A London Home in the Nineties

by Hughes, M. V. ;

  Arthur and I retreated through a back door of the church to one of the lower streets where the carriage was waiting for us. ‘A cigarette,’ said Arthur, ‘I simply must have.’ On our return to the house we found M’Jane and a few of her friends assembled in the drawing-room to greet us. ‘Miss Thomas and Mr. Hughes,’ sang out the parlour-maid as she pompously flung open the door, and then went scarlet at her mistake; but the laughter with which it was greeted was just the pleasantest thing to happen. A crowd of guests were on our heels, and a very jolly reception it was, in spite of its being on a strictly teetotal basis. I was sorry to see that the beautiful carpet had been covered by a drab-coloured drugget, ‘in case,’ so Yetta explained, ‘someone should drop a strawberry.’ The few wedding presents available had been spread about to make conversation. Conspicuous among them shone Tony’s gift, a pair of Sheffield silver candlesticks that had been made for my Grandfather Vivian untold years ago. Mary Wood’s comment on them was: ‘With these, Molly, no matter how poor you are, you will always look grand.’ My full list of presents was quite imposing. Tom sidled up to me and whispered, ‘So sorry, darling, that I’ve sent you nothing—not even a trifle to put on your list. It was a choice between a present and coming to the wedding, and I didn’t think you could be properly married without me.’ ‘Quite right,’ said I, ‘but you might just see what I’ve put on the list.’ Arthur’s brother Alfred was now very well off, and had given us a big cheque. I recorded it thus: ‘A. W. Hughes—cheque’; then next to it I had recorded: ‘T. E. Thomas—cheque.’ Tom was soon at my side again, ‘Molly, you’re a brick; I feel like that Ben Adhem chap on the second night, and no one will be so indelicate as to inquire about amounts.’

  We had made no plans for going away, leaving our destination to the luck of the moment. Scraps of consultation on the point between Arthur and his best man floated to me now and again: ‘But you must have some idea where to go?’ ‘Well, Tooting sounds absurd, and Ponders End sounds heavy, but beyond these I don’t care…no, it’s no use asking Molly…she cares still less.’ ‘How about Salisbury…cathedral and Stonehenge…I know a good hotel…shall I look up a train and wire for a room? How long are you staying?’ ‘Only the weekend. I’ve got a case on Tuesday.’ I noticed that a happy look spread over the best man’s face at Arthur’s willing assent to his making the arrangement, and that he sped off at once on his errand.

  I soon faded out of the company for Mary to change me into my travelling garb, and Arthur too had got away somewhere to change into a quite old suit and tie much the worse for wear. There were hearty farewells and gratitude to Mary and our kind hostesses, M’Jane and Yetta; our small baggage was put on a cab, and the order ‘Waterloo’ was given by Dym to the cabby. We thought that we were off by ourselves at last. But that was where we erred. The cabby seemed a bit stupid about the route (not that we cared), and when we reached Waterloo there were the boys to receive us—Tom and Dym, Llewelyn and Alfred, and the best man—as masculine a send-off as any bride ever had. One face among the boys that day was sorely missed by both Arthur and me. His greatest friend, Bourne, our mainstay through our long years of engagement, had recently gone off to South Africa, that whale of a place that swallows our straying prophets and knows better than to cast them home again. He’s there still.

  It was not the thing in those days for a woman to be served at the buffet, so I was ensconced in the train with some light literature while the six boys went off to have a stirrup cup—medically necessary in Alfred’s opinion after the strain of the reception. Later on I was told about that scene in the refreshment-room. The presence of parson Llewelyn, and the splendour of garments and button-holes, gave rise to knowing glances from everyone. Arthur, in his old suit, hung in the background and tried to look like a poor relation. He might well have passed it off thus had he not tried to clinch it by inclining his head towards Alfred and saying to the barmaid, ‘That’s the bridegroom.’ Alfred was the tallest and handsomest of the group, and the best dressed, in grey frock-coat and top hat, carnation in button-hole and, as always, a most captivating smile. But the barmaid was no novice in such scenes and immediately turned the attention of all the room on poor Arthur by saying, ‘Oh no, Sir, it’s you.’

