by Mary Hooper
After Velvet heard the splash she kept on running along the canal until she was exhausted, then took a convoluted route back to their room, where she retrieved her best shawl, her Sunday hat and an old lace petticoat which had once belonged to her mother. After spending a night curled up like a dog in someone’s garden shed, she ventured into a baker’s to buy bread with a portion of her emergency shilling and saw a large, bright advertisement for Ruffold’s Steam Laundry. Thinking, rightly, that a company which boasted of employing over one hundred girls must have a high turnover of staff, she made her way to Brook Green in west London, where the laundry was. After waiting in line for three days, she was taken on at half pay as a learner, with the hope of being elevated to the position of fully fledged laundress after six months. Velvet wasn’t to know this, but it was a case of her filling a dead girl’s shoes, for her arrival at the gates of Ruffold’s coincided with the deaths of several young laundry workers who had fallen ill with consumption and then died, for none of them was able to afford the medication, fresh air and healthy diet necessary for its cure.
Finding a new room wasn’t difficult once she had a job, but she couldn’t afford to be too fussy. The room Velvet secured in the big house in Chiswick was little more than a store cupboard, but at least it was cheap. It had a bed, a chair, a small window and – most importantly – a door which could be closed against the world.
During the time she spent waiting outside Ruffold’s, Velvet slept on park benches and in doorways under layers of old newspaper, blessing the fact that it was summer. In one of these papers she’d read that, following the landlord reporting him missing, the body of her father, Fred Marley, ‘also known as Mr Magic’, had been found in the Duckworth Canal. It gave notice of a funeral service but she was too frightened of being implicated in his death to attend, nor was she such a hypocrite that she could have gone along and pretended sorrow at the demise of the man she’d come to dislike so much. Even the thought of his funeral service irked her, for she knew he had put away enough money for a proper gentry funeral with a glass carriage, black horses and mutes, as if he were a man of some standing; a man held in respect. No, she decided there and then, what was over was over. She would try to forget her past and resolved to build a new life for herself.
Exhausted by the working week and a little overwrought, wondering what might be expected of her in her new role, Velvet slept until noon on Sunday. She’d intended to go out to one of the morning markets and buy some meat – a pork chop or meat pie at a bargain price just before the stalls closed – but woke too late for that. She had just enough time to go to the local public baths where, after paying tuppence, she washed herself with three inches of tepid water in a tin bath. She then went back to her room, tidied it and swept the floor, darned her stockings, washed her work clothes, read a story in an old copy of The Young Ladies’ Journal, and ate some bread and cheese before the light faded (she didn’t want to go to the expense of lighting a candle) and it was time to go to bed again. She was exhausted, yes, but grateful to be so, for it meant she was in work whilst so many in London were not.
Most mornings she was woken by the church clock on Turnham Green striking five, but that particular Monday, despite all the extra sleep she’d had, she didn’t wake until six o’clock. By this time, the house’s other lodgers were up and about and she had to wait ten minutes to get into the privy in the yard. Then, having forgotten to fill her water jug the previous evening, she had to join a small queue in the kitchen to fetch washing water, so she wasn’t ready by the time Lizzie arrived and called up to her window.
Velvet put her head out, said that she’d be just a moment and asked Lizzie if she wouldn’t mind waiting. She was glad it wasn’t raining so that she didn’t feel obliged to invite Lizzie in; she was too ashamed of the room for that. It wasn’t that it was dirty (she was always going over the floor with a dustpan and brush), but because it was such a small and poor room. Bare of any furniture except the single iron bed and chair, it had dusty floorboards, faded paper, peeling paintwork and patches of damp under the uncurtained windows. The many small black beetles scurrying about between the floor planks were another potential embarrassment, and altogether she felt it was not a room to which you could invite someone without making apologies and giving explanations. Perhaps later on she would ask Lizzie to come in, Velvet thought, when they knew each other better. She’d been to Lizzie’s house several times and realised it must appear somewhat unfriendly not to return the gesture, but hoped that when her friend eventually saw the room she would understand. Lizzie’s family, she knew, were not wealthy by any means, but although she had three younger sisters to be fed and clothed, her father was in employment as an omnibus driver. Consequently their house was a proper one with curtains and carpets, furniture, pictures of the royal family on the walls and a full larder. It was a home rather than a cold and anonymous box to sleep in.
