Chapter Seven
We were away just over a year, journeying north again through a raw November, a pall of thick yellow fog obscuring the platform at Leeds, where we changed trains for Cullingford, so that my mother murmured, again and again. ‘Heavens, how dark it is! One forgets, every time, how dark—how very meagre.’ And, since she had come home merely to await the birth of her grandchild, and to review her finances with Uncle Joel, it was as well she could not know that events in Europe would soon prevent her from setting off again.
We were standing all unawares on the threshold of a revolutionary year, when the people of France would rise up once again and replace their ageing king, Louis Philippe, with a new republic, releasing a spark of disobedience which would consume with stunning rapidity the autocratic governments of Italy, Germany, Bavaria, Hungary; a vast earthquake of revolt against poverty and oppression, against the yoke of the Habsburg Empire, the yoke of the landlord and the proprietor, against the old tyranny of the aristocrat and the new tyranny of the industrialist. It was a year which sent hundreds of that desperate class we called the ‘labouring poor’to sacrifice themselves in the street-fighting in Milan, in Berlin, in Vienna when the Habsburgs marched in to take it back again; to tear up the paving stones of my mother’s beloved Paris, and be slaughtered at their barricades, searching, one supposed, for the liberty and equality which all previous revolutions had promised and then managed somehow to deny. It was a year when our own revolutionaries, the Chartists, would attempt to march on Westminster, bearing a petition of five million signatures, and as many men as they could muster, demanding a vote for every adult male in Britain, and that old revolutionary dream, a secret ballot, to shield him from the persuasion of landlord and millmaster.
Yet we knew nothing of that, standing chilled and travel weary in the swirling fog of a Leeds November—luckily, perhaps, since my mother, who had grown quieter, sadder with every Northern mile, may well have turned tail and rushed back at once, while the ports were still open, and risked herself at the barricades.
‘How dark!’ she said again, as Cullingford loomed into sight. ‘Midnight at four in the afternoon. Have I really spent my life here?’
And even I—for whom this was a true homecoming, the rest already little more than a summer dream—was briefly saddened by the rain-soaked, wind-raked hills, the chimney-stacks belching their malodorous welcome on the sky-line; by the soot-blackened mass of Cullingford itself as we stepped out of the station, a town not planned for beauty, not planned at all, but thrown down anyhow to suit the convenience of millmasters, a factory here, a nettle-bed of workers’cottages there, even the parish church—which no longer seemed so noble to my travelled eyes—obscured now by the hastily constructed demands of industry.
‘The people—’ my mother moaned. ‘How sad they are!’ And so they seemed, bowed heads shawl-wrapped and cowering against the cold, perpetually hurrying, since nothing in these cobbled, narrow streets offered an inducement to linger; closed carriages looming mud-spattered out of the fog, a sudden cough, muffled by thick air and distance, and then another, a grey drizzle, a factory hooter somewhere mournfully marking time.
‘I had forgotten how they cough,’ my mother said, shivering. ‘I suppose it is the smoke, and those insanitary dwellinghouses your sister speaks of’And pressing her handkerchief to her face, she walked quickly across the station yard to where our coachman was waiting.
‘Well then, Thompson. We’re home again.’
‘Aye, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘Dratted train was late.’ And we set off for Blenheim Lane.
Prudence was in the hallway to greet us, crisp and near in a gown that had all her usual quiet elegance, her hair a shade or two darker than I remembered, parted in the middle, drawn smoothly over her ears into a low chignon that gave her narrow face a becoming air of maturity. And although I loved her and had longed to see her again, there was a moment almost of shyness when I knew we had not really missed each other.
For the past year, apart from the ineffectual fluttering of Miss Mayfield, she had been her own mistress, had made her own arrangements, her own acquaintances, expressed her own opinions regardless of effect or consequences, come and gone to suit no one but herself, certainly not her whimsical, capricious mother. But now we must both be ‘young ladies at home’, and as the house I still thought of as my father’s reached out to claim me—so dim and cool, so very still—I could not tell how long it would be before we found each other again.
