“Of course …” she added hastily, “… the ‘one-dayers’ have made cricket more amenable to watching and the 20/20’s even more so.”
They were at a complete loss as to where she was heading with this so Albert could only revert to what a hard business coal was. “Ted tells me there’s over three ’undred men an’ boys employed at that mine.”
“Don’t they have mechanisation?” Mallory asked. “This is industrial Britain after all with the proud, but let’s face it justified boast of being the workshop of the world.”
“You’re right there, lad,” Albert agreed readily. “But fancy machinery ’as transformed the factories up north. It’s not ’ad much impact on the coal fields; the old can still be found alongside the new.”
“’e also says they work with pads strapped to their knees,” Thora added, “to ’elp prevent them swelling up from the constant bendin’ an’ kneelin’ on the ’ard floors, or from bein’ in the water.”
Finally, Mr. Pogue senior contributed his opinion. “Good luck to ’im, I says. ’e’s earnin’ a darn sight more than if ’e’d stayed in farmin’.” He turned to his daughter-in-law. “Thora, you got my tin of Carter’s Little Liver Pills?”
“Oh sorry, Dad,” she got up to fetch them and returned saying: “You still gettin’ those pains in your stomach?”
“What of your daughter, Mrs. Pogue? Where is she now?” Mallory enquired.
“My youngest ’asn’t done quite so well for ’erself, she’s not married an’ she didn’t want to go into service. She moved up north too an’ works at a big textile mill, in the windin’ an’ drawin’ looms.”
“It’s long ’ours worked under close supervision,” Albert supplied. “Not as much money as on the weavin’ looms and cardin’ machines, but she says it isn’t as dusty or noisy. She doesn’t really like the cotton mill that much, but it smells a lot better an’ she’s made some good friends.”
“Livin’ in Oldham, they can go out on the weekends an’ enjoy the theatre or concerts. She says there’s so much more life there. Still I miss ’er,” Thora added, sorrowfully.
“They’re goin’ to try to get back for Christmas, this year,” Albert informed her. “All of ’em can get a train to our station an’ I can borrow the cart to pick ’em up.”
“Oh, that will be a lovely reunion,” Mallory exclaimed as she realized there would be nothing like that for her. It impacted with wrenching force, just how much she had lost. A stab of home-sickness so barbed, pierced through her. Having finished their plates she grabbed the opportunity and jumped up to give Mrs. Pogue a hand with the pudding. Any action was preferable to wallowing in useless self pity. Mrs. Pogue had baked an apple charlotte encased in bread. The bowls served, she recounted that she had in fact lost two children before they reached the age of five.
“They thought it was due to gastro-intestinal disorders,” she explained. “I blame the open drains an’ cesspools. There was an awful lot o’ flies buzzin’ about. We ’ave ’em now, but not like then. Once they got ’em all cleaned up we raised our two lovely boys and Nancy.”
Her eyes took on a faraway look as she continued: “Such a ’elp they was, with all the chores. They never tired o’ running errands for me. Their dad didn’t need to use the strap near so much as Granda.” Pogue senior went on steadily eating. He had heard all this before.
“Well … now they ’ave some legal protection against the worst abuses since the Children’s Act got passed last year. I remember my parents was much more authoritarian than we ever was. Absolute obedience was demanded, equally at ’ome an’ at school.”
Still a sociology student at heart, Mallory’s interest was stimulated. “Why do you think corporal punishment was so prevalent then, Mrs. Pogue?”
At this point Mr. Pogue senior looked up. “I can tell ya why. There was too many little ’uns runnin’ loose. There wasn’t the same pressure there is today to avoid unwanted pregnancies, so we ’ad a very young population. Somethin’ ’ad to be done to keep ’em in line so by common assent, we ruled with the rod. But I’ll say this …” he fixed each one in turn with an austere eye: “… badly behaved kids came from only the most disreputable families. In them days most children were obedient an’ ya didn’t need to strong arm ’em … much.” Now he looked sternly at his daughter-in-law, as if to imply a degree of exaggeration on her part that was totally unwarranted.
