by Carol Hedges
She wasn’t that beloved, Hyacinth thinks silently. And the jewels are very ugly and old-fashioned. A memory of Mama in her final days rises to her mind. Red-faced, finger-pointing, nit-picking, fault-finding.
“I shall sell them,” she says, sticking her chin into the air. “I do not think it will take me long to do so and I will write to you when I have done. The living are more important that the dead. Your daughter shall have her trip abroad.”
He reaches across the table and clasps her hands in his.
“I have no words,” he says. “None. You have acted exactly as I knew you would do, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I shall tell Agnes when I return of the kind, generous precious girl I have come to know, and one day ... if all goes to plan ...” He stops, gets out a handkerchief and mops his eyes.
Hyacinth fixes her eyes on the contents of her teacup, waiting breathlessly for him to regain his composure.
“Ah Hyacinth, you are one in a million – no, one in a million million,” Lonely Widower declares. “And now let me settle the bill. I am anxious to go straight back and convey the joyful news to poor dear Agnes. How happy she will be when I tell her!”
He pays the waitress, then helps Hyacinth on with her shawl, before escorting her to the door of the tea room.
“I cannot wait to see you again,” he murmurs in her ear as he puts her into a cab. “What a wonderful, wonderful person you are, my Hyacinth – and to think that had I not inserted that advert, and you had not answered it, our paths might never have crossed.”
Hyacinth can barely breathe. She feels light, fragile, as if she were made of glass. Touch her and she will fall to pieces with happiness. The carriage clops along the sun-drenched streets. There is nothing I would change about my life, she thinks. The only fly in the sugar-bowl is the prospect of facing Lobelia upon her return.
But it doesn’t matter about Lobelia and what she will think, Hyacinth reminds herself, nor what Mama’s committee ladies think, nor what Reverend Bittersplit and his sour-puss daughter Bethica think. Because soon, very soon, she will not be there for them to think it.
****
For some, the course of true love runs smoothly. For others, it barely moves at all. Here is Emily Benet sitting at the sewing table, stitching Nottingham lace onto a beautiful peacock blue silk taffeta ball gown. The lace is very fine and she is having to bend close to it to ensure that each tiny stitch is placed exactly against the edge of the lace, so that it will not show.
Her eyes feel as if they have rings of fire surrounding them, the effect of sitting up late last night and the night before that. Her wrists have pins and needles and her fingers are swollen.
Added to this, Emily has been unable to go shopping after work – not that there is any ‘after work’ at the moment, it is more a case of re-locating work from one room to another. This means that her meagre store cupboard has not been replenished. For the past week, she has existed on the coffee and bread supplied by the store, and a few sips of water.
But it is always like this, and has always been like this, she reminds herself. For the Season is in full swing, society is in town, and balls and evening parties are being held everywhere in fine houses, keeping the sewing-room girls as busy, as they always are at this time of year.
Let us focus for a while on the peacock blue silk taffeta dress. Emily has just put the last stitch into it and bitten off the thread. Now it is hanging on a model while Mrs Crevice subjects it to a minute examination. Being found satisfactory, it leaves the sewing-room for the showroom, where it is carefully packed in tissue paper and placed into one of the department store’s distinctive striped boxes.
From there it is dispatched by carriage to a big white pillared house in Knightsbridge, where the ladies’ maid carries it straight up to the bedroom of a very pretty and very rich young lady. She has bright blue eyes and blonde hair, and the sort of fair porcelain skin that is enhanced by wearing blue. The lovely dress is taken out of the box and laid upon a white-canopied bed to await its owner’s return.
Its owner is out with her Mama right now, choosing some new dancing shoes for the ball tonight. It will be her first ball and she is almost beside herself with anticipation and excitement. Already there have been giggly conversations with her close girl friends, little notes on pressed paper have been exchanged, confidences shared, secrets whispered.
On her return, she will hurry up to her room to see her new dress. She will pick it up, exclaiming how fine it is. Then she will hold it up against herself and look in the mirror. How beautiful she looks! She actually dances a few steps, her eyes shining, a pink flush on her pretty cheeks as she anticipates the effect she will have upon certain young gentlemen’s hearts tonight.
