A London Child of the Seventies

by Hughes, M. V. ;

  Strange as it seems I was never taken to anything more exciting than a picture gallery, not even to a pantomime at Christmas. Not even to the Tower or the Crystal Palace or Madame Tussaud’s—places to which the boys had to conduct country cousins, with profuse grumblings. I suppose it was their expressed boredom with such excursions that reconciled me to staying at home. However, whenever there was any game afoot actually in the house or garden I was allowed to join in. Some of these were kept secret, lest they should be labelled ‘naughty’, but I cannot remember that we were ever punished severely. An occasional putting in the corner for me, and a threatened ‘slippering’ of the boys by my father if they were too noisy—these were the usual penalties. When one of the boys had really annoyed mother, she would address him, as ‘Sir’, and send him to have his hair cut. This does not sound so bad as it in fact was. Our only available hairdresser had a strange habit of keeping a customer waiting for a half to three-quarters of an hour. There was nothing to do but stare at a fern and a picture of Cromwell sitting at his daughter’s death-bed.

  A kind of family ‘common law’, an unwritten code, seemed to have existed from the beginning of time and was accepted as inevitable by us all. One rule was that one went to bed the moment the word was said, without argument or plea. Another was that one ate up everything on one’s plate. Tom once had to finish the mustard which he had too liberally taken, and I can still recall the swelling in my throat as I bolted my last piece of blancmange. Another law was that we must never be rude to servants. Beyond these there was nothing criminal except perhaps taking mother’s scissors for our private ends.

  So infrequent were my own punishments that I recall vividly the two occasions when I deserved them and obtained them. One morning I was bored with my lessons, looked round for some little drama, and proclaimed myself thirsty. Already I suppose I had discovered that a mother can require resistance to hunger, but not to thirst. ‘Run downstairs then, dear, and ask cook to give you a glass of water.’ Down I went, and after a decent delay returned with the report that cook had refused to give it to me. Now, thought I, for some fireworks. Alas I mother didn’t even send for the cook or institute inquiries, or appear disturbed at all. She said, ‘Write in your diary, “I told a lie today”.’ There was no escaping it, my beautiful diary had to be thus disfigured, staring at me. And to this day I think the punishment was excessive.

  The other disgrace was still more memorable because it was a strain, and the only one, between me and my father. Charles was reading Hans Andersen: I wanted the book, asked for it, fussed for it, and finally broke into tears. This brought my father into the room, and I hoped for the best. But he became dreadfully serious, led me upstairs, and administered a whipping. Then he explained that it is as bad for a girl to cry for what she wants as for a boy to plant a blow. I might cry a very little if I was badly hurt, but never, never must I cry just to get something.

  Adventures of a kind that were not forbidden mainly because mother didn’t know about them were plentiful enough, and usually carried out in the back garden. One boy would dare another to some perilous act, while I was a delighted looker-on, half dreading and half hoping for the worst. An acacia-tree stood at the end of the garden. Into this the boys would climb and then swing themselves over into the street—a considerable drop. Another feat was to walk along the top of the high, narrow wall, endowed with bits of glass. The most dangerous of all was climbing round a ledge, some two inches wide, that ran along the house over the area. The boy who attempted this had to flatten himself, spread out his arms, and press his palms against the wall. This particular part of the back premises was invisible from any window, and was therefore chosen when we were ‘sailing near the wind’, as my father called any near approach to the sinful.

  I was merely an onlooker, but was allowed on one occasion to join in an open-air smoking concert in these back premises. Barnholt had been sent out to buy some ‘jumbles’—a thin kind of gingerbread about the size of a saucer, so crisp that it curled up. I was given a jumble, a front seat, and (bliss beyond words!) a pipe to put in my mouth. All was in train when who should casually open the back door but mother I remember that my jumble fell in fragments at my feet and that the rest of the incident was a storm of scolding that I should dare to put a pipe in my mouth. The crime had only been omitted from the ten commandments because not even Moses could imagine that a little girl should so disgrace herself. And so on. It lasted a long time. But how I did regret not having had one bite of my jumble.