The walk to work from Chiswick took nearly an hour and although the horse buses went in that direction, neither girl could afford the fare; it was only clerks and office workers who could spend that sort of money every day. Lizzie and Velvet were glad to be able to walk together, therefore, and usually spent the time chatting about young men they knew (or hoped to know), the current story being serialised in the paper, the misdemeanours of younger members of the royal family, or whether it was quite the done thing for young ladies to wear bloomers on bicycles. They spoke to each other a lot more in the mornings; in the evenings they were sometimes too tired to do more than put one foot in front of the other.
On this Monday morning, as well as all the normal topics of conversation, they spoke about Velvet’s new role in the laundry, whether the work was going to be difficult, and exactly what type of customers use the service.
‘My sister said you might get members of the royal family,’ Lizzie reported.
‘Surely Buckingham Palace would have its own laundry,’ gasped Velvet.
‘Oh, perhaps. But then my ma wondered if well-known actresses would use it. Ellen Terry, maybe. Think of that!’
Discussing the relative beauty of various actresses and music-hall singers, the two girls stood waiting to cross the high road, which at that time of day was thronged with hansom cabs, private carriages, farmers’ carts, horse riders and omnibuses. As they waited for a gap in the traffic, they kept a lookout for a motor car, for one had been seen chugging around Turnham Green a few weeks previously and this had caused great excitement, especially so since it had been a lady driving it.
Nearing Hammersmith Broadway, they could see the grisly remains of turkeys squashed on the road here and there, for not two hours previously a whole flock of these had passed by on their way to the poultry market at Leadenhall, and many had been run down and trampled on by horses. The more complete carcasses disappeared almost immediately, of course, and several families enjoyed an unexpected turkey dinner as a result, but the odd mangled leg, wing or clutch of feathers remained compacted on the cobbles. It was as the girls were negotiating their way past a whole heap of turkey innards, their faces registering disgust, that they heard a piercing whistle and a sudden cry of ‘Kitty!’ over the noise of the traffic.
Outwardly, neither seemed to react to this, but a careful onlooker might have seen Velvet’s shoulders hunch in a nervous way. ‘Quickly!’ she said to Lizzie. ‘Let’s cross now before we get run down.’
As she hurried her friend along, there came another cry of ‘Kitty! Hey, Kitty!’
Lizzie, intrigued, looked round at the young man on the far pavement, who waved and then gestured towards Velvet. ‘Oh!’ Lizzie said. ‘There’s a nice young man waving at you. Do look!’
Reluctantly, Velvet turned. She realised she could no longer ignore this particular young man.
Seeing a break in the traffic the man ran across to them, a broad smile on his face.
‘Kitty!’ he said to Velvet. ‘By all that’s wonderful, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
Lizzie�
�s mouth opened, round as a coin, and her eyes travelled backwards and forwards between the two of them. She and Velvet had often spoken about the possibility of having sweethearts, but Velvet had never said that she actually had one. And why was he calling her Kitty?
Velvet looked at the young man with resignation. Charlie! The tow-haired boy at the end of her old road who had stood up for her in fights, chosen her as his Valentine and once given her a bunch of flowers he’d picked from someone else’s garden. He was part of her childhood and part of her past . . .
She considered pretending she didn’t know him, of saying he must be mistaken, or affecting a faint, but none of these options seemed credible. If only she’d woken up on time, she thought, they would have been at Ruffold’s by now and he would never have found her.