“You have a special interest in children, Mrs. Pogue?”
“In a way, it’s babies, really.”
This took Mallory by surprise. Mrs. Pogue was obviously past her child bearing years.
“My wife acts as unofficial midwife to the village an’ local neighbourhood.”
“Yes, for some years now I’ve ’elped deliver babies. I ’ad enough experience of my own so I was ’appy to ’elp others.”
“Don’t the women want to go to the hospital?”
“Just to ’ave a baby?” she protested: “We ’ave all we need at ’ome. Anyway, who ’as money for a doctor? I provide a neighbourly service and it’s free o’ charge.”
“Now I do remember in ‘02 …” Mr. Pogue interjected, “… they passed the Midwives Act, tryin’ to suppress the ’elp these good women offer to those in need.”
“That seems a shame,” Mallory observed, intrigued again. “Why would they want to stop women from being of service to others?”
“Said they was ignorant … an’ dirty.”
Thora shook her head in disbelief at the thought.
“The first part of the Act was enforced up ’til 1905, after then, unofficial midwives ’ave been allowed to register their names. Thora’s on the registry now and is permitted to go on with her good works … without official qualifications.”
Impressed, Mallory looked across at this woman, so unassuming in her manner. Here was a generosity of spirit much to be admired. Then Thora drew her eyebrows together, furrowing her brow and remarked: “All well and good Albert, but I see the writin’ on the wall. There’s been rumblin’s that startin’ next year, all midwives will ’ave to ’ave authorised trainin’ to practice and that will mean costly fees which we can’t afford.”
Not unlike her own time Mallory thought. Discord between obstetricians and midwives still existed. She remembered her studies from her first year: Human Rights and Social Issues. In the twenty-first century the difficulty was to have one’s baby by ‘home’ delivery, with the assistance of a lactation consultant on hand. Even, it seemed, Caesarean sections would be holding sway.
Albert held up his hand. “Don’t go jumpin’ the gun, Thora. You don’t know that for sure an’ anyway, if it comes to that, we could possibly find the money. You can’t foretell the future.”
Mallory reflected privately: Give thanks to Providence that you cannot. It’s a burden no-one should have to bear. In five years’ time it will be 1914. 1917 and they will be hit with the Spanish ‘Flu, only to lose more young men than they did in the war!
With the clearing away of the remnants of their supper, the evening came to an end. Albert would walk his dad back to his cottage and Thora would see to the kitchen. Mallory thanked her hosts and retired. She had found the exchanges quite diverting. These were generous, honest people whom she felt fortunate to know.
* * *
Lady Glencora was giving herself a final check in the cheval glass when she heard the discreet knock at her chamber door. She was pleased with her reflection and felt that Eustace would approve. It was so hard this ‘keeping up’ all the time. She found fashion and the social round made for ferocious task masters. Privately, she believed her life to be more wearing and highly disciplined than a recruit in the Grenadier Guards.
Tonight she had chosen a high waisted Directiore style gown in rose satin, with a cashmere finish. An Irish guipure Toby frill at the neck set off her elaborate pearl-drop earrings. The long sleeves were ruched from the heavily embroidered shoulders to the narrow wrists. The same embroidery totally encompassed the skirt of the dres
s from the knee to the finely pleated hem, finished off with the finest seed pearls.
Maisie had dressed her hair up over large rolls, sweeping from the forehead to the nape of her neck and rising high in the crown. This was the latest style and she felt it suited her. Certainly it was different from her usual mass of curls.
Maisie opened the door for the girls who came swishing in, full of excitement. They stopped when their mother turned round, the words dying on their lips. She looked so lovely. Sitting carefully on the two spindly occasional chairs, they arranged their skirts to their satisfaction as they watched Maisie pick up the blue crystal spray bottle with its red silk tassel. It was Mama’s favourite perfume Shalimar. Ramona liked Gardenia, but Nigella was still only allowed a few drops of Lavender water.