‘My word, you are very smart,’ she said, coming to assist with the unpacking of my boxes. But my tales of Monsieur Albertini, the couturier, of Roman gardens and flirtations under Parisian chestnut trees did not interest her, whilst her references to Mayor Agbrigg’s plans for drainage and sewage were an astonishment to me.
‘And what has become of Aunt Hannah’s concert hall, then?’
‘Oh, she will have it. I suppose. But Mayor Agbrigg will not be remembered for that. He has sense enough to know that if Aunt Hannah is allowed to busy herself about the concert hall she will not interfere with his own projects. And his projects are admirable, Faith—truly. He will have a great fight on his hands to buy the Waterworks, for the owners do not at all wish to relinquish it. But he will succeed. It is useless, you know, to preach about “cleanliness being next to godliness” to people who are without sufficient water for drinking and cooking, let alone washing. If you live in a street where the stand-pipe is only turned on once a day and you have but one bucket capable of holding water—and you have a family of eight or ten children in your two-roomed cottage—you do not use that water for scrubbing your floors. You boil your potatoes in it, no matter how discoloured it may be, or what nameless particles of filth you find floating in it, and then you drink the potato water. Presumably you make tea with any drops that are left, and then wait—all eight or ten of you thoroughly unwashed—until tomorrow, when the tap is turned on again. It is water they need, Faith, not a sermon—and not a concert hall either. And I am convinced Mayor Agbrigg can provide it.’
‘Goodness, such fervour! I do hope so. And what of Celia and our dear brother Jonas?’
She made a slight movement of her shoulders, a half-shrug of impatience and a little pity. ‘I rarely see them. He works. She polishes her silver teapot. I have been too occupied to spend much time with her.’
‘Occupied with what, Prudence?’,
‘Well. I have made an acquaintance or two, you know. I have not been dull. In fact I have been quite daring, for I have even had some correspondence with Mr. Crispin Aycliffe, our brother.’
‘Prudence, you have not? My word, how very interesting!’ And, much impressed, since this was a name we had been forbidden to mention, I sat down on my bed, the contents of my boxes scattered everywhere, the distance between us melting a way.
‘Yes—I discovered that an acquaintance of mine is acquainted with him too—a most odd coincidence—and so I obtained his address and wrote him a line or two about father’s death and the arrangements which had been made, since I suppose no one else had troubled to inform him.’
‘You mean you offered him a share of your porcelain?’
‘Well,’ she said, flushing slightly. ‘So I did. And I would have made sure he got it, too, whatever the Barforths and the Agbriggs may have had to say—since it is simply sitting there behind those glass cases doing nothing. And he may have been in need. However, he replied most courteously, thanking me but declining, and I have exchanged half a dozen letters with him since then. He has been living abroad but is now in London, married, respectable I suppose, except that he is a Chartist.’
‘Oh surely, Prue,’ I said, fascinated, quite pleasantly horrified, ‘he cannot be that? Chartists are revolutionaries and criminals, are they not?’
‘Are they? They are demanding one man one vote, which may seem criminal to those who have the vote already. Hardly to those who do not.’
‘Well, I have never thought much about it. But who is this new ac
quaintance, then? Is he a Chartist too?’
‘Possibly it is a Dr. Ashburn, who comes originally from Cheshire, although he has travelled a great deal and has not been long in Cullingford. He gave a most memorable series of lectures last winter, to which Mayor Agbrigg escorted me, mainly, on social issues—starvation and alcoholism and infant mortality, that sort of thing, of which he has ample experience, since he has a great many patients in Simon Street.’
‘Good heavens! I thought no one in Simon Street could afford a doctor.’
‘They cannot—or very few—and so it is fortunate for Giles that he has private means.’
‘Oh yes—Giles, is it? I see.’
‘I think you do not.’
