I have always felt bad that I did not come and see you but you know what the Master was like when he was crossed, and I didnt dare in case I lost my situation. I could not have bore to give up Miss Fanny and Master Georgie in particlar as they needed a mothers love and had lost you already. And I ment to write and Kitty said she would help me and so did Lou but they must of forgot and then I thought I had better not do it in case it brings up old feelings as has been laid to rest.
You may know that I have taken up my old position but not living in with Mr. Alfies little girl which reminds me of all the happy times we had. She is uncommon clever and she reminds me of Kitty. Poor dear Kitty, I am so sorry she has no children it would help settle her. I get about well on the omnibus and you are no distance from me and a good walk benefits us all, so I would be pleased to call on you at any time,
Yours in sorrow,
Signed Bessie
Dear honest Bessie! My heart fills to overflowing. I must see her. I rise hastily and nearly take the tablecloth with me in my eagerness to find a pen. I sit at the little desk and write a few words in reply. Come tomorrow, I urge her. Come anytime. I am nearly always at home. I call Wilson and give her sixpence to get it taken by messenger straightaway.
She will come. Bessie always acts straightaway. That is one of the things Alfred liked about her. No shilly-shallying with that young woman, he used to say. I look at the letter, written so neatly by her niece, and signed so awkwardly by Bessie, and smile to think about the day Alfred discovered that she could not read. In his typical way he had written her a list of her duties. And Bessie, having tried the capacities of the butcher’s boy and the knife grinder without success, had been forced to come to me to find out what it said. I remember how she stood in front of me, afraid she would lose her place now the truth was known: Don’t tell the master. Please don’t tell him! They all relies on me at home! I’d told her that Alfred would never dismiss her for such a reason, and if he even dared to contemplate it, I assured her that I would not part with her for anything short of my life. But of course, no such sacrifices were required. Alfred had been mortified: I should have realised, he kept saying. Girl like that. Eldest of ten. Busy all day. Mother’s right hand. Of course, of course. But it won’t do in my house. It won’t do at all. And the answer is “oblivious”—as Boodles would say! I shall apply to it straight away. Get paper, get pencils! The One and Only will teach Bessie her letters!
And poor Bessie had been called up from the kitchen and told that she must put aside half an hour each day to work with Alfred in his study. It is not difficult to master, he’d said, taking her hand enthusiastically and tracing the outlines of the vowels. It needs application, but I know you and I are both good at that! We shall do splendidly, have no fear! And indeed, within months she had learnt to read perfectly and often was found eagerly digesting the latest number of his novels, and even taking a surreptitious look at the manuscript for the next one as it lay upon his desk. But she had never quite mastered the art of writing, as if her large honest hands rebelled against the dainty act of holding a pencil or a quill. I can see her now, bending over the desk, with Alfred smiling beside her. And again, standing in the kitchen doorway when I left the house forever, and she was the only one to say farewell.
IT IS IMMENSELY hard work answering the letters. I am gratified that so many of our former acquaintance still think it proper to address me as his wife, but I am not like Alfred, to whom words came so naturally, who could make every correspondent feel instantly refreshed, even at secondhand, by his enthusiasm and good sense. After a morning’s rigorous penmanship, I am more than eager for a different activity. All my fears of encountering old acquaintances have miraculously gone and I am anxious for another foray into the outside world. Indeed, I cannot believe how I have endured to stay cooped up in three little rooms for so very long. I will wander the streets as Alfred did, and try to see through his eyes. Perhaps some idea will come to me.
“I am going out,” I tell Wilson as I eat my lunch. “I shall need a cab at two o’clock.”
“Yes, madam.” She maintains an impassive face. “Where for, if you don’t mind saying?”
“Blackfriars Bridge.”
“What on earth will you do there?” Wilson looks aghast. Perhaps she thinks I plan to jump.
“It’s a good point to start. I intend to see what has happened to London while I have been out of society.”
“It’s bigger and dirtier, I can tell you that,” says Wilson with feeling. “But you’re not planning to walk around on your own, are you?”
“Why ever not?”
“Any ruffian could knock into you and take your purse without you ever knowing.”