Later she will be dressed by the ladies’ maid, her hair crimped and fashionably curled. A pearl necklace, a present from her dear kind brother in India, will be fastened round her white swan neck. She will be the cynosure of all eyes as her little slippered feet patter out the rhythms of the music. Her dance card will be full.
After the ball is over, she will be driven home by the big-calved footman who secretly dotes on her, as do all the male staff. In one of those ironic coincidences, the carriage will pass by a close-shaven man walking towards Oxford Street with a fixed and determined expression on his face. His name is Jack Cully, but she will not know this.
Nor will Jack Cully know that just a few feet away, the work of Emily Benet’s skilled hands is being driven home. It is the closest the dressmaker and detective have come to each other for weeks.
On her return, the rich young lady will be divested of the peacock blue silk dress which will be hung in a wardrobe alongside a whole row of other pretty silk dresses, all worn only once, until eventually it will be taken out and cut down for a younger sister to wear.
****
Meanwhile, the carriage passes and Cully walks. He has taken to walking the streets after dark, crossing the threshold of the night city, co-mingling with the ghosts of the past and the outcasts of the present. In these night-time wanderings, he passes houses lit like shops, shops lit like theatres, brightly illuminated windows, dance-halls and supper-rooms. Behind these lie stifling alleys and dark courts shouldering one another, cabining and confining whole nests of poverty-stricken inhabitants.
Cully always follows the same route, crossing from pool of light to pool of light like someone connecting dots, his steps unwavering until he reaches his destination: a row of dilapidated lodging houses, their peeling painted doors bearing witness to years of neglect. He positions himself in a doorway, his eyes fixed upon one lighted window high up, where a small candle flickers and burns.
Only when the flame is extinguished does he leave his post, turning up his coat collar against the night chill to pursue his lonely way back to his own solitary lodgings and his own silent hearth. Hard times.
****
For Hyacinth and her older sister Lobelia, it is more a case of interesting times. Prior to Hyacinth’s unexplained and defiant disobedience, the hierarchical structure in the Clout household was quite clear, having been established over years and years of verbal attrition. Now the sisters appear to have entered a country where they do not know the vocabulary or the rules of conduct. And there are no guide books to help them.
It is morning. Rain stutters against the windows as if unsure of its intentions. The Clout sisters are seated either side of the breakfast table, over which gloom has settled like a grey fog. Lobelia cuts her toast in a determined manner, her mouth set in a grim line. Hyacinth toys with a slice of bacon. She is far too nervous to eat.
Today she has arranged to meet her friend Portia Mullygrub in town. Together they are going to take Mama’s jewels to a reputable jeweller. When she has sold them, Hyacinth will write to Lonely Widower. Then they will meet for tea and she will give him the money for his dear daughter Agnes’ trip abroad.
Her thinking has not progressed beyond this point. She dares not let it.
�
�I am going to copy out Reverend Bittersplit’s sermon straight after breakfast,” Lobelia says. “The one he preached last Sunday. I thought it was particularly fine. And most appropriate,” she adds giving Hyacinth a meaningful glance.
Hyacinth scrolls back. Ah yes. The sermon on The Sin of Disobedience. It had necessitated a lot of lectern-thumping and punitive verses from the Old Testament, uttered in the sonorous drawl Reverend Bittersplit always adopted for preaching, and that worked on Hyacinth’s nerves like a fork on a metal saucepan.
A couple of times during the sermon he had stared long and hard in her direction as if he were addressing his words directly at her. Indeed, a few of the simpler members of the congregation had actually turned around and stared at her too. It had been most annoying.
“Well, I am going out as soon as I have cleared the breakfast plates,” she says.
Lobelia’s head shoots up.
“Oh? And where are you going? Or am I now no longer to be privy to your movements?” she inquires acidly.
“I am meeting Miss Portia Mullygrub,” Hyacinth replies. “You remember her mother speaking at a church meeting, surely?”
