Girl in a Blue Dress

by Gaynor Arnold

  “But I am so glad that Bessie remembers it all! She really was the dearest girl in the world, and the greatest help to me.” However, I am struck at the revelation that this is all in order that Carrie may “take up her pen.” The words burst from me: “But Carrie, are you a writer?”

  “Oh, yes,” says Alfie proudly. “Indeed, that is how we first became acquainted. She came by the office with a manuscript and asked for ‘Mr. Gibson.’ Father was out and I was in, so Noakes naturally brought her to me.”

  “Yes.” She laughs. “For a moment I was surprised to find him such a young man, and not at all resembling his portraits in the books. But then I realized my mistake—and the little speech I had prepared vanished from my mind, and all the courage I’d screwed up seemed to seep out of me—”

  “It didn’t appear to! She simply put down her manuscript and said, ‘Well, Mr. Gibson, it’s a ghost story, three thousand words, and I am looking for five guineas.’”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I said I would have to consult with my father but asked her to write down her name and address so I could communicate with her in due course. And she blushed so prettily that I almost fell in love with her on the spot! In fact, I think I did!”

  “What nonsense!” Carrie smiles fondly at him all the same.

  “Then I read it and thought it was very good. Very good. And I passed it on to Papa with a note saying the contributor had called in person. And the next day he came out of his office asking, ‘Who is this C. Andrews? One of Wilkie’s protégés? He writes a pretty fair hand—and a pretty fair story for that matter. Give him his five guineas and let him come and see me on Tuesday!’”

  “He thought you were a man?”

  “Yes,” she chuckles. “In spite of his much-vaunted ability to tell the difference!”

  “And I was damned if I was going to put him right. So when she came, I put my head around the door and said, ‘C. Andrews to see you, Father,’ and he grunted in that way he had, without looking up. And then when he did look up, he was most taken aback to be caught in his shirtsleeves and eyeshade, with his hair wild, and a torrent of paper all over his desk.”

  She laughs. “He flung away the eyeshade as if it were on fire, and positively rushed into his coat, trying to comb his hair with his fingers and straighten his waistcoat at the same time. And I realized then that the great Alfred Gibson was just a man. And a vain one at that. And I stopped being afraid of him.”

  Ah, yes. Alfred very much disliked being taken unawares. For all his fooling, he hated to be made a fool of. And he was always anxious to make a good impression with a young lady. I can imagine how for a moment this bright-eyed girl might have shaken his composure. “But, tell me, have you written many stories? Might I have read them? I take all his periodicals.” I am delighted to think there is another writer in the family. Alfred had always hoped one of our children would follow in his footsteps.

  “Mr. Gibson was kind enough to publish three of my stories in the Miscellany. They were intended for children, but he said that what pleases children pleases the general public. ‘Children are our most discerning readers,’ he said. ‘You cannot fool them.’”

  “I shall look through my back numbers and find your stories. But was he kind to you? Kitty said that Alfred was very demanding of his lady contributors and that Hetty Casby walked out in high dudgeon—”

  Alfie sighs. “She did. And he was quite dumbfounded—for about ten seconds. Then he made a face, said, ‘Ho-hum! Spilt milk, spilt milk!’ and went on writing. But he was demanding of everybody, you know. Not shouting or raging, but—oh, I don’t know—he wouldn’t let you do what you wanted, or get your hands on anything important. I mean, I was his assistant editor, but he didn’t allow me to do much assisting or editing. To be honest, Mama, it was difficult to find things to fill my day. He had his own m-methods all worked out, and he really didn’t like me to interfere. Sometimes he’d throw me a bundle of articles to look at, saying he had a space for twelve hundred words—and to pick something that would fit the bill. But when I did, he wouldn’t be satisfied, and would look over all of them again, and choose something different. And if I told him I’d rejected it because it was too long, he’d say, ‘That’s what the blue pencil is for,’ and start cutting out whole sentences, quick as anything. So one day, I decided to show him I could edit with the best. I picked up a story that looked a bit long-winded, and started on it with a will. I was quite pleased with myself. ‘There was a lot of superfluous stuff here,’ I said, ‘although the writing itself is quite funny.’ And then he looked at it and said, ‘Quite funny? Only quite?’—and I realized to my chagrin that it was his.”