“You speak as if I have never been out on my own before. When I was first married, I’ll have you know, I’d go out to the markets in the Caledonian Road every week—and my sister and I used to take regular strolls around Camden Town.”
“Things have changed, madam. I’d better go with you. There’s nothing to be done that won’t keep till I get back.”
“No,” I say. “It is kind of you. Very kind. But I want to be on my own.”
“As you please,” she says somewhat huffily. “But take care, and call a constable if any of the riffraff takes it in their heads to follow you about.”
THERE’S NO SIGN of any riffraff when I alight from the cab. All is very respectable. There are a number of hansom cabs and hackney carriages rumbling along the bridge, and three police constables standing on a corner. A man with a bull terrier is leaning on the parapet, looking over.
I pay the cabman and set off. I feel excited. I try to imagine what would have gained Alfred’s attention as I walk along the new embankment towards Westminster Bridge. There is a match-seller in the doorway of a public house, selling Vestas to a man in a broad-brimmed hat. Another man wears working clothes and is carrying a spade. The embankment is only recently finished, I think, and there are still piles of sand and cement along the pavement. There I see in the distance the fine new Parliament building with its splendid clock tower. It gleams, a lovely golden color. There are laden omnibuses everywhere, mingling with the cabs and horsemen, drays and carriages, and there seems to be more mud than ever in the road. I realize soon that the weather, though not cold, is rather damp, and rain threatens. I am glad that Wilson insisted on the umbrella.
I pass Waterloo Bridge and Hungerford Bridge, where Poll Lowton was drowned by Jack Black, and I wonder, as did all the reading public, what Ambrose Boniface had in mind when he came to stare at the river every night for a month, dropping a weighted line into the tide.
As I come up to Westminster, the rain starts to fall. It is a novelty at first, those first fresh drops to one who has not felt rain for years. But it quickly begins to pelt, and as I put up the umbrella, I see that the silk is torn along one of the spokes and daylight can be seen in a long sliver. Kitty must have damaged it. But the umbrella is not much use anyway—the rain is coming sideways, pasting my skirts to my legs as I try to walk, and putting my bonnet in danger of being blown away. Unlike Alfred, I am not an all-weather walker. I need to find some shelter.
Turning my back on the river, I become aware of a number of people heading in the same direction. I see a quantity of black boots and the muddy hems of a number of black gowns as I put my head down against the wind. Suddenly, I am part of a crowd, and it occurs to me that this may be the riffraff Wilson warned me about, and that I need to look out for thieves. But I cannot lift my head for the driving rain, and the thickness of the press prevents me from turning to left or right. Umbrellas wave and jostle all around me, but the crowd is strangely silent. I notice that men, women, and children are all in black, and hold on to each other in a kind of comradeship. There are armbands everywhere, and veils and weepers flap about in the wind and rain. Suddenly we are stopping and the crowd shuffles tighter together so that their umbrellas make a complete ceiling.
Then I see Westminster Abbey ahead. They are all g
oing there. I make sense of their black garments, now, and their hushed voices: they are going to pay their respects to someone inside. On the instant I realize it must be Alfred. I panic; I try to turn around. But it is impossible. We are at the steps of the Abbey now. “Let me assist you, ma’am,” says a tall gentleman, seeing my attempts to break through and thinking that I am feeling faint. “The crowd is very close, but it wouldn’t do to turn back now. We are almost inside. Let me put down your umbrella.” I let him do it, and now the cool darkness envelops us. I can hear the choked voices and, far off, the sound of muffled sobs. I am packed next to perfect strangers, with the scent of camphor and black dye strong in my nostrils. We progress down the nave. Suddenly there is a parting in the crowd, and I know we are almost there. I tell myself that I will close my eyes when we arrive and pass on, but I find I cannot forbear to look.
How I wish I had not. It’s a dreadful stone slab set among plaques and busts and marble memorials: everything he hated. He wanted to lie in the churchyard with Alice, trees and flowers growing all around. “I am so sorry!” I cry. “Oh, Alfred, I am so sorry!”
A kind-faced woman takes my hand. “There, there. Don’t take on so. It’s not as if he was your husband, after all.”
