Marsh and Swann, in their Sunday black, jostled for position on the crowded pavement while Ethel, between them, stood stretching on tiptoe, wrinkling her nose at the ripe smell of soldiers, leather, horse dung and countless mothballed mourning gowns.
‘He didn’t last long, God bless him,’ said Marsh, snapping to attention as the gun carriage went creaking past. He snatched off his hat and held it lightly over his heart.
‘There’s the new King,’ said Swann suddenly, waving at a group of horsemen.
‘Where?’ cried Ethel. The crowd surged and knocked her down. She jumped to her feet, breathless and laughing, and smacked at the dust on her sleeves.
‘There!’ shouted Swann, ‘The one riding with the German Kaiser.’
The Kaiser, astride a great, white horse, turned for a moment and looked down on Ethel. A fountain of feathers poured from his hat and his chest was blazing with planets and stars.
‘The new King!’ blushed Ethel, clapping her hands in delight. ‘The new King and he smiled at me!’
‘And Lord Kitchener – I think I saw Lord Kitchener!’ hooted Marsh, who seemed very much impressed.
‘And there’s Lord Roberts,’ said Swann, pointing a finger at a cloud of dust.
‘And King What’s-his-name!’ said Marsh, searching all the sweating faces.
‘I never dreamed there was so much royalty in the world!’ cried Ethel happily.
The funeral turned at the corner of the street and the crowd exploded, rushing forward to chase the retreating horses. Someone caught Swann’s coat in the scramble and tried, half-heartedly, to steal his gold watch. Ethel was tripped and fell down again.
‘Are you hurt?’ shouted Swann, as he bravely tried to shelter her from the onslaught of the mob.
‘I think I’ve torn my stockings,’ she wailed, feeling under her skirt for her knees.
‘We’ll all die in this crush – let’s go home!’ shouted Swann, grabbing at Ethel’s hand and trying to lead her to safety.
They reached the shelter of a draper’s doorway before they realised they had lost Cromwell Marsh.
‘Where’s he gone?’ sobbed Ethel. She was bruised and frightened and sick with heat.
‘That’s him!’ said Swann, peering anxiously into the crowd. ‘What’s happened? Someone is trying to murder him!’
He pushed out from the doorway towards Cromwell Marsh who was caught in the clutch of a very large woman. The woman was so tall, and was shaking him so hard, that his feet had left the ground. He dangled from her arms like a poorly stuffed rag doll.
‘Oh, my Gawd, it’s him!’ she moaned as Swann tried to step between them. She dropped Marsh who fell in the gutter where a child kicked his hat through the yellow puddles of dung.
‘Quick!’ muttered Swann, helping restore the printer’s balance. ‘Let’s get away. The royalty must have gone to her head.’
‘You don’t understand!’ shouted Marsh. He ran to retrieve his hat but lost it under a carriage.
‘You’re the very ghost of Kingdom Swann, the late lamented photographer,’ sobbed the stranger. She was a handsome woman, about fifty years old, with a face that was sunburnt and mottled with dust. She was wearing a mourning suit and a bent bonnet wrapped in crêpe. She seemed grief-stricken by the sight of the ancient photographer and stuffed her knuckles into her mouth.
‘Who is this woman?’ demanded Swann.
‘Alice Hancock,’ said Cromwell Marsh. ‘You must remember Alice.’
‘No.’
‘That’s because she’s upset on account of the maudlin circumstance,’ explained Marsh. ‘Alice was very close to the King. He was partial to her personage.’
‘You mean …’ said Swann.
‘Probably,’ said Marsh.
‘I don’t remember,’ said Swann. He frowned at the woman and shook his head.
‘There’s no reason you should remember,’ said Marsh. ‘I’m talking of times when he was only the Prince of Wales.’
‘He might have been the Prince of Wales but he always behaved like a proper gent,’ sobbed Alice. She began to sink beneath the weight of so much misery and Marsh had to lend his support. She gave a terrible groan, rolled her eyes and threatened to faint in his arms.
‘She’s looking very queer,’ said Swann.
‘It’s the heat. I think she’s been roaming the streets. The funeral must have hit her hard. She always loved the King.’
‘Perhaps we should take her home,’ said Swann gallantly.
