‘Take it away,’ said Swann in disgust, prodding the article with his fork.
The housekeeper stepped forward and reluctantly removed the offending corpses.
‘I never liked fish,’ grumbled Swann as soon as she’d left the room. ‘We’ll ask her to cook an omelette.’
But Ethel had already jumped from her chair and was running upstairs to safety.
23
‘How could you do this to me?’ screeched Violet. It was late. Ethel was safe in her soft, silk bed.
‘I thought you’d be pleased to help,’ said Swann. He was sitting at the table, hunched across a bowl of apples. It felt cold in the room. The fire in the grate was a heap of ashes. He picked up a little silver knife and tapped it impatiently against his fingers. ‘The poor girl is destitute.’
‘The word is prostitute!’ snapped Violet.
‘Ethel Spooner is a most respectable young lady,’ said Swann, very shocked.
‘You wouldn’t recognise a lady if she walked up to you in the street and slapped your face,’ said Violet. She marched around the table, clipping the chairs with her billowing skirts.
‘What harm has she done you, madam?’ demanded Swann. ‘I thought you’d make her welcome in my house. You’re always talking about the sisterhood of women.’
‘And I suppose you thought I’d be happy to have my home filled by your ten-shilling whores?’ she shouted.
‘Hush! You’ll wake the street.’
‘I don’t care if I wake the dead,’ shouted Violet. ‘You’re deliberately trying to humiliate me. You just don’t seem to understand. You have no idea of the suffering of women!’ Her face was red and her eyes were filling with tears.
‘Ethel is a woman!’ roared Kingdom Swann. ‘Ethel is suffering!’ He grabbed the knife and began to stab at a large, green apple. The skin hissed fragrant bubbles.
‘I forbid you to keep a prostitute.’
‘She is not a prostitute and I refuse to turn her out in the street.’ He scowled at the ruined fruit, pulled out the knife and wiped the blade on his thumb.
‘This is intolerable. I demand that you tell her to leave.’
‘No, madam! I shall not be bullied by my own housekeeper and there’s an end to it.’
‘Is that your last word?’
‘Yes.’
‘May God forgive you, Kingdom Swann.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to bed. And tomorrow I’m leaving this wicked house. I hope you and your strumpet burn in hell!’
The next morning Violet cooked breakfast but left them to serve it for themselves. Ethel took advantage of the housekeeper’s absence by stuffing herself with porridge and kippers, boiled eggs and hot muffins. When Swann took her down to the studio she was so bloated she could barely breathe. It was the first time in weeks that she hadn’t felt hungry.
Cromwell Marsh was burning with curiosity about Ethel’s reception at the house of the bestial virgin, but a glance from the master made him bite his tongue.
‘Did you ever visit Heaven’s Yard?’ Swann inquired abruptly, as they settled down to work.
‘I never actually went there in person,’ said Marsh.
‘I recommend it,’ said Swann and nothing more was mentioned.
Ethel took off her clothes and began her pandiculations. They made good progress and, by the end of the afternoon, The Fresh Air and Sun-Bath System was very nearly complete. Marsh was left alone to begin the laborious task of developing the plates. Swann took Ethel back to Golden Square.
‘You’re so kind,’ she said, as they walked reluctantly home through the twilight. ‘If it wasn’t for you I don’t know where I should sleep tonight.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Swann.
‘I’ve been so wretched,’ Ethel confessed. ‘There were times when I wanted to finish it and throw myself in the river.’
‘Don’t think about it!’ shuddered Swann. He could picture Ethel afloat in the Thames, her skirts fanned out in the oily water, her drowned face pale and beautiful. ‘Don’t think such terrible thoughts!’
‘Do you think your housekeeper likes me?’ she ventured as they entered Glasshouse Street and found themselves approaching the Square. She was beginning to look distinctly unhappy.
‘Why do you ask?’ growled Swann. ‘What’s happened? Has she said something to upset you?’
‘Oh, no,’ Ethel said quickly.
‘You mustn’t take any notice of Violet,’ he said. ‘She feels unsettled with strangers. We lead a very quiet life. But she’ll soon improve when she gets to know you.’
‘She’s such a grand lady,’ said Ethel. ‘Is she really in league with the suffragettes?’