Lobelia’s expression could sour milk.
“I do not understand this constant wish to ‘go out’. Mama did not ‘go out’ except to chair committees or to attend church or church events. I do not ‘go out’. Indeed, I consider it totally inappropriate for a young woman to be seen on the public streets without a chaperone.”
“I am twenty-two years old,” Hyacinth retorts. “Nobody of my age needs a chaperone anymore. Those days have gone. If you came with me you’d see many young women shopping or walking around on their own. Anyway, I shall not be on my own, as I am meeting a friend.”
“And since when did you decide to extend your friendship to those outside our own immediate circle of acquaintances?”
Hyacinth feels an intense weariness steal over her. Talking to Lobelia is like holding a conversation in the dark with a black cat. In response, she gets up and walks across the room.
“Wait, Hyacinth!” Lobelia orders. “I have not finished speaking!”
But I have finished listening, Hyacinth thinks. Averting her eyes from her sister’s mottled angry face, she walks out of the room. The sooner she sells Mama’s jewellery the better; she simply cannot go on living here for much longer.
Some time later a small procession makes its way up Ludgate Hill. The participants are: Portia Mullygrub, Cordelia Mullygrub, Hyacinth, a perambulator and a couple of laggard small Mullygrubs who keep getting terribly distracted by the wagons and horses slipping and sliding on the steep cobbled street.
After some cogitation in the cab, Hyacinth has decided not to tell Portia the true reason for their journey. Lonely Widower and his sickly daughter will remain her secret for a while longer. At least until he has declared, and a date has been set for their joyful union.
With a degree of chivvying, the party reaches their destination just beyond the Belle Sauvage Inn: a jeweller’s shop with bracelets and brooches on trays in the curved shop window, and a sign indicating that the owners buy old jewellery and gold.
“I shall wait outside,” Portia says, stuffing stray hair back under her bonnet. “My clothes do not bear scrutiny today, and the children are not fit to be seen in such a smart shop.”
Hyacinth pushes open the door. A jangly bell summons a middle-aged man from some inner recess. He smiles at her, rubbing his hands together.
“Good morning Madam. How may I be of assistance to you on this bright Spring morning?” he asks. “We have a fine selection of brooches and ladies’ watches, if you care to take a look at them.”
Hyacinth notes the whiteness of his linen, the gold cravat pin and ruby signet ring. She remembers Lonely Widower’s clean and spotless appearance. These things are important. They show that here is someone who takes care of themselves, someone to be trusted.
“I have not come here to buy anything,” she says, reaching into her bag. “I would like to sell some jewellery. That is, if you are interested in buying it. The items belonged to my Mama. She died some time ago.”
The shop owner takes the corded velvet bag and tips Hyacinth’s small share of Mama’s rings, bracelets and necklaces onto the counter. He picks up a jeweller’s loupe and goes to work.
Hyacinth watches as item after item is held up to the light, then subjected to a minute scrutiny. Finally, the man nods to himself a couple of times in a satisfied manner.
“There are some nice pieces here, Miss. Of course, the settings are a little old-fashioned for modern taste and will have to be altered, but the stones are good. I am prepared to offer you eighty pounds. What do you say?”
Hyacinth catches her breath. It is considerably more than she expected.
“I ... I shall be delighted to accept,” she stammers.
While she waits for the jeweller to write out the paperwork and hand her the money, Hyacinth passes the time by picturing Lonely Widower’s face after she has told him the good news. How happy he will be! And poor Agnes too. A warm beneficent glow suffuses her heart.
Eventually the transaction is complete. Hyacinth stuffs the notes into her bag and rejoins Portia and Cordelia outside the shop.
“It is done,” she says.
Portia gestures towards the window.
“There are some beautiful rings in this shop,” she says. “I wish Traffy might buy me a ring, but if he did we would have no money to start out in life.”
She takes firm hold of the perambulator handle.
“Now we must return. Ma is supposed to be cooking the dinner, but she is working on her lecture tour, and I worry that the food will burn.”