Charlie, dressed in new boots, breeches and a tweed jacket a size too large for him, pulled off his cap, causing his tawny hair to stand on end. He looked so droll, so anxious, that Velvet couldn’t help but smile at him.
‘Hello, Charlie,’ she said with a little sigh.
He seized both her hands and kissed them each in turn, then, noticing Velvet’s face and seeming to realise what he was doing, dropped them and gave a small bow instead. ‘I do beg your pardon, Kitty,’ he said. ‘I was just so pleased to see you.’
Lizzie gave a small squeak of surprise. ‘Kitty?’ she asked. ‘Why is he calling you Kitty, Velvet?’
Now it was Charlie who looked from one to the other. ‘Velvet?’
Velvet sighed again. ‘Well,’ she said to Lizzie, ‘my real name is Kitty, but . . . but after my father died, I decided I didn’t want to be Kitty any longer.’ The name Kitty, she thought – and had always thought – was a sweet little puss of a name; the name of someone feeble who might easily be trodden underfoot and taken advantage of. The other reason was simple: if anyone wanted to find a girl named Kitty Marley to ask her questions in connection with a certain drowning, then they would find it difficult if Kitty Marley was now Velvet Groves.
‘You changed your name?’ Lizzie asked.
Velvet nodded. She and Lizzie had had a conversation about her name only the previous week, she remembered uncomfortably, and Lizzie had said rather wistfully that she wished she had been christened with such a rich- and luxurious-sounding name instead of Lizzie, a name that she thought was surely best suited to a between-stairs maid.
‘Ah,’ Charlie said. ‘I see. So your name’s Velvet now?’
Velvet nodded.
‘I think Kitty’s a nice name,’ Lizzie said, slightly disgruntled. ‘Why ever would you want to change it?’
‘I needed to make a new start.’
‘But why did you just disappear from my life?’ Charlie asked. He twisted his cap round and round in his hands. ‘You fair broke my heart, Kitty. You didn’t even say goodbye!’
‘Velvet!’
‘Oh, all right, Velvet, then,’ Charlie said, ‘but I don’t see why.’
Velvet looked at him stonily.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘after we heard about your father drowning, I came looking for you, you see. Ma said you shouldn’t be on your own and I was to bring you to live in our house for a while, until you got on your feet.’
‘Well, thank your ma kindly for me,’ Velvet said, remembering the comfortable warmth that had emanated from both Charlie’s mother and Charlie’s house, ‘but I needed to get away and begin again. You know what my father was like . . .’ She bit her lip, longing to declare how much she’d hated her father, loathed the wretched room they rented and despised the life they’d lived. She did not dare, however, for fear that she would start weeping.
Charlie took her hand in his and looked searchingly into her eyes. ‘But Ki— . . . Velvet,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I always thought we’d be wed one day. I remember asking you to marry me when we were about seven.’
Velvet, embarrassed and rather shocked, gave a nervous giggle. ‘Exactly! We were seven years old. That was just the silly sort of thing that children say to each other.’
‘It might have been just silliness as far as you were concerned,’ Charlie said, ‘but I meant it. You know I’ve always . . .’
Fearing that a declaration of love was forthcoming, Velvet tightened her shawl around her shoulders and took Lizzie’s arm with some haste. ‘Sorry, Charlie. We have to go. We’re going to be late for work unless we leave right now.’ She couldn’t resist adding, ‘I’m taking up a new position this morning, too.’
Charlie tried to catch hold of her arm. ‘Don’t go! Not yet!’
Velvet bobbed a little curtsey. ‘Goodbye, Charlie.’
‘At least let me know where you are. Tell me where you work!’
Velvet set off and pulled Lizzie’s arm to come along. Despite knowing that they’d be fined if they were late for work, Lizzie was hanging back, fascinated to see a romantic encounter being played out at first hand.
‘I’ll get in touch soon, Charlie!’ Velvet called above the traffic.
‘But where are you living? Where do you work?’
