‘No, no,’ said Violet. ‘Nikolai collected me from dance class and said he had to pick you up at five, so I thought I’d pop by to see you.’
Mr Hamilton looked relieved. ‘Right, well, I’m a little busy now, Violet. Would you like Mrs Clarkson to make you a cup of tea while I finish these telephone calls?’
‘I … I thought perhaps I could take a look around the factory,’ said Violet. ‘I haven’t been here for ages.’
Her father looked distracted, glancing back at Mrs Clarkson, as though seeking help.
‘Would you like me to take Miss Hamilton on a little tour of the factory while you finish up, Mr Hamilton?’ asked Mrs Clarkson.
Mr Hamilton waved his hand, shooing them away. ‘Good idea, Mrs Clarkson. I’ll only be ten minutes, Violet, but I do need to get this done.’
Violet swallowed her disappointment. She had actually hoped to look around the factory with her father so she could ask him questions. She’d imagined him explaining the process to her, their heads bent together, the way he had when she was a little girl.
‘Come this way,’ urged Mrs Clarkson, ushering Violet out of the office like a mother hen herding a chick. ‘Now these, of course, are the offices – your father’s here and the accountant’s there. And across the hall is the showroom, where buyers can examine our whole range.’
Mrs Clarkson didn’t give Violet time to look at the goods on display, hurrying her past the lavatories and kitchen to the loading dock and warehouse at the rear. Men were unloading a truck filled with rolls of soft leather in many colours. The side of the truck was emblazoned with Ramsay’s Tannery. The workers shot a glance towards Violet but, with the formidable Mrs Clarkson there, they didn’t dare pause for a moment.
‘A new delivery from Ramsay’s,’ explained Mrs Clarkson. ‘The skins are cured at the tannery a few blocks away, in River Street, then brought here for cutting and machining upstairs.’
Violet followed Mrs Clarkson up the narrow stairs on the left-hand wall. The second floor of the factory was one big room, roughly divided in half by a long wooden workbench. Large windows let in plenty of light and air, while extra illumination was provided by several electric bulbs dangling from the high, vaulted ceiling. Dust motes danced in the air, while scraps of leather and silk offcuts littered the floor and benches.
‘And this is our workshop,’ Mrs Clarkson explained. ‘To the right is the cutting area. The men cut out the shapes for each item. The skill is to make sure there is as little wastage of material as possible.’
Violet wandered around the room, watching the cutters work. Mrs Clarkson followed her, explaining the process as she went.
Ten men stood at high benches, tracing and cutting out glove and bag shapes on leather hides, using metal patterns and sharp blades. Tables were piled high with rolled leather hides of various colours from white kid, to fawn, dark tan, navy, crimson and black. The air smelled of leather and strong glue.
A tall, skinny foreman with a bobbing Adam’s apple walked back and forth, supervising the workers. The leather shapes were gathered up from each cutter by a young apprentice, about Frank’s age, and delivered to the central dividing bench. Another boy delivered fresh hides to the men and periodically swept up the leather offcuts from the benches and floor.
‘To the left is the machining area,’ Mrs Clarkson continued. ‘The women assemble and sew the garments together.’
About forty women sat on either side of long tables, perched on round stools behind their sewing machines, stitching seams. The noise of the whirring machines was deafening. A group of older women sat together, working on the more elaborate and decorative gloves.
‘The workers at this table are our most experienced machinists who do the fancy work,’ Mrs Clarkson said. ‘While over there are our apprentices.’
Two teenage girls ran back and forth, keeping the machinists supplied with cut-outs and taking the finished garments away. Another group of girls worked at a separate table, tying on labels and packing the finished gloves into tissue paper.
‘Is there a girl at that table called Peggy Burke?’ asked Violet.
One of the girls, who looked remarkably like her older sister, turned around. Violet walked over. ‘I’m Violet Hamilton, and your sister Sally works at our house.’
The other girls and women slowed their sewing to listen in.
‘Hello, Miss Hamilton,’ Peggy replied. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother,’ Violet said. ‘Sally says she thinks she just needs a good rest.’
A look of concern crossed Peggy’s face. ‘She’s been poorly for a few weeks.’