‘I believe they’ve won her sympathies,’ he said. ‘You know, they’re working for great reforms.’
‘But they do such terrible mischief,’ said Ethel, taking his arm to guide him safely through the traffic.
‘And it’s terrible how they’re treated,’ said Swann. ‘The world is changing so fast. I can’t pretend to understand it.’
When they reached the house they found a motor-cab parked at the door. The driver, sitting aboard the machine, was patiently sucking a short clay pipe. He tipped his hat and winked at Ethel.
‘You’ve got company,’ said Ethel in dismay. She thought of another difficult dinner, the elaborate table, the problem of so many knives and spoons. She felt sick. She wanted to turn and run away.
‘I’m not receiving,’ said Swann defiantly. He scowled at the cabbie and pulled on the bell.
The front door swung open to reveal a tall woman in a horse-hair wig and a black velvet coat. She was surrounded by trunks and boxes. Swann recognised the luggage. It belonged to his housekeeper.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘You rascal!’ shouted the woman. ‘You dirty dog! You devil!’ And she hit him with her handbag.
Ethel screamed. Swann fell down and cracked his head on the floor. His assailant, flatulent with indignation, towered above him and threatened him with her fists.
Violet came running down the stairs in a flurry of feathers and furs. ‘You’ve met Mrs Nottingham,’ she said, finding her master on the floor. She didn’t look surprised. She stepped over him and beckoned the cabbie into the house.
‘Where are you going, madam?’ demanded Swann, struggling to his feet. The cabbie, his pipe tucked behind one ear, began wrestling the luggage down to the street.
‘Mrs Nottingham has a shelter for the independent woman,’ said Violet.
‘Shelter?’ shrieked Swann. ‘You’re already living in the lap of luxury, tucked away in this damn great house with nothing to do with your time but make mischief.’
‘She is going to a safe house,’ boomed Mrs Nottingham. ‘The victim of a rich man’s whim.’
‘I’ll thank you to shut your mouth!’ said Kingdom Swann.
‘No more! The women of this country have been silent for too long!’ she bellowed. Her eyes blazed and she’d grown a moustache of perspiration. She was clearly enjoying herself. ‘It’s our turn to speak. It’s our turn to cry for justice. We shall have our liberty. We shall cast off our shackles. And, when the time comes, we shall bring this government to its knees. I’m not afraid of you. I’ve thrown stones at Lloyd George.’ She bent down and hit him again with her handbag.
‘You’ve stolen my housekeeper!’
‘Stolen? Why, she’s no more to you than a runaway slave.’
‘I’ve treated her like a sister,’ said Swann.
‘Is this how you treat a sister?’ shouted Mrs Nottingham, pointing her finger at Ethel. ‘Forcing her to conspire in your sinister debaucheries?’
‘What?’ groaned Swann, rubbing his head and turning to plead with Violet. ‘Why don’t you tell her the truth of it?’
Violet snorted, turned away and swept majestically into the street.
‘And you, miserable wretch, what have you to say for yourself?’ demanded Mrs Nottingham, turning on Et
hel as the sweating cabbie removed the last trunk.
‘Leave her alone,’ said Swann. He was bruised and angry and losing his patience. ‘The poor girl is frightened to death.’
‘Has she a tongue in her head?’
‘She doesn’t have to answer to you.’
‘Let her speak,’ said Mrs Nottingham.
Ethel, who had been trying to hide behind a chair, tottered forward, jerked back her head and puked on Mrs Nottingham’s skirt.
24
Swann thought of hiring a manservant, someone to care for his boots and collars, but Ethel wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted to play at housekeeper and wore a uniform she thought suitable for such a lofty position, strutting about in an afternoon dress, sensible shoes and a frilled cap, smiling at herself in mirrors. It was the first time in her life she had found work that required clothes.
Despite Swann’s protests, she moved from the room with the Chinese curtains and settled herself in the attic. He tried to talk her down but she seemed so happy and comfortable that he let her stay in the servants’ quarters. In the beginning he had his doubts about her household duties. There was so much work to be done and he still regarded her as his guest.