  ‘How I wish I were a boy!’ Mother caught me saying this aloud one day, and promptly told me that this was a wicked thought. She did not go on to give a reason, but merely insisted that it was splendid to be a girl, and with such exuberant enthusiasm that I was quite convinced. My father’s slogan was that boys should go everywhere and know everything, and that a girl should stay at home and know nothing. Often the boys must have been sorry for me, and one day when I exclaimed, ‘How lovely it must be to go on the top of a bus!’, Dym first laughed at the idea, and then suddenly said, ‘I say, Barney, let’s take her.’ Barnholt, of course, was only too ready, and I rushed to get my things on before something could happen to stop us. If I had been asked to a royal ball I couldn’t have been more excited.

  Inside a bus I had often been with mother when we went to Shoolbred’s or Peter Robinson’s for a morning’s shopping. The bus was a box lined with blue velvet, made to carry five each side, of whom mother declared that the fattest always sat next her and half on her, for she was very small. No air got in, except when the door was opened, for the little windows admitted only some so-called light. Straw on the floor, designed to keep our feet warm, was apt to get very wet and dirty. When the bus started the door was firmly shut, the conductor remaining outside with no visible means of support. Presently he would let down the top of the door, put his head in, and ask, ‘Any for the Angel?’—or whatever the next stage happened to be. Then fares were handed up to him (no tickets were used), and he made a mark with a stumpy pencil on a yellow sheet. I knew what this sheet was called, because all I could amuse myself with during the journey was to read the directions beseeching the passengers to see that their fares were ‘duly registered on the waybill at the door’. We stopped anywhere, for plenty of passengers rather than rapid progress was the main idea. I reckon that the journey from Islington to the West End took a good deal over an hour. Wedged as we were, it was impossible to see anything out of the tiny windows, and the journey was sheer boredom. What with the lack of air, the jerks of the frequent stops, and the jolting over the stone-paved roads, I was usually too ill to stay the course, and we had to get out some distance before our required shop.

  Mysterious as was the mode of attachment of the conductor, the means of getting on to the top was still more so. From the glimpses I had from inside people disappeared bit by bit, their boots last. Of course no woman ever went up. And now, here was I, going to do it myself!

  I rushed up again to the study, all dressed, and Dym surveyed me and said I would do. My outdoor clothes in winter never varied: a hat of real sealskin that stood all weathers and could not wear out, neither could it blow off, for it was fastened round my chin by elastic; my warmth was secured by a crossover’—a strip of tartan about two yards long that crossed over in front and fastened behind, leaving my arms free. The worst worry in going out were my boots, which came far above the ankle with endless buttons that needed a hook to do them up.

  Dym decided that it would be best for us to walk to the little side street not far away, where the ‘Favourite’ buses began their journeys. Here we were able to make the ascent at leisure. Dym went up first, then hung down and pointed out the tiny ledges on which I had to put my feet, stretching out his hands to pull me up, while Barnholt fetched up the rear in case I slipped. On the top was what they called the knifeboard a raised partition along the middle, with seats each side. How people stuck on to them I couldn’t imagine. But the boys had better designs: they scrambled
down on to the seat in front, by the driver, and got me there too. ‘Come along, Missy, said the driver, who was just settling himself for his journey, and I was safely tucked in between him and Dym, with Barnholt on his other side.

  How powerful the horse looked from this point of view, how jolly to hear the chuckings and whoas, and to see the whip flourished about, but only gently touching the horse. ‘I never whips old Rosy,’ the driver told me. ‘She’s been with me six years and knows what I want. I use the whip like chatting to her.’ How pitiable were all the people on foot! How contemptible the passengers who went inside! Barnholt, as look-out man, kept calling my attention to things in the shops, and to people doing mysterious jobs in first-floor windows. One room was a nursery, where a boy was riding on a rocking-horse, and in one garden we passed there was a swing with a boy going very high.