“Wait Maisie. The girls might need something.”
“Yes my Lady.”
“Stand and let me look at you.”
They were both so beautiful, each in her own nature and disposition. Ramona, now reflected three ways in the bevelled glass panels of the dressing-table, such a perfect English rose; a delicate almost alabaster translucency to her fair skin. Her silvery blonde curls emphasized the blueness of her pale eyes, so like Eustace’s and she had his mouth, wide and full. She had gained the Patchford height too, like Ambrose.
“Turn for me.”
And now, here was Nigella. Looking very young still, for all her sixteen years, but there was no mistaking she would never be tall. This one would be a dark beauty; those waves of almost raven locks, the emerald eyes beneath her gracefully arched eyebrows, so direct and piercing. Who could miss them? There was no mistaking the mouth though – a small rosebud like her own. In contrast, she was so colourful. Even a pale blue dress could not change that.
Lady Glencora was full of foreboding and her heart spasmed in an anxious beat. Family would notice nothing, so used were they, having seen her grow up. But Dyllis, Lady Ashcroft, she did not miss much. Virgo, Lord Bromley, he could be surprisingly observant if the evening did not wear on too late. No doubt about it, she would give a few people cause for a second, searching glance. A low, deep breath escaped her lips; nothing to be done now except face the world in a united front. Society’s introduction to her youngest had to be accomplished at some time and it was imperative it occur before the launch of her season. She would be seventeen in three months’ time. She swallowed back an efflux of emotion.
“Yes my petals, you will do us proud tonight. You may sit.”
The girls resumed their seats and Lady Glencora dismissed Maisie.
“Now Nigella …” She looked at her youngest sternly, wishing to enforce the gravity of the situation, before she might take some wild notion into her giddy head.
“Yes Mama.” Still her eyes twinkled with suppressed delight.
“When we go in for drinks, you may receive one glass of the Jerez from Reynolds. If he forgets and returns with the tray, do not take a second.”
“No Mama.” She kept her hands in her lap her pose demure, determined to be the perfect daughter, but she could not hide her wonderful smile at this exciting prospect.
“This is for your own good, dearest. At dinner, you may have one glass of Beaujolais. After that I have asked Baldwin to serve you cordial. I suggested raspberry, so it will still be a red liquid in a wine glass.”
“Yes Mama. May I ask … might I have wine with the fish?”
“Certainly not, Baldwin will pour you water. Remember, don’t ask for anything and accept what you are served.”
“Yes Mama.” She would not permit even one quiver of impatience, as her eyelashes shaded her downward gaze.
“Mama …?”
“Yes Mona.”
“May I ask … who is taking us in?” She held her breath: Please not Uncle Edward.
“Your father is taking you. Jellie, you will be on the Reverend Jobling’s arm.”
The girls exchanged complicit glances, trying not to let their faces betray the slightest affect then looked down. Neither said anything.
“One more thing, Nigella …”
“Yes Mama.” She looked up, her features once more appropriately composed.
“… You are to listen and learn.” Another admonishing look: “I do not expect to hear your voice … even if you know the answer. As the evening wears on, brains become slower and tongues looser. This is what happens with dinners. It is for you to observe. No-one likes a precocious child, especially a female one. Promise me you will resist any impulse to correct an error.” Her mouth retained its chiselled outline.
“Yes Mama.” Was all her pleasure to be taken away?
“Ramona.”
“Yes Mama.”
She looked hard at her daughter then softened her lips to an endearing curve. “You will be sitting on your father’s left, next to the Honourable Sir Myles Stafford-Clarke.”
Again the girls exchanged glances and this time smiled broadly. Nigella was happy for her sister, even if not for herself. However, such high spirits could not be depressed for long. It would all be so stupendous, just being there. Can we go down now?
