Rack & Ruin

by Carol Hedges

  The house has been opened up for the Season. Normally Barnes Baker only uses it when the House is sitting late and the last train has departed from Victoria Station. The two ladies sip tea and exchange family news, for there is much to talk about. They have not seen each other since last Season, when Margaret successfully hooked a wealthy bachelor for her daughter Effie.

  Indeed, so successful were Margaret’s project management skills that she has now been entrusted with her sister’s girl Africa (named after her father’s colonial past). It is hoped by all concerned that Africa, a rather jerky young woman with unreliable hair, will also achieve engagedhood by the end of August.

  A hard task, but none better to take it on than redoubtable Margaret with her thick ankles and strong features. Today Africa has been dispatched with one of the maids to buy a fan and some pairs of evening gloves, thus leaving the two ladies free to converse in peace.

  They crumble their cake and exchange social niceties, for the matter in hand cannot be approached directly but must be sidled up to discreetly, as one might stalk a shy skittish gazelle.

  “Daisy is so looking forward to the Mason-Freeman ball,” Charlotte Lawton murmurs, “It will be her first ball. Ah, such a golden time.” She pauses, studies her gloves thoughtfully, “I expect Africa is also looking forward to it.”

  “She is very excited. These girls - how young they are.”

  “We were their age ... once.”

  “Indeed we were, and what fun we had.”

  There is a pause while both ladies plumb the reticules of their memories for their days of wine and roses.

  Charlotte sighs.

  “I hope Daisy will not want for partners; I feel for her - we do not know any suitable young men in London.”

  “On that matter, I am happy to help, for Digby will be squiring his cousin and I am sure he will find a dance for her. Dear Daisy! What a little beauty she is. I will make it my business to insist he dances with her.”

  “Oh, you are too too kind, Margaret,” Charlotte says, rolling her eyes to the ceiling while inwardly exulting.

  “Perhaps Daisy might like to take Africa under her wing? It is lonely for her in London with no young people of her age,” Margaret suggests, looking vaguely at nothing in particular.

  Charlotte Lawton understands completely. There is always a price to be paid for these arrangements. Though in this case, it is a negligible one. A gawky thing like Africa (briefly glimpsed throwing herself into a cab) could only serve to highlight her own Daisy’s loveliness.

  It was a role that Margaret herself, with her stern and rather forbidding demeanour, fulfilled for her pretty friend Charlotte in those dear dimly remembered days of yore. Though one doubts if she would see it like that, if asked.

  “Daisy is the dearest, brightest of girls with such a sunshiny disposition. I am sure she would like nothing better than to make a new friend,” Charlotte says, brushing some invisible crumbs from her dress.

  The two ladies smile warmly at each other, the light of complete mutual understanding glowing in each maternal eye. Tea is sipped. Cakes are nibbled. Futures are planned. Eventually Daisy’s Mama rises and is shown out into the hallway by the parlour maid. Mission accomplished.

  Now all she has to do is gently persuade Daisy to fall in love with young Digby Barnes Baker whom, she is sure, will be primed and ready to fall in love with her. This is how it is often done in the world these two ladies inhabit. And really, it is as easy as that.

  ****

  Sadly, the only plans being made for Letitia Simpkins’ future are punitive ones. Since losing her brothers (even though she didn’t), and thus subjecting them to the perils and dangers of London (even though they weren’t), she has not been allowed to leave the family home.

  Mama has fallen even further into a decline as a direct consequence of her actions. The family physician visits every morning to comment on the state of Mama’s heart, which is not good. The comments are then translated into bills, which have to be paid by her reluctant and increasingly irate father. Which is also not good.

  And it is all Letitia’s fault. All. Meanwhile the boys, having tasted the sweets of freedom, are becoming adept at running rings round the rather inadequate maid who now accompanies them to and from school as their sister is No Longer a Person To Be Trusted.

  She hears their gleeful tales of flea circuses, Italian bands, street jugglers and stolen fruit as she continues to oversee their evening studies. It is one of the few things she is still allowed to do.

