Tipping the Velvet

by Sarah Waters

  The lady raised her head, and caught my eye.

  ‘Good luck!’ she called, a little distractedly. ‘I do so hope you find your friend.’

  Having no intention at all, now, of travelling to Stratford, I did not, as the lady recommended, catch a bus. I did, however, buy myself a cup of tea, from a stall with an awning to it, on the High Street. And when I gave back my cup to the girl, I nodded. ‘Which way,’ I asked, ‘to Bethnal Green?’

  I had never been much further east before - alone, and on foot - than Clerkenwell. Now, limping down the City Road towards Old Street, I felt the beginnings of a new kind of nervousness. It had grown darker during my time in the office, and wet and foggy. The street-lamps had all been lit, and every carriage had a lantern swinging from it; City Road was not, however, like Soho, where light streamed upon the pavements from a thousand flares and windows. For every ten paces of my journey that were illuminated by a pool of gas-light, there were a further twenty that were cast in gloom.

  The gloom lifted a little at Old Street itself, for here there were offices, and crowded bus stops and shops. As I walked towards the Hackney Road, however, it seemed only to deepen, and my surroundings to grow shabbier. The crossings at the Angel had been decent enough; here the roads were so clogged with manure that, every time a vehicle rumbled by, I was showered with filth. My fellow pedestrians, too - who, so far, had all been honest working-people, men and women in coats and hats as faded as my own - grew poorer. Their suits were not just dingy, but ragged. They had boots, but no stockings. The men wore scarves instead of collars, and caps rather than bowlers; the women wore shawls; the girls wore dirty aprons, or no apron at all. Everyone seemed to have some kind of burden - a basket, or a bundle, or a child upon their hip. The rain fell harder.

  I had been told by the tea-girl at the Angel to head for Columbia Market; now, a little way along the Hackney Road, I found myself suddenly on the edge of its great, shadowy courtyard. I shivered. The huge granite hall, its towers and tracery as elaborate as those on a gothic cathedral, was quite dark and still. A few rough-looking fellows with cigarettes and bottles slouched in its arches, blowing on their hands to keep the cold off.

  A sudden clamour in the clock tower made me start. Some complicated pealing of bells - as fussy and useless as the great abandoned market hall itself - was chiming out the hour: it was a quarter-past four. This was far too early to visit Florence’s house, if Florence herself was at work all day: so I stood for another hour in one of the arches of the market where the wind was not so cutting and the rain was not so hard. Only when the bells had rung half-past five did I step again into the courtyard, and look about me: I was now almost numb. There was a little girl nearby, carrying a great tray about her neck, filled with bundles of watercresses. I went up to her, and asked how far it was to Quilter Street; and then, because she looked so sad and cold and damp - and also because I had a confused idea that I must not turn up on Florence’s doorstep entirely empty-handed - I bought the biggest of her cress bouquets. It cost a ha’penny.

  With this cradled awkwardly in the crook of my stiff arm I began the short walk to the street I wanted; soon I found myself at the end of a wide terrace of low, flat houses - not a squalid terrace, by any means, but not a very smart one either, for the glass in some of the street-lamps was cracked, or missing entirely, and the pavement was blocked, here and there, by piles of broken furniture, and by heaps of what the novels politely term ashes. I looked at the number of the nearest door: number 1. I started slowly down the street. Number 5 ... number 9 ... number 11 ... I felt weaker than ever... 15 ... 17...19...

  Here I stopped, for now I could see the house I sought quite clearly. Its drapes were drawn against the dark, and luminous with lamplight; and seeing them, I felt suddenly quite sick with apprehension. I placed a hand against the wall, and tried to steady myself; a boy walked by me, whistling, and gave me a wink - I suppose he thought I had been drinking. When he had passed I looked about me at the unfamiliar houses in a kind of panic: I could remember the sense of purpose that had visited me in Green Street, but it seemed a piece of wildness, now, a piece of comedy - I would tell it to Florence, and she would laugh in my face.

  But I had come so far; and there was nowhere to turn back to. So I crept to the rosy window, and then to the door; and then I knocked, and waited. I seemed to have presented myself at a thousand thresholds that day, and been cruelly disappointed or repulsed, at all of them. If there was no word of kindness for me here, I thought, I would die.