‘I’m used to hard work,’ she insisted, whenever he suggested she might like some help around the place. ‘And we don’t want the house full of strangers.’
It suited Swann. Ethel was a genius in the kitchen, stewing beef and boiling ham, and neither of them cared a farthing for the cobwebs that hung from the chandeliers or the dust that rolled on the stairs.
‘Leave the dust to grow until it’s long enough to cut with shears,’ he advised and Ethel was most obedient.
When he came home in the evenings she was waiting for him with hot beef puddings which they ate together, below stairs, by the warmth of the Livingstone range.
The old house seemed to sigh with relief to be spared the broom and the scrubbing brush. It felt comfortable as it grew dishevelled. Ethel didn’t care for regular cleaning and most of the rooms settled down to a sooty slumber.
Cromwell Marsh, who had long been forbidden to visit, was invited home once a month for supper. Sometimes he brought Ethel’s sister and she, in turn, brought Gladys Pickles, who had found some success, at last, as a dancer and came to the house with a string of admirers.
Lord Hugo Prattle came to call, whenever his business brought him to London and, although Ethel would polish the dining room table and make an effort to clean the best silver, he always wanted to eat in the kitchen, happy and sweating beside the range, with his braces down and his boots unlaced.
Swann often though of Violet and wondered how she was passing her time. He never understood her anger or forgave her disapproval of Ethel. But he felt sad, because he loved her none the less, and worried about her safety in the world beyond Golden Square. Whenever the suffragettes marched he searched for her name in the evening paper, dreading he’d find her listed among the women arrested or injured.
Once when out walking, between Dover Street and Berkeley Square, he thought he had seen her with another woman, wearing a suffragette apron and a canvas satchel full of posters. He knew it was Violet by the tilt of her head and the confident way she carried herself although, later, he couldn’t have sworn to it. She looked so different out of uniform. He followed her for several minutes but she vanished, at last, among the crowds in the Burlington Arcade.
It was bad to have lost a housekeeper but, at night, when the kitchen was full of laughter, the steam spurting from the big kettle, the oven full of fragrant puddings, Prattle honking at Marsh dancing as the girls sat singing at the long, scrubbed table, he was glad to have found such a family of friends.
25
‘And you say she eloped with another woman?’ said Mrs Beeton over afternoon tea.
‘Stolen from under my nose, ma’am,’ said Swann. ‘When I reached home that night she was already packed and preparing to leave my service.’ He paused to bite a coconut cake and tidy his beard with a napkin. ‘You grow very fond of a person when you’ve lived with them for the best part of fifteen years,’ he reflected bitterly.
‘Shocking,’ said Mrs Beeton. ‘And you’ve heard nothing since?’
‘Nothing,’ said Swann. ‘It’s as if she evaporated. But I’ve every reason to believe that she’s hiding with the suffragettes.’
‘They’re mischievous times, Mr Swann,’ said Mrs Beeton.
‘I wouldn’t want her to come to harm,’ said Swann. ‘She was always an independent woman and we often had our disagreements but she did what she could to comfort me.’
‘Comfort, Mr Swann?’ said Mrs Beeton quietly, arching a perfectly painted eyebrow.
‘When Mrs Swann was taken from me,’ he explained. ‘A solace, madam, in my time of grief.’
Mrs Beeton nodded wisely. ‘I’ve been put to grief myself, sir. My husband was a nincompoop but he was my husband, for all that, and I missed him when he was gone.’
‘I married in ’73,’ said Swann. ‘The year of the great Ashanti war. I was nearly fifty years old and she no more than a girl. These days people would think it a scandal. And yet we were happy together. She was everything a man might hope for in a wife.’
‘And you a most indulgent husband,’ said Mrs Beeton, to flatter him.
‘Ah, but she was a lovely creature,’ said Swann. ‘She had so much energy and grace. She was delicate, of course, but I did what I could to protect her from an extreme of excitement. She had eyes of a penetrating blue – that was her chief attraction – and a very pretty laugh that exposed a perfect set of teeth, although that came as no surprise since her father was a dentist. But I’ve never known a woman with such a loving temperament. I do declare, she would have made an excellent mother. Children were her great delight and yet, it’s cruel how we were denied them.’