  We feared to go the whole length of our twopenny ride in case we should be late for tea, so we asked the driver to pull up for us. In my haste to show him how well I could get off by jumping down to Dym in front I fell right into the muddy street. But no harm was done, and the boys picked me up, and we ran home as fast as we could and slipped in at the back door. There was no hiding my mud, and ‘Wherever have you been?’ cried mother. ‘Oh, just for a run with the boys, and I fell.’ This was true enough to pass my conscience. Dym was nonplussed, but Barnholt immediately took up the tale of a fine new shop where they sold cricket-bats and bags and things, and how he had thought it better not to spend the shilling Uncle Alfred had given him. On this wave of virtue my muddy dress was forgotten, and we went into tea with no further questions asked.

  One morning in the winter holidays I heard a plan being propounded in the study that called for nerve, and promised well. It was one of Charles’s bright ideas, and Barnholt would gladly have joined in. ‘No,’ said Charles, ‘you would laugh and spoil all.’ ‘I promise not to,’ pleaded Barnholt, but Charles maintained, and rightly I think, that to know what was going on in Barnholt’s head was worse even than his laughter.

  So the serious-looking Dym was appealed to, and after much persuasion agreed to come along. Now Charles had discovered the position of four girls’ schools in the neighbourhood. He had seen the brass plates with ‘Establishment for Young Ladies’. His idea, so he said, was to call for a prospectus. Dym saw no objection to this, and off they started, but Barnholt and I suspected that Charles had further designs, and we waited for their return with eagerness.

  They were a long time away, but returned at last highly satisfied and letting off their suppressed laughter. They told us that at the first school the servant fetched them a prospectus. But Charles looked at it for a moment severely and then asked if he might see the head mistress about a certain point. The servant went away, and Dym was all for fleeing quite quickly, but while he hesitated the servant returned and ushered them into a drawing-room all sofas and cushions, for impressing parents. Again Dym suggested a breakaway. Again he was prevented. In sailed the head mistress all smiles and graciousness, and bade them be seated. With the utmost coolness Charles made a little speech to the effect that Mamma was not very well, and had sent them to inquire whether there would be a vacancy for next term, that they had a little sister, a most promising child, who was about to begin the third declension in Latin, and was of a sweet disposition. Poor Dym nervously made murmurs of agreement in the background, and wrote down name and address at the lady’s request on her fine notepaper. Meanwhile the bell had been rung, and cake and currant wine were brought in. Charles became more imaginative under their influence, and the boys departed in the best odour.

  At the other three schools they had very much the same experience, except that Dym, by Charles’s advice, gave a made-up name and address. The refreshment varied from cake to biscuits and figs, and in the last case the wine was sherry. Perhaps it was as well that this was the last. Barnholt was worried to think of the cake and wine he had missed, but I was greatly set up at being described as promising, although Charles took care to tell me that he didn’t mean anything he said.

  Unfortunately a week later, when we had forgotten all about the affair, the first head mistress called on mother, who knew nothing of what had happened. She was rather bewildered, and disclaimed having sent any message. ‘What is all this, Molly?’ said she to me, as I was trying to be unobserved in a corner. But I never knew anything that the boys did, and looked quite puzzled.

  ‘Your sons are very nice mannered,’ said the head mistress, ‘but to tell the truth I had the gravest doubts about their message.’ Then with laughter and apologies the scene closed in good humour, for mother had the wit to add, ‘If ever I do want to send Molly to school I shall know which one to choose.’

  In some escapades I was actually useful. November 5th fell one year on a half-holiday. Tom was away at school, Dym was staying at school to play fives, Barnholt for once had no detention, so we three youngest were free for anything. Naturally Charles had an idea. ‘Why not make a guy and go round the streets with it? We could disguise ourselves so that nobody would know us…do let’s.’