  At last there came a murmur and a step, and the door was opened; and it was Florence herself who stood there - looking remarkably as she had when I had seen her first, peering into the darkness, framed against the light and with the same glorious halo of burning hair. I gave a sigh that was also a shudder - then I saw a movement at her hip, and saw what she carried there. It was a baby. I looked from the baby to the room behind, and here there was another figure: a man, seated in his shirt-sleeves before a blazing fire, his eyes raised from the paper at his knee to gaze at me in mild enquiry.

  I looked from him back to Florence.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. I saw that she didn’t remember me at all. She didn’t remember me and - worse - she had a husband, and a child.

  I did not think that I could bear it. My head whirled, I closed my eyes - and sank upon her doorstep in a swoon.

  Chapter 16

  When next I knew myself I was lying flat upon a rug with my feet apparently raised on a little cushion; there was the warmth and the crackling of a fire at my side, and the low murmur of voices somewhere near. I opened my eyes: the room turned horribly and the rug seemed to dip, so I closed them again at once, and kept them tight shut until the floor, like a spinning coin, seemed slowly to cease its lurching and grow still.

  After that it was rather wonderful simply to lie in the glow of the fire, feeling the life creep back into my numbed and aching limbs; I forced myself, however, to consider my peculiar situation, and pay a little thoughtful heed to my surroundings. I was, I realised, in Florence’s parlour: she and her husband must have lifted me over their threshold and made me comfortable before their hearth. It was their murmurs that I could hear: they stood a little way behind me - they had evidently not caught the flash of my opening eyes - and discussed me, in rather wondering tones.

  ‘But who might she be?’ I heard the man say.

  ‘I don’t know.’ This was Florence. There was a creak, followed by a silence, in which I felt her squinting at my features. ‘And yet,’ she went on, ‘there is something a little bit familiar about her face...’

  ‘Look at her cheek,’ said the man in a lower voice. ‘Look at her poor dress and bonnet. Look at her hair! Do you think she might’ve been in prison? Could she be one of your gals, just come from a reformat’ry?’ There was another pause; perhaps Florence shrugged. ‘I do think she must’ve been in prison, though,’ the man went on, ‘judging by the state of her poor hair...’ I felt slightly indignant at that; and indignation made me twitch. ‘Look out!’ said the man then. ‘She is waking up.’

  I opened my eyes again to see him stooping over me. He was a very gentle-featured man, with short-cut hair of a reddish-golden hue, and a full set of whiskers that made him look a little like the sailor on the Players’ packets. The thought made me long all at once for a cigarette, and I gave a dry little cough. The man squatted, and patted my shoulder. ‘Ho there, miss,’ he said. ‘Are you well, dear? Are you well at last? You are quite, you know, amongst friends.’ His voice and manner were so very kind that - still weak and slightly bewildered from my swoon - I felt the tears rising to my eyes, and raised a hand to my brow to press them back. When I took the hand away, there seemed blood upon it; I gave a cry, thinking I had set my nose off bleeding once again. But it was not blood. It was only that the rain had soaked into my cheap hat, and the dye had run all down my brows in great wet streaks of crimson.

  What a guy Diana had made of me! The thought made me weep at
last in earnest, in terrible, shaming gulps. At that, the man produced a handkerchief, and patted me once again upon the arm. ‘I expect,’ he said, ‘that you would like a cup of something hot?’ I nodded, and he rose and moved away. In his place came Florence. She must have put her baby down somewhere, for now she had her arms folded stiffly across her chest.

  She asked me: ‘Are you feeling better?’ Her voice was not quite as kind as the man’s had been, and her gaze seemed rather sterner. I nodded to her, then with her help raised myself from the floor into an armchair near the fire. The baby, I saw, was lying on its back on another, clasping and unclasping its little hands. From a room next door - the kitchen, I guessed - came the chink of crockery and a tuneless whistle. I blew my nose, and wiped my head; then wept some more; then grew a little calmer.