  We all laugh—Lucy too. In fact, she is the most delighted.

  “To do him justice, he kept the changes, but he never let me edit anything else. He put me in charge of the regular contributors. You know—Wilkie, Mrs. Lynne, Erskine Dolls. Trouble was, they all wanted to change their deadlines or change their pieces, and they insisted on writing to Father about it, or calling to see him in person. Then he’d get irate, tell me that keeping them in order was m-my job—and didn’t he have enough to do, with the editing and writing the current number of whatever it was, without doing other people’s jobs as well? I once asked to do the Letters page instead, but he wouldn’t let me touch that. He wouldn’t let anyone touch the Letters. The Public writes to Alfred Gibson. They want it to be Alfred Gibson who replies. So you see, Mama, after five years in that blessed office, I’m as green as the day I started.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true, dearest.”

  “Well, we’ll soon see. I’m going to keep the mag on. Get Wilkie to edit it with me, perhaps. Carrie will help, she says—but I don’t know if people will buy it if Papa’s not in it. A bit like Hamlet with no prince. But I must have a livelihood. I’m a family man, after all, and have absolutely no other talents to call on.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true, either.”

  “Oh? Go on then, M-mother, tell me what else I can do.”

  I try to think of what to say. Alfie has never been the most talented of our children. Sensitive, yes. I think of Alfred’s account of himself: a sensitive little fellow. But Alfie has not had the hard knocks his father endured. In experience of life he is still green. I flounder.

  “Now, that’s a little unfair of you, Alfie,” Carrie interrupts. “Don’t ask your mother such things. If she can’t tell the truth, she’ll be obliged to flatter, and what’s the point of that?”

  At this juncture, the doorbell rings. “This must be Kitty,” I say, relieved.

  But it’s not Kitty. The footfalls are heavy on the stairs and a tall young man with startling blue eyes and thick blond hair and whiskers erupts into the room. He bounds over to me and takes me in his arms: “Mama!”

  23

  “EDDIE?”

  I do not recognize him at all, but think it can be no other. Very handsome, positively shining with vigor. He is wearing a very elegant black suit and puce waistcoat with a clove carnation in his buttonhole; and smelling headily of lavender.

  “Indeed, the very same. Sorry I missed you yesterday.” He speaks as if we last saw each other a few days ago, rather then ten years. “But I heard via Sis that P.M. and Carrie were coming today, so I thought I’d make up the party! And what a party it is!” He turns to embrace the room. “Why, here is the Infant Phenomenon herself!” He stoops and makes a face at Lucy, who emits an earsplitting shriek of delight.

  I see Wilson in the doorway. She has come upstairs in more labored fashion, and stands with her hands on her hips. “Shall I get another cup and plate for Mr. Edward, then?”

  Eddie turns to her. “You’re an angel, Mrs. Wilson; I’m spitting feathers here.” He grabs one of the teapots. “Oh, this one’s full. I’ll put it to warm.” And he puts it on the hob. Then he picks up a slice of Dundee cake, dispatches it in three bites, and takes a second one, walking around, spilling crumbs. “No seed cake, Mama? What wer
e you thinking of?”

  “I fancied a change.”

  “Indeed. We’ve had seed cake for nigh on twenty years. I think we’ve given it a fair trial.” He looks up at the ceiling, examines the gas lamps, peers out at the street from behind the curtains. “Well, this isn’t a bad place. Not bad at all. Kittiwake’s always going on about it being so poky. But there’s only one of you, so it’s not so bad.”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  He gives me a quick look. “Now don’t go all prim and proper on me, Mama. I know I’ve done wrong. We all have. But I’m ready to make amends, mea culpa and all that.”

  Wilson returns with the crockery and Eddie takes it off her with a flourish. “Thank you, fair Ganymede.”

  She gives him a sideways look. “Fair or no fair, the pot you’re warming on the hob is that there China tea.”

  “Oh, lapsang?”