  Barnholt then suggested that I could be the guy because I was so small. Indeed the boys often used to give me a chair-ride-by clasping their own wrists for a seat while I steadied myself on it by putting my arms round their necks. But Charles had seen in the back kitchen an old cane chair without a back, and he thought this would be better. Mother was intending to pay some calls and was safely in her bedroom getting her things on. So we crept downstairs and told the servants what we wanted to do. These servants had been with us simply for ever and joined in any of our larks with enthusiasm. A guy going by was exciting enough to them, but to dress one was a joyous break to a dull afternoon. They found the little chair, sat me in it, and draped the red cotton kitchen tablecloth round me. Meanwhile Barnholt had made paper cocked hats for us all and Charles provided us with black moustaches from the soot of a candle-flame. My plaid cross-over was pinned in a martial style over Barnholt’s shoulder, and the housemaid lent Charles her black cape to make him look villainous. As I had my hands free the candle was put in one, and a tin box for contributions in the other. Charles wrote GUNPOWDER on a sheet of note-paper to place behind the tin. At last all was ready, and as soon as we heard mother close the front door we stole out at the back, staggering up the area steps with difficulty.

  Making as quickly as possible for a side street we certainly attracted little attention that would distress us, but neither did we attract the pennies. Charles saw that we needed to make some kind of noise, and he started a hymn. This sounded so absurd in the street that Barnholt and I shook with laughing in trying to say that earth hath many a noble city. Well, we knew that laughter would be no use—we must look pathetic if we wanted pennies. Just as we were beginning to feel rather damped we heard the dismal strains of an organ-grinder. ‘The very thing!’ cried Charles, and we wobbled off in the direction of the sound. I can see now the broad grin of the man as he readily consented to our going along with him. Soon another brain-wave came over Charles, and he asked the man to help carry the chair while he himself had a try at grinding the organ. Of course Barnholt wanted to try too, and the man said they might take it in turns.

  Then indeed success began. ‘Tommy make room for your uncle’ had new interest. Jaded hearers were astonished to find the well-known air first rendered by Charles as a funeral march, and then by Barnholt as a mad gallop. Windows were thrown open, and amid cries of ‘poor little souls’ pennies and halfpennies came hurtling down. I was placed on the ground while the coins were gathered up, and my tin box began to fill. After some of this triumphant proceeding, the organ-grinder became aware that we had only gone through two streets. He said he must get along faster, as he had to do his ‘round’. This was a new idea to me, that he had a round like a milkman. But when I came to think of it I remembered that on regular days and at regular hours an organ-grinder would be heard in our road. People looked to see him, he said, and it would never do to disappoint them.<
br />
  We had some trouble to get him to take the box of money. ‘No, take it home to your por ma,’ said he, and we had to explain that it was only a lark, and that ‘por ma’ wouldn’t like it at all. So we settled matters by taking a penny each, which we turned into acid drops at a little shop at the corner. Fortunately it was now getting dusk, and we hoped to slip home without being seen by anyone who knew us. As luck would have it we came full tilt on mother at the gate. She was so glad, however, to get home after a solid hour’s calling (‘aching behind the ears with being polite’, as she described it) that she only laughed at our appearance and said, ‘You naughty children, go and wash at once.’ We were sensible enough not to mention the episode of the organ-grinder and the moneys received, let alone that the vicar had met us and dropped a whole sixpence into the box. We suspected that he recognized us, but he played the game and kept very grave.

  Coloured paper decorations could not be bought in those days, but we used to make our own festoons by cutting alternate slits in a long strip of paper and pulling it out. One day I found Barnholt busy doing this, and fastening his festoons right across the study from corner to corner of the ceiling. He would not tell me what they were for, and was so darkly mysterious that my curiosity was whetted, especially as he hinted that he was to set fire to the paper at some great moment. On the floor I noticed that our specimens of Cornish stone had been piled on an upturned box. As soon as tea was over the boys hurried up to the study ‘to do their work’. Knowing that something was afoot I followed them, but only after a decent interval so as to allay suspicion.