‘Good idea,’ said Marsh. ‘A glass of water, an easy chair and she’ll soon be as right as ninepence.’
So they collected Ethel, who was still hiding in the draper’s doorway, and helped Alice Hancock back to the house near Golden Square.
It wasn’t until they had guided her down the stairs to the kitchen and propped her safely in a chair that she found the strength to speak again.
‘Is he still here?’ she whispered, holding Cromwell Marsh by the sleeve.
‘Who?’
‘The late Mr Swann.’
‘I’m here,’ said Swann, sloshing brandy into a glass.
‘You’re in his house,’ said Marsh proudly.
‘Is that right?’ she said, peering about the room.
‘Don’t you remember what happened?’ said Swann. ‘We found you in the street. Your mind had started to wander.’
Alice groaned. ‘You mustn’t mind a poor woman, Mr Swann,’ she said, gulping down the brandy. ‘I was very close to the King. He was good to me.’ She gasped as the brandy set fire to her throat.
‘Mr Swann was good to you, Alice, don’t forget. You was his favourite Jezebel, that’s what he called you.’
‘I was a beauty in my day,’ agreed Alice, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘Wilkie Collins wrote me love letters.’
‘You was famous for it,’ said Marsh.
Alice nodded happily. ‘Baron Leighton wanted to paint me. Can you believe it? He took me to his house in Holland Park Road. Poor old Fred! He was then so feeble he couldn’t hold a brush. But he was stubborn. Oh, he was stubborn! He wanted me for his Bath of Psyche.’
‘He used that actress, Dorothy Dene, for the Bath of Psyche,’ said Kingdom Swann.
‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘And she was a great, long streak of nothing.’ She took off her bonnet and shook out a mane of coarse, red hair. ‘He was never happy with that painting although they call it a masterpiece. The day we were introduced he said, Alice, my girl, I’m going to have you in my Bath. And he would have done too, if he’d been spared …’
Swann refilled her brandy glass.
‘And don’t forget Aubrey Beardsley,’ prompted Marsh.
Alice snorted. ‘He wanted to sketch me, dirty little man. I never liked him. He got mixed up in a lot of trouble. He chased me all over London. It gave me the creeps.’
‘I can remember the days when you were the toast of the town,’ said Marsh. ‘There wasn’t an artist alive who didn’t covet your bum.’
‘It’s true,’ nodded Alice humbly. ‘But you were the one,’ she said, turning to Swann. ‘Your photographs was lovely. Look, here, I’ll show you.’
She plunged a hand between her breasts and hauled out a large, silver locket. The locket broke open to reveal a coloured photograph. A picture of Alice, wearing nothing but boots, looking fat and pink as a Botticelli.
‘It’s a cheerful view,’ whistled Cromwell Marsh. ‘I coloured you with my own hands. It seems like only yesterday.’
‘Eigheen hundred and ninety-nine,’ sighed Alice.
‘I don’t believe it!’ gasped Marsh. ‘Why, you’re just as lovely now as you were when the portrait was taken. Indeed, I’d say you was lovelier, if a man may still trust his eyes.’
While they sat gawking at this masterpiece, Ethel made them a cold supper of sausage and pickle which they ate at the kitchen table. The company laughed and ate and drank and talked of the good old days. Ethel said nothing. She didn’t feel easy with Alice Hancock, who was old en
ough to be her mother. She felt ignored and out of sorts. She sat with them for an hour or two more, opened a second bottle of brandy, slipped away and went to bed.
By midnight the brandy had driven Alice into another fit of despair. She sprawled in her chair and counted her sorrows. ‘Freddy gone. Teddy gone. Everyone gone or going. What’s to become of the likes of me?’
Swann was too drunk to offer advice. But Marsh waved his hand in protest. ‘You’re a feast for the eyes, Alice. It’s not finished yet. Have some more brandy.’
‘You’re both so kind,’ burbled Alice. ‘You bring me home and you give me supper and it’s more than enough to break my poor heart.’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ shouted Marsh, splashing brandy over his shirt and soaking himself to the skin. ‘Why, you could still show Swann a trick or two, eh? Yes! You knew how to transport yourself. You knew how to strike an attitude. You always had such nice big legs.’