  Whether the proprietress of the County Hotel in Salisbury was as experienced as the barmaid, or whether the best man’s telegram had been fuller than necessary (as we suspected), or whether our own faces gave us away, we couldn’t tell, but we were received with smiling empressement. We appeared to be the only guests, and had the full attention of the staff. After dinner we went to unpack what little luggage we had brought. Mine was all contained in a Japanese basket supported by a strap. I made a little show by spreading out my brilliant dressing-gown and a lovely embroidered night-dress marked ‘Mary Vivian’, for it had been worked by my mother for her own trousseau. Meanwhile I was aware of Arthur tossing out the contents of his gladstone bag with muttered imprecations. Shaving things, socks, ties, and law papers lay about the room. After a final savage dive into the bag he burst out, ‘What d’you think I’ve done? I’ve been and forgotten to put in my nightshirt!’ An impasse if ever there was. We could do without most things, but the wedding-garment of a nightshirt did seem to come under the head of iron necessities. We rejected almost at once the idea of borrowing one in the hotel, for there was no maître in the place. ‘Let’s go out and buy one,’ said I, ‘it’s still light, and some shop is bound to be open.’

  So off we started. Saturday evening in a country town seems to be the same everywhere. Streets congested with idlers. AU the respectable shops were shut in the better parts, so we made our way towards the marketplace, where the humbler members of the populace were driving bargains over stalls or in nondescript small shops. One of these was larger than the rest, a kind of universal provider, with a very low ceiling from which was festooned every type of garment for the million. While Arthur was short-sightedly peering about I descried a flannelette nightshirt of fierce pink, reduced from two and eleven in black figures to one and eleven in red. When the man pulled it down from its perch we found it even worse to touch than to sight. ‘Never mind,’ said Arthur, as it was wrapped up, ‘it might possibly have been worse; anyhow ’tis enough, ’twill serve.’ When we got outside the shop he added, ‘Let’s get back quick to the hotel with it, lest some accident befall us by the way. We don’t want to be found dead with it.’ So we did, only to find later that it had been opened out by the chamber-maid and ostentatiously placed beside my dream of old embroidery.

  Down we went into the town again, where last shoppings had now given way to sheer loafing and merriment, just suiting our mood. An old fellow with a kind of fiddle was actually playing ‘Land of my Fathers’, was able to reply when Arthur hailed him in Welsh, and was delighted with the largesse he received. This reminded Arthur of an incident that he had enjoyed a year or two before. He was walking in a street of Cardiff with a reverend old professor of the university, when they came across a man playing the fiddle vilely. Arthur asked him to lend the fiddle a minute, and taking it struck up a lively Welsh jig. Clients rolled up from surrounding streets, and the man’s hat overflowed with coppers. Arthur was quite pleased at the result of his performance, but on looking round he discovered that he was not the main attraction. The old professor had picked up his coat-tails and was dancing in the roadway. He said he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much since he was a boy.

  It had been a cloudlessly sunny day, and now the moon had risen; it was nearly, but not quite, at its full. Nature does sometimes appear to reflect and enhance our own emotions. The cathedral drew us like a magnet. Surely there are few spots on earth to surpass in beauty that grassy Close, surrounded by dignified old houses, and in the midst the most graceful of spires to dominate the country round. We were almost frightened by our complete happiness. ‘The worst of it is,’ said Arthur, ‘that one of us is sure to go before the other.’ Then I told him how mother had asked me once: ‘Which would you rather, that Arthur sho
uld die first or yourself?’ and when I said at once ‘Myself,’ she replied, ‘Well, then, you don’t love him enough yet.’

  XI. Ordinary Struggles

  § 1

  MOST newly married women have the same difficulties to meet: servants or the lack of them; finding good provision shops; keeping expenditure down; making the daily routine run smoothly in the new surroundings. I had my share of all these, and made a fair crop of mistakes.

  We returned from Salisbury on the Monday afternoon, and spent the rest of the day in pottering about the flat, putting up pictures, sitting on packing-cases, and revelling in the bare fact of having a home of our own. For supper we went out to a little restaurant. Miss Rogers’s present had been a large lamp, and fortunately I had laid in a supply of oil; it was therefore possible for Arthur to sit up and have a last go at his brief for the next day. So it was not till the following morning that my troubles began.