Violet chatted to Peggy for a moment about her work. Then her father came in. Violet noticed that all the workers quickened their pace.
‘Dad, did you know that Peggy is Sally’s younger sister?’ Violet asked. Mr Hamilton looked momentarily confused, looking at his latest employee. ‘Our maid at home, Sally Burke. Peggy is her sister.’
‘Oh, truly?’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘Well, I hope you’ve settled in well, Peggy, and become as dedicated a worker as your sister.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Peggy replied, looking down at the floor.
‘Now, Violet,’ said Mr Hamilton, changing the subject, ‘seeing you’re here, I thought you might like a little present.’
Mr Hamilton led the way to the work table where the completed items were being labelled and wrapped. There was a range of beautiful leather handbags in a variety of colours and sizes, as well as gloves and other goods.
‘We’ve just made a new selection of bags in the very latest fashion for the Myer Emporium’s summer collection. So why don’t you choose one you like?’
Violet looked up at her father with delight. ‘Thanks so much, Dad. That’d be marvellous.’
After a few minutes’ deliberation, Violet chose a large chocolate tote bag with a gold clasp. Mr Hamilton opened a side cupboard and pulled out a rectangular-shaped cardboard box and offered it to Violet. ‘And this is also something new that we’ve recently added to our range.’
Inside the box was a black leather book with My Memories embossed on the cover and thick blank pages inside.
‘I’m not certain if you’d use it, but apparently scrap-books are very popular now,’ her father said gruffly. ‘You stick invitations and dance cards and photographs inside. It might give you something to do now that you are on an extended holiday.’
Violet rifled through the pages, touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘It’s beautiful, thanks, Dad. I’d love to keep a scrapbook.’
‘My pleasure, Violet. Let’s take you home.’
The next day Imogen came home from her stay at Edie’s, just in time for afternoon tea.
It was such a gorgeous afternoon that Violet had given orders for tea to be served in the summerhouse. The round, open-air structure was draped with wisteria vines and surrounded by gardenia shrubs; it looked out over the river to the west and the sunken garden to the south. A gentle breeze wafted sweet scents from the rose bushes. Violet sat in a white wicker chair, wearing a large straw sunhat. Romeo lay at her feet, and he whined with pleasure as she tickled him under the chin.
Imogen threw herself back into one of the wicker armchairs theatrically, pulling off her gloves and hat and tossing them onto a spare chair.
‘We had the most marvellous time at Edie’s last night,’ Imogen declared, her eyes sparkling. ‘We danced and laughed and chatted until three in the morning.’
‘Did you dance with anyone special?’ Violet teased. ‘Any poor young medical students, for example?’
‘I danced with countless young men,’ boasted Imogen. ‘Now that you mention it, though, I think one of them might have been a medical student. What was his name?’
‘Would that be Tommy O’Byrne, by any chance?’ Violet asked, raising her eyebrows.
‘Yes, that does sound familiar,’ Imogen agreed nonchalantly. ‘It was quite ridiculous because Tommy kept cutting in on whoever I was dan
cing with, and then Theodore would cut in on Tommy, then someone else. But Tommy had to leave to go home early – he had university today – so that took some of the fun out of it.’
‘I imagine Theodore was happy about that.’
‘Blissfully,’ Imogen said. ‘Daddy has actually invited Theodore and his parents for a cosy dinner tonight. Apparently they have some boring business to discuss.’
‘Bother – I’d forgotten we were having people to dinner tonight,’ Violet said. ‘I’m not sure what to wear. Everything I own seems to be shrinking.’
‘Time for a shopping trip, Vivi. And we need to start thinking about getting our gowns made for the Russian Ball. I’m determined to have something absolutely adorable.’
Violet nodded. ‘I wonder where the tea is. It seems to be taking an awfully long time.’
Violet glanced towards the house and saw Sally picking her way down the steps and across the lawn, carrying a heavy tray. Romeo sat up at once, tongue lolling. He knew what the tea tray meant.
Joseph the gardener was clipping the box hedges. He said something as Sally passed, and she stopped for a moment to talk to him before hurrying forward.
‘Here she is,’ said Violet, stroking Romeo’s soft, velvety ears.
