by Carol Hedges
Daisy bites her underlip. This is Tishy in a new light.
“What could little Tishy have done to make you cross?”
Daisy wriggles off his lap.
“It is nothing Fa. Just a girlish thing. I am sure it will be made right in time. Now I must go and practice my pieces. Digby is coming around tomorrow and I want to be note perfect for him.”
Mr Lawton watches her glide out the room. He has said something wrong, but he does not know what it is. He shakes his head, and sits for a moment in silent contemplation. Then with a long sigh, he picks up the evening paper.
Meanwhile Daisy goes to the parlour and sits down on the piano stool. This should be a delicious time for her: she is engaged to be married. But ever since Tishy came with her story - for it was a story, it was, Daisy has felt as if she has a great weight on her heart.
She opens her music: a gay waltz tune, and begins to play. But after only a few bars, her fingers falter, a wrong key is sounded, then she comes to a stop. Tears well up in her eyes. Daisy stares at the notes on the stave as they blur and wobble in front of her.
The world is out of joint and she doesn’t know how to set it right. All she knows is that she has cast off her best and most loyal friend, and she does not possess the power spoken of by the poet Goldsmith:
‘He threw off his friends like a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he liked he could whistle them back.’
If only she could return to the sweet girlhood days when she and Tishy shared confidences and cake. But the door is shut forever on that happy carefree time. Daisy Lawton glances down at her left hand. The diamond in her engagement ring winks back up at her, lucid and elemental and cold.
****
Meanwhile Richard Barnes Baker MP is meeting with his election agent Edward Foxton in the dark-panelled dining room of the Palace of Westminster. A late supper of saddle of mutton with caper sauce has gone down very well along with a lot of fine wine from the excellent wine cellar.
Now the two men sit back, cigars and brandy to hand.
“Rumour is that Cardwell’s for the chop, an’t that right Foxy?” Barnes Baker says.
Edward Foxton, as red headed and sharp-faced as his name suggests, takes up his glass and swirls the amber coloured contents thoughtfully between his cupped hands.
“Mr Adolphus Cardwell may indeed be on the point of resigning his seat and having his election declared null and void,” he says.
The two men exchange a sly look.
“Cherchez la femme, eh. I heard that Mr Cardwell, while claiming to be a married man of impeccable standing, pillar of the local church an’ all that, has been secretly carrying on with an Irish heiress and that she and their two daughters have just arrived in town,” Barnes Baker says.
“I gather Lord Palmerston’s not too pleased and it has been indicated to Mr Cardwell that he must do the honourable thing and fall upon his sword,” Foxton adds.
“It will mean a by-election, won’t it? Tatchester and Crawley - always been a safe Whig seat, but I wonder if we can persuade the electorate to vote for my boy as the new candidate,” Barnes Baker muses. “Pam’s keen to get more Liberals into the House, after all he founded the party, so I think he’ll back us.”
“I also think that is very likely.”
“Then so be it. I’ll take some soundings and see how the land lies, but my reading of it is that Cardwell will resign quietly over the summer to avoid a scandal. There’ll be an announcement when the House resumes in September, then we’ll declare Digby’s prospective candidacy.”
“I gather that he is an engaged man,” Foxton remarks.
“Yes. Lovely young gel - wife’s known the mother since they were at school together. Father’s a surgeon. May have to delay the wedding though - got to get him elected first,” Barnes Baker says, giving Foxton a wink.
“The electorate will like it. We should arrange some visits nearer the time. Let people see them together - riding round in an open-topped carriage, young couple in love and that sort of things. Always goes down well. And after Cardwell ...” Foxton lets the inference hang in the air like a bad smell.
“Oh, there’ll be none of that with the boy. No dirty little secrets coming out, don’t worry. Not to say that he hasn’t sown a few wild oats, haven’t we all in our time, but he’s settled, I can vouch for it. Got him on a pretty tight rein since he came up to Town.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Foxton raises his glass.
