Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  “I’ve heard of this system for the training of young children, but I don’t know the details.”

  Launching into a favourite topic to a willing listener filled Nigella’s cup. “Well …the fundamental aim is self-education by the children themselves. As their teacher, I would see to providing them with the right environment, one that is stimulating, that they can explore at their own pace. There would be a special emphasis on encouraging the use of all the senses; lots of different things to interact with. I think this would be an enjoyable experience for them, and for me.”

  “Would you go to a training college, or is learning on an apprenticeship basis?”

  “Well Mason, here’s the problem.” Nigella concentrated her brows. “I will have to talk my parents into letting me go and so far they show no signs of giving me my head. I think it will be something I’ll have to fight for when I’m older. Mum’s the word for now eh, as Ambrose would say.”

  “Of course my Lady, this is your private business. It’s a pity you don’t live in Australia, though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The Australian Parliament passed the Commonwealth Franchise Act in 1902 whereby all women were given universal suffrage.” Then she hastily amended: “Oh, not Aboriginal women.”

  “Mm…m yes, you’re much more progressive down there,” she agreed.

  “Well, I’m not sure about that,” Mallory demurred, then almost musing to herself continued: “But unfortunately it will take another nine years before women can achieve the vote here … you’ll still be too young. The starting age is thirty and … what?”

  Nigella had stopped in her tracks once again, a regard of utter amazement freezing her face. “What are you saying, Mason?” the clear green eyes were remarkably intense and direct. Mallory too, was pulled up short, both figuratively and literally.

  Now you’ve done it! How will you get yourself out of this without looking like a complete fruit loop? Crickey! “Oh … I … I mean. Well …” The mumbling in the throat was not helping. “What I meant to say is …” Nigella remained immobile, still stunned by his words. “Well … the Suffragettes are not making much progress are they? There’s a lot yet to be done,” she finished lamely.

  Fortunately they had arrived at the park gate with only a short distance to #17. A small diversion was enough of a reprieve. She swung it open on its creaky hinges to let the girl through, but Nigella seemed unable to move. “My Lady …” she indicated the way.

  Nigella’s brain was whirling, but with great effort she brought her fleeting and scattered thoughts under control. However, her body still revolved on an axis of stupefaction. It was with difficulty that she placed one foot in front of the other. His words had shocked her deeply. Although always fascinating, there had been something strange about this man. Now she was completely bemused. She needed to think. At the house they climbed the steps and Mallory pushed the button for Nesbitt to usher in the young mistress. She touched her boater: “Goodbye my Lady. Have a good one.”

  Nigella nodded and regarded him one last time as she disappeared inside. What an odd thing to say. He certainly was full of surprises.

  * * *

  Mallory had ample time to change and get to the station. Meanwhile, she kept thinking over what she had said, wondering if she had spooked Nigella too much. Their next encounter would surely give her the answer.

  She recognised Miss Hewitt easily, standing under the big clock tower and collected her without delay. All trains from Birmingham arrived at Victoria and at that time of day she was prominent as the most elegant passenger. She looked very much the lady in a brown, fustian coatee over a pleated, cream blouse and matching, slightly flared, brown skirt. The coatee was contoured in two smooth sections across each breast and buttoned in the centre before curving away, down to the waist. She has a very trim waist, Mallory noticed, well worth accentuating.

  The sleeves were in the gigot-style, massively full to the elbow, tapering tightly to the wrist. Idly, she wondered if Miss Hewitt was of the age when it was no longer obligatory to be accompanied on long journeys. That indeterminate age when the prospect of marriage is less likely perhaps?

  Lady Patchford had wanted the Tourer at two o’clock and so here she was, once more in attendance. The two women had spent a working lunch sorting out the guest lists for the forthcoming celebrations, ready to complete the invitations tomorrow. With everything under control Lady Glencora could attend to her other responsibilities, her disposition more positive than it had been in a long time.

  As Mallory drove over to Chelsea she was surprised to see how little some parts had changed. It had managed to preserve that village atmosphere and the Women’s Hospital looked the same. She dropped her passengers at the main entrance, both women looking very important as they mounted the steps. Lady Glencora, for this visit had chosen a blue voile costume, the fabric lending itself to ruches and folds which shimmered softly. The tiers of the bodice and basque, which fell to well below her hips, were all edged in a lustrous, black braid. Even the straight skirt, which finished in a short, rounded train, was tiered. Also, the long sleeves were gently gathered along their length to end in braided cuffs. The high-necked chemise, revealed by a plunging open V to the bosom, was made of white lawn, but the little frill under her chin was edged in a pale blue trimming.

  She watched as the main door was opened and the ladies were greeted by Matron and two staff nurses. By comparison, they appeared very functional in their navy and white uniforms, a white veil like a nun’s Mallory thought, totally covering the hair. Her ladies’ head-gear was of course, large and prominent, but this time she liked Miss Hewitt’s broad-brimmed hat, trimmed with bright, red cherries. Perhaps I’m getting used to this top knot business, she smiled to herself.