‘Do I not? Well then, Prue, what is he like, this Giles? Is he seventy-two, and bald, and fat as a bacon-pig?’
She smiled, a trifle unwillingly to begin with, but then with a decided glint of amusement in her eyes. ‘No. I think he may be thirty, or not much above it, and he is lean rather than fat. And yes, Faith—since you are clearly wondering—I do see him fairly often. But then, I see Freddy Hobhouse even more, and like him better than I used to, since he has stopped trying so hard to marry me. And I see a number of other gentlemen quite regularly besides—none of whom are seventy-two and bald—including Blaize Barforth, which may surprise you.’ And, in my relief that she had not been seeing Nicholas, I said, without meaning to be unkind, ‘So it does. I cannot imagine what Blaize may find to amuse him in public health—and sewage.’
But my composed, apparently very contented sister, was not in the least offended.
‘Oh, he does not care a scrap about such things. I believe it merely amuses him to observe a young lady who does—since we are quite a rarity. And, when he chooses, Blaize can be very useful. He will work wonders when it suits him—as he did about the new equipment Giles wanted for the infirmary—although he tends to disappear the moment something else comes along to distract him. Well, one must accept him as he is, and get the best out of him when one can. He and Giles Ashburn are great friends—which may surprise you too.’
We went the next morning to Albert Place, where Celia, much altered by her condition, greeted us as if we had never been away, or at least as if she had not really noticed it. And as she drew my mother aside for a whispered consultation about the forthcoming event, of which Prudence and myself were supposed to be unaware, I saw that she, too, had but little interest in our travels.
Everything in Celia’s square, immaculate house was just as it should be, her red plush curtains exactly matching her red plush armchairs, her tasselled footstools, her pain-stakingly embroidered sofa-cushions, the fringed valance hanging from her mantelshelf. Her walls were most fashionably covered with a dark, heavy paper, her floors by a busily patterned carpet of serviceable browns and reds and golds. Her silver teapot was an exact, if smaller, replica of my mother’s, the ormolu and enamel clock directly at the centre of her mantelpiece chosen quite clearly with my father in mind, the ornamental plates and jugs and china figurines on the shelves above the fireplace most meticulously arranged, everything, from her profusely carved mahogany sideboard to the leaves of her potted plants, exhibiting a most luxurious polish. But even so, in the midst of the well-ordered, well-sheltered comfort her nature craved, she had her share of complaints.
‘Yes—as I told you in my letter, I was obliged to get rid of that kitchenmaid. Aunt Hannah may not have liked it, since she recommended her to me, but her table-top was a disgrace, and her boots—treading dirt into my house—and leaving her pans to soak overnight to save herself the trouble of scouring them. I have seen five girls already and am not entirely satisfied with one. Well, Jonas leaves it all to me, since he has not a moment to call his own. He is always at that dreadful office, slaving away—clearing up Mr. Corey-Manning’s mistakes. My word, you are very smart, Faith, but you will not wear a light-coloured gown like that more than twice in Cullingford, before the dirt will begin to show. I confess I have lost my taste for fashion since I was married. If I may be tidy and presentable it is all I ask—and all one should ask, I think, since a married woman has so many other matters on her mind, and should not, in any case, make herself conspicuous. You may give my regards to Caroline when you see her tonight, for she never comes near me these days—and I could not, at the moment, risk myself outdoors.’
We drove next to Lawcroft Fold, to pay our respects to our Lady Mayoress, finding her far too occupied by personal affairs and civic affairs—the two being apparently quite interchangeable—to have more than a brief moment for our travellers’tales.
Yes, she believed Paris to be a most interesting city; but were we aware of the scandalous refusal of the Cullingford Waterworks Company to co-operate with her husband? Yes, she had heard that the climate and architecture of Italy was very fine, a land of immense achievement in art and music, but we must surely have heard from Celia how very well Jonas was doing, how, in these days of expanding trade, of contracts and disputes and newfangled regulations, even such substantial businessmen as Oldroyd and Hobhouse, Mandelbaum and Barforth, were showing themselves grateful for his advice.