  “You’ll have to ask Mr. Collins if you wants to know its name. All I know is that it comes out pale, which to my mind is not how a good cup of tea should be. If you’d be so good as to lift it up for me, though, I’ll do the pouring.”

  “No indeed! Astounding though it is, I can pour for myself. And I see that you have a wounded finger which I should not wish to endanger!”

  She blushes: “Sauce!” But goes off smiling.

  So Eddie is a charmer.

  He takes out his handkerchief, doubles it neatly, and bends over the fireguard to retrieve the pot. “Who’s for Mr. Collins’s finest? Mama? Carrie? P.M.?”

  “We’re having the Darjeeling,” I say.

  He pours and sniffs the brew. “Very wise. Tea-blending is, I think, not Mr. Collins’s strong suit. You should change your supplier, Mama.”

  “Mr. Collins does me well. And he gives good credit.”

  I did not mean for that to slip out. Carrie and Alfie exchange glances. Eddie seems not to notice, then says, “Papa kept you short, then?”

  “No, not at all. I have been very comfortable. My wants are few.”

  Eddie puts another coal on the fire: “This stuff’s a bit steamy.”

  “It’s perfectly fine. And, Eddie, please mind your manners. It is most unpleasant to have every bit of my housekeeping criticized.”

  “Not meant as criticism, although clearly taken that way. Apologies once more.”

  It is all very strange. Not how I thought a reconciliation would be. All this talk of tea and cake and coals. “But how are you, my dear Eddie?”

  “Pretty fine. Pretty fine.”

  I hesitate, but I must ask: “Have you thought of me at all?”

  He gives a wide grin. “Of course. Hundreds of times. Whenever Sissy did something I didn’t like, I’d say, ‘You’re not my mother!’ and form a plan to run away across the rooftops. Except I didn’t have the slightest idea where you were living, so usually I’d hide in a cupboard until the Old Man came looking for me like Florence Nightingale with the lamp, only not so forgiving. He made me sit for three hours in the schoolroom once, until I said I was sorry. I’d rather have had a thrashing.”

  “He didn’t believe in thrashings.”

  “Noble of him. But there are worse punishments—I nearly died of hunger.”

  I can’t help laughing. Eddie always had a good appetite. Even as a baby at the breast, he could never have enough. He grins widely, takes another slice of cake. “Compliments to Mr. Collins. Excellent cake. Be it not said that I criticize blindly.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Ah, serious. No, I don’t think I can. I daresay the P.M. has been serious enough for us both, though. Laid himself bare at the altar of regrets.”

  “Well, there is much to be regretted,” I say reprovingly. “Ten years without a word from either of you.”

  He wanders about, taps the barometer. “But to put the shoe on the other foot, didn’t you care about us being left with our wicked stepmother?”

  “Hardly wicked, Eddie.”

  “Oh, wonderful stepmother, then. Miss Honey Bun with Sugar Sauce, yum-yum! No need to worry about us, then. Oh, no!”

  I cannot make him out. But I see that I cannot question him on any serious matter while he is in this mood. I think of Sissy’s grimace, her lip jutting as she said the word “trade.” “Sissy says you are thinking of starting in business.”

  “I’m looking about me, yes. Fellow I know is looking, too.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Oh, you know. This and that.” He brushes the crumbs off his trousers and sits down.

  “Give me a little clue,” I say. “This can be so different from that.”

  He laughs. “Ah, Mama. You always liked your little joke.”

  Yes, I remember now, Eddie liked to tell me jokes. He’d write them down on a scrap of paper and come to my room and read them aloud, sitting on the end of my bed. And we’d laugh until Sissy came to shoo him out: “Come on, Porkie, Your mother needs her rest!” Porkie—I’d forgotten that name until now! It was short for porcupine—because Eddie’s hair always stuck up in spikes. I look at it now. It’s immaculate.

  “Well, I am glad at least that you are thinking of doing something.”

  “Well, now the Great Man has gone, we’ll all need to find a way of keeping ourselves in the manner to which we have become accustomed.”

  “You could always help Alfie at the Miscellany.” There is silence, a frisson between my two sons. I have, as so often, said the wrong thing.