  Before returning to the car, she bought a newspaper from the street vendor, choosing the Daily Mail. It was still a morning paper. It would be interesting to see how much it had changed. A frisson of exhilaration ran through her: I’m holding the revolutionary precursor of all the popular journalism that has evolved from this parent. She sat back.

  The tone was as racy as ever cutting out the heavy, long windedness of Victorian prose. She could identify the same style as in the Twenty-first Century: bright, easy to read and provocative. She had to acknowledge, Lord Northcliffe had a genius touch. He seemed to know what the new reading public wanted, could identify with their impatience. She was impressed too, that he could get people to turn out this stuff morning and evening, every day.

  It was engrossing to read about the social reforms, to learn where they had originated. The progressive ideas advocated by William Booth and Seebohn Rowntree. Is he the same one whose father, the Liberal Quaker, manufactured chocolate bars? And Booth: the Salvation Army man? These ideas were being introduced by the Liberal Government through David Lloyd-George as Chancellor of the Exchequer and Churchill as President of the Board of Trade.

  Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill? Well I never.

  Liberal politicians were advocating a form of ‘social imperialism’ and as she read on she learned this was a policy of state intervention, to strengthen the bodies and abilities of people through nutrition and education. When added to the consciousness raising of the Non-Conformist movement, these reforms could not be held back. This movement toward National Insurance made great demands on Herbert Henry Asquith’s cool resolution and Lloyd-George’s fiery energy. She read what fierce opposition they were facing, especially from the House of Lords.

  But of course, filled with all those wealthy landlords they’d be the last to agree.

  The reporter gave a lively account of Lloyd-George mocking and denouncing the peers at every opportunity, but now the nobility was retaliating. Last night, in the House, they refused to pass his Finance Bill on which his people’s budget was based. She thought back. Would it be next year he would manage to decrease their power? She was pretty sure he would dissolve his Government in order to fight a general election –
and win.

  She moved on to the letters to the editor. Someone was most concerned that the old age pension scheme, which put five shillings in the pocket of men in their seventies, would encourage them to spend their last years in a life of debauchery.

  Ye…err right. There has to be one in every bunch.

  An article written about the country’s leading exporters and the large employers did reveal however, that these were worried men. They were living in a country committed to free trade, whereby they must import food and raw materials at the cheapest possible rate. They were complaining about how daily, they faced increasingly keen competition and this on top of a wall of tariffs.

  Sounds like the Australian businessman of today … oh where’m I thinking?

  These people felt money was tight; the Navy was costing more and more, the country simply could not afford these fancy benefits. She had to smile. They thought an increase in direct taxation might meet the bill, but tax was already so high – nine pence in the pound on earned income and a whopping one shilling in the pound on the unearned. She put down the paper and rested her head against the car seat to reflect on what she had read. By the end of the Edwardian era, all these major innovations would be in place and the lives of ordinary families would be transformed. A deep sigh escaped her. As yet they had no inkling of the sheer horror and the enormous casualties the Great War would wreak on every town, village and city in the land. Large tears formed and escaped from beneath closed lids. This would probably be the end of her – the people she was getting to know. For all her knowledge, she was helpless to mutate the course of destiny. She was not in a Sci-Fi movie, she had no miraculous powers.

  The tears continued as she suffered through this private grief and felt the loneliness creeping up inside her once more. Eventually she dashed them away and picked up the paper again. She had to deal with her helplessness, not indulge it. Grappling stoically to control her moment of weakness she shook her head and scanned more columns of interest. There were stunt races being organised in the countryside, then a competition offering fantastic prizes. ‘Fill in this coupon for your chance to win—’ Oh, how familiar. She found a section outlining campaigns for sudden and irrational causes. They were totally far-fetched. ‘Fill in this coupon and send your donation to—’ These Edwardians are such an inventive and unconventional lot. I do like them, though.

  Indeed, the paper had something for everyone. On her way through to the sports’ page at the back, she spotted the gossip and fashion sections for female readers. The demand seemed to be for news items that were brisk and brief. Nothing had changed.

  Amongst the usual reports on the local football scores, her eye was caught by a short column devoted to the exploits of a French inventor. Just over two months ago, Louis Bleriot had flown his monoplane across the English Channel. This represented the first successful flight across the open sea. Then followed a short review of previous flights: Orville and Wilbur Wright’s experiments with gasoline powered aircraft and their maiden flight in the Flyer, December 17th. 1903: at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. It had lasted about thirty seconds. Another Frenchman funnily enough, a bicycle manufacturer, like them, Paul Cornu, on November 13th. 1907, was the first man to fly a helicopter. The writer of the article was throwing down the challenge: How long will it take for someone of good English stock to match these exploits?

  Don’t know the answer to that one.

  At last, raising her head briefly, she was in time to see Matron bidding farewell to her distinguished visitor and secretary. Immediately, folding away the paper, she jumped out to be on duty. At their service!

  “We will spend the rest of the afternoon at the new art exhibition Mason.”

  “Yes my Lady. Where do we go?”