* * *
The dining table sparkled under the brilliant crystals of two fin de siecle chandeliers, suspended from the elaborate roses in the high ceiling. Lord Patchford had spared no expense to install the latest in electrical technology. He considered himself in the forefront of taste and fashion. Yes, there may be all this new wealth from the industrialists and financiers, but still it could not put the old wealth, that is, of the great families of landowners, in the shade. Sir Eustace held himself ready to proclaim, whenever he saw the need, that this was not to be forgotten. It was his society, representing birth and bloodline which held the greatest influence. Not these jumped up Johnnies. They did not invest in land. Rather they chose the less secure route of stocks and shares. Pah! He could barely contain his impatience. Only yesterday, had he not read in The Times that it was the top 1% of British society who owned 69% of the nation’s capital. This, the report had stated, represented the highest concentration than at any other time in Britain’s history. After that he had sat back and surveyed the rolling hills of his estate through his study window, very contented. Indeed, he could claim himself to be truly primum inter pares and in his life, England was the most affluent country in the world.
The guests entered the richly, wood panelled dining room two by two with elevated spirits, well lubricated from their pre-dinner sherries. Lady Glencora observed this degree of animation with satisfaction; the deep voices of the gentlemen and the high, tinkling laughter of their fair companions. Gowns of every colour filled the spaces; gems of every stone added adornment, emphasising the sartorial contrast of the escorts in severe black and white compared with their ladies, wrapped in the rustling folds of eye-catching skirts. Later, their pursuit of pleasure would know no bounds, with desire flowing like an agitating current just below the surface.
Against the white linen, so elegant in its drawn thread work even on the napkins, the cut glass goblets and silver flatware reflected light with a radiance that positively shimmered. This glassware so exquisite, when touched, its delicate rim would continue to reverberate with pleasing harmonics. The opulent assortment of cutlery, chafing and serving dishes on the huge side boards, generated an air of expectancy which could only add to the heady promise of a fascinating evening ahead.
The number for dinner had swollen to twenty-four, but the dimensions of this room were more than adequate to cope and each guest sought their place card and took the offered seat in excited anticipation.
* * *
“I say Eustace your black stallion looks to be a fine, mettlesome beast. He’ll take some handling, I’ll warrant.”
“We’re still getting to know one another, Theodore. Today worked well for both of us.”
“What time for the battue, tomorrow? I hope you’ll give a chap a bit of a sleep-in.”
“You’ll be all right, Condon. I’ve called Higgins for ten-thirty. We’ll
make lunch at one-thirty. Anyone who has to get away in the afternoon will have more than enough time.”
Fish platters were being served and everyone looked comfortable. At last Lady Glencora felt she could relax. She had kept Nigella close to her end of the table, on the opposite side, a good distance from those who could be likely to raise comment. However, she had already detected a few discreet glances directed her way.
At the other end of the table, she was happy to note that Mona and Myles Stafford-Clarke were in constant animation. He was a likeable young man. She and Lady Arial, his mother, had come out together. They had moved in overlapping circles, including Ascot and Lords, for enough years for her to know that Ramona would be well taken care of. The only drawback was that Myles was one of the younger sons. Still, she was sure Eustace would settle a handsome dowry to make up for that. For herself, she rather favoured Lord Sedgewick Knowlesworthy. A pity he could not attend tonight. Eustace liked him and he had the right pedigree. He was the eldest son of the Earl of Ettington and still available. The drawback was his age, possibly too mature for Ramona? Continuing her ruminations, she speculated it was strange he had not yet been married. Both his siblings were already well established. Lord Mansfield had better see to it soon or else tongues will wag. But there was no doubt he did have style.
Another sigh escaped her. Marrying off daughters was such a complicated business. Perhaps she should be more charitable to her parents. It could not have been easy between herself and Eleanor, but they had managed pretty well. Eleanor was now Countess Granville. She had married new money, one of the titles bestowed by Queen Victoria. She had raised over three hundred men with financial and industrial interests, to the peerage before she died. Again the Broadhursts had been able to take advantage of their daughters’ alliances to help restore their fortunes. Poor Ellie, for all that, she still had the machinations of the marriage market ahead of her just like the rest of them.
Til Morning Comes Page 9
