Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  Tucked away under the driver’s seat was an oblong, leather case closed by a flap with a carry handle. Intrigued, she slid it out and opened up to reveal a complete set of road maps for the Midlands. Presumably her passengers would know where they were going, but still, back up would be good. Her real worry was the state of the roads. However skilled her driving, if the roads were not yet reliably maintained they would come off a very poor second. Perhaps her charges would be familiar with the toll roads? Certainly, for the sake of a smooth ride, prepared to pay the price the Turnpike Trusts demanded.

  As the afternoon sun began to slant its rays, she judged it would be best to leave the practicalities ’til morning. It was time to head over to the school. What would she tell Miss. Beevis? Back to her quarters she washed and changed her shirt.

  The boys were ready and waiting when she arrived, but she made time to have a quick word. Fiona was very disappointed. She realised now, that she had started to look forward to these sessions. Rather than leaving them to get on with it, she had thought she would like to be involved too.

  “Oh no, what will we do?” She recognised she did not mean just ‘with the boys’, but also their time together and this made her blush a deep pink.

  “I’m really sorry about this Miss Beevis. I know Mr. True-May will not like it either, but I have little choice in the matter.” Mallory looked at her flushed face which reflected her confusion and felt a twinge of regret herself. Miss Beevis had a very sweet smile. She would like to have progressed to calling her Fiona.

  “My new employers expect me to be available at whatever time they demand,” she confessed sorrowfully.

  “Yes, of course I understand Mr. Mason.” Her voice had suddenly gone husky. She did not want him to think her unreasonable it was just … just that … her gaze returned to his eyes that seemed to sparkle like sapphires and felt her heart race. She had to look away her emotions too intense. It was just that she … was being silly.

  “I can give the boys a start on their Primer and at the end I’ll have to suggest they continue to enjoy the story themselves. I’m as disappointed as you Miss Beevis.” Mallory spread her hands and gave a brief, expressive shrug.

  “Yes. That will be good.” She sighed in resignation. Some things simply have to be borne with fortitude.

  The hour went quickly, the boys participating as though this was not a dreadful ordeal. At the end, when Mallory explained she would not be able to read with them again, there appeared to be a genuine regret on the part of some boys. “I would like to hear from Miss. Beevis that you are all continuing with the stories in Cautionary Tales, they’re real good yarns.” After the boys had gone Mallory thanked Miss Beevis for her help.

  “Perhaps we shall meet again in some other capacity. You never know, Guilfoyle Village is not so large.”

  “Thank you Mr. Mason, perhaps we shall.” She looked back at the frank, blue light in those clear, searching eyes and sighed once more. They shook hands. Mallory let herself out, this time to head for the big house, a journey in the same direction, but further to go. The sun had not yet gone from the grey, tumbling sky. There would be time before dinner to put her head in the manuals. More familiarity with the de Dion could only be good.

  Mrs. Aldred had stressed that mealtimes be strictly observed, unless there was unavoidable delay in which case Cook would put a plate aside. When it was time, she locked the big doors behind her and turned toward the east wing. As she strolled, taking in the sights, she ruminated on the silence of her world. Time was she would either have some sort of plug in her ear, or be hearing noise from elsewhere. Now she was aware of twittering birdsong; the sough of the wind through the trees and the accompanying rustle of their leaves. Did she find the quietness oppressive? She had before – but now? Perhaps she was getting used to it. She liked the tranquillity, allowing her the better to handle this new life. Just as well. To be prepared for tomorrow’s exigencies she would need all her wits.

  * * *

  The alarm bell of her new clock jangled loudly and for a moment Mallory lay confused, not yet totally risen from the depths of sleep. Her afflicting doubts had kept her wakeful until finally drifting off. She viewed her surroundings through a pallid gloom which imbued them with an illusory quality. Her heart stirred painfully at the strangeness of it all. Finding herself in some sort of chimeric fabrication was mystifying, when at the same time it was obviously tangible. In a moment the unreality passed and she sprang to life. She knew what she had to do and there was much.

  Opening the window, only the promise of dawn in the eastern sky gave illumination, but the morning was fresh and clear. The day looked well set to be fine. What a relief, no need to be battling the elements on her first assignment. With the aid of a small paraffin lamp, she organised herself to remove and replace a tire. She checked the petrol cans stored on a low shelf along one wall, each held two gallons. The funnels were on a shelf above. Wilkins had left the tank almost empty so she found the right sized funnel and filled up. She thought to check the de Dion while she was at it, just in case Lord Patchford decided to go for a spin.

  I wonder where they buy their petrol, judging from the cans not at a gas station. She remembered reading that when cars were first on the road, in the nineteenth century, gasoline was purchased from apothecaries. But they must have moved on since then, surely.

  Next she cranked the engine, jumped in and ran through the gears. Feeling more confident, she advanced the ignition, opened the valves and moved into first. Having experienced the de Dion, she took her time with the clutch. This one was smoother and she drove expertly out to the forecourt. With no-one in sight she was free to experiment, testing the gears, the steering and the brakes. Oh, this is fantastic she thought in triumph, experiencing an emotional fulfilment for the first time since her ‘transportation’. She circled the fountain, driving out through the main gates and back again. Next was reverse and satisfied, she returned to the carriage house to wash and dress. Breakfast would be in half an hour.