  I looked again at Florence and said, ‘I am sorry, to have turned up here in such a state.’ She said nothing. ‘You will be wondering, I suppose, who I am...’ She gave a faint smile.

  ‘We have been a little, yes.’

  ‘I’m,’ I began - then stopped, and coughed, to mask my hesitation. What could I say to her? I’m the girl who flirted with you once eighteen months ago? I’m the girl who asked you to supper, then left you standing, without a word, on Judd Street?

  ‘I’m a friend of Miss Derby’s,’ I said at last.

  Florence blinked. ‘Miss Derby?’ she said. ‘Miss Derby, from the Ponsonby Trust?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. I - I met you once, a long time ago. I was passing through Bethnal Green, on a visit, and thought I might call. I brought you some watercresses ...’ We turned our heads and gazed at them. They had been placed on a table near the door and looked very sad, for I had fallen upon them when I swooned. The leaves were crushed and blackened, the stems broken, the paper damp and green.

  Florence said, ‘That was kind of you.’ I smiled a little nervously. For a second there was a silence - then the baby gave a kick and a yell, and she bent to pick it up and hold it against her breast, saying as she did so: ‘Shall Mama take you? There, now.’ Then the man reappeared, bearing a cup of tea and a plate of bread and butter which he set, with a smile, on the arm of my chair. Florence placed her chin upon the baby’s head. ‘Ralph,’ she said, ‘this lady is a friend of Miss Derby’s - do you remember, Miss Derby that I used to work for?’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said the man - Ralph. He was still in his shirt-sleeves; now he picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and put it on. I busied myself with my cup and plate. The tea was very hot and sweet: the best tea, I thought, that I had ever tasted. The baby gave another cry, and Florence began to sway and jiggle, and to smooth the child’s head, distractedly, with her cheek. Soon the cry became a gurgle, and then a sigh; and hearing it, I sighed too - but turned it into a breath for cooling my tea with, in case they thought I was about to start up weeping again.

  There was another silence; then, ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name,’ said Florence. To Ralph she explained: ‘It seems we met once.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Miss Astley,’ I said. ‘Miss Nancy Astley.’ Florence nodded; Ralph held out his hand for mine, and shook it warmly.

  ‘I’m very glad to meet you, Miss Astley,’ he said. Then he gestured to my cheek. ‘That’s a smart eye you have.’

  I said, ‘It is, rather, ain’t it?’

  He looked kind. ‘Perhaps it was the blow, as made you faint. You gave us quite a scare.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I think you’re right, it must have been the blow. I - I was struck by a man with a ladder, in the street.’

  ‘A ladder!’

  ‘Yes, he - he turned too sharp, not seeing me and-’

  ‘Well!’ said Ralph. ‘Now, you’d never believe such a thing could happen, would you, outside of a comedy in the theatre!’

  I gave him a wan sort of smile, then lowered my eyes and started on the bread and butter. Florence was studying me, I thought, rather carefully.

  Then the baby sneezed and, as Florence took a handkerchief to its nose, I said half-heartedly: ‘What a handsome child!’ At once, his parents turned their eyes upon him and gave identical, foolish smiles of pleasure and concern. Florence lifted him a little way away from her, the lamplight fell upon him; and I saw with surprise that he really was a pretty boy - not at all like his mother, but with fine features and very dark hair and a tiny, jutting pink lip.

  Ralph leaned to stroke his son’s jerking head. ‘He is a beauty,’ he said; ‘but he is dozier, tonight, than he should be. We leave him in the daytime with a gal across the street, and we are sure that she puts laud’num in his milk, to stop his cries. Not,’ he added quickly, ‘as I am blaming her. She must take in that many kids, to bring the money in, the noise when they all start up is deafening. Still, I wish she wouldn’t. I hardly think it can be very healthful...’ We discussed this for a moment, then admired the baby for a little longer; then grew silent again.

  ‘So,’ said Ralph doggedly, ‘you are a friend of Miss Derby’s?’

  I looked quickly at Florence. She had recommenced her jiggling, but was still rather thoughtful. I said, ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And how is Miss Derby?’ said Ralph then.

  ‘Oh, well, you know Miss Derby!’

  ‘Just the same, then, is she?’