  Of course, she has written to her friend Sarah Lunt and to other friends at the Regent Street Ladies’ Literary & Philosophical Society, explaining the reason for her absence. Indeed, she has written several times, leaving her letters on the hall table for the inadequate maid to post. So far, she has received no reply. It seems they have forgotten her.

  Letitia sits in her Mama’s frowsty bedroom, reading aloud from a tale by Mr Charles Dickens. Mama seems calmer when she is read to, so this is how she spends a lot of her afternoons now.

  Even though it is a sunny afternoon, the blinds are drawn down and there is a fire in the grate. In the shadowy blue light, Mama’s face is ghostly, like a skull. The eye sockets are hollows of darkness. She looks like someone who hasn’t slept for a lifetime.

  Letitia lets her voice die to a whisper, then stops reading altogether. There is no response from the prone figure in the bed, so after waiting a few seconds for the feeble words of protest and hearing only silence, she rises and tiptoes out of the room.

  In the time between absenting herself from the sickroom, and the discovery of Mama’s dead body by the maid (who will drop the tea tray and scream the house down), Letitia will have darned three pairs of socks, turned her bothers’ sheets sides to middle, and stared longingly out of the window.

  Today is her seventeenth birthday. Nobody seems to have noticed.

  ****

  Young Sergeant Ben Hacket is becoming quite an expert at noticing. Here he is standing in the doorway of a small and dingy house in a low and litter-strewn street. The sunshine, so lovely and genial at this time of year, only serves to light up the blight and mildew.

  Hacket has been told that one of the pits dug for the dead in the time of the Great Plague lies hereabouts and its blighting influence seems to cast a malign shadow over the area. It smells shadowy and dark with rottenness and putrefaction. Ironically, just a few streets away, the bustling commercial life of the city goes on its merry way unregarding.

  From his post of observation, Sergeant Hacket has his eyes fixed on a particular property, where, according to the latest information supplied to him by Pastorelli fils, the couple suspected of taking in and murdering small babies for money might have sought safety since their precipitous exile from Hind Street.

  Hacket is wearing street clothes as he is working undercover once more, though he carries his identity card in a pocket, along with his truncheon and rattle just in case a member of the public should challenge him.

  So far, nobody has come forward to do so. Nor does it look as if they will do so. The house seems abandoned. As it did when he took over from a fellow officer at eleven o’clock.

  Now the shadows of the late afternoon are creeping into the alleyway, taking away what little light there is, but unexpectedly bringing with them a dog and a tall dark-skinned man of about thirty years.

  The man has a full beard, wears a workman’s cap and carries a basket of tools. A livid scar runs from his left eyelid to the centre of his cheek, puckering up the corner of his mouth.

  The man stops in front of the house. He extracts a key from an inner pocket, and unlocks the front door. Hacket steps forward and hails him. The man pauses on the step, then turns and regards him with a face of mild inquiry. The dog bares its teeth in an unfriendly growl, which is silenced by a swift kick of the man’s boot.

  Hacket explains why he is here, and who he is looking for. The man shrugs.

  “Ain’t nobody living here but me
and Bully,” he says, indicating the dog. “Whoever told yer, got it wrong.”

  They eye each other for a minute.

  “Railway business, you sed?” the man comments.

  Hacket nods.

  “Well, if I see anyone answering to the descriptions wot you have described, I’ll let the railway people know.”

  The man enters the house, closing the door. Hacket hears the sound of the key turning. A short while later, the flickering light of a candle appears in one of the upstairs rooms. He waits for a couple more minutes, then turns to go.

  The man watches him from behind the curtain of the upstairs window. As soon as Hacket reaches the corner, he goes downstairs, unlocks the front door and comes out again. He is wearing a bowler and a different jacket. The collar is pulled up. There is an absence of dog.