  By nine o’clock Mallory was waiting under the imposing porte-cochere, polishing cloth in hand, making sure everything was spotless. She looked every inch the competent driver and truly felt like one. Finally the double doors opened and Baldwin was ushering the Ladies through. All three looked absolutely stunning.

  Where are we going so dressed up?

  Lady Patchford wore a smart, brown two piece. The coat was in the Frieze style, sporting a black velvet collar, wide lapels narrowing to a two button closure at the waist. It cut away below the hips in two sweeping curves, showing off the matching skirt with its panel of braid down the centre and around the hem. There was no mistaking her position and breeding. The Honourable Ladies wore long, worsted coats, but short enough to reveal the hems of their navy, cable serge skirts which swept the ground. As befitted their years and for day wear, they were plain of decoration with only a series of large buttons maintaining the closure. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder.

  What really knocked Mallory out was the head gear. All three wore high-crowned, large brimmed hats. No wonder they want the open tourer, how else can they fit them in? All had large, artificial flowers and several striking feathers which stuck out even further. She had thought Dottie’s hat elaborate, but that was nothing compared to these ‘monstrosities’ as she now called them.

  “Good morning Lady Patchford.” Mallory nodded as Baldwin opened the door and helped her into the back seat. “Good morning Lady Ramona.” Baldwin had taken her around to the other side. She helped Lady Nigella into the seat next to hers in the front and only smiled her greeting. Before she took up her position, she stepped back to receive instructions.

  “We have an appointment in town Mason, for lunch,” Lady Patchford informed her. “You will drive us to the main Stratford to Birmingham road and that will take us into the city.”

  “Yes Your Ladyship.”

  “Please raise the screen. I find it a little blustery today, but the hood may remain down.
”

  “Yes Your Ladyship.”

  Having accomplished her task Mallory jumped in and set herself to the driving. Out on the open road, the first impression to strike her was the lack of traffic. Of course, this was the English countryside of 1909 when the spaces were still uncluttered and one may put one’s foot down with impunity. However, it was prudent to be ever vigilant for the stray cattle beast, or even a stray Homo-sapiens for that matter. Both seemed to be adept at popping out unexpectedly. She remembered the adage: ‘Caution is the master of common sense’ and decided to respect it. Nonetheless, the day was glorious seemingly composed of everlasting shades of vibrant, fresh greens and endless sunshine. Only occasional flashes of yellow from the statuesque Sycamores relieved the eye.

  The Birmingham road was easy to find. They were approaching the city from the west, so having passed by Earlswood Lakes and through the small hamlet of Solihull here they were, barrelling along in very good spirits, at least she was. She enjoyed the pink trumpets of the bindweed, twined amongst the branches of the box and holly hedges giving her a reminder of Christmas.

  The two in the back seemed quite content, their heads together making desultory comments. Lady Nigella had not offered a word since she had taken her place. Was there still a problem? It had been five days since their ride. Could she say something? She glanced across at her passenger and catching her eye gave a friendly smile. The girl smiled back briefly then looked to the road. Mallory was tempted to make some light comment, but thought better of it. From time to time Lady Patchford addressed a remark to her other daughter to which Lady Nigella duly replied, but there was no easy banter.

  Ribbon development, still being an abstraction of the future, Mallory’s run into the city was sudden taking her by surprise. She had been lost in observing such a difference in the country roads from her native Queensland. No lines of red earth through acres of high stands of waving guinea grass, towards an endless horizon. She remembered riding in the back, her dad driving over narrow, corrugated dirt tracks; thick bull dust covering her and the work gear as they passed tall, sinuate river gums or huge termite mounds, representing an eternity of time. Now for the most part, impenetrable hedges and densely canopied trees lined their route, closing them in on both sides except for the odd, five-barred gate. No ancient Melaleucas here with their twisting, paper-bark trunks and massive height.

  They began to join other traffic then she really had to stay alert. Already, she had taken smart, evasive action to avoid a collision with an old Wolsely she had been admiring. The driver had veered left, right across her path – no hint of a signal – only sounding his horn. Was that meant to be enough? It was an open two-seater and she could tell it was old by its similarity to a carriage, except there was no horse. Perhaps he thought he was still a coachman.

  The outskirts of town quickly gave way to an increase in building density. She was passing small factories and brick foundries, specialising in metals and mechanical engineering. She remembered Birmingham and Sheffield used to be called the ‘black country’. Coventry too, the satellite to Birmingham had been a major supplier of parts to the single-cylindered tricar and the quadricycle. Now these firms were purveyors to the booming automobile business. Dotted amongst the industrial establishments were some quite impressive public houses, dating from a previous time and soon after that the old staging post at Digbeth came into view. Currently, it was the terminus for the motor omnibuses which had made their first appearance on the London streets in 1905. These days they were seen everywhere, in the major cities. Pedestrians too, were all over the place: her trick not to hit one. These people did not seem to know they were to stay on the sidewalks, just crossing the street wherever and whenever they pleased. This for her was the nightmare. She saw not a few old cars on the side of the road, or being pushed. Not old, new, get it right Mal.

