by Mary Hooper
By the following Saturday she had discovered some important things. The first was that if you got to know how a particular customer liked his or her laundry done, and managed it well enough for them to mention their satisfaction to Mrs Sloane, then that customer was said to be yours, and you laid claim to all their subsequent boxes of laundry. If someone else then took your customer’s box, it was considered rude in the extreme. On her second day, Velvet did this by mistake, taking a laundry box full of under-shifts and lace-trimmed bloomers and going so far as to put them in suds before hearing an outraged cry of ‘My lady, if you don’t mind!’ and having them snatched out of the tub. Maisie, the girl whose box it was, later apologised to Velvet, saying she realised now that Velvet could not have known which ladies and gentlemen were already taken. ‘We like to keep close to our special customers, you see,’ Maisie explained, ‘because sometimes – near Christmas – we find a little extra something tucked in amongst the laundry.’
The other thing she discovered was that the girls on Personal Laundry were hoping that the skills they learned there would be a means to an end, for previously some girls had bettered themselves by taking up jobs in a gentleman’s or lady’s household as laundresses or personal maids. Indeed, one Ruffold’s girl, by carefully applying blue-bag, bleach and soap to the white shirts sent daily by a single man, had made herself indispensable to him. ‘She went to work as his housekeeper and ended up as his wife,’ Maisie told Velvet in awe.
Wondering if she, too, might find herself a rich patron, Velvet took to looking on the sides of the boxes to check the names of customers, hoping to find someone titled or wealthy-sounding. In this way she found a Madame Natasha Savoya and, after asking around to make sure she wasn’t already ‘owned’, was told by Maisie that Madame was a new customer whom no one knew much about. ‘I had one of her boxes last week,’ Maisie said. ‘Rather you than me with all her flummery.’
Velvet, intrigued, opened the newly arrived laundry box and gasped at the delicious assortment of pastel silks and satins it contained: a strawberry pink blouse, a silk bed jacket with embroidered yoke, a shawl as fine as a spider’s web, a creamy blue nightdress, a long pleated linen skirt and a cashmere morning gown appliquéd with moss roses.
‘Look at these!’ she cried, pulling everything out. ‘What lovely things.’
‘Lovely they may be,’ Maisie said, looking over her shoulder, ‘but they’ll prove the very devil to launder.’
Nevertheless, Velvet set to. In all, the box took near two days to get through and she needed to learn several new skills, for the hem of the nightdress was unravelling and it was missing some pearl buttons, one of the appliquéd roses was coming adrift from its backing, and there were various other small and careful repairs required, as well as all the garments’ washing, drying and pressing. Taking advice from Mrs Sloane and the other girls along the way, Velvet completed everything carefully and, on finishing, sprinkled the garments with lavender and layered them in tissue paper before putting them back in the box.
Some days later, a message arrived saying that the distinguished customer was very pleased with what had been achieved, so Velvet laid claim to Madame Natasha Savoya’s personal laundry from then on. She wasn’t sure how to pronounce this name, nor even what nationality she was, though Lizzie said she must be Russian, for someone in the royal family had a Russian cousin named Natasha.
As the days and weeks passed, Velvet felt she grew to know Madame pretty well. She knew which colours were her favourites (lilacs, blues and greys), could guess if she’d had a quiet week at home or been to a party, and whether or not her outings had been of a formal nature. She even knew when Madame attended a funeral, for a black grosgrain gown with underskirts of black netting came in to be sponged and pressed. Madame’s garments were often fragile or difficult but Velvet, stroking a length of soft green cashmere or touching her cheek to a silvery gossamer shawl, found great satisfaction in lavishing care on them. They made a pleasant change from the shapeless smocks, drab linens and cheap wool garments which had been her everyday wear for years.
December arrived with the promise of the new year. Some people said that the new century hadn’t really begun last year, but would properly start on 1st January 1901. Velvet liked this idea. Last year her life had changed direction; next year it might change again. It was another chance for something tremendous and exciting to happen.
It grew much colder, so that initially everyone at Ruffold’s was happy to be working inside in the warm, but it took no more than half an hour or so in the close, steamy atmosphere for them to be gasping for fresh air again.