They retrace their steps, Cordelia holding the hands of the small Mullygrubs, as they have a tendency to stray off the pavement and into the road. At the bottom of the hill they pass by a sweetshop. Hyacinth stops.
“May I buy the children some sweets?” she asks.
The small Mullygrubs instantly cluster round their sister, staring up at her, their faces wreathed in hopeful smiles. Portia hesitates, then nods her head.
“You may,” she says graciously.
Hyacinth enters the shop. It is one of those old-fashioned shops with wooden shelves containing jars of lovely coloured sweets, softly glowing like jewels. There is a tray of broken toffee pieces on the counter, some brass scales and a small wooden shovel.
The shop reminds her of when she was a girl. There was a sweet shop just like this by the park. What was its name? She searches her memory: Mrs Gulliver’s Sweetshop and Confectioner.
Hyacinth scans the labels on the glass jars. Bullseyes, fudge, pear drops, humbugs, liquorice comfits. All the old familiar names of her childhood. She glances towards the window. On the other side of the glass she sees Portia waiting with the perambulator. Just as she remembers seeing Lobelia waiting, on a summer afternoon so long ago ...
Past and present elide.
Hyacinth is six years old, standing by the counter in Mrs Gulliver’s shop, clutching a penny. It is a hot day. Lobelia is waiting outside with the baby in the perambulator. He has been fractious for days and Mama has had enough: “Take him out,” she had commanded. “And don’t bring him back until he is quiet.”
The baby had cried and cried. Lobelia had rocked the perambulator but he would not settle. Even though they had tried to pacify him with his favourite blue blanket, the one Hyacinth had painstakingly chain-stitched with his name.
So Lobelia had said they would buy some sweets, and give him one to keep him quiet. Hyacinth has been sent with the precious penny to buy the sweets.
Mrs Gulliver waits patiently for her to make up her mind. But Hyacinth cannot choose. There are so many jars, and the responsibility of choosing the right sweets hangs above her like a great weight. If she gets it wrong, Lobelia will slap her and pinch her. Then she will tell Mama, who will send her to her room without her supper.
The young Hyacinth glances through the sweet shop window s
eeking guidance, and sees Lobelia standing in the middle of the pavement. The perambulator is gone. Her sister’s arms are firmly folded and she is smiling and smiling, and looking down the road ...
And all at once Hyacinth cannot breathe. Her heart starts thumping in her chest and her mouth is bone dry. She didn’t let go of the perambulator handle. How could she have done? She was in the shop buying sweets. Lobelia must have given it a push, sending perambulator and baby bowling along the pavement until it was out of sight.
All those years of terror, of guilt, of desperately trying to recall what had happened that sunny summer afternoon so long ago, when three went out to play but only two returned. No wonder she could never bring the incident to mind, however hard she tried: she hadn’t been there in the first place.
Hyacinth is still standing in the middle of the shop, frozen in the moment, mouth agape and staring unseeingly out of the window, when she feels a tug on her sleeve. Glancing down, she sees Cordelia looking up at her, a worried expression on her pinched little face.
“Are you alright, Miss? Only Porty needs to get back.”
Making a huge effort, Hyacinth pulls herself together. They choose the sweets, pay for them, and carry the bags out to the waiting Mullygrubs who receive them with great rejoicing.
All the way back to Holborn, Hyacinth has the sensation of being physically, but not really mentally present. She responds to Portia’s remarks in a polite monotone. Finally, they reach Portia’s street and say their goodbyes, Portia inviting her to accompany her on a future visit to the West End to buy some material to make her wedding dress.
“For I WILL marry Traffy, whatever Ma thinks,” she declares defiantly.
Hyacinth agrees, but for all she knows she might have agreed to accompany Portia on a trip to the moon. She hails a cab and gives the driver directions to Islington.
Anger boils hotly inside her tightly corseted breast. Her mind is racing. To be so lied to and lied about! To have lived most of her life under a black cloud! To be hated and blamed by her own mother for something she never did!