“To Digby then, the next Barnes Baker MP.”
“Amen to that, Foxy,” Richard Barnes Baker echoes. “Amen to that.”
****
By one of those random happenstances, even as Barnes Baker senior and Foxton are toasting his success, the putative Parliamentary candidate is also celebrating, though in his case the worship is at the shrine of Eros rather than Eunomia.
Resplendent in full evening dress, here he is at the Britannia Theatre, Hoxton. He and his party of three other young London bucks, having paid their sixpence a head, are at a table in the pit.
The Britannia is an immense theatre, magnificently lighted by a firmament of sparkling chandeliers. Audiences are seated at tables. Food and drink (mainly sandwiches and ginger beer) are served throughout the performance.
Glance round the auditorium. You will see dock labourers, shop-workers of both sexes, tradesmen, clerks, stay-makers, shoe-binders, professional men, loiterers, idlers, ladies of much, some and absolutely no virtue whatsoever, plus a plethora of workers from a hundred highways and byways.
The evening programme consists of a couple of plays, with variety acts in between. Tonight, there are two melodramas: The String of Pearls and a performance of Lady Audley’s Secret, an adaptation of the scandalous novel about bigamy and deception and a murderess.
The star of the drama, playing the dastardly Lady Audley herself is Miss Lottie Turner. You might recognise her as the young woman who wasn’t Daisy Lawton. Letitia certainly would.
Here she is approaching Digby’s table, joshing and flirting with other admirers at other tables as she undulates her way across the floor. For Miss Turner is well known on the Halls and has a very loyal male following, being both an accomplished artiste, and a fine cantatrice in favourite ballads, some of which she will sing later tonight.
Miss Turner slides herself onto Digby’s lap and places one white dimpled arm round his neck. Leaning forward, she blows seductively into his ear.
“Now then my big boy, did you remember to bring my little present?”
The little present in question is currently adorning the left hand of Daisy Lawton, having been sized down from its original owner, who shifts her weight and smiles sweetly.
“It’s still being reset at Rundells, Lottie,” says the big boy.
Lottie pouts.
“Seems to be taking an awful long time. I want my little di’mond ring back on my hand, where all the world can see it. Not every day a girl gets given a beeyootiful di’mond ring, is it?”
This is true. It is also not every day that two separate girls get given the same diamond ring either.
“You must be patient,” says the lord of the ring, as he slaps her rump playfully, causing Miss Turner to utter a little scream of protest, which can only be silenced by the application of champagne.
All this while Professor Golding, billed as the Premier Ventriloquist of the World and Humorous Mimic, is delighting the audience with his Mirth-provoking Ventriloquial sketch.
“Gawd, don’t he run on?” says Miss Turner, cocking her head to one side in a killing way. “Right, time to get ready for my show. Keep my seat nice and warm till I’m back, won’t you? I’ll make it up to you ... later.”
She plants a moist kiss on Digby’s mouth, gets off his lap and saunters towards the exit, her hips swinging provocatively from side to side. Every male eye follows her. Professor Golding’s final remarks are drowned out by wolf whistles and air kissing noises.
“Whew!” one
of Digby’s friends remarks. “Very spicy!”
“Oh, Lottie’s alright,” Digby shrugs.
“Wonder what she’ll think when she finds out about you-know-who,” the young swell grins. “Have you thought about that?”
As Digby Barnes Baker is to risk analysis what oysters are to dentistry, he merely laughs and repeats that Lottie knows the score. At which point the stage curtain is pulled back to reveal the famous Lime Tree Walk with a rather crudely painted representation of Audley Court in the background.
Lady Audley’s entrance, in a low-cut dress and picture hat, is greeted by whoops and cheers from the audience. She plays her part prettily, saucing the men who are trying to find out her true identity, and tossing her head defiantly at all accusations and innuendoes.