  Carrie steps in. “Of course, we’d love to have you if you wish. But there won’t be much money, for a while, at any rate …”

  “My dear sister-in-law, don’t distress yourself! I’ve had enough of the Miscellany and the Monthly Mirror, and Our Daily Lives and every form and version of God’s Own Little Periodicals. I want a quiet life. Away from the Public in any form. The Public has had its pound of flesh from the Gibson family. Now the Public can go hang itself. I shall be happy running a discreet little outfitters in Piccadilly—finest linen shirts, moleskin waistcoats, silk cravats, and white kid gloves. I shall stock what I like. I shall sit high on my perch and watch the profits roll in. No one will know me. And I shall have peace of mind.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Why not?”

  Why not indeed? Why should that kind of life not be happy and useful? We all need clothes after all. Although perhaps not always silk and linen. But Eddie, I see, is a connoisseur.

  The doorbell rings again. Perhaps this is Kitty. Everyone turns to look, as footsteps come up the stairs and the door opens. Kitty rushes in: “Mama, such good news!”

  Eddie is embracing her before any of us can move: “Hallo, Kittiwake. Join the party.”

  “Eddie! Why are you here? And Alfie too! And Carrie!” She stares around at us all. She is still wearing her mourning, although she’s given up the veils and streamers, and looks softer and more human. I also see that there is a light in her eye that I haven’t seen for years.

  “Well, dearest, I told you Alfie and Carrie were coming. And Eddie has surprised us all by—”

  “—turning up. Sans manners, as usual!” Eddie smiles his brilliant smile.

  “I’d forgotten. I’ve been rather distracted. So much has happened since I saw you last.” She pauses, reddens slightly, and turns to address them all. “I don’t know if Mama has told you—but Augustus and I have found ourselves in a somewhat … uncomfortable … situation this last day or so.”

  Eddie starts to whistle slightly under his breath. I recognize the tune: “I’ll Give Sixpence for a Kiss.” Kitty affects not to notice. “Well, I don’t need to go into detail, but we are looking for more modest accommodation. It is really ridiculous keeping up that big house merely for the two of us.”

  “Money troubles, Kit?” Eddie pours a cup of tea, takes the last slice of Dundee cake, and puts it on a plate for her.

  She takes the plate and cup and sits down. “Tradesmen can be so unreasonable!”

  “Well,” says Eddie, “If you wants the waliables, y
ou must possess the wherewithall! That’s been the case since Time Hin Memoriam.”

  Carrie and Alfie laugh, and so does Lucy, although she has never heard of Boodles’s philosophy. Kitty carries on: “Augustus will pay, of course. He has always paid. He simply needed his creditors to give him time. There was no need to make threats.”

  “Threats?” Carrie widens her eyes. “Surely not?”

  “Oh, indeed! They threaten to take the roof from over your head and the rugs from under your feet!”

  “And why shouldn’t they?” says Eddie. “I speak as one who is about to embark in commerce myself. It is not for us humble shopkeepers to maintain the style of the genteel classes by giving infinite credit. We have families to keep and bills of our own to pay. Papa would have been shocked to hear you talk so, Kit. He was always prompt in his dealings.”

  “Oh, yes! He hated owing a penny—even a farthing! Augustus said it was not gentlemanly to have such a bookkeeping kind of mind.” She stirs her tea, vehemently.

  “Oh, no doubt—not gentlemanly. But a damn sight more considerate.”

  “Considerate!” She snorts. “How can you use that word about him?”

  Eddie flicks a crumb of cake off his waistcoat. “Merely because he did some disagreeable things—”

  “Some disagreeable things? The way he treated Mama? And me? All of us, in fact?”

  “Yes, we all know the history; you don’t need to knock us around the heads with it again! But have you forgotten everything else? How hard he worked for us? How he dragged himself around doing the Readings, even though he was hardly able to stand sometimes?”

  “I never asked him to! He did it because he wanted to. To get oodles of money. And to speak to his precious Public at firsthand.”

  “They wanted him, Kit. And he wouldn’t let them down, although you know he was little more than a skelington in a suit at the end, and had to be laid out flat with a dark bandage over his eyes as soon as he came off stage.”