The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  Tim and Lily readily changed their plans so we could meet up with them in London. We would then travel to Paris, city of light. I also hoped Lily and Tim would join us later on a luxurious Orient Express train trip across Europe. I could barely contain my excitement at the prospect of seeing them both.

  Dolores informed me, ‘Maggie, Charlie and I is real chuffed you is sailing across the world. Snuff is proud too, but won’t admit it. Now don’t you worry about the patisserie, Snuff and Charlie knows the business backwards and me and Maggie will look after it as if it were our own precious thing. Your secret recipes is safe with us and Maggie reckons she’ll keep a stern eye on young Elmo.’

  ‘I know, Dolores. I trust you all completely. Even Elmo.’

  ‘Gees, don’t look so sad, Sasha. Just think of kicking up your heels in gay Paree and eating them crunchy frogs’ legs. Just you be real careful on them trains. The brothel madam told me that when she was in Northern Europe the men lurked around, waiting for the train to enter a dark tunnel. Just so they could grope her.’

  Maggie chimed in with, ‘Marietta Zendik reckons in Rome the mens fall over themselves when she walks on by. You two will be stepping over gents all over bloody Italy. I reckon the Pope himself will be flat out on the cobblestones.’

  As our boat to the mainland sailed away from Wolfftown, I experienced a mad desire to dive overboard and swim back to shore. Only pride prevented me from doing so and the fact that Viola was restraining me in a very firm grip. I could still make out the tall figure of Adam standing on the deck of the Marietta with Grandpa, Snuff, Charlie, Elmo, Nanny, Dolores and Maggie. Tears streamed down my face.

  Our voyage from Sydney to London went surprisingly smoothly. I spent most of it in a daze, as my sense of foreboding increased with every nautical mile. In order to manage my emotions I increased my intake of the Pharaoh’s elixir. I’d tipped what I had left into empty bottles of Doveton’s Health Tonic, so nobody was any the wiser.

  Captain Dasher was never far from my thoughts. We met some charming gentlemen on board but not one of them distracted me from my longing for Adam. I felt hollow as I went through the motions of promenading, wining, dining and being charming.

  Viola leant over the breakfast table one morning and informed me, ‘I’ve finally discerned your appeal.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean, Viola?’

  ‘You have honey on your arse.’

  ‘Is this a serious observation?’

  ‘Of course. It’s an expression I learnt from Marietta Zendik. You’re cold and aloof but the gentlemen keep coming, buzzing like bees. It means you can fall out of your bunk, look like hell, make no effort to charm but the gents can’t stay away from you. Why? Because you’ve got honey smeared all over your arse. The men don’t understand it either. It’s very primeval.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Viola’.

  I soon realised Hildegarde Dobbs was more lady’s companion than personal maid. I was charmed by her personality. She was a sweet, waif-like creature who seemed to exist on fresh air, butterscotch and a few raisins. Hildegarde exhibited an aversion to nutritious food but Viola kept a stern eye on her intake. If she wasn’t eating enough Viola would threaten her. ‘Hil, if you don’t eat up all your dinner, I’m going to publicly tie you to a chair and force-feed you through a tube. Just like the French farmers do to their geese, when making pâté de foie gras.’

  When Viola wasn’t looking, Hildegarde would hide her peas under the rim of her dinner plate, then when a waiter removed her plate, a pert circle of peas was left behind on the tablecloth.

  Hildegarde was given to ruminations on death and disease. She possessed an encyclopaedic knowledge of grotesque medical conditions and frequently treated us to discourses on the ills of family and distant cousins. On these occasions I wore an expression of deep compassion while trying not to laugh. I’m not sure if it was the elixir that had toughened me up, or if it was my subconscious at work preventing me from peering too deeply into the void.

  Hildegarde was prone to extremes of melancholy. When she tilted in the direction of self-harm, Viola would ply her with mother’s ruin and several gins later, Hildegarde would be hanging off the chandelier telling bawdy stories or singing sea shanties. Naturally she was devoted to the more sentimental sea ballads, which glorified death by drowning.

  Oh the ocean waves may roll

  And the stormy winds may blow

  While we poor sailors go skipping aloft

  And the land lubbers lay down below, below, below

  And the land lubbers lay down belowwwwww . . .