  There was no gas in the flat (nor ever was for the seven years we lived in it). Now I had been accustomed to do marvels on the little gas-ring in the Ladies’ Chambers—cook porridge, fry bacon, scramble eggs, and even make a stew. And here I was faced with a huge iron range for my first attempt at a breakfast. Disraeli said that there were three things a man should never grumble at because they were unalterable—the weather, his wife, and the kitchen range. But I think he would have let loose a few expressions if he had been in my shoes. I had got up early, lit the fire, filled the kettle, arrayed slices of bacon in the pan, only to be met by smoke billowing forth at me from my ‘fire’. In despair I called out to Arthur for help. He just shoved a damper or two about, and that impish range, seeing a man on the job, gave up its tricks and blazed up brightly. I felt that it was like the nursery rhyme ‘stick won’t beat dog’: everything began to hum—kettle began to sing, bacon began to frizzle, cloth was laid, and, best of all, Arthur had been got out of bed in good time.

  As soon as he had started for the Temple I was busy enough. Most of my time was spent in unpacking cases, pushing things into place, and tidying away the oceans of packing-paper and straw that surged around. I couldn’t make a bonfire, and I didn’t dare to irritate my range. I thought of the story, that puzzled me as a child, of the old woman whose square house became round; the explanation being that she thrust everything into the corners. Then there was the servant’s room to get ready, for she was to come on the following day. I had a rooted idea that a servant’s bedroom must have pink chintz covered with muslin round her table. With some trouble I had managed to buy these things beforehand; and now I had but to nail them on to a little table, make up her trestle bed, and lay out her caps and aprons.

  A friend had recommended to me a girl of eighteen, from East Dereham, in Norfolk, and I had made arrangements to meet her at the terminus on the following afternoon. I found Emma a fresh-faced, cheerful country girl. She had never before left her village, and told me that she had liked the journey, but had been dreadfully afraid, as the train rushed through several stations, that it wouldn’t stop at London. The streets made no impression on her as we drove out to Ladbroke Grove, but she was astonished at the seventy steps that led up to our front door, and quite alarmed at her first venture forth alone: ‘I didn’t know where that road was going to, mum.’ On her second venture she came rushing up the stairs again in great distress: ‘I met a funeral, mum. Oh, I couldn’t have went. Down hoom it means a death in the family.’ As there was a cemetery at the end of the road, I had to kill this superstition at once.

  Emma’s turns of speech fascinated me, especially the Norfolk idioms. One neat phrase was an absolute ‘do’, equivalent to the clumsy ‘if it should happen’. Thus she would say, ‘I hope it won’t rain, do we can’t go’. She used the word ‘deen’ for any small quantity, but always in the negative: ‘There’s not a deen of sugar left’—‘We’ve not heard a deen of the postman.’ She sang, more or less all day long, odd snatches of hymns and popular songs. I was besought at all hours to count my blessings, name them one by one, and told that I should be surprised at what the Lord had done—a bit irritating when the milk had just boiled over. An organ-grinder was one day playing a tune that I failed to recognize, and I asked her what it was. She at once diagnosed it as ‘Say Olive Oil’. ‘How queer,’ said I. ‘Why say olive oil? How does it go on?’ ‘Say olive oil, say not goodbye.’ And then, of course, I gathered its meaning from the context. Sometimes of an evening, when Arthur was at work, the singing was trying. ‘I shall have to stop it,’ said I; but Arthur wouldn’t allow that. ‘Let her sing while she can,’ said he, ‘the time may come when she has no heart for it.’

  Emma was a treasure. She not only knew how to work, but knew what to work at—a still more valuable asset. For I was ignorant in this line. I had vague ideas that servants were busy all the time, but what they were busy at was a mystery. Emma had a special day for ‘turning out’ each room, always cleaned the silver on Friday, and devoted Saturday to the kitchen. As for washing, I wished she had kept a special day for that, but she had a penchant for washing, and would wash at all hours. Things that seemed to be spotless would go into the tub if I turned my back. When I protested that the poor towels and pillow-cases were getting done to death by-this ruthless washing, she laughed and said ‘That’s just what father says, because down hoom mother is always scrubbing. “If the landlord only knew it,” he says, “he’d put five pounds on to the rent for what you take out of the house by for everlasting cleaning it.”’ I could see that Emma liked me to go out, so that she could get on with her work faster, and surprise me with her results on my return.

