by Ursula Bloom
She had made up her mind that before Val came home she would remove her belongings. She could leave them until she could find a room at Uncle Luigi’s ‒ Uncle Luigi had always been kind to her ‒ or, if he refused, she could ask Mamma to see after them. She remembered the old difficulty of finding a place to live in, the sort of rooms that she wanted were never easy to find, and if Chester was to have the capital she was realising for him he would have to work until such time as his decree nisi became absolute.
She packed a couple of suitcases, and took them one evening along to Gorrenzi’s. The shop was doing dilatory business and Uncle Tony’s Protestant wife was lounging in the doorway with her children, all of whom showed their Italian ancestry and were dark-headed and black-eyed. They were difficult children, brought up in the most trying surroundings. Uncle Luigi, bearing outward and visible signs of a recent debauch, was serving.
‘Hello, Maddy,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a couple of cases with me, could I leave them here for a bit?’
‘Where?’ he asked. ‘If you ask me, since that something-or-other Tony came home there’s been no place for the sole of your foot. Wants the lot, he does, and that …’ He said something insulting, jerking a dirty thumb in the direction of the wife who was chattering in the doorway.
‘Can’t I leave them in the cellar?’
‘Not safe,’ said Uncle Luigi, and turned to serve a customer who wanted to complain about a bottle of chutney. Uncle Luigi did not appear to be his old ready self, and Maddy struggled out with her cases again, and went round to the Venezia. The Venezia was sinking back into that reposeful period before it opened. The tables were set ready, two waiters were lolling back in the best chairs reading the racing news in a well-thumbed paper. About the place was an air of fustiness and leisure. Maddy climbed the stairs. There was the jangling sound of windbells, the impatient tapping of a window not properly fastened, and upstairs Mamma trying to mend some clothes, and looking worn out by the effort.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘I bet you want something; you never come to see your poor Mamma unless you do,’ which hardly seemed to be a good opening.
‘I wanted to leave these cases with you.’
‘Well, where?’ Exactly what Uncle Luigi had said.
‘What about under the stairs?’
Under the stairs apparently was where all sorts of secret stores were kept by Mario, away from the prying hands and thieving fingers of the waiters. It was suggested that the only suitable place was the basement, which was very damp, but that couldn’t be helped. Mamma wanted to get in her say about her state of health. She felt awful, and she looked awful. She didn’t know what to do, but she couldn’t go on this way, always with the pain in her back, and that lifeless feeling of fatigue which wore her out. She went to the hospital as an outpatient, but she didn’t think they were interested, and Mario didn’t care. He was a hard husband!
She wished that she had stayed a widow, she would have been much better off, but she simply couldn’t stand Nonna, and life had been hard on her all round. It was all very fine for Madeline, who could afford good clothes (she glanced at Madeline’s frock and hat with obvious envy) and could spend money on herself, and feel that everything was grand, but her poor Mamma was old and unhappy, and ill, and it wouldn’t be very long before Madeline would be attending her poor Mamma to the cemetery, as she had attended her unhappy Nonna. So there!
When Madeline had deposited her suitcases in the cellar (she had to drag them down there herself), and found, to her infinite dismay, that the word ‘damp’ was putting it very mildly indeed, she was thankful to leave.
She walked out into the evening air, away from Soho, as fast as she could go. She walked into Leicester Square, past the statue to Henry Irving, into the Trafalgar Square itself, where a great little admiral reigns supreme. The sight of the great little admiral looking to the distant sea stirred her heart. There were still ideals, if only you chose to look high enough for them; there was always hope. When she married Chester everything would be so different; it would be starting again, and starting under more favourable auspices, with the dice loaded on her side. She had not given Sandy Mac’s diagnosis another thought.
She walked up Cockspur Street slowly, looking in the windows of the travel lines, looking at fascinating pictures of Bermuda with its lillies, of Hawaii with the feathery dark palms against a burning sky, of little white Malta, and the women in their faldettas, with their lovely eyes.
Then she saw a cruise advertised. Seven days in Norway. A cruise that went from one fjord to the next. Bergen. Loen. Merok. Nurheimsund. Oh, lovely, lovely Nurheimsund, with its little misty islands, with its high peaks, fertile green meadows and aits!
When she saw the incredible smallness of the price she found herself opening the door, and going inside. It would be Heaven to see Norway again, it would be joy to drink in that beauty of the North. Suddenly she had an intense and parched longing to go North.
Val came home in a maudlin state one summer’s evening. Madeline had already taken up her residence at rather a seedy hotel in a side street off Baker Street; she wouldn’t have chosen it, but it was cheap, respectable in a soiled way, and it offered a harbourage until she sailed on her cruise in ten days’ time. She knew that she would have a difficult time explaining everything to Val, but until she started she had no idea how difficult.
She met him at the station; he was evasive about his luggage, seeming to have collected a large amount of it, and for no reason. They drove to the house in St. John’s Wood; he had not realised yet that she had left it, but she decided that this would be the best place to explain. Only when he went up to his room did he come down again, rampaging. ‘What about your things, Maddy? Where are your things?’