  Then three times ’round went our gallant ship

  And three times ’round went she

  And the third time that she went ’round

  She sank to the bottom of the seaaaaaaaa . . .

  By the time we’d sung a few rounds, Hildegarde would be alternating between raucous laughter and heart-rending sobs. I relished being in the company of someone whose moods appeared to be more unpredictable than mine. It made me feel normal.

  During our second day onboard, Viola insisted we take an early-morning peek at the ship’s barber shop. Several eligible males were chatting as they waited to be shaved and five heads turned to study us with great interest. Viola smiled flirtatiously and in a well-bred voice announced, ‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you gentlemen, but my friend here, Miss Torte, insisted we view the shaving apparatus for her latest business venture.’

  I deliberately stood on Viola’s foot but she ignored me and continued chatting.

  Dr Giles Peters couldn’t take his eyes off Viola as she prattled on. I already knew he was her type as she tended to favour beefy blokes. Sure enough the smitten doctor made an assignation with her for that very evening. She’s a quick and tireless worker my Viola. I was thrilled when she made him her devoted slave because it meant I could take a break from our social whirl and spend time reading in peace. Bliss.

  When we arrived in London, we found it to be a thriving metropolis of fashion and rampant capitalism. London was the administrative and financial capital of the British Empire. Everywhere I looked roads, railway lines and buildings were being thrown up at a phenomenal rate. It was also a manufacturing city with extensive tanneries, shipyards, engineering works, breweries and distilleries. These and many other industries lined the southern banks of the Thames and with the industries came grinding poverty, prostitution and disease. The gap between rich and poor seemed insurmountable.

  Dr Peters insisted on escorting us to our accommodation. On Grandpa’s recommendation we’d made a booking at his favourite London hotel, the Hotel du Barry.

  On the way to the hotel I was shocked by the amount of grit and soot in the air but I tried not to make negative remarks. Australians had acquired a bad name for themselves, whining about the industrial stench, filthy air and gloomy skies. In my opinion Tasmanian air is cleaner and the sky higher than anywhere else.

  When I foolishly said as much, Dr Peters pompously answered, ‘London’s sewerage has vastly improved since the Great Stink of 1858. My grandfather told me it was so bad that Parliament was forced into recess. The Thames reeked and everyone gagged. But we British always know how to rise to a challenge. It is what makes us superior to every other nationality on earth.’

  I glanced at Viola and knew the honeymoon was over. She was humming, tapping her fingers and looking out at the snow covered streets. Normally she gazed raptly into the eyes of Giles Peters as though her future was mapped on his eyeballs. But this time Viola cut the good doctor short.

  ‘Well, Giles, I suppose it makes a change for the ruling class to be inconvenienced by foul smells. It’s usually poor folk who get first dibs on vile living conditions.’

  Sure enough. Once we were safely installed in the Hotel du Barry, Viola put an end to her affair with Dr Peters.

  The Hotel du Barry is a magnificent nine-storey luxury hotel overlooking the River Thames. I loved it from the moment I glimpsed the copper gargoyles leering down
on us as we disembarked from our carriage.

  You may have already gathered I have a deep and abiding passion for first-rate plumbing, and the Hotel du Barry did not disappoint. Every room has a premium ensuite bathroom.

  Our chambermaid caught me burying my face in the fluffy peach coloured towels just for the hell of it. Pearl smilingly informed me, ‘Our boss, Mr Maurie du Barry decided that in the harsh morning light, peach towels flatter a lady’s complexion. He reckons it’s much classier than having light reflect off snow-white towels and draining a lady of her vitality.’

  Grandpa had told me that the owner had initially made his fortune establishing a string of classy brothels. Having married into the British aristocracy, Maurie du Barry had been able to observe aristocrats in their natural habitat and work out what impressed them the most. The result was a magnificent hotel that borrowed heavily from Louis XIV’s Versailles. The Hotel du Barry was a self-contained city with its own rooftop glasshouse, acres of marble, fancy doors panelled with mirrors, and swirling silk and velvet curtains. It also had enough gold leaf and ornate embellishment to make Versailles look understated. Such dedication to luxurious detailing made me a devotee of the Hotel du Barry.