  I had to leave her alone nearly every morning while I went out to do the shopping. Bessie of Guernsey, of mature experience, had advised me to get everything at Whiteley’s. ‘You’ve only got to walk into the shop, order what you want in the different departments, and you find everything delivered at your door.’ She was right, but I soon found that this easy way of buying had to be paid for by too high prices, so I determined to explore the neighbourhood, buy what I wanted, and bring it home myself. There were actually some shops on the ground floor of our flat, but not of the right kind. One was a tailor’s. But I never saw any symptom of tailoring going on, nor any customer going in. The shop row was one of those in London that seem doomed to failure for no assignable reason. One day Arthur found to his amusement, scrawled in chalk on the pavement, the words ‘Lord have mercy upon us’. This was not intentional sarcasm about the shops, but was probably the work of a pious old fellow who used to stride to and fro in Notting Hill and say urgently into one’s ear as he passed, ‘Do you love Jesus?’ I used to answer ‘Yes, indeed’ to cheer him, for I fear he suffered much from small boys.

  One fortunate morning I found, quite a short distance away, another of London’s oddities. It was a complete contrast to our row of respectable shops—no outward attractions and yet enjoying the liveliest trade. In an old narrow winding lane, once no doubt a medieval thoroughfare, I found shops and stalls catering for those who have no money to waste and mean to get the utmost value for their outlay. They were not to be put off with stale vegetables or doubtful fish—such as I had experienced in the ‘better-class’ shops. I expect Bessie would have been shocked to see me coming home with my booty, for, of course, nothing was ‘sent up’.

  One shop, a greengrocer’s, was the most satisfactory place of business I have ever been in, for there seemed to be no waste at all. It had been so successful that it had spread out into an enormous rambling store, and was always crowded with customers. The premises were allowed to remain ramshackle, no books were kept, no credit given, and the whole energy of the staff was devoted to getting the best they could every morning from Covent Garden and selling it quickly at a small profit. By the ‘best’ I don’t mean exotic fruits or anything out of season, but great piles of all that was ‘in’—such as fresh strawberries, raspberries, currants—served out to the first corners (often little children) with good humour, homely manners, and very little wrappin
g up. Once I had already filled my shopping basket when I spied some sprouts and begged for a paper bag to put them in. ‘Not for greens, my dear,’ was the inexorable reply.

  Meat I preferred to buy in another road, for the joints and pieces in the lane were turned over by prospective buyers. But fish was always safe. ‘Are those soft roes?’ I asked a huge woman who was presiding over a mountain of fresh herrings. ‘I won’t deceive you, my dear,’ said she, ‘they ain’t.’ How she managed to have such an intimate knowledge of every one of them was a puzzle to me, till Arthur explained that the soft roes are sorted out at Billingsgate, as being more valuable. He took great interest in the scraps of experience that I related to him in the evenings. They added to his apparently inexhaustible store of odd information—mostly derived first-hand from contact with the people he met, from judges to tramps. On a railway journey once with a commercial traveller, he entered into the difficulties, disappointments and even tricks of the trade, to such an extent that the man couldn’t believe that he hadn’t done some ‘travelling’ himself. This propensity to talk to everyone came from sheer interest in life, with no ulterior motive, but, of course, his uncanny acquaintance with a man’s daily routine was of great use when a witness was cross-examined, for the unexpected knowledge would surprise a liar into truth.

  One incident of my shopping specially amused us both. After buying some candles one day in a tiny ‘Italian warehouse’ in the lane, I noticed that the woman was doing up the parcel very slowly, and stopping to look up at me woefully. ‘Anything the matter?’ I asked. ‘Oh, do tell me,’ said she, ‘what to have for dinner; my husband’s a bit hard to please.’ ‘How about a steak?’ ‘Has that nearly every day; wants a bit o’ change.’ ‘A haddock?’ ‘Had that yesterday.’ I launched out, ‘Why not give him a mixed grill?’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘You can change it about as you can get the things; but you have a nice slice of fried bread, and arrange on it and round it a couple of sausages or kidneys or a cutlet, and then add bacon and a bit of liver, tomatoes, mushrooms.…’ As I grew lyrical her face brightened and her thanks were so profuse that I felt like the man who helped Simon Lee.