  He sets off briskly after Hacket, always keeping his distance but equally always maintaining his vantage point. Hacket does not notice him. Only when the young sergeant enters Bow Street police office does the man turn away, disappearing swiftly down a by-street.

  ****

  London in Springtime means the hectic whirl of balls and parties and dances. Paradise for daughters, and Purgatory for bill-paying Papas. It is the morning of Daisy’s first ball and even at breakfast, the feeling of excitement at the prospect of the forthcoming event is almost palpable.

  Indeed, Daisy is so excited that she is crumbling her buttered toast rather than eating it and she has left her plate of scrambled egg and bacon untouched. Her father glances across the table at her, his face mirroring concern.

  “I’m sorry to see you so off colour, Daisy-duck. May I suggest a dose of nasty-tasting medicine and a week in bed?” he suggests.

  Daisy twinkles at him.

  “Oh Fa - you are such a tease! You know very well it is my first ball tonight.”

  “Is it?” Daisy’s father looks innocently nonplussed. “But I’m sure you agreed to stay home and read the City business news to me.”

  Daisy rolls her eyes.

  “I shall be quite happy to read you that dull boring newspaper tomorrow. Tonight, I am going to the Mason-Freeman ball with Mama.”

  “Ah. So that explains all the little brown envelopes that have been arriving on my desk recently. I knew I hadn’t ordered new gloves, a fan, an opera cloak, two pairs of satin shoes, and a gold necklace. A ball eh. Do I approve of balls? ... let me think about it ...”

  Daisy tosses her pretty curls.

  “Oh Fa! You know it was at a ball that you first met Mama.”

  “So it was. Now, let me guess. This is how it will go: Tonight, you will meet a handsome young blade. At the second ball, he will flirt with you. At the third ball, he will court you and at the fourth ball he will offer. Is that what you have planned?”

  Daisy blushes furiously.

  “Mama,” she appeals.

  “Daisy-duck I am, as you point out, just teasing. I have already arranged for the carriage to be at the door at eight to whisk you away - or wait, was it a pumpkin I ordered? I can’t quite remember.”

  Daisy rises from her seat and bestows a kiss on the top of his head,

  “Funny old Fa! I wish you could come with us and see me dancing.”

  “I shall have to wait another day for that pleasure, I fear.”

  “When that day comes, you will have the very first dance,” Daisy promises. “Now I must go up to my room and look over my clothes.”

  She hurries out of the breakfast-room.

  “Were we that young once?” Lawton muses.

  “Indeed, we were, and I remember being introduced to a certain young medical student who tried to get his name on my dance card far more times than was proper.”

  Daisy’s mother rises and straightens the edge of a perfectly straight tablecloth.

  “I shall go and see what our dear daughter is up to,” she says. “We cannot have her spoiling her new dress by romping.”

  Mr Lawton finishes his coffee and collects his top hat and his surgeon’s bag from the hall. He does not remember the last time Daisy romped. She seems to have slipped from adored child into poised young woman without him noticing.

  He leaves the house, feeling a pang of regret for all the years that have passed so quickly by. He wishes he could turn back the clock. He’d give anything to see his Daisy romping again.

  ****

  Letitia Simpkins wishes she too, could turn back the clock. She sits in the parlour in a creased black bombazine gown that doesn’t fit, awaiting the return of her father and the boys. They are at Mama’s funeral service and after it is over, they will bury Mama in Kensal Green cemetery.

  Letitia has spent the past few days torturing herself with the thought that she left Mama to die on her own, even though the doctor has assured her father that Mama died in her sleep and would have felt no pain.

  But how can he know? What if Mama woke up and realised she was alone but was too weak to call out? What if her very last breath was taken in agony of body and mind? She tries to push the thought aside, but it comes back. Some thoughts have glue on them.

  The dull black gown is uncomfortable, and the colour has already stained under her arms. She also has a new black silk bonnet with crape trimming and ribbons. It will be a whole year before she can visit the Mitigated Affliction Department of the store where her clothes were bought to purchase a lighter coloured one.