  Close to the city centre, Lady Patchford directed her past the impressive, recently constructed station at Snow Hill. Huge and sprawling, railway lines converged from everywhere, serving mostly freight traffic since all those furnaces ate up mountains of coal. There were a few trippers’ services on the weekends, but they were not the major reason for England’s network of snaking rail.

  Not far along Mallory observed a Marks and Spencer’s, reminding her of her idea for a summer job. Forget it. That was a century away. Already Birmingham had its fair share of multi-storey Department stores, testament to the rapid growth of this industrial heartland. She was to turn into Corporation Street and park outside the French restaurant, Chez Rousseau. As luck would have it, she came up behind the magnificent Darracq owned by Lady Patchford’s luncheon hosts, Mr. Rutherhyde, a shipping magnate and his wife. It was similar in style to the Rolls, but had a longer wheelbase, providing more room for the driver and front passenger who could step up with greater ease. Also, the Cape-cart hood only extended over the rear passengers. The roof over the front was permanent, placed very high and open on three sides, consequently there was no rear windscreen. All in all, a most handsome vehicle and she could see it allowed ample room for the ‘monstrosities’. The Darracq began to move off as she helped her passengers alight. Lady Patchford directed her to follow the automobile around the corner to a side street and station herself behind it.

  “On no account are you to leave the vehicle Mason.” Her voice was low, not to draw attention to her lecture, but stern nonetheless. With that hat on her head and her hands clasped in front of her bosom, she reminded Mallory of the time she had received a dressing down from her school principal. The difference here was that she was not quaking; she had done nothing wrong – yet. “It is your responsibility to maintain its good order and to keep it safe. Luncheon is not our major activity today. This is just a convenient preliminary.” She looked up in the opposite direction. “Afterwards, we will all be attending a meeting in the reading rooms of the public library. Monsieur Rousseau will send a man to let you know when we are ready.”

  “Yes Your Ladyship.”

  Lady Patchford inclined her head slightly the instructions satisfactorily received, then delicately gathered her skirts and swept after her daughters only to pause on the threshold. She turned her head and added: “I will speak to you privately on our return.”

  “Yes my Lady.”

  Whilst the others were thus engaged, Mallory had a chance to exchange a few words with the other driver. He was an older man with considerable experience in looking after the Rutherhyde family. His livery was more elaborate than hers, resplendent with gold buttons and epaulettes. Of an affable nature, he did not look down on her and seemed happy to dispense some words of both warning and wisdom: “Number one, when driving never speak until spoken to.”

  “Right.”

  “Two, give hand signals well in advance. Don’t think other drivers can read your mind.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mallory did appreciate his willingness to be helpful though. In fact he provided quite a number of tips which she would find useful. She learned that in town, boys stood on street corners, petrol can in one hand, funnel in the other and filled up your tank while you waited.

  Indeed, lunch was light refreshment only and very soon they were informed that their passengers were waiting. Mallory was able to follow Mr. Goddard, who expertly wove his way between the people and even managed to pass a few other cars. She stuck close to his tail. Eventually, they joined a crawling line which inched its way towards the meeting place. They were directed past the imposing front entrance of this gothic edifice, placed high atop a multiple series of stone steps, to a side entrance. An animated crowd, not all aristocrats by any means were filing in. She thought the bulk of the audience had the manner of middle class intellectuals, certainly not ‘the workers’.

  Having deposited their charges, they drove on to an area set aside for parking where, amongst the other cars she thought she spotted a Cadillac, its white wall tires and famous Demi -Tonneau body, standing out from the crowd.

  “That’s ri
ght,” Mr. Goddard asserted. “Just last year Frederick Bennett won the Dewar Trophy against keen competition, in reliability events and hill climbs. Since then it has become one of the most popular automobiles.” The two walked slowly over to the vehicle in question and exchanged pleasantries with its driver.

  “The engine is vertical ‘in-line’ and water cooled, with four cylinders, in answer to your question, young man.”

  “And the transmission?” she asked.

  “It’s a three-speed selective sliding gear which they brought out two year ago.”

  Mr. Goddard, eager to show off his motor knowledge added to the discussion. “Last year the General Motors Company was incorporated, Buick being the leader of the consortium and this year Cadillac joined them as their top-of-the-range Marque. It boosted their sales in this country all right. Oakland is said to be joining soon. William Durant, the company chief and two of his executives, Chrysler and Nash are going to approach Oldsmobile in November.”

  So many names Mallory recognised, she had to ask how he knew all this. “I subscribe to The Autocar. It’s a great periodical for motorists. Harry Lawson puts it out. He used to be in bicycles, but now promotes motor companies.” He nodded his head sagely. “He’s got his finger on the pulse all right. Panhard will have to look to his laurels, Napier too. Their domination of the top-end of the market is going to be seriously challenged.” She had seen that magazine for sale on the news-stands in ‘her time’. It was hard to believe it would still be going strong all those years later, although she had read the name then as Autocar.