Sally stepped into the summerhouse and carefully unloaded each item onto the white tablecloth – the silver tea pot, milk jug, hot water jug, and plates of scones, sandwiches, biscuits and fruitcake.
‘Thank you, Sally,’ Imogen said, pouring milk into two dainty cups. ‘I’m dying for a cup of tea.’
Violet took a ham sandwich and tossed it to Romeo, who swallowed it in one bite.
‘Yes, Miss Hamilton,’ Sally said. ‘Mrs Darling asked me to apologise for it takin’ so long, but the kitchen is in a-whirl with the dinner party tonight. Monsieur Dufour is shoutin’ in French an’ throwing pans again.’
Imogen laughed as she poured tea into Violet’s cup, then her own. ‘Thank goodness we’re having a cosy little dinner and not a formal banquet. But at least we all know the meal will be heavenly.’
Violet took a sip of her tea then glanced up at Sally. Something about her voice sounded strained, her eyes were red-rimmed and her face looked pinched. ‘Are you all right? Has Monsieur been shouting at you?’
Sally shook her head. ‘No, miss. It’s just … It’s just that Frank came by this afternoon to say that Ma is worse … But Mrs Darling says it’s far too busy with the dinner party tonight, so I can’t check on her until tomorrow. We still have so much to do.’
Violet set her teacup down in its saucer. ‘But of course you must go to your mother.’
‘I can’t, miss,’ Sally repeated. ‘I’ve hours of work to do yet. Mrs Darling says I can have an hour off tomorrow afternoon.’
Violet thought for a moment then stood up, her chin in the air. ‘Sorry, Imogen, old thing, but I’ve just remembered there’s something I need to do.’ She turned to Sally. ‘Come along. Imogen doesn’t want anything to eat, so bring all that food back to the kitchen. I’m going to have a word with Mrs Darling.’
‘What do you mean?’ Imogen demanded. ‘I’m starving.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Violet insisted. ‘Think of that lovely new dress you want to have made for our Russian Ball. Remember, the latest fashion is to look like a skinny boy.’
Imogen grabbed two triangles of ham-and-lettuce sandwich from the plate. ‘If you’d spent all night dancing, you’d be starving too.’
‘Come on, Sally,’ Violet ordered. ‘There’s no time to waste.’
Sally obediently took the plates of food from the table and loaded them back on the tray, following Violet back across the lawn, up onto the terrace, in through the servants’ entrance and into the service wing. Romeo followed hopefully, but stopped at the servants’ door – he knew better than to brave the wrath of Monsieur Dufour.
The back corridor led past the scullery, where a teenage girl was scrubbing a huge pile of greasy saucepans, her arms elbow-deep in grimy water. Further along were the pantry, storerooms and laundry, then the maids’ sitting room. A narrow, steep stairway climbed up to the maids’ bedrooms and provided the servants with access to the family bedrooms at the front of the house. A laundry maid bustled past, hefting a basket almost as big as she was.
Unlike the front of the house, the servants’ quarters were painted a utilitarian grey, with small, high windows and bare timber floors. Before she reached it, Violet could hear the sounds of the kitchen – oil sizzling, pans clattering and banging, Monsieur Dufour shouting in French, ‘Allez, vite. Vite!’
Rich buttery smells drifted out the door, and the fresh, tangy scent of fresh herbs from the kitchen garden. Above the door were the servants’ bells, each a different size for every room, so the servants would know where to go when summoned.
Violet turned into the kitchen, which was hot and stuffy, despite being the only spacious room in the back quarters. Monsieur Dufour, sweat beading on his forehead, was chopping thyme, rosemary and parsley, his long steel knife flashing with great speed. He threw chopped onions and garlic into the sizzling butter and tossed them in the air, flamboyantly stirring them with a wooden spoon.
The housekeeper, Mrs Darling, was sitting at the scrubbed pine table with Annie, one of the other maids. They were counting and polishing the silver cutlery with soft rags before stacking them back in the timber canteen. Mrs Darling saw Violet and rose quickly, nudging Annie to do the same.
‘Miss Violet, can I help you with anything?’ Mrs Darling asked.
‘Yes, please, Mrs Darling,’ Violet replied. ‘I have an important errand that I need to run just now, and I need Sally to accompany me. We won’t be very long.’