All the girls were to be given Christmas Day and Boxing Day off work and, having nowhere else to go, Velvet had been invited to have dinner at Lizzie’s house. She was happy to be going, although spent some time anxiously wondering if she would be expected to bring presents for Lizzie’s mother and three sisters as well as for Lizzie herself, for – their two days off being unpaid holiday – she would be very short of money that week. After much deliberation, therefore, she decided to buy a box of sugared plums that all the family could share.
Some of the girls on Personal Laundry had received Christmas boxes from their ladies and gentlemen; four sixpences were discovered in a silk bag, a silver crown in amongst the creases of a shirt. One fortunate laundress received the almost unbelievable sum of ten shillings and, because many of the girls had never seen a ten-shilling note before, it was passed around and remarked on by all. A few gifts arrived, too: a silk scarf, a box of shiny bonbons from the proprietor of a small Christmas-cracker factory and a Bible. Money was what the girls hoped for, however, and money was mostly what they got, although some customers didn’t deem it necessary to give anything at all.
Velvet didn’t receive anything until Christmas Eve, when she opened a newly arrived box from Madame Savoya and discovered a white sealed envelope with Velvet written on it in blue ink. Thrilled, she put it on the middle of the table, where it sat until dinner time, the focus of much speculation amongst the others.
‘It’s got to be a banknote!’ Maisie said as dinner time came and Velvet held it aloft.
‘It couldn’t be another ten shillings, surely!’ said the girl who had received that amount, whilst someone else warned Velvet that it could be just a Bible tract or a Christmas card, so she shouldn’t get her hopes up.
Velvet pulled the seal from the back of the envelope, then looked in and shook her head, disappointed. ‘It’s not money,’ she said, pulling something out.
‘Just a card!’ someone cried, and there was a collective groan of disappointment.
‘No, something else,’ Velvet said. ‘It’s . . . two tickets!’
In honour of the Season, one of London’s
Leading Clairvoyants,
Madame Natasha Savoya,
will be hosting an Evening of Mediumship
on 26th December 1900 at 7 o’clock
in Prince’s Hall, London, W.
Discover what the New Century
has in store for you.
‘Oh!’ Velvet gasped. ‘My lady, she’s one of those . . . mediums!’
‘They talk to dead people!’ someone said.
‘Or they say they do,’ someone else returned.
‘Prince’s Hall,’ Maisie said. ‘That’s shocking posh. Will you go?’
‘Certainly,’ said Velvet, just a little dismayed that the envelope hadn’t contained money. She felt a rush of apprehension. ‘But mediumship. What sort of thing do you think will happen?’
‘It will be table-rapping and so on,’ said one of the others. ‘My aunt went to a séance and the table leaped into the air.’
‘People will materialise out of smoke,’ said another girl.
‘Ethereal spirits will lay their ghostly hands on you,’ said Maisie in an eerie voice, and someone gave a terrified shriek which, the girls being rather over-excited because of the festive season, made everyone collapse in giggles.
A shiv
er ran down Velvet’s back. Her mother and father were both dead and though she wouldn’t mind hearing from her lovely ma, she had not the slightest wish to have contact with her father. Suppose he turned up and railed at her for not saving his life? Suppose other people heard and she was accused of his murder? She was pleased and excited to be given Madame’s invitation, but a little nervous about what might come from it . . .
Velvet and Lizzie left work as usual that evening, and by then Lizzie had been told about the tickets and offered the spare one. She accepted immediately.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to one of those!’ she said as they walked across the laundry yard. ‘My aunt went once and my dead uncle came through and spoke to her about all sorts of things: how he wanted the garden planted and what she should name her new dog. He said that she had a new friend whom she shouldn’t trust.’ Lizzie frowned. ‘She had an admirer at the time, you see, and because of what my uncle said, she finished with him.’
‘Really?’ Velvet said. She had next to no knowledge of psychic mediums and no way of determining how accurate or truthful they were. When she thought of them at all she presumed they were just another form of magic – and she associated magic with her father and therefore some deviousness. Perhaps spiritualism was different, though, because it was said that even Queen Victoria and the royal family practised table-turning, and certainly the papers were full of the aristocracy attending the sessions of this or that famous London medium.