  ‘Exactly the same,’ I said. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Still with the Ponsonby, then?’

  ‘Still with the Ponsonby. Still doing her good works. Still, you know, playing her mandolin.’ I raised my hands, and gave a few half-hearted imaginary strums; but as I did so Florence ceased her swaying, and I felt her glance grow hard. I looked hurriedly back to Ralph. He had smiled at my words.

  ‘Miss Derby’s mandolin,’ he said, as if the memory amused him. ‘How many homeless families must she not’ve cheered with it!’ He winked. ‘I had forgotten all about it...’

  ‘So had I.’ This was Florence, and she did not sound at all ironical. I chewed very hard and fast on a piece of crust. Ralph smiled again, then said, very kindly: ‘And where was it you met Flo?’

  I swallowed. ‘Well -’ I began.

  ‘I believe,’ said Florence herself, ‘I believe it was in Green Street, wasn’t it, Miss Astley? In Green Street, just off the Gray’s Inn Road?’ I put down my plate, and raised my eyes to hers. I knew one second’s pleasure, to find that she had not after all quite forgotten the girl who had studied her, so saucily, on that warm June night so long ago; then I saw how hard her expression was, and I trembled.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, closing my eyes and putting a hand to my brow. ‘I think I am not quite well after all.’ I felt Ralph take a step towards me, then grow still: Florence must have stopped him with some significant look.

  ‘I think Cyril might go up, now, Ralph,’ she said quietly. There was the sound of the baby being passed over, then of a door opening and shutting, and finally of boots upon a staircase, and the creaking of floorboards in the room above our heads. Then there was silence; Florence lowered herself into the other armchair, and sighed.

  ‘Would it really make you very ill, Miss Astley,’ she said in a tired voice, ‘to tell me just why it is you’re here?’ I looked at her, but couldn’t speak. ‘I can’t believe Miss Derby really recommended you to come.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I only saw Miss Derby that once, in Green Street.’

  ‘Then who was it told you where I live?’

  ‘Another lady at the Ponsonby office,’ I said. ‘At least, she didn’t tell me, but she had your address on her desk and I - saw it.’

  ‘You saw it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And thought you would visit...’

  I bit my lip. ‘I’m in a spot of trouble,’ I said. ‘I remembered you -’ Remembered you, I almost added, as rather kinder than you are proving yourself to be. ‘The lady at the office said you work at a home for friendless girls...’

  ‘And so I do! But this ain’t it. This is my home.’

  ‘But I am quite, quite friend
less.’ My voice shook. ‘I am more friendless than you can possibly know.’

  ‘You are certainly very changed,’ she said after a moment, ‘since I saw you last.’ I looked down at my crumpled frock, my terrible boots. Then I looked at her. She, I now saw, was also changed. She seemed older and thinner, and the thinness didn’t suit her. Her hair, which I remembered as so curly, she had pulled back into a tight little knot at the back of her head, and the dress she was wearing was plain and very dark. All in all, she looked as sober as Mrs Hooper, back at Felicity Place.

  I took a breath to steady my voice. ‘What can I do?’ I said simply. ‘I’ve nowhere to go. I’ve no money, no home...’

  ‘I am sorry for you, Miss Astley,’ she answered awkwardly. ‘But Bethnal Green is busting with badly-off girls. If I was to let them all come and stay, I should have to live in a castle! Besides, I - I don’t know you, or anything about you.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Just for one night. If you only knew how many doors I have been turned away from. I really think that, if you send me out into the street, I shall keep walking until I reach a river or a canal; and then I shall drown myself.’

  She frowned, then put a finger to her lips and bit at a nail; all her nails, I now noticed, were very short and chewed.

  ‘What kind of trouble are you in, exactly?’ she said at last. ‘Mr Banner thought you might have come from - well, from gaol.’

  I shook my head, and then said wearily: ‘The truth is, I’ve been living with someone; and they have thrown me out. They have kept my things - oh! I had such handsome things! - and they have left me so miserable and poor and bewildered...’ My voice grew thick. Florence watched me in silence for a moment. Then she said, rather carefully I thought, ‘And this person was... ?’