in the little straight-backed gilt chairs, and gentlemen bent over them with champagne and chicken wings, and whispered; the laughter became even more ebullient perhaps (raucous, frankly) and the orchestra played another waltz and co
uples danced closer together and champagne continued to flow unabated. Occasionally now discreet doors opened and closed into the smaller rooms beyond the ballroom.
At midnight a large and luxurious supper was served in another room.
Mr Amos Gibbings looked around imperiously. ‘Julius, where is Julius? It must be Julius!’
‘Julius!’ went up the cry. ‘Julius!’
One of the bishops emerged from one of the side rooms with red rosy cheeks, fumbling at the very many cassock buttons and innocently smoothing his dishevelled hair. (Followed at a discreet distance by one of the waiters.) This bishop blessed the French soup and halibut and duck and roast beef and treacle pudding and caramel and cream and orangewater ices and profiteroles. All these victuals were immediately attacked by guests (including the blessing bishop) with much enjoyment, and in one corner of the dining room a party of inebriated gentlemen used the ever-growing piles of empty champagne bottles as skittles, with goose eggs as balls.
Champagne Charlie is my name, sang the skittlers,
Champagne Charlie is my name,
Good for any game at night, my boys,
Good for any game at night, my boys,
Champagne Charlie is my name!
Then when most people had drifted back into the ballroom an announcement was made by Mr Gibbings.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ He could now hardly be heard above the noise and the laughter. He looked to the orchestra and twirled his pearls impatiently at which there was immediately a very loud drum roll. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen, please!’ and Mr Gibbings raised his braceleted arms for silence. ‘A special guest has kindly agreed to provide a little more entertainment! If you have not heard her voice, you have not yet lived for she has what I can only describe as a seraphic gift for song! Ladies and gentlemen, I present’ – and Mr Gibbings lowered his voice dramatically as if imparting a secret, and people called sssshhhh as there was still much laughter in corners – ‘ladies and gentlemen, I present: STELLA, STAR OF THE STRAND!’
The Petticoat Men Page 1