Outside Ruffold’s, a figure was standing, a small box in his hand. Velvet recognised Charlie and sighed a little.
‘Kitty!’
‘Velvet,’ she coolly corrected him. She’d imagined that Charlie would have turned up at Ruffold’s before now, and had been just the tiniest bit put out that he hadn’t. He couldn’t have missed her that much, then, despite his declaration of love.
‘Yes, I meant Velvet. I came to wish you happy Christmas and to give you this.’ He pushed a small box into her hands. It was wrapped in plain white paper and had her name – her new name – written in sturdy block capitals on the top.
‘Thank you, Charlie. How kind.’ He grinned and proffered his cheek, so she couldn’t do much else but brush it with her own. ‘And a merry Christmas to you,’ she said.
A small group of Ruffold’s girls passed them. All turned to look at Charlie, sizing him up, arching their eyebrows and casting enquiring looks as to whether he was there for Velvet or Lizzie. Velvet waited until they’d gone by, then thanked Charlie again and turned to leave.
‘Please don’t go yet!’ he said, putting a hand on her arm. ‘I want to tell you something. That day you saw me, I was going for an interview.’
Velvet paused. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m a police cadet now,’ he said proudly. ‘I should make a proper policeman in three years’ time, and I want to train as a detective after that.’
Velvet smiled, though she shivered a little inside, for in her mind the word policeman was inevitably connected with the word crime, and the one that she held herself responsible for. ‘That’s wonderful, Charlie. I’m very pleased for you.’
‘My father says being a policeman is the most rewarding job a man can have,’ Lizzie put in.
Charlie smiled at her warmly, then turned back to Velvet and took her hand. ‘When I’m fully qualified, I’ll come and find you and ask you to marry me.’
‘Thank you, Charlie,’ Velvet said. ‘But I think you’ll find that my answer is just the same as it’s always been.’ She spoke kindly, however, because every girl liked having a follower and he had bought her a Christmas present. Being Charlie’s wife, though, whether he was a policeman or not, was most definitely not how she saw her future.
Velvet managed not to open Charlie’s present until Christmas morning. When she did, she was disappointed, which was extremely wicked and ungrateful of her, she knew, but she couldn’t help thinking that Charlie’s mother must have chosen the gift within – a pink and green flower corsage for an outer coat, made of felt and not at all fashionable. She’d been hoping that the box might contain a pretty hair decoration with which to keep back her curls, or even a little silver necklace to enhance the Sunday best dress that she intended to wear to Lizzie’s house that day. But she admonished herself. What was she thinking of? If it had been a costly piece of jewellery, then she would have had to return it. A girl couldn’t accept a gift like that from a male friend unless they were engaged, and it wouldn’t do to give Charlie ideas. He was a sweet boy and she liked him very much, but he wouldn’t make a husband for her. He was part of the past which she intended to leave behind.
At Lizzie’s house she was delighted to find that the family kept a good Christmas – the sort she’d never experienced before. In the doorway hung a kissing ball of ivy and mistletoe, and in the hall the Christmas tree was liberally decorated with candles, gold tinsel and ivy ribbons. She felt shy at first, but was welcomed so warmly into the family that before long she was joining in everything – even the raucous singing games around the piano – as if she’d known them all for years.
Mr Cameron, Lizzie’s pa, was a source of amazement to Velvet. Whereas her father had always seemed to be teetering on the edge of a display of bad temper, Lizzie’s was a happy-go-lucky chap who whipped off his jacket and waistcoat to show his daughters how to dance the hornpipe, and made paper hats for their pet dogs. When they sat down at the table and Lizzie’s ma discovered that she’d forgotten to put the stuffing into the breast of the roast goose, Velvet went cold, fearing a terrible row, but Mr Cameron roared with laughter and called his wife a flibbertigibbet, then kissed her and said he wouldn’t have her any other way.
