Refusing their offer rather abruptly, she pushed open the frosted glass door of the pub elaborately etched with a coat of arms which she guessed, most likely to be the Duke’s. Hot air blasted her immediately with its strong smell of hops and bodies. Next she was struck by the lustre on everything: the brass rails, ceramic beer pumps, highly polished timber, the sparkling glasses. Everywhere felt warm and welcoming – and busy, despite the earnest efforts of the Nonconformists outside.
She waited her turn to order a draught noting the bonne hommie of the regulars. Here was no cheerless drinking den. Most of them were working class and the Cockney humour was all around. She needed this and paying her two pennies, took the foaming glass to a small corner table, content to drink and observe. She had been warned before she went to the local with the stable lads, that the beer served could be adulterated. After that epidemic of arsenic poisoning a few years ago, they had urged caution if she drank elsewhere. Her opinion of this brew was that it tasted like diluted piss, certainly not what her taste buds were used to. It seemed very salty. Perhaps the publican was keen to boost his sales. If this were current practice, to add salt to the barrel, then no wonder bottled beer, although more expensive, was becoming the beer of choice.
Quickly the drinkers filled the place with their booming voices ’til raucous laughter surrounded her. In a short time, as the crowd increased, she was joined at her table by three bright sparks who asked if she were getting ready to see the show.
“What show would that be then?”
“Harry Tate’s at the Alhambra tonight, before he moves on to Manchester,” the young man they called Fred offered enthusiastically.
“Oh, yes. That theatre’s just a short walk from here,” she remembered passing it.
“It’s a Variety Show, so there’ll be all sorts of turns,” the more flamboyant dresser of this jovial group expanded and was bold enough to ask if the young Gent was on his own? Would he care to join them? It took no moment of consideration for her to agree. They were planning on attending the second house, the first being too sparse and stuffy, so it was drinks all round while they introduced themselves. She began to relax and enjoy the ‘moment’ as she had planned. By the time they headed down the street she was ‘one of the boys’ all bent on a good time.
The Alhambra Theatre suggested a certain degree of luxury which imparted to the patrons an exciting style of living, in contrast to their normal work and home. As they climbed the stairs, she could hear the auditorium abuzz with anticipation. Inside, the air of cosiness was enhanced by the rich stage drapes, their damask sheen reflecting the different colours of the bright lights which partly tinted the curling smoke rising to the ornate ceiling. A brassy orchestra was tuning up as the new friends found their cheap seats, high up in the gallery.
Mallory felt the excitement within her. She was about to witness a live performance at a genuine West End music hall show. Not only the performers, but with a real audience as well. These variety shows had evolved from the ‘singing rooms’ of the Victorian public houses, but the Edwardians had brought their own idiosyncratic influence to bear and she was interested to see the changes.
A hush fell as the lights dimmed and the curtains parted. The first few ‘turns’ were solo performers singing old ballads whose sentiment was at heart, working-class. Some, with violin accompaniment reminded her of the cliché of the ‘smallest violin’, but for these people the pathos was real. Each one lasted about ten minutes, the theme generally being the poor against the rich.
Listening to the singers, she realised how much she missed her own music. An ear-piece had accompanied her most places on her ‘off’ time, unless she really had to concentrate. Now she lived in a music-free world and hearing it again brought home what an important part, music had played in her life.
In addition to the vocalists and comedians, typical of the large, established singing rooms, this program had been expanded to include dance routines and some sketches. One was a rustic, genteel act about ‘dear old dad’ and his two daughters set in a drawing room, dimly lit by shaded lamps. It was all a bit tedious. The audience felt it, giving no more than polite applause. After intermission they were treated to a half hour play written by J. M. Barrie, especially for George Robey. It was all laughter and tears and everyone adored this.