  I knew enough about French architecture to appreciate the lengths Mr du Barry had gone to. Viola and I would have loved to have met him, but he was touring Italy, buying up job lots of rustic ornamentation and marble statues. He had plans to build an outdoor trattoria on the sunny side of his magnificent hotel. Given London’s inclement weather this indicated Maurie du Barry was either a genius or a madman. I later read in The Times of London that the hotel’s trattoria had become a runaway success. Moneyed folk were flocking to the Hotel du Barry from the Ritz in the manner of migrating geese.

  The falling snow was brilliant white until it turned to grey slush under the wheels of our hansom cab. We celebrated our arrival by taking a trip to Threadneedle Street and having obtained our pounds and pence, set out to spend them as quickly as possible. The wind was bitter. It was imperative we acquired European winter coats. So we took a spin around St. James’s Park, then purchased coats and muffs from the Royal Opera Arcade shops. My muff matched my new coat which was sumptuous black velvet cunningly lined with emerald-green satin.

  Viola treated Hildegarde to a premium coat, muff and mittens. Hildegarde was chuffed, ‘Gosh, I feel real toasty now, Viola. If only dear Mama could see me, lording it up in the poshest part of London. You know, I bet that bastard would regret jilting me if he saw me looking like this.’

  I glanced quizzically at Viola and she whispered, ‘Hil has a weakness for rough trade; her fiancée was Slipsey Brick. Remember him? A real ne’er-do-well, used to own the Water Rat but lost it in a stupid wager with Roger Dasher. Slipsey left Hildegarde standing at the altar. She was inconsolable. I had to get her out of Wolfftown quickly as she was in danger of forgiving the bastard.’

  Poor Hildegarde. She’d been left disappointed and heartbroken like so many women who bestow their hearts on swine. It’s almost as if their love has an independent life of its own and the man is merely the vortex into which they fling their romantic yearnings.

  Our carriage was equipped with foot warmers. I snuggled into my new coat as I peered out the window. It was then that I caught sight of London’s poor, huddled in doorways or trying to warm their chilblains over braziers in the streets. It was grim.

  I felt overly privileged as we hastened back to the Hotel du Barry and ordered up hot rum toddies. Afternoon faded into a glorious dusk but I’ve never enjoyed afternoon tea less. London’s dispossessed had burnt a hole in my brain and even the hotel’s famous cream tea with feather-light scones and toothsome jams failed to lift my mood. It wasn’t long before the rum smoothed away my sadness but the guilt remained.

  Hildegarde sang a sea shanty in honour of rum. Viola and I joined in the chorus and provided an accompaniment by tapping our silver teaspoons on the crystal glasses.

  Here’s to the grog, boys, the jolly, jolly grog

  Here’s to the rum and tobaccooooo

  I’ve a-spent all my tin with the lassies drinking gin

  And to cross the briny ocean I must wanderrrrrr . . .

  The open fire burnt brightly in the grate as Pearl heaped on more fuel. From our elevated position on the eighth floor we watched as night descended over London. The Thames darkened and countless chimneys belched filthy smoke upwards. I marvelled at the sublime beauty of the sunset. The airborne grit and smoke intensified the mauves, peaches and golds and lent a mystical quality to the clouds. It was the type of sky favoured by religious painters. At any moment I expected God to shove back the clouds and put in an appearance.

  We adored London’s hansom cabs and took them everywhere. Viola and I also tried out the underground rail system, which took us between Paddington and Farringdon Street. Initially the underground railway had not gone down well in some circles, with one evangelical minister proclaiming that the railway engineers were tunnelling into Hell. Other naysayers protested that the tunnel would collapse or travellers would be killed by poisonous fumes. Personally I found it claustrophobic underground and refused to repeat the experience. When I insisted that I could smell fear and despair down there, Viola responded with, ‘You’re just imagining it. For God’s sake stop being so gloomy.’