‘A mixed blessing,’ said Mrs Beeton coldly. ‘I can’t abide ’em myself although, I dare say, there’s some women can find a sort of pleasure in them. Why, there are women I’ve seen so wretched and poor a child is the only thing they may honestly call their own; yet I don’t see how it brings ’em comfort. A sick man might be said to own his disease but he’d be happier without it.’
‘That’s a very harsh judgement, ma’am,’ said Swann.
‘There’s many things we need in this world, Mr Swann,’ said Mrs Beeton. ‘More dogs and more children ain’t two of them. And besides, it wouldn’t suit a girl here to have infants clinging to her skirts while there’s still so many grown men require nursing.’
‘I’ve no regrets for myself, ma’am, but I know she dreamed of a family,’ said Swann. He paused, chasing a strand of coconut with his tongue.
‘Do you have a picture, sir?’ said Mrs Beeton, seizing the opportunity to cut short his song of praise. It wasn’t the first time in her life that a man had felt moved in her company to describe the virtues of his wife, although it usually took something stronger than a cup of tea and a cake.
Kingdom Swann abandoned his plate and fumbled about in his pockets. After some struggling he produced a miniature, painted on an ivory flake and kept in a little purse, saturated with the smell of aniseed.
‘Charming,’ said Mrs Beeton. It was an unremarkable picture of an ordinary young woman with an open, friendly face and a piece of ribbon tied through her hair.
‘It was my last attempt to paint,’ confided Swann. ‘When we were married I was already trying to earn my living as the worst kind of portrait photographer.’
‘And you never felt tempted to put your wife before the camera?’ asked Mrs Beeton in surprise.
Swann scowled and looked uncomfortable. ‘I must confess I never thought a machine could capture the essence of so much beauty. How could you hope to squeeze such visions through a hole in a cheap wooden box? It didn’t make sense. And I wasn’t alone in that belief. There were many great men who agreed with me.’
‘And yet this was your last painted work,’ said Mrs Beeton, returning the portrait.
‘Despite myself, I came to believe that the art of painting was dead,’ said Kingdom Swann sadly. He gazed for a moment at his wife before slipping her into his pocket. ‘A man with a camera could photograph the population of a small town in the time it required to paint one portrait. No artist could hope to compete with the speed of such a machine. It was terrible. There were suicides. You could buy a studio for a song.’
‘It was a very difficult time.’
‘Difficult?’ growled Swann. ‘It was a tragedy!’
‘And yet the old art survived,’ said Mrs Beeton, waving her hand about the room with considerable satisfaction. She had recently purchased some pencil drawings by a dwarf called Toulouse-Lautrec who had lived and worked in a Paris brothel. She was thinking of finding her own artist to live at the Villa Arcadia. The idea tickled her fancy.
‘Yes. Painting survived the photograph and these days you need a sharp pair of eyes to tell the two apart. But at the time I felt differently.’
‘And now?’
‘I have nothing but regrets. I wish I’d shown her to the camera. There’s something about a photograph I’d describe as supernatural. It’s the mysterious preservation of an individual’s shadow. Why, it’s as much a part of a person as a fingerprint or a locket of hair. No one who sits for the camera will ever completely die for they go on living in their photographs.’
‘Perhaps I should sit for my own portrait, sir, for I’m feeling my age in the bones,’ said Mrs Beeton and laughed and rang the bell for another kettle of water.
26
The following year Kingdom Swann was eighty-five and to mark his birthday Ethel planned a special family supper. But a fortnight before the celebration the King dropped dead and Swann felt obliged to cancel the arrangements.
‘It seems a shame,’ said Ethel, rather wistfully. ‘Gladys promised a song and dance and I’ve ordered a cake from Fortnum and Mason.’
It was too hot for funerals. The Thames stank and the streets had baked in the sulphurous sunlight. Yet despite the weather the city turned out to watch the parade as it passed on its way to Windsor. The people shuffled forth in their thousands, from every house and hovel, factory and sweat-shop; clinging to railings and hanging from statues, climbing, one upon another, in their bid for a glimpse of the royal coffin, until the streets were overflowing and the people were fainting from heat and excitement.
Kingdom Swann: The Story of a Photographer Page 9