  “Take us to the Grafton Galleries, just off Bond Street.”

  “Yes my Lady.”

  On their way Miss Hewitt enquired of Mason if he liked the French impressionists. She was surprised to be directly addressed, but Francine Hewitt was a modern Miss. She answered that indeed she especially liked Cezanne and Monet.

  Lady Glencora continued: “We’re hoping to generate more interest for this show … help Monsieur Durand-Rouel, who has generously sponsored its delivery from Paris.”

  “Yes my Lady.”

  “If you have an interest you may accompany us, Mason. There will be few art appreciators there at this time of day and although not exactly a rush, we will be better than none.”

  “Thank you my Lady.” Rent a crowd Edwardian style, now this is novel. What an opportunity.

  “You may park out front. The doorman will be in attendance.”

  “Yes my Lady.”

  The Ladies were effusively greeted by the Patron who was meticulously polite then courteously, he nodded to Mallory. Having shown them through to the reserved room, he effacingly bowed himself out. Mallory observed that the proverbial British resistance to modern French painting was, indeed, in evidence. The poor attendance was a sad indictment of the Englishman’s tendency toward insularity, especially where the French were concerned. Perhaps it’s just in their history, she thought as an excuse.

  Miss Hewitt made an observation to both of them which Mallory considered generous of her, that the old Academicians, suspicious of anything French, have probably denounced this whole venture as another attempt to corrupt and then ruin the fair youth of the land.

  “Perhaps a bit extreme Francine, but I do agree. The fossils at the Society are angry with the artists who dare to desecrate their virgin canvases with ‘reckless daubs’ such as these.”

  They moved on.

  “I read an article in Punch Ma’am, put out by the New English Art Club commenting upon the current attitude of the gentlemen of the Royal Academy,” Francine expanded. “They have a deep seated fear because the manner and style of this art defies their ideas of painting and is also an ominous challenge to them. If I can quote: ‘Like a death sentence coming out of the unknown’”.

  Mallory found this extreme too, but the Edwardians were a twitchy mob, prone to see threats to their established order round every corner. They could never go back to that solid, Victorian view of the world where half the globe was coloured pink and the sun never set on the British Empire.

  Lady Glencora concurred. “But these are the times we live in.” She had witnessed for herself, that cultural elite, energetic with new-found confidence at Masterson’s lecture. Their world was bright with promise and she knew its progress could not be denied forever. Radiotelegraphy: the opportunities opening up through turbine driven ships: the timeless dream of flight within their sights. Was not news travelling faster than ever? They were determined to become the undisputed masters of the universe. The old certainties, one by one, were being disputed on every front, even if there was an underlying edge of darkness. That menace, looming on the horizon which Theodore and Virgo were always going on about, which Eustace would not see.

  The stroll continued, leaving Mallory to muse on the unexpected revelation that Lady Glencora was a complex creature with more to her than the initial encounter could reveal. Here were untapped depths of passionate commitment, reaching down fathoms below that regal surface, but she played her part so well. Perhaps, if it were not for her position, she too, would be in the vanguard of the idealistic elite. But how could she? For all her zeal, she was as imprisoned as a caged bird, its wings clipped, unable to fly free in the face of rigid decorum. She looked across at her, so earnestly talking as they admired the artist’s use of pigment; his skilful strokes. Was it possible she could be a woman out of time, just like herself only the other way around; Lady Glencora too soon – she, too late. Conceivably, this was where Lady Nigella found her rebellious spirit, although the Lady Ramona did not appear so inclined to flout conventions.

  Well, likely she would if the Honourable Miles would be party to it.

  She turned her scrutiny back to the paintings. Canvases were not only hung on walls, but were strategically placed on easels, su
ddenly catching the viewer’s attention. She followed along, taking everything in. The room was an enchanted grotto awash with vivid colour and coruscating light.

  Having absorbed the new offerings, the Ladies returned to the English Impressionist rooms. The contrast with the French was immediate. These artists were fascinated with the mystery of esoteric images, the blurred shapes dimly discerned in cryptic shadows. They managed to illuminate by implication, what others over-looked as commonplace. The style of these impressionists resonated with Mallory. The pre-eminent of the Edwardian avant-garde were all laid out for her to appreciate: Walter Richard Sickert, so typical of his period and revered by many of the younger generation. She stood before one of his best known renditions of the London music hall scene and marvelled at his ability for the under-statement: Augustus John and some lesser known masterpieces by his gifted sister; the absorbing mystical landscapes of Wilson Steer.

  Next were Sir William Orpen’s Homage to Monet and his New English Art Club Jury, where they were deciding which pictures to select. Amazing! This was like an illustrated guide to Edwardian artistic life. The new painters were steadily moving away from established picture-making and from the routine methodology of the New English School. They preferred foggy London streets and dark interiors inhabited by ghostly shades. She was struck by the privacy of their style, so very English. It seemed there were those who had begun to look for spiritual satisfaction more through art and culture than conventional religion; ‘Divine Creation’ was just as likely to be seen as ‘Nature’s Creation’.