‘Val, I’ve got to tell you.’
He sat down on the sofa, staring limply at her; he had been drinking, but was not actually drunk. ‘You mean you’ve left me. Another chap, blast him!’
‘I told you that Chester had come back.’
‘What? That fellow who let you down so badly? He’ll only make use of you and chuck you out again.’ He went over to the side and poured himself out a drink, a strong one.
‘Listen, Val, he is being divorced and we are going to be married …’
‘He hasn’t put that one over you again?’
‘Not exactly “again”. This time it happens to be true. We are going to be married.’
‘I’ll believe that when I see it. If you want to be married, I’ll marry you. I don’t give a damn. I’ll marry you tomorrow.’
‘Val, there’s more to it than that. I don’t love you in that way. I couldn’t marry somebody I didn’t love.’
‘Who’s talking about love?’
‘I am. I know it sounds queer; you probably think that I’m just an every man’s woman, but I’m not. I did love Chester, I have always loved him; I can save him from himself. He needs saving.’
‘I couldn’t care less! Damn his eyes.’
‘I was a fool to tell you all that I did; perhaps I saw him with rather jaundiced eyes, and wasn’t right. Val, I do love him; and when I love somebody the way that I care for Chester, I can’t leave him. I’m going away on a holiday.’
‘I’ll take you on a holiday. I’ll take you anywhere you like. What about the south of France?’
‘I’m going to Norway.’
‘I’ll take you there.’
She shook her head. It was queer, but life was niched into epochs, and Norway was part of Frank. She did not want to be there with Val, or with Chester; she wanted to be alone, in the sunshine, with the cherry trees on the old merchants’ dark timbers, with the heat rising from the fjord, the ice cold on the mountain, and the ghost of Frank smiling at her out of the prow of the little motor-boat, with kind grey-green eyes. ‘No, Val, I must go alone.’
He cried then like a woman, drank more and was comforted again, swaggering under its influence, declaring that she had behaved vilely to him,
and that he would be well rid of her.
Later he slept, and when he was unconscious she slipped out of the house, conscious of a sense of disloyalty, but aware that she could not be true to herself and to him, and that the time had come to be true to herself.
She saw Chester and gave him the money he had asked for. Chester did not want her to go to Norway; in a sense he was jealous, because he connected it with Frank. He said, ‘When you come back I intend to get the same little flat again. Let’s go back there? By some happy coincidence it might be to let.’
The flat again! A dream suddenly started into her mind, like the vision which, dreamt early in the night, comes back at dawn. ‘Let’s!’ she said.
They went back to Chelsea arm-in-arm, walked down Manor Street to the Embankment. The river was steely grey, and the police boats like large black flies on its surface. They turned the corner and saw the same old notice hanging out of the doorway stating that they had a flat to let; in fact (as they knew), the porter always kept it there to save himself trouble, for the tenants were a passing crowd, in and out most of the time.
As they drew nearer they saw that the ground-floor flat had a dirty window and no curtains.
‘It is to let,’ she gasped, suddenly aware of the keenness of her pleasure at the thought.
They went inside. The porter was a new man whom they had never seen before, but he told them the rental (a more fanciful figure), but somehow Madeline felt that anything would be worth it to get back to the little place. He let them into it. The sitting-room had been painted pale peach, a lovelier and warmer shade than the off-white which she remembered on it. The bedroom behind had a golden tinge about its pale walls, and the previous tenant (leaving in a hurry, which was not unusual with such tenants) had not removed the very good fittings; there was a medicine cupboard with a glass frontal, tall mirrors, and glass shelves. But the little garden beyond the French windows was completely overgrown.
Chester said, ‘I’ll nip round to the agents. I can’t believe that they are still there, but I’ll slip a card under the door and stake my claim for the flat.’
‘I’ll wait in the garden.’
She went into it, shocked to see it so overgrown. She tidied the clematis back against the wall, trying to brush up the leaves with her hands; she weeded the formal urn so that it looked more spruce, then she sat down on the seat. As she sat there her finger traced the words, TIME PASSES, as it had done so often before, and she found the inset choked with grime and dust, but the meaning was still significant.
Time had passed; she was thinner, she was older, she had the infinite advantage of experience; she coughed a little, and putting her handkerchief to her lips, found a light stain of blood upon it.
TIME PASSES
‘Goodbye, Chester. It’s grand that we have got the flat, the one flat I want more than any other in the world. It’s grand that you’ve got a good job,’ and in her heart she said, ‘a new suit too’. ‘Everything looks like being lovely.’ They were at the station, by the train marked Norwegian Fjords, which alone was thrilling.
‘Goodbye, have a good time, and come back to me soon. I’ll be here to meet you,’ he said.
‘Goodbye, Chester,’ and suddenly, almost as though it was the last time she would ever say it, ‘I love you so much, my darling; love like this goes on for ever, doesn’t it? Say that it does, Chester, say that it does …’
But the train had started, and she never heard his reply.