Who the audience was really waiting for was the male impersonator. Since the success of Vesta Tilley, many had sprung up to ride the wave. Mallory squirmed as she watched the energetic performance, but was able to relax when it was obvious, the woman on stage was far from sounding like the soldier she was pretending to be. Nonetheless, she was glad when the show moved on to three saucy soubrettes who took the ‘naughty-but-nice’ approach to their acts. She noticed the women in the audience picked up the innuendos the quickest and laughed the loudest.
Next on stage were the cleaver performances of the comedians and conjurers. She could see where the seeds had been sown that would eventually travel to the new-world of the cinematograph. Those early slapstick movies had taken their method, style and inspiration from these elaborate clowning pieces. They formed part of the dumb show of the comics, superbly timed, always hilarious. They did not need speech, all the action taking place in a manic, almost demented world.
At last Harry Tate rushed on stage, eccentrically dressed bawling out a string of nonsensical ditties, their humour ranging from the wildly incongruous to the dry and sardonic. Mallory was overwhelmed by a too strong a suggestion of lunacy, but the people’s response was uproarious. Following another dance interlude he returned, this time in a sketch playing a self-important sportsman, perpetually amazed and indignant, in a world drifting away from all sense or logic. Despite the laughter around her, she personally found the feast of unreason too much. However, the off-beat surrealism interspersed with ironic, black humour was appreciated by the poor and often hard-pressed onlookers. She could see how this could be just what they needed, to lift them out of the soul destroying banality of their working day and relieve the tedium of long hours at those relentless machines.
A rousing finale, all the performers on stage singing their hearts out, brought the curtain down and the show to a close. She thanked her companions, but declined to join them in a night-cap, returning instead to Belgrave Square in a much brighter frame of mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“This afternoon I will need you to drive to Chelsea Hospital.” Lady Patchford spoke with imperious precision. Knowing her better now, Mallory considered her mistress oblivious to the way she came across, so used was she to this peremptory form of address. “I am taking the opportunity to catch up on some charity work in which I have an interest. Miss Hewitt will be arriving at Victoria Station at noon. Bring her to me and following luncheon, we will go together.”
“Yes my Lady.”
Mallory had thought she would be needed this morning and had dressed accordingly, but now she could change and relax. For her meeting with Nigella she would wear the new serge suit and boater. The day had not yet warmed up, the sun still struggling valiantly to overcome its cloudy obstacles, but it looked like it would win in the end. She would need to wear gloves, so much part of the dress etiquette and chose the tan leathers to match her shoes. She placed herself not far from the gate, on a rustic seat, a short distance along the gravel path to wait. No set time had been given. The gardens in Belgrave Square had been allowed to stay natural; an oasis of nature in the centre of the bustling city. Strategically placed wrought-iron bench seats invited the strollers to linger and appreciate.
It was obvious that Sumach trees were much in vogue at this period – a novelty from South America. She wondered if that was why the Maples were there, reminding the residents of the neighbourhood of their links with Canada. She enjoyed the quiet time ‘people’ watching, adults and children alike. There were not many men to be seen, at work she supposed. Tall Ash and decorative Birch trees provided shade. At their base ornamental bushes of Privet and Laurel afforded a sense of pr
ivacy to the passersby and muted the gleeful cries of excited children playing on the swings, watched assiduously by attentive nannies.
It was a gentle autumnal day, the trilling of small birds among the berries bringing nature to the city; the leaves shimmering with coppery touches and the odd flashes of pale gold. The few remaining late roses glowed in vivid yellows and pinks and seemed to scent the air with the last vestiges of vanishing summer. She did not have to wait long. The Lady Nigella was feeling the morning chill however, as Mallory recognised her coat with the large buttons and puffed sleeves, before she saw the face beneath the broad brimmed hat with the engaging rose flowers.
She came directly towards Mallory who immediately stood and doffed her boater in gentlemanly greeting. It was an unfamiliar gesture, but she liked doing it, especially for the Lady Nigella Patchford. She followed this by offering her arm which the girl took and they began their stroll around the park. Eventually Mallory broke the silence. “You’re looking well this morning my Lady,” she observed, to open the conversation.