“But he was,” I wail. “He was!”
People look around, eyeing me oddly. The momentum of the crowd presses me to move on, but I find myself sinking helplessly to the floor among all the wet boots and muddied hems. The kind woman calls out for air and tries to support me in her arms, but I am too heavy for her, and slip back to the flagstones with a bump. There is a murmur of disapproval and dismay. Then I am aware of the white lace edge of a surplice. A white sleeve is extended from the front, and several arms support me from behind. I am lifted and helped to a seat. The sharp tang of smelling salts brings me back to myself. The clergyman looks at me gravely out of his plump, comfortable face: “Are you recovered, dear lady? Unaccompanied it seems? No gentleman—or servant?”
“No.”
He shakes his head. “Not wise. Not wise at all—impressive occasion and so forth. But ladies—bless them—always more inclined to visible demonstrations of distress when confronted with the Tomb.” I cannot help but notice how his glance is drawn to my dress, my lack of mourning, but he goes on: “Indeed, I’ve been obliged to administer chemical consolation to no fewer than six ladies this day alone: gentlewoman from Portland Place and laundry maid from Stepney, to name but two.” He holds up the smelling salts.
I am calmer now that I am away from the dreadful slab. I try to explain. “I was caught up with the crowd. I did not intend to come here at all.”
“Indeed? You are not an admirer of Mr. Gibson?” His plump face drops.
“Oh no. Quite the contrary. I am his greatest admirer …”
He rubs his hands together. “I am glad to hear that. He spoke to everyone—rich and poor alike, and gave laughter to us all. A great man, yes. A Very Great Man.”
“Oh, yes indeed, I know that! I know everything about him. I was his wife, after all!”
He looks again at my dress, my broken umbrella, my battered bonnet. He says nothing. He thinks I am half-witted. “Well—er—Mrs. Gibson—I suggest we get you home at once. You are very wet. I shall call you a cab. That is to say if you are able to …?” He looks awkward.
“I have money.” I am so glad I accepted Eddie’s largesse; it opens so many doors in life. “Yes, please be so kind as to call a cab.”
I dread to think what Wilson will say. I suppose I shall be obliged to tell her the truth, as a child is drawn to confess to a parent, even when the misdeed might otherwise go unremarked. She will say it is my own fault. And that I am foolish and misguided and should be thankful that I did not have all my worldly goods purloined by the riffraff and was not left lying at the roadside like poor old Jessie Jarley, a prey to mocking boys. Her anger at me will be proportional to her anger at herself for not making sure my umbrella was in sound condition.
AS I EXPECTED, Wilson has insisted on strict quarantine after yesterday’s outing. “Fainting in the Abbey, and coming back in a cab soaking wet. It’s a wonder you haven’t caught your death.” But I tell her that I do not intend to go out today, anyhow, as I expect Bessie.
True to her character, Bessie knocks at my door at eleven o’clock exactly. Wilson has a strange look upon her face as she brings her into the room. I think perhaps she feels she should not be announcing a fellow servant, but then I realize what it is. She is jealous. Jealous of what Bessie and I share: all those years in the whirling center of celebrity and fame. But as soon as I see the dear girl, all other thoughts fly from me. I cannot restrain myself from running to her and kissing her dear, dear cheeks. Although she is still tall, she is a little bent in the shoulders, and her honest face is wrinkled and full of broken veins. But her eyes are bright and her hands in mine are firm and strong.
“Dear Mrs. Gibson!” she murmurs. “I come as quick as I could. How are you? Oh, my dear life, it’s good to see you again!”
“Will you be wanting coffee or tea?” Wilson stands stiffly at the door, as if about to become a pillar of salt.
I look at Bessie and she says she doesn’t mind, and I tell Wilson I don’t mind, and Wilson goes away with her very special Look.
We sit on the sofa and talk and talk. We talk about the children. We talk about Alfred continually. “I know he was not kind to me at the end, but he wasn’t a bad man. You believe that, don’t you, Bessie?” I say.