It is noticeable however, that when she utters the immortal line: “Once I used to be a mere governess, now I am Mistress of Audley Court,” she pauses, her eyes seeking out Digby in the semi-darkness.
Does he notice? Probably not. And even if he did, and understood the underlying implication, he wouldn’t worry. That is why he pays a man like Hunter. To smooth out his path in life and remove all little inconveniences on the way. Thanks to Hunter, Digby Barnes Baker’s life has bowled along very smoothly and conveniently indeed. So far.
****
Leaving the frolicsome gaiety of the Britannia, let us return to the crepuscular and fumacious streets, where dark figures hurry determinedly through the crowds of flâneurs, strollers and night-time revellers.
They are the working girls - not those who earn a living horizontally (though sometimes penury forces them to pursue that perilous path) but the millions of milliners, dozens of dressmakers and hundreds of hat-trimmers.
It is the height of the Season, when every outworker in London is literally working their fingers to the bone to supply the big stores and private customers with ballgowns, day dresses and all the trimmings and accoutrements that accompany them.
Look more closely.
Two shabbily dressed young women hurry along Tottenham Court Road in the direction of Regent Street. They have wicker baskets on their arms and the preoccupied expressions of those who need to get somewhere in a hurry.
They are Miss Adelina Makepiece Chiappa, seamstress, and Miss Florina Sabini, bonnet trimmer, on their way to deliver their latest orders to the big department store that employs them.
They have not eaten all day and their faces look white and pinched in the gloom. Occasionally Miss Chiappa stumbles, and is held up by her companion. They reach Oxford Circus and pause to catch their breath.
“My head hurts, Flo,” Miss Chiappa complains.
“Not far to go now, Addy,” her companion says, patting her arm encouragingly. “Then it’ll be baked potatoes and a cup of coffee each.”
Cheered by the thought, the two make their way to Peter Robinson’s department store, where the lighted window displays are attracting the usual crowd of evening strollers and ladies of dubious provenance.
They turn down a dark unlit alleyway, knock at a wooden door and are admitted to the basement sewing room, where the stitchers and pattern cutters work well away from the shop floor. Even at this hour, a few girls linger at the long wooden table, their shoulders drooping with fatigue, eyes barely open.
Their arrival is observed by Mrs Scabrous, the wall-eyed superintendent, who greets them unsmilingly, taking their baskets and complaining that they are late. The girls are so used to this greeting that they barely respond.
Useless to explain that they have trudged for miles on empty stomachs because they couldn’t afford the omnibus fare.
Mrs Scabrous looks over their work with an experienced eye, finally proclaiming with a sniff that, “It’ll do.” The next order, along with the money for this one, is placed in their baskets and they set off back to their lodgings.
At Kings Cross Station they stop and buy their supper from one of the street vendors. They sit on a bench to eat it, blowing on their fingers as they wolf down the hot potatoes. They are just about to set off once more when Florina suddenly nudges her companion and points.
“Hey, in’t that one of them snobby clerks we used to lodge with?”
It is indeed. Edwin Persiflage emerges from one of the station arches carrying a small package. He looks all about him, then crosses the road.
“Well I never thought to see the likes of him again. Wonder where’s he off to,” Florina murmurs, rising from her seat.
“Who knows,” her companion says wearily.
“Well, I don’t, that’s for sure. But I intend to find out.”
“Oh Flo, you can’t ...”
“No such word as can’t my old mum used to say. You go home, Ada. You’re all but done in. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, don’t worry.”
And with that, Florina Sabini pulls her bonnet down over her face, wraps her shawl around her shoulders and starts off after Persiflage, her mouth set in a determined line.
Unaware that he is being followed, the founder of the Hind Street Anarchists walks briskly in the direction of Somers Town, with Florina in hot pursuit. They pass St Pancras churchyard, where all the tombstones have been placed against the trees in preparation for the new railway to cut its way through.