‘They have been admired,’ agreed Alice. She belched and hoicked up her skirts.
‘They’re beauties!’ growled Cromwell Marsh.
‘I’m still fit and healthy,’ said Alice.
‘I should say you’re in the prime of life!’
Her spirits rose with his flattery and she tried out a little dance. ‘I could have been on the stage,’ she laughed.
‘Look at that!’ crooned Marsh. ‘Don’t it set your blood on fire to see such a pair of big, fat knees!’
Swann lifted his head but found that he couldn’t open his eyes so he grinned, instead, and silently slipped from his chair.
When he woke up it was morning. The kitchen was cold and deserted. Someone had covered him with a blanket and placed a pillow under his head. He lay quietly on the flagstones, trying to make sense of his strange surroundings and then, deciding that he hadn’t died, struggled to his feet and endeavoured to climb the stairs.
When he reached the hall he found Cromwell Marsh slumped, asleep, with his head pressed against the front door. He was snoring. His teeth had worked loose and his boots were missing.
Alice Hancock lay on her back in the middle of the carpet. She was wearing nothing but her silver locket and a pair of very old satin drawers. The drawers, which were trimmed with gold lace, bore a richly embroidered crest. Alice groaned. The sun as it soaked through a stained glass window, licked red and green and yellow shadows over her capsized breasts. Her stomach rolled and rumbled in slumber. Her mouth was open. She was blowing bubbles.
Swann knelt down and tried to shake Marsh awake. ‘What happened here?’ he whispered fiercely, pulling at his ear.
‘We was dancing,’ moaned Marsh, as he came back to life. His voice was thick and glued with sleep.
‘What have you done to her clothes?’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Marsh. He stood up and frowned at Alice. He took out his teeth and wiped them on the front of his shirt.
‘How did she come to be dressed in a pair of Mrs Beeton’s special edition royal drawers?’ demanded Swann.
Cromwell Marsh blinked and pushed several fingers into his mouth. He seemed to have trouble fitting his teeth. ‘I always bring ’em out for royal weddings and funerals,’ he confessed at last. ‘I likes the feel of ’em in my pocket.’
‘But how did Alice come by them?’
‘I wanted her to try ’em for size,’ Marsh said apologetically. ‘When she started dancing and kicking her legs I couldn’t help myself.’
‘Well, take her upstairs and put her to bed,’ hissed Swann. ‘She can’t stay down here, she’ll give Ethel a fright.’
Marsh tottered over to the sleeping woman, bent down and buried his hands in her armpits.
‘She’s too fat for me,’ he wheezed. ‘She’ll do me a mischief.’
‘You take her arms and I’ll take her feet,’ whispered Swann. He seized her by the ankles, raised her legs against his chest and tried to drive her, like a wheelbarrow, across the carpet.
A key grated in the lock and the front door opened. When Swann turned around he saw Violet Askey standing, framed in sunlight, dressed in a coat and a wide-brimmed hat. She stood, motionless, staring in horror, a little parcel strung on her wrist.
He was astonished. He laughed. But he could not move. He was still holding Alice Hancock’s feet.
‘Violet?’ he said.
‘Mr Swann?’ said Violet, reaching her hand towards him.
‘But …’ he said.
‘Happy birthday,’ she said and let the parcel fall from her wrist and slap against the floor.
He dropped Alice Hancock and ran toward the retreating housekeeper. ‘Wait!’ he shouted. ‘You don’t understand!’
Alice Hancock woke up with a shout and shrank away from Cromwell Marsh. ‘Who are you?’ she shouted.
‘Shut up!’ snapped Marsh.
Swann followed Violet down the steps and onto the hot and dusty street. But the housekeeper would not wait for him. She was running, shouting, pleading for help, in a fury of flapping petticoats. Several men stopped and pointed at Swann. An old woman threw a stone at him. Violet reached the street corner and he was forced, at last, to give up the chase. His head was ringing and he couldn’t catch his breath. He watched her dart through the dangerous traffic, jump aboard a motor bus and disappear in a cloud of smoke.
‘Happy birthday,’ said Marsh sadly, when Swann came hobbling back to the house. He was wearing a dirty tablecloth. Alice was dressed in his shirt.