“Bad? Of course not! He was the best and kindest man in the world. And cleverest and funniest. And what he wrote was exactly the same. But if he had a fault, it was that he always thought he was right. And he wasn’t always, was he?”
“No,” I say, laughing. “But you couldn’t reason with him. What he believed, he believed.”
“And most of the time there was no harm in it. But when anyone—poor Kitty or Alfie especially—tried to say something different, I never saw such a set expression on nobody. He’d go all pale and accuse them of breaking the Harmony of the Home. It was so unfair; I wanted to give him a piece of my mind! But the minute you’d made up your mind to go in all guns blazing, he’d make a comical face—wink or raise his eyebrows, or make some funny remark—and you couldn’t help laughing, even though you was annoyed with yourself for doing it. And then he’d be kind to you when you was in tears, or notice you was tired as he passed you on the stairs, and say you needed the afternoon off, toot sweet (although he’d pass it off as a joke, saying, All the better to slave away tomorrow, eh, Bessie?) and you’d love him all over again.”
Bessie tells me what I know in my heart; that I forgave Alfred because he was Alfred, and I couldn’t stop loving him in spite of what he did to me. “Oh, Bessie, you do me a power of good. You understand how it was. You understand my feelings. And you understand him. You know that Alfred was difficult to please, but that he always wanted to do right.”
“Well, it didn’t take me long to catch on to his way of thinking. After a couple of months I saw how you had to manage him. I remember when Mrs. Brooks started with us, I told her that Mr. Gibson was the best master ever, always careful of your feelings and never raising his voice—but that he never liked to be crossed. ‘You got to work round him,’ I said. ‘That’s the only way. You can’t never contradict him to his face.’ And she, being a bit starchy at the time, said she hoped that any servant would know her place enough never to contradict her employers anyway. She was half-scandalized at first, the way I spoke to him, said it wasn’t fitting. But I told her that the master didn’t like standing on ceremony, didn’t like to be called Sir even, and that I’d growed up with you both and was almost part of the family, as it were.”
“Oh, you were, Bessie. You were!”
“And I told her how Mr. Gibson liked to take charge of everything and liked to know every detail, and was sometimes hard to satisfy—but how Mrs. Gibson was the sweetest-natured woman in the world, and didn’t mind what you did as long
as you was kind, and good to the children.”
“Oh, Bessie! You are too good!” We embrace again, and Wilson comes in to find us with our arms entwined.
“Coffee,” she says, putting down the tray firmly. “And buns.”
I see that she’s been out to the pastry cook’s this morning. She won’t let Bessie think she doesn’t look after me well enough. I want to smile, but I thank her instead: “Mrs. Wilson is a marvel. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“I can see that,” says Bessie generously. “I am so glad. I worried myself near to death that you weren’t being looked after properly. I so much wanted to come and see you, but I didn’t dare ask the master, because of all things, your name was a red rag to the bull. Kitty got the address wrote out for me in the end, but you know me and writing, and I put it off and put it off and you know how things go, and then I started with Mr. Alfie, and when he said you’d be glad to see me, well, I got Rosie to write straightaway. And here we are.” She folds her hands on her lap.
Wilson dispenses the coffee in a high-faluting silence. She has brought out the best cups—more than she has ever done for Michael. She has put paper doilies on the plates and makes great play with the sugar tongs: “Is there anything else?”
“No, thank you, Wilson. This is excellent.”
“Very unexpected,” murmurs Bessie. “But most welcome, needless to say. I like a nice Chelsea bun.”
Wilson gives a stiff acknowledgment and retires.
I make a face. “Poor Wilson! Her life has been turned topsy-turvy these last few days. So many visitors, so many disturbances. But what a joy to see Alfie again! And Carrie and the child. (I do like Carrie, don’t you? She reminds me so much of Lottie.)”
“Oh, very like. I think that’s why the master took to her so much. She never made a big fuss about things, but she stuck to her opinions in a quiet sort of way, and he liked that. And he adored the little one. Let her sit on his lap and pull his beard and do dreadful things to his hair, just as Kitty used to.” She puts down her cup and saucer. “And how is my silly Kittiwake? I hear she is a regular visitor here.”
Girl in a Blue Dress Page 43