  Under the influence of my ever-increasing doses of the elixir, everything was becoming more intense. My sensory perception had heightened dramatically. Bright colours were lurid and night shadows more sinister. I hardly slept and only ate when I became aware of Viola’s eagle eye upon me. I should have looked drawn and unhealthy but the elixir brought out the bloom in my skin, my eyes sparkled a little too brightly and my hair acquired a strange glossy life of its own. I glistened and gleamed in a way that caught every gentleman’s eye.

  One night I glanced in a ballroom mirror and reeled backwards in horror. I swear my entire head was covered in a hissing, writhing mass of snakes. No doubt it had something to do with the ghastly Greek sculpture of Perseus beheading Medusa, which we’d seen earlier that day at the British Museum.

  It’s not often that you get to see a monumental building crammed with stolen artefacts from just about every civilisation in the world. Queen Victoria was an absolute fiend for India’s precious jewels, especially diamonds. I think the British capacity for pillaging is sorely underrated. Usually in history books it’s the Gauls, Mongolians, Romans and Vikings who get stuck with all the rape and pillage scenarios. No doubt with all that going on, nobody thought to observe the underhanded tactics of the British.

  I thought a lot about European history when we were on our grand tour. Despite the excellent beds and fine goose down quilts at the Hotel du Barry, sleep evaded me. I came to the conclusion that I’d developed the habit of dwelling obsessively on the dark side of life and needed to exert some self-discipline before it was too late.

  Everyone seemed to know we weren’t British. Viola shrugged. ‘There’s no point trying to disguise our origins. The flat drawling vowels of we Australian colonials stick out like dogs’ balls.’

  Oh dear.

  We had letters of introduction from Brendan Kane, members of the landed gentry and of course Lady Dasher. While Viola sorted out her financial affairs, London society rolled out the red carpet for us. We were adorable house-trained pets, allowed into fashionable drawing rooms for the entertainment of guests. In those days, fashionable society had no depth of knowledge about Australia. They knew even less about Tasmania and Wolfftown.

  When I got half-cut, I found it impossible not to succumb to the temptation of ridiculing our British hosts. At Viscount Linley’s ball, a handsome young fop took me aside during supper and unwisely plied me with more champagne. It was obvious that he fancied himself rotten.

  Mr Worcester Percy Potswain attempted to impress me with his erudite learning and geographical knowledge. ‘So, Miss Torte, I understand you’ve journeyed all the way from the antipodes. How admirable and brave of you. I believe
you have a big Negro problem down there.’

  ‘Pardon me, but did you say Negro?’

  ‘Yes, Africans. The treacherous black type.’

  He smiled but it did not reach his eyes. Coming from an Oxford University man, his statement was a breathtaking combination of deliberate ignorance and ingrained bigotry. He then added insult to offence by steering me onto a darkened balcony, under the guise of admiring the view, and placing an ungloved hand upon my bare back. Even Roger Dasher was subtler than that. My hackles went up.

  I plucked off his hand. ‘Being black is not synonymous with being treacherous you know. In fact the mayor of our town, Mayor Wolff, is married to a Negro. She’s tremendously accomplished. She’s a first-rate concert pianist and played at your Royal Albert Hall last year. Did you see her per chance?’

  The tosser was sinking fast. ‘Ah . . . no.’

  I was all sweetness and light. ‘Oh, what a shame, Mr Potswain. Mrs Wolff is also an extremely accomplished equestrian rider and has won the Kangaroo Race for the last five years. It’s quite the highlight of our bleak social calendar. Bareback of course. You have to be very alert just to glimpse her flashing past, straight down Main Street like a bolt of lightning.’

  Mr Worcester Percy Potswain looked constipated. He had no real desire to further antagonise me.

  But to my dismay Viola overheard me and swiftly intervened. She placed her hand firmly on my arm and gave me a hard pinch. Viola was all sincere regret.

  ‘Please do excuse us, Mr Potswain, but I simply must tear Miss Torte away. Our host is anxious to meet her.’

  She dragged me from the balcony and shoved me into a deserted ladies powder room.

  The jig was up. ‘I was only teasing him, Viola.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. You were gleefully rubbing his nose in his own excrement. Admittedly the man is a bigoted tosspot and thoroughly deserved it but you’ve been bored and restless all evening. And now you’re deliberately trying to estrange us from polite society.’