Swann picked up the parcel and unwrapped a little book. It was Health, Beauty and the New Vegetarian by the Golden Beehive Press.
27
Alice Hancock stayed in the house near Golden Square. She had been living as a scullery-maid with a family in Kilburn but she never returned there to collect her clothes nor ask for a farthing of wages.
‘Let the buggers find another skivvy,’ was all she said to Swann. ‘It’s a life that’s not worth the living, sir. You’re up before dawn to light the fires and you don’t see your bed before midnight. When you’re not dusting and waxing and scrubbing and washing, you’re peeling and cutting and boiling and baking. And when that’s finished there’s the boots to polish, the grates to black, the knives to shine, not to mention the running and fetching and the Missus complaining every five minutes and the Master wanting to feel your person.’ She took a deep breath and shivered with disgust. She was finished with slaving for the hoi polloi and if she had to skivvy for someone she would rather skivvy for Swann. It was her intention to hide in the house and devote herself to his service.
‘I wouldn’t want you to work,’ he said gravely, when she explained this plan. It was unthinkable. She was an educated woman and, despite her second-hand mourning clothes, still carried herself like a duchess. She was fierce and proud and independent and only the ugly red hands betrayed her years as a scullery-maid.
‘Work for you, Mr Swann?’ cried Alice. ‘I’d think it an honour to slave for you, sir, and that’s the honest truth!’
‘But you came to the house as my guest. It wouldn’t be decent to have you beat carpets.’
‘You picked me out of the gutter, sir, when I was near mad with grief. You took me home and cared for me and that’s a debt that can’t be ignored.’
‘It’s no more than anyone might have done, confronted with the circumstances,’ said Swann.
‘There’s those been blessed with charity, no doubt,’ agreed Alice. ‘While there’s some who wouldn’t think twice about asking a poor woman home for to put her to Other Purposes,’ she added darkly, ‘and I mention no names in that connection but I count myself as fortunate to have fallen into your hands, sir, and not the hands of another.’
Swann tried to make her listen to reason but Alice could not be persuaded and soon set to work with bucket and brush. She washed the windows and polished the brass but proved too old for heavy duties and sweated herself into such a lather that Swann brought home an Electric Atom suction machine to vacuum the curtains and carpets.
Alice thrived in her n
ew surroundings and now life was torment for Ethel Spooner. She felt threatened by the large intruder and feared she had lost her authority since Alice refused to obey instructions and seemed to take pleasure in stirring up dust.
‘Mr Swann said I should never wash the chandeliers,’ said Ethel as she watched Alice tempting death by balancing on the arm of a chair and stretching out to the ceiling.
‘He’s a saint,’ puffed Alice. ‘But that’s no reason to take advantage. Most modern girls is prone to be lazy.’
‘I never took advantage,’ said Ethel growing tearful and wishing that Alice had never been saved. ‘I work all hours to keep this house nice and keep Mr Swann warm and comfortable.’
‘You could work all the hours God sends you,’ said Alice. ‘And you still wouldn’t write your name in this filth.’
‘It’s Mr Swann’s orders,’ said Ethel. ‘I tried to clean out his room but he said he finds it unsettling and he’s too old for change and likes to watch the dust grow.’
‘I never heard such a story!’ hooted Alice.
‘It’s true!’ shouted Ethel.
‘I’m not saying you’re to blame,’ said Alice, ‘but, you must admit, you’re not very big and the house is too much for an inexperienced slip of a girl to try and manage alone.’
‘I’m as strong as a navvy!’ protested Ethel, pulling back her shoulders. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work.’
And so they engaged in a battle of brooms. They chased each other from room to room, fighting to be first with the polish and the dusters. They bickered over the laundry and squabbled over the cooking. They struggled for the honour of raking the ashes.
This rivalry led to the restoration of formalities not known in the house since the days of Violet Askey. Alice opened a household account book to record the purchase of everything, from a ton of coal to a twist of tea. Daily duties were performed to the chimes of the clock. Guests were no longer shown to the kitchen and, even when he dined alone, Swann was required to take his place at the dining room table.
Kingdom Swann: The Story of a Photographer Page 10