Lizzie, feeling desperately sorry for Charlie, suddenly turned and called, ‘Ruffold’s Steam Laundry!’ and saw him nod and smile.
Velvet turned on her friend. ‘Oh, how could you!’
The two girls didn’t speak to each other all the rest of the way to work. On parting with set, frowning faces, however, they agreed that they might possibly see each other at dinner time.
At Ruffold’s the girls’ working day began at half past seven, although the men who stoked and primed the great boilers which heated the water were there long before that. On arriving, Velvet hung up her shawl, put on her smock and cap, and went to the top end of the huge laundry room to the long, white enamel-topped table. Around this were seated the personal launderers: six young women on high stools, all with a laundry box in front of them, bent over some form of domestic needlework. Velvet bade them good morning and received murmured replies.
A moment afterwards Mrs Sloane came along to remind her of her duties. She was to work as she’d been instructed the previous Saturday: to take a box and be solely responsible for its contents, only taking another when the first had been completed, checked with Mrs Sloane and deemed by her to be satisfactory in every way. Using this method, each girl only had one customer’s personal laundry at any one time and there was very little likelihood of a garment going astray or being put into the wrong box. Mrs Sloane checked the cleanliness of Velvet’s hands, nails and smock, bade her be seated at an empty stool and put a box in front of her. Velvet lifted the lid, and her new career began.
It took her the whole of her first morning to do the contents of the first box – five petticoats in white cotton broderie anglaise. Two required their lace trimmings to be repaired and all needed to be washed, starched and flounced to an icy perfection.
At dinner time, sitting in the corridor (the girls were never, of course, allowed to eat near the customers’ laundry), she and Lizzie made up after their little falling out.
‘I just felt so sorry for him,’ Lizzie said by way of apology. ‘He seemed so nice and was very much in earnest.’ She quickly came to the main thing she was bothered about. ‘Anyway, you never told me you had an admirer!’
‘I don’t think of him as that,’ Velvet said firmly. ‘Charlie was just a childhood sweetheart, a neighbour’s son I used to play with as a child. I know he’s a very nice boy, but . . .’
‘Did you have a lovers’ tiff and run away?’
Velvet shook her head. ‘Nothing as exciting as that.’ She sighed. ‘Really, have you never had the feeling that you want to change everything about your life; become someone else?’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘All I want – all I’ve ever wanted – is to meet a nice young man with a trade, marry him and live somewhere near to my ma and my sisters.’
‘But you know last year, when the century changed from the nineteenth to the twentieth?’
Lizzie nodded.
‘Didn’
t that make you feel just a little bit giddy and excited, as if anything could happen? As if you might become anyone you wanted?’
Lizzie looked at her in astonishment. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. ‘The likes of us . . . well, we work in the laundry or somewhere like it, and then we fall in love and, if we’re lucky, get married wearing a nice dress of white sprigged muslin.’
‘Lizzie! There must be more to life than that.’
‘Yes. After that, we have babies!’ said Lizzie happily. ‘Who could want more?’
‘Me,’ said Velvet.
Lizzie shook her head sadly, as much as to say that Velvet was going to be sadly disappointed.
Chapter Three
In Which Velvet Receives a Special Invitation
During her first week, Velvet’s laundry boxes were very commonplace: a cache of white collars to be laundered, starched and shined with an agate for a gentleman in the legal profession, four ecru linen jackets for a clergyman posted to work in the tropics, a child’s christening robe to be washed and to have its lace bodice repaired, two cotton blouses for a woman who needed all the buttons taken forward because the garment had shrunk in a previous laundering. Velvet also took a laundry box which contained two beautiful peach satin sheets and a matching counterpane. These caused her no end of time and trouble as they needed (following Mrs Sloane’s explicit instructions) to be ironed damp with a cool iron under a cloth. Velvet did her best with them, but they would keep sliding away from her and falling off the table in cascades of silkiness. This made the other girls smile, for they knew the sheets from their previous visits to the laundry and had purposefully left them for her.