Mr. Corey-Manning, we must certainly remember, had given much of his time to the defending of felons—being a man of a dramatic disposition, more suited, she felt, to the odd calling of an actor than the dignified practice of the law—but Jonas, finding nothing to amuse or challenge him in such petty crimes as were to be found in Cullingford, had chosen, very shrewdly, to concentrate on civil matters, which would bring him to the attention of those who could pay.
‘The dear boy,’ my mother said vaguely.
‘Yes, Elinor, and you will be settling yourself down at last, now that you are to be a grandmamma?’
‘Oh, as to that—’
But, happily perhaps, my mother’s declaration of intent was interrupted by the arrival of Mayor Agbrigg himself, no less haggard and hollow-chested for his civic dignity, bringing another gentleman with him who, very clearly, did not find favour with my aunt. And as always in a mixed, unexpected gathering, there were shades of greeting.
‘I’m right pleased to see you.’ Mayor Agbrigg said to my mother; wishing her well when he remembered to think of her at all, which was probably not often.
‘Well—and you’re looking grand, miss,’ to me, his stock attention to any young lady to whom attention was due.
But: ‘Now then, lass, how are you today?’ to Prudence, really wanting to know, his craggy face warming, something in him suggesting his readiness to take action should she be less than ‘very well indeed.’
‘And how are you?’ she enquired with equally genuine concern. ‘You seemed so tired on Wednesday evening at the Institute.’
‘Aye—but it was only from listening to old Dr. Blackstone droning on. If your Aunt Hannah hadn’t kept on nudging me I’d have fair disgraced myself and nodded off.’
‘Ah well.’ Aunt Hannah said, clearly displeased. ‘We can’t all be so fluent as Dr. Ashburn—’ And with the air of a woman acting very much against her will, at the dictates merely of Christian conscience and common politeness, she waved her hand vaguely in the direction of her husband’s companion and said coolly, ‘Elinor—this is Dr. Ashburn. Dr. Ashburn—my sister Mrs. Aycliffe, and her other daughter, Miss Faith Aycliffe. Prudence you already know.’ And it was very apparent that, if she had her way, he would be acquainted with none of us.
I found myself looking at a man of medium height, medium colouring, brown hair, brown eyes—although I could not afterwards remember their exact shade—no sinister revolutionary as his Chartist sympathies might have led me to believe, but slightly, quite finely built, a face that was almost delicate, a great air of quietness about him, a man—certainly a gentleman—who observed life, perhaps, more readily than he participated in it.
‘I am delighted to meet you at last,’ he told me, his accent quite neutral, giving no indication of his place of birth, his voice rather low, so that one had to listen in order to
hear him, but not hesitant, perfectly in keeping with that first impression of inner quietness.
‘Dr. Ashburn is becoming very famous among us.’ Aunt Hannah cut in, her voice, following immediately after his, sounding very shrill. ‘He has set himself to teach us the error of our ways. He believes we neglect our workpeople and that your husband, Elinor, provided them with shocking even dangerously constructed houses. He makes us all feel quite ashamed.’
‘Now then, now then,’ Mayor Agbrigg said easily, obviously well accustomed to this.
‘And so we should.’ Prudence muttered.
‘Should we?’ my mother asked lightly, ‘Well, I have never examined my husband’s houses very minutely, but I do not think I would care to live in one of them. Do you live in an Aycliffe a cottage-dwelling, Dr. Ashburn?’
‘No,’ he told her, smiling, completely untroubled by my aunt’s hostility. ‘I am in Millergate, madam.’
‘Oh good’—so near to us. You must call—in fact, you must dine, since I believe you call already. Would next Tuesday evening suit you?’
And as he replied that it would suit him very well I glanced at Prudence, finding her surprisingly calm, far calmer than I would have been in the presence of Nicholas.
Flint and Roses Page 15