To the passer-by it looks as if the headstones have dropped from the trees like ripe fruit, waiting to be gathered. Florina shivers. She can hear the clanking of trains from the Railway Depot. An owl hoots. She pauses under the bloom of the gaslight to wrap her shawl more closely.
Meanwhile Persiflage hurries down Union Street, and crosses the Polygon. Florina follows him. He pauses in front of a darkened shop on the corner of Seymour Street. Then he gets out a key and lets himself in by the side door.
Florina creeps nearer. The sign over the shop reads: Bengt & Muller, Chemist & Druggist. She watches from the pavement. A light comes on above. She sees the outline of Persiflage against the blind.
So this must be where he is lodging. And the other one? Is he here too? Florina turns and heads for home. As she walks the near-deserted streets, she remembers the nice-looking police inspector who gave them money and spoke kindly to them as if they were human beings not just work-slaves.
He seemed interested in the two clerks, didn’t he? Concerned for their welfare. Once she finds out if they are both lodging above the chemist, maybe she’ll pay the nice police inspector a visit and let him know where they have ended up.
She remembers the way this snooty one brushed past her, nearly upsetting her basket. And the other one, with his silly clothes and pimply face refused to carry Addy’s basket up the stairs one day when she was near to collapse with exhaustion.
You reap what you sow in this world, Florina thinks grimly. She is not stupid: she is sure there is a reason why the nice police inspector wants to find out where the two clerks have gone. So now he will know, and serve them both right.
****
Sadly, all good things must come to an end, and so it is with a heavy heart that Letitia Simpkins receives a curt letter from Harrogate informing her that her father is returning to London.
The week of his absence has been like manna in the wilderness. While he has been away, she has managed to meet with her tutor Miss Sophie Jacques, and been rewarded with that redoubtable young woman’s unstinted praise for her essays. She has taken the twins to the zoo and to Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks. She has even bought herself a new collar and some handkerchiefs from her diminishing funds. But now all this gallivanting is coming to an end.
Letitia sits in the parlour waiting for the cab to draw up at the door. The boys wait with her, fidgeting in their starched collars and brushed jackets. Letitia has made them take a bath and dressed them in their best clothes. Downstairs, the cook is preparing a tasty meal for dinner.
It is her fervent wish that once her father sees how competently she has managed in his absence and how well the house is running, it might be the beginning of a fresh start. One in which Mrs Briscoe play
s a lesser, not to say non-existent part.
She hears the sound of carriage wheels in the street. Then her father’s familiar voice arguing loudly with the cabman over the fare. She feels her heart sink. He is clearly in one of his ‘moods’. Letitia’s little rock pool of hope begins to trickle away.
The front door is wrenched open, then slammed shut. She hears her father throw his hat, coat and bag on the hall floor. The boys exchange a look. Without entering the parlour or greeting his offspring, he goes straight to his study. He slams that door shut as well.
After a suitable interval has elapsed, and it becomes clear that Mr Simpkins is not going to emerge to greet the welcoming party, Letitia indicates to the twins that they can go and play.
They need no urging, slinking furtively up to the first floor of the house. Letitia sits on. The house sinks into absolute silence. Usually silence is an ally. Now it is pressing lightly on her ears. What has happened? And where is her father’s companion?
She checks the time. Two hours until dinner. Then maybe her father will reveal why exactly he has returned alone, and in such a foul temper. Letitia suspects the temper is probably connected with Mrs Briscoe in some way. All of a sudden, she isn’t sure she wants to know.
At six, the family make their way to the dining room from the various parts of the house where they have taken refuge. Mr Simpkins is the last to enter the dining room.
He stands in the doorway, regarding the assembled members of his family with lowered brows and an expression of dislike before taking his customary place at the head of the table. The roast mutton is carried in and placed in front of him.
Without looking up, he gestures towards the empty place laid to his right.
“What is this, pray?”
“I laid a place for Mrs Briscoe,” Letitia replies quietly. “I had assumed that she would be dining with us, as she usually does.”