“You look well too Mason.” Nigella gave a quick, sideways glance: “And very smart.”
Mallory was pleased. She felt she was beginning to blend in with this Edwardian era and in a funny way, although so different from what she thought of as her ‘real’ life, there were satisfactions to be had – or was it being with Nigella? Don’t go there, Mal, she remonstrated with herself.
“Did you enjoy the concert last night my Lady?”
“It did not disappoint Mason.” Sharply, Nigella laughed. “Oh, I sounded just like my mother. I suppose styles do rub off.” She got herself back on track. “The programme was mainly Sir Edward’s The Dream of Gerontius. The choir was magnificent and the tenor outstanding.”
“And the Lady Ramona …? Did she find it the treat it was intended to be?”
Abruptly, Nigella dropped her hand and hurried forward to a sandstone bench, set back in a secluded alcove featuring a small statue of Peter Pan playing the pipes. This being a remote area of the walkway there were few people about. Mallory followed.
“Oh Mason … the most dreadful thing …” Nigella opened her Marcasite beaded purse to search for a handkerchief. Twisting it between agitated fingers, she turned her doleful eyes towards Mallory and declared in a rush: “Everything is in tatters!”
“My Lady, please slow down. Tell me what has happened.”
“Yesterday, instead of Myles being all for the idea, he urged a ‘wait and see’ approach. Well, already that didn’t go down well with Ramona. She had expected an outline of a plan … with a declaration of love, but she wanted to be guided by him. They talked lots of course, but that was how it was left.” Mallory said nothing. From the girl’s unsettled demeanour there was more to tell.
“This morning Ramona received a hand delivered missive from Lady Stafford-Clarke.”
“Oh dear.” There would be no elopement after all. Mallory breathed out a heavy sigh, but in relief.
“Lady Arial was diplomatic in her wording … studies, age, etcetera, but Ramona could read between the lines. Myles doesn’t have sufficient feelings for her and her lot will have to lie with Lord Knowlesworthy.”
“Will this be so awful?”
“I don’t know; in actuality perhaps not so bad.” Her voice faltered: “But what cuts the deepest is that she really believed Myles loved her. Now all that has been turned on its head and she must come to terms with a new reality.”
Mallory smiled inwardly, but there was a downward cast to her lips: “Oh yes. I can understand why the Lady Ramona is so shattered.” Despite her sympathetic face, her eyes were fervent and knowing. “It’s the hardest thing to adjust to a complete reversal of all your expectations.”
The young man’s response had been explosive, the words delivered with serrated edges. Nigella, recognising their intensity wondered what vengeful act of the imagination had been resurrected, for him to speak so vehemently. Had he known more pain than joy, more solitude than love?
“Then you can understand Mason, our household is an even sorrier place. At least before there was hope.” With a pervading sense of gloomy pessimism she added: “Now there’s nothing,” and wiped away the hot, unwanted tears threatening to well over. She turned her gaze to the little statue representing perpetual youth and complained: “Why do we have to grow up to have all these disappointments laid on us?” She looked fragile in the dappled morning light filtering through the branches above them, picking out the hollows of her pale face. She was no longer that blithe and carefree spirit.
Mallory smiled gently, an eloquent tenderness colouring her voice. “If we never face adversity, never overcome misfortune … how can we mature … develop our identity, our character?” She ran her eyes along the grove as old memories started to crowd about her, reminders of her own milestones. You’re here to help not indulge in self-pity, she rebuked herself sternly as her eyes recognised a figure she had spotted earlier. Her antennae tuned in. The man was alone in this isolated area; a man not at work? Not working at all for that matter. More like – lurking? Recalling Lady Patchford’s injunction she stood up.