After the goose came a flaming plum pudding containing small silver charms: a boot, a coin, a top hat, a dog, a lucky horseshoe and a ring. Velvet got the tiny horseshoe (she thought that Lizzie’s kindly mother had likely arranged it that way) and everyone made much of the fact that this was the best token to have and that the coming year was bound to be very lucky for her. After the meal there were charades with forfeits if you didn’t guess the answer in a certain number of minutes, then blind man’s buff and – as the afternoon grew more boisterous – a game with a Ouija board which Lizzie’s sisters played most enthusiastically, getting in touch with all sorts of ‘spirits’ but failing to get anything sensible out of them. HSTRETYZZ, one said in reply to a question about his name. WERPRSIT, said another when asked where he came from. At teatime everyone had a barley sugar stick from the Christmas tree, a slice of iced fruit cake and a bonbon. When Velvet pulled her cracker with Lizzie’s mother, she was delighted to discover within it a tiny pair of nail scissors, a paper hat and a joke (My dog has no nose. How does it smell? Dreadful) which sent everyone into near hysterics.
Complimenting Mrs Cameron on the wonderful fruitfulness of the cake, Velvet, looking around the table and feeling very happy, wondered if her ma and pa had ever had such good times together. She decided they had not for, as far back as she could remember, her father had been an impossible man to please. Why, only last Christmas she’d made an effort to create a little cheer, buying a joint of ham for their Christmas dinner and studding it with cloves, but her father had sniffed it, said that he hated cloves and thrown the whole thing to the floor. He’d taken exception to the way she’d decorated the room, too, and tossed the evergreens outside, saying they were a pagan tradition which he would not tolerate (although he certainly could not be called a religious man).
‘Lizzie tells me that your mother and father are no longer with us, my dear,’ Mrs Cameron said as they sat, much later, toasting chunks of bread before the fire. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘Thank you,’ Velvet murmured.
‘And you have no brothers or sisters?’
‘None that survived their childhood,’ Velvet replied.
‘And had your father a trade?’ asked Mr Cameron, who was immensely proud of his position as an omnibus driver.
Velvet nodded. ‘I suppose you might cal
l it so,’ she said. ‘He was a children’s entertainer and called himself Mr Magic. He performed conjuring tricks at private parties.’
‘Oh!’ everyone exclaimed. ‘What fun.’
‘Did he play tricks on you?’ Lizzie said.
‘Were you always finding rabbits in his pocket?’ Mrs Cameron asked, making them all laugh. ‘What a merry time you must have had.’
Velvet looked around her, wondering how much to say and, because the faces turned towards her were kindly, shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t really a merry time.’
‘Might one ask why?’ ventured Mrs Cameron.
Velvet took a deep breath. There was so much she could say. She thought of the big things – his wickedness to her mother, his cruelty to animals, the way he’d lose his money gambling and then rail at her if there was no hot dinner, his enormous capacity for self-pity, and the smaller things – the way he’d ask for a sugary sweetmeat from a party saying it was ‘for my daughter’ and then eat it in front of her, the way he’d make her run behind his hired transport carrying his cases. So many things, a hundred unhappinesses, but which to choose? And how could she air them now and spoil everyone’s day?
‘He was like . . . two different people,’ she said eventually. ‘He was jolly Mr Magic to the children at the parties, but when he came out of their houses he changed and his jolliness disappeared. He became someone else and I was always frightened of him.’
‘Never!’ said Mrs Cameron. ‘He sounds beastly. I’d like to find him and give him a piece of my mind!’
‘Now, now, dear,’ Mr Cameron put in. ‘The man’s passed away, remember.’
‘Even so . . .’ Mrs Cameron dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘But were you well nourished, my love?’ she asked Velvet. ‘Who kept house after your dear mother died?’
‘I did,’ Velvet said, ‘though sometimes I didn’t have much to housekeep.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Father was a gambler, you see, and I don’t know what was worse: when he won at the races and got roaring drunk, or when he lost and got dismal drunk. Either way, it was never pleasant.’ She looked around at their kindly faces. ‘I know one shouldn’t speak badly about one’s father, but I fear he wasn’t a good or decent man. My mother had a miserable life with him, and I believe he drove her to an early grave.’