  Letitia has supervised the cook in the preparation of a cold collation for when father and the boys return, for the funeral is a very private affair and no members of either family nor any friends - not that Mama had any friends thanks to her long confinement in bed, have been invited to attend.

  However, this has not stopped various people from sending condolence cards, which now lie in a heap on father’s desk. It will be her job to answer them, just as it will be her job to take over the responsibility of looking after the boys, and running the household. Just as it is already her responsibility to shoulder the entire burden of guilt for her mother’s death.

  Letitia hears the sound of a carriage drawing up outside, then a key in the front door. She rises, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. She has a little speech all rehearsed. She walks into the hallway. But the words die away. For her father and the boys, all wearing new white shirts and black armbands, are not entering the house alone.

  To her surprise, they are accompanied by a stout middle-aged woman in a very well-tailored black costume and a fashionable black straw hat trimmed with black ostrich plumes. Letitia is sure that she has never seen her in the house before.

  Stunned into silence, she watches as the woman pulls out a couple of hatpins with flashing jewelled stones, removes the hat, then stabs the pins back into it a couple of times before handing hat, cloak and veil to her father to hang up.

  The unexpected visitor has deep set currant-dark eyes surrounded by little rolls of fat; her high coloured face is framed by a great deal of bright reddish hair, which is coiled about her head like a snake.

  “This is Mrs Briscoe, an old family friend,” her father says by way of explanation. “She was at the church service and has accompanied us back in the carriage.”

  The woman makes Letitia a very slight bow of acknowledgement. Then her father offers the ‘old family friend’ his right arm and leads her into the dining room.

  Letitia follows with the two boys, who are very subdued and a bit tearful.

  “Have you ever seen that lady before?” she whispers.

  They shake their heads.

  But her father is all smiles and affability, almost as if he has not just buried his wife. He offers Mrs Briscoe the plate of sandwiches. She helps herself lavishly, then bites into one.

  Her teeth are large and gleaming. She glances around the room, appraising the furniture and ornaments as if she is making an inventory of everything, her gaze finally coming to rest upon Letitia.

  There is something almost predatory about her manner. Perhaps you might be a pet. Perhaps you might be
a quarry, the gaze says. Either way, the choice is not yours.

  Letitia feels her face reddening under the scrutiny.

  “How long have you known my Mama?” She asks, her voice coming out several octaves higher than normal.

  “Oh - for a very long time, my dear.”

  “I do not recall her ever mentioning your name.”

  “Well, she was a very ill woman: I expect that is why. And you have been away at boarding school, haven’t you?”

  Letitia’s father and the stranger exchange a look that Letitia doesn’t understand.

  “Go and mind the boys, Letty,” he orders her. “They are pulling the cakes about - do you not see?”

  Letitia does as she is bid. Time passes. As soon as they have eaten, the boys disperse to their room to play. Mrs Briscoe and her father sit either end of the sofa and talk. They appear to have a lot to talk about.

  None of the talk involves Letitia, who hovers awkwardly by the refreshment table watching them. At length, the maid returns from the day off she was given to mark Mama’s death and begins to clear the plates.

  And still Mrs Briscoe stays. And stays.

  Eventually when clouds fill the sky like old eiderdowns and the light is draining out of everything, she announces that she must be getting back and Letitia’s father, who has barely noticed either his daughter or the ticking clock, offers to go and find her a cab.

  Letitia accompanies Mrs Briscoe back out into the hallway and watches as she stands in front of the mirror, thrusting the flashing hatpins into her hat. Mrs Briscoe turns, and bares her teeth in a smile.

  “There now. What a sad day,” she says, “but it is over. It has been a pleasure to meet you. And I am sure in the future that you and I are going to be the best of friends.”

  Her father returns to escort the visitor out to the waiting cab. Letitia watches him hand her in, then lean forward to say something in her ear. She hears the tinkling laughter in response. Then the driver whips up the horse and the cab sets off.