“My Lady, it’s time I took you home. There’s nothing to be done now. Let’s see how this matter unfolds. Perhaps when the Lady Ramona comes to know Lord Knowlesworthy better, she may find her life not so distressing.
Unable to come up with anything herself, Nigella was forced to acquiesce, but still feeling there should be something they could do. Perhaps Mason was right. There could be worse things than being Sedgwick Knowlesworthy’s wife, but she could not think what they might be. Lord Ettington and the Lady Camilla were rather on the ferocious side. Not for Ramona perhaps, but for herself, she found their voices loud and much too intimidating.
Mallory pushed back a low hanging branch in this slightly over-grown section and scanned the path. With their turnabout the man had gone … maybe not far. What could he be after? She was sure he had been interested in them and it would not be herself, so it must be something to do with the girl. Surely she was too young to have enemies? Anyway she had had a good look at him, albeit from a distance, but she would remember that face. They retraced their steps.
“Will you accompany your mother to the hospital today?”
“I’m not sure. Ramona and I have to have another dress fitting later, but then with a bit of luck I may be able to please myself.” She shrugged and continued: “Mama and her good causes, I can’t keep up.” Mallory saw she did not look as dismal as before and even sounded calmer. Perhaps something good had come out of this. “She’s always picking up lame ducks and her latest charity is for unwed mothers. Working men are covered by health insurance schemes, some of them operated by the Friendly Societies and there is poor relief for most people over sixty-five, but for these young girls … there’s nothing.”
“Where do they go?”
“If they’re not taken up, there’s the doss house, but these are rough places mostly for casual dock workers.” She considered for a moment. “Sometimes the infirmary, attached to a workhouse will take them in. The Women’s Hospital began through donations from private benefactors, but now it’s maintained by public subscription. Mama subscribes too, but her particular interest is in these poor girls and their babies.”
“You have no interest in this, my Lady?”
“Not so much in that side of things.” Nigella turned eyes that sparkled with eagerness, to sweep the young man in assessment. “Can you keep a secret, Mason?” Her face was a study in suppressed excitement. Mallory stopped their progress and jammed her hands on her hips to look sternly back at her.
“Sorry!” She hastily looped her hand through his arm and they resumed their stroll. “I haven’t told anyone yet, but I plan to become a Montessori teacher,” then she fastened her gaze on him to see how such a revelation had been received.
“Really!”
The surprise seemed to be satisfyingly appropriate. “Yes. I’ve been studying Maria Montessori’s method
s of teaching the little ones. It’s absolutely brilliant,” she trilled. “I want to dedicate my life to this.” She was full of the ardent fervour of a devoted zealot. “Since Madame Montessori developed her ideas of education almost two years ago, her success has become known worldwide.” She raised those impassioned eyes once more to Mallory’s. “Oh, I do so want to be a part of something really worthwhile.”
“You don’t intend to marry?” Mallory enquired, amending her image of this mercurial, idealistic creature. “My apologies my Lady, that was too bold of me.”
Nigella had not even noticed, too lost in her own world. “Oh pooh, I think there’s more to life than running a house and telling servants what to do. I would be a Suffragist now, if I could.” She lifted then dropped her shoulders in a parody of virtuous patience: “But I’m prepared to wait.”
Passing once again by the tall Maples, they looked up to admire their magnificence. “I believe women are capable of doing much more than men give them credit for … do I shock you?” This time it was she who brought them to a halt.
“Not at all, my Lady, I commend your sensibility and take my hat off to you.” Mallory accompanied her words with a little pantomime, sweeping the boater off her head with a Cavalier’s flourish, which resulted in an outburst of glee from Nigella as she performed a deep curtsy in return. Now they were both gasping for breath. Through her laughter, Mallory realised she must learn to cherish these moments of happiness. Such treasures are part of the fabric of life and as such should be recognised as they appear. She must not take them for granted, let them slip by never to be recalled. This thought sobered her and she returned to the subject at hand.
Til Morning Comes Page 21