Late that night she sat on deck, when the others had gone to bed and the seamen worked at their various duties. She saw the northern lights rosying the far sky. She smelt the tang of sea and salt, and felt the sting of the wind against her cheek. She coughed a little, but she wasn’t cold, she was intensely happy! After all, she had so much to be thankful for!
It was queer that suddenly she thought of the legend again, the silly factless old fairy story that Val had mentioned of the painted lady who goes North to die.
To die. How silly!
Wonder Cruise by Ursula Bloom
Thirtysomething Ann Clements takes a Mediterranean cruise which opens her eyes to the wider world, and to herself.
London, 1934. Ann Clements is thirty-five and single, and believes nothing exciting will ever happen to her. Then, she wins a large sum of money in a sweepstake and suddenly can dare to dream of a more adventurous life. She buys a ticket for a Mediterranean cruise, against the wishes of her stern brother, the Rev. Cuthbert, who has other ideas about how she should spend her windfall.
Ann steps out of the shadows of her mundane life into the heat of the Mediterranean sun. Travelling to Gibraltar, Marseilles, Naples, Malta and Venice, Ann’s eyes are opened to people and experiences far removed from her sheltered existence. As Ann blossoms, discovering love and passion for the very first time, the biggest question is, can there be any going back?
An engaging and witty story about an unforgettable 1930s woman; Ann Clements will stay with you long after the last page.
‘Ursula Bloom writes in a delightful way, with a deep understanding of human nature and a quick eye for the humorous things in life. Wonder Cruise … is one of the most entertaining novels we have read for a long time.’ Cambridge Daily News
‘Vividly entrancing.’ Scotsman
‘… with every book she adds something to her reputation … related with all Miss Bloom’s liveliness and easy skill.’ Daily Telegraph
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Youth at the Gate by Ursula Bloom
The touching true account of a young woman’s life on the home front during the First World War.
Ursula Bloom (who also wrote as Lozania Prole) movingly describes how the Great War forever changed the lives of ordinary people in Britain. When Ursula says goodbye to both her suitor and brother as they go to war, patriotic excitement soon turns to worry and despair.
This memoir vividly brings to life the experiences of people struggling to live through World War I. Ursula Bloom’s honest and heartfelt story shows us the challenges of food rationing and the constant bombing by Zeppelins overhead. Rumours of German spies abound, and even Ursula and her mother find themselves under suspicion by their neighbours.
Ursula’s autobiography also looks at the realities of life in the early twentieth century, when operations were carried out on the kitchen table, a pregnant woman shouldn’t be seen in public, and an officer and a private couldn’t mix under the same roof.
Not only the realities of war force an innocent Ursula to grow up. She must face her mother’s serious illness, the demons of her husband-to-be, and the snobbery of his wealthy family. There are lighter moments too, such as the tale of the Bloom’s fictitious maid, Emily, who they have to invent rather than admit that they can’t afford a servant.
Ursula Bloom went on to become a bestselling novelist, playwright and journalist. This moving autobiography is a must for all of those interested in life at home during the Great War, as well as for fans of her novels, such as Wonder Cruise.
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Promises by Catherine Gaskin
The gripping story of a remarkable woman and the promises she must keep to those she loves.
A sweeping family saga, from the grand homes of Yorkshire and London in the Edwardian era, to the heartbreak of a French nursing station during World War I, and the glamour of American high society in the 1920s.
Lally Leeds is just a baby when wealthy Black Jack Pollock finds her abandoned in a Yorkshire street and decides to raise her alongside his own children. As Lally blossoms into a young woman, the love and loyalty she feels towards her adoptive family bring her both happiness and heartache.
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Over time, it is Lally’s strength and devotion which hold the Pollock family together: her dashing brother, Jon; her selfish and self-destructive sister Margaret; and fragile Alice, who must been protected from herself. And the family’s fortunes become entwined with those of another foundling ‒ the mysterious, self-made businessman Brock Weymouth. Lally discovers to her cost that sometimes the most difficult promises to keep are to those we love.
By the ‘Queen of Storytellers’ ‒ over 40 million book sales worldwide.
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Victoria Four-thirty by Cecil Roberts
London, 1937. A world famous composer, a honeymooning couple, a novelist in search of a plot, a German film star, a young crown prince and a sister of charity are among the disparate group of travellers on the boat train to continental Europe.
‘It would be very interesting to know the life history of everybody on this train – why we are travelling on it …’
Set amid the political upheaval of the 1930s, this is the witty, insightful and bittersweet story of the passengers on the Four-thirty from Victoria. Each is facing a different journey, with their own hopes, fears and challenges; and for some, their lives will cross in unexpected ways.
The 80th anniversary edition of the newly rediscovered classic bestseller from the 1930s.
A splendid achievement, with a classic quality.’ Daily Telegraph
‘What a good novelist …’ Sunday Times
‘A book of considerable imaginative quality.’ The Guardian
‘A marvel of construction and execution …’ Yorkshire Post
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