Mrs Darling glanced at Violet and then at Sally behind her. ‘Sally has lots of work to do to get ready for tonight,’ Mrs Darling explained. ‘We’re expecting seven guests for dinner, and your father has instructed that he would like an exceptional meal.’
Monsieur Dufour slammed a pot down on the table. His knife chopped the ends off a pile of asparagus in one quick motion.
Violet smiled winningly. ‘Yes, I understand that, and I’m sure Sally can catch up when we return, but I do need her for a little while.’
Mrs Darling crossed her hands in front of her chest and nodded. ‘Then of course, Miss Violet.’
‘Sally, could you please run to the carriage house and tell Nikolai that I need the car immediately?’ asked Violet. ‘I’ll meet you and Nikolai out front.’
Violet quickly looked around the kitchen, noticing the large leg of ham that had been carved to make the sandwiches. She turned to the other maidservant. ‘Annie, could you please pack up all this leftover food into a basket for me, please? And assuming that Monsieur Dufour doesn’t need it for this evening’s meal, can you please put that ham in a bag as well, along with any fruit, potatoes and bread we can spare?’
Mrs Darling hesitated for a moment and then reached for a wicker shopping basket on the sideboard. ‘There’s also half a chocolate cake, a dozen scones, a bottle of milk and a packet of tea. Would you like those as well?’
Monsieur Dufour huffed loudly and muttered something that Violet translated to mean ‘spoiled daughter of a pig’. Violet smiled sweetly at the chef and murmured back, ‘Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.’
He flushed, forgetting that both Violet and Imogen spoke quite passable French, and Violet had just said, ‘Thank you very much, sir.’
Annie and Mrs Darling began wrapping the food in tea towels and packing it into the basket. ‘Perfect,’ said Violet. ‘Would you mind putting that in the car for me, please? I’ll just dash upstairs and fetch my handbag, hat and gloves.’
When Violet hurtled back downstairs, Nikolai was waiting with the back door of the car open. Sally sat in the front with the huge basket on her lap.
‘Could you drive us to Sally’s house as quickly as you can, please Nikolai?’ asked Violet. ‘We don’t have much time.’
Nikolai saluted. ‘It would be my pleasure
, Miss Violet.’
‘I just have to grab one more thing,’ Violet said.
Inside the garage on a back shelf was a box of old sporting equipment that had belonged to Archie and Lawrence. Violet rummaged around and pulled out a cricket bat and a leather ball. She hesitated for a moment, the bat heavy in her hand as memories crowded in of backyard games with her brothers. She pushed the memories away and hurried to join the others.
Nikolai was as good as his word, driving quickly but safely through the crowded streets of Richmond. Once again he parked outside the little row of terraces where the gang of children were playing football, using a ball made from crumpled newspapers tied with twine. This time they were boisterous and welcoming when they saw the bright yellow car.
‘The food is for your family, of course, Sally,’ said Violet. ‘It’s not much, but it’s something.’ She fumbled around in her handbag and pulled out a small paper bag. ‘I didn’t know if you’d have any medicine for your mother, so I brought some things from our medicine chest – aspirin, cough wafers and Mrs Darling’s chest rub. I hope they help.’
Sally’s eyes welled with tears, and she tried to blink them away as she took the package. ‘You’re too kind, miss.’
‘Not at all. I only wish I could do more,’ said Violet. ‘Now hurry – we need to head back in about ten or fifteen minutes.’
Nikolai helped Sally with the heavy basket as she climbed out of the car.
‘Would you like to come inside, miss?’ Sally asked. ‘You could look at Ma and see what you think is wrong. She made me promise not to get a doctor, because we can’t afford it, but she doesn’t seem to be getting any better.’
Violet hesitated. She knew nothing about illness, and for all she knew it might be highly contagious. The newspapers were always full of stories of the dreadful diseases that festered in the slums. She saw the hope in Sally’s face.
‘Of course I will.’ Violet turned to the children crowding around the car. ‘But first I have a little present for you all to share.’ She handed the cricket bat to Ruthie, the girl with the withered leg, and the leather ball to Paddy. ‘Have fun.’
The Lost Sapphire Page 9
