The Silver Ladies of London

by Eames, Lesley

  Nothing had changed in the Turner house apparently. Ruth had gone home with small gifts for every member of the family but had been left in no doubt that the gifts had been considered paltry coming from a girl who’d inherited a fortune.

  Grace reached out and squeezed Ruth’s hand. ‘There’s more goodness in you than in the rest of your family put together.’

  Ruth smiled her thanks. She wasn’t a fool and knew full well that all the Turners were awful. She was just too kind-hearted to give up on them.

  Lydia refused to visit at all. ‘There isn’t any point,’ she said. And that was the end of the conversation.

  The preparations went on and one day Owen walked along the mews again as Grace was admiring the sign Jenny and Lydia had just fastened to the wall.

  ‘Silver Ladies,’ he approved. ‘It’s a good name.’

  Lydia had made the sign from a rectangle of wood. Jenny had painted it white, then added the words Silver Ladies in the same swirling, silver-grey lettering she’d chosen for their stationery. Beneath it plainer black lettering spelt out, Chauffeur-driven luxury car hire and their new telephone number. It looked wonderfully stylish, especially as the office door and garage gates had also been painted silver-grey.

  ‘Does this mean you’re open for business?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Feeling excited?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I expect you’re feeling nervous too, but that’s only natural. The best of luck, Miss Lavenham. I look forward to hearing how you get on.’

  After another few days, Silver Ladies really was ready to be launched. Grace studied the business cards and notepaper that had just been delivered, then looked around the office in satisfaction. It was as pretty as a boudoir, with pale grey walls and white-painted floor. Jenny had transformed the shabby furniture by painting it a slightly darker grey, then picking out the edges in silver to resemble French antiques. On the desk sat a telephone, a diary, the silver clock and writing set that had belonged to Ruth’s Aunt Vera, and a typewriter. Not a new typewriter, of course, but it worked perfectly. Drapes of dove grey velvet covered the sofa. There were grey velvet cushions too and smaller drapes of silver-grey gauze. More gauze draped the windows and the screen that hid an ugly electric fuse box.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Grace said, as they gathered together to enjoy this special moment.

  ‘There’s more,’ Jenny announced. ‘Wait there.’

  She frogmarched Lydia into the living quarters and returned alone a few minutes later.

  ‘Friends and colleagues, I present the Silver Ladies uniform.’

  Lydia stomped into the office with rolling eyes, but her attitude did nothing to reduce the impact of her appearance. Her dress was a beautifully simple pale grey shift. Over it was a coat of soft grey wool trimmed with silver braid, the style reminiscent of the sort of uniforms male chauffeurs wore but cut to flatter a more feminine figure. A matching cap was placed at a rakish angle and, to finish the ensemble, Lydia wore silk stockings and soft leather shoes with silver buckles and racy little heels.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to prancing about in these heels,’ Lydia grumbled.

  ‘You look spectacular,’ Grace told her.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Ruth agreed.

  ‘Now the hard work really begins,’ Grace said, feeling frissons of both excitement and anxiety. ‘We need to find some customers.’

  Twenty

  ‘Thank you,’ Jenny told the concierge of the Brakespeare Hotel as he took a Silver Ladies business card.

  But they’d walked only a few steps away when they heard a tearing sound and, turning, saw he’d ripped the card into pieces.

  Lydia bounded towards him in protest, but Jenny grabbed her arm and pulled her to the door. It wouldn’t help to get into an argument. The concierge didn’t want to recommend Silver Ladies and that was that.

  ‘Grace warned us that not everyone would help us,’ Jenny said. ‘At least he didn’t laugh in our faces like the last one,’ Jenny said.

  ‘The last one was a pig,’ Lydia agreed.

  The Rupert Hotel was their next port of call. The concierge listened courteously, but his face was sorrowful. ‘You look nice girls,’ he said, glancing warily at Lydia who was scowling. ‘But you’re in the wrong line of business. Our gentlemen guests would think it unmanly to be driven by ladies and our lady guests would think it…’

  ‘Fast?’ Jenny suggested. ‘Flighty?’

  ‘Our clientele are traditional.’

  ‘That means they’re miserable old dragons,’ Lydia muttered as she followed Jenny back outside.

  The concierge at the Bruford Hotel took a different approach. He leaned towards them with cocky familiarity. ‘You’re trying to make a living. I understand that. Because I’m trying to make a living too.’ He waited expectantly.

  ‘You want a bribe?’ Lydia demanded.

  ‘Commission,’ Jenny corrected. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  ‘All I’m saying is, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’ He sent them a knowing leer.

  ‘How much would it cost to scratch your back?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Twenty per cent sounds right to me.’

  Lydia looked ready to grab the man by the throat.

  ‘We’ll give it some thought,’ Jenny said hastily, bundling Lydia out again.

  ‘What a snake,’ Lydia said. ‘If we increase our prices to allow for bribes, we won’t be competitive.’

  ‘But without the bribes, he won’t recommend us.’

  They’d had some successes, though. Three ladies’ clubs had taken cards as had a number of shops and hotels. Silver Ladies had only been open a week, but they couldn’t afford to build trade slowly. They needed to start bringing money in now and that meant getting themselves recommended by as many businesses as possible.

  ‘The trouble is we’re mostly talking to men,’ Lydia said ‘What we really need is to talk to women.’

  But women didn’t run the sort of hotels whose female customers could afford private car hire.

  An idea floated into Jenny’s head. A crazy idea? Perhaps. But every idea was worth pursuing. ‘I need to buy more buttons,’ she fibbed, not wanting to get anyone else’s hopes up prematurely. ‘Will you continue with the hotels?’

  ‘Might as well.’

  ‘Try to be nice,’ Jenny advised.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t throttle anyone.’

  Lydia strode off and Jenny winced at the thought of the damage she must be doing to her heels. They were wearing their uniforms to attract attention and were succeeding in that if in nothing else, but Lydia’s bold strides weren’t gentle and there was no money for repairs or replacements. Money was horribly tight.

  For entertainment they were depending on the free things London had to offer: the parks, the museums and one evening, a lecture on archaeological discoveries in Egypt. They’d hoped to hear about the finding of the Pharaoh Tutankhamun’s tomb and the curse that was supposed to attach to those who disturbed it, especially as Lord Carnarvon, the man who’d financed the excavation, had died recently from an infected mosquito bite. Unfortunately, the speaker had been dull and Lydia had resorted to reading The Motor Manual, which she carried in her bag at all times.

  They’d joined the library too. Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles had been a wonderful read, but the library didn’t stock the motoring and fashion magazines Lydia and Jenny liked. Seeing the price of Vogue had reduced to a shilling, Jenny had been sorely tempted to buy a copy but she’d resisted even that.

  If the business could bring in some money, they could start to have fun. They could watch Anna Pavlova dance at the Royal Opera House, attend concerts, and see some of the plays and films that were showing in theatres and cinemas all over London.

  Keen to make it happen, Jenny found Fleet Street on the map, then walked there to save on the bus fare. Lydia had driven them along Fleet Street the day they’d gone out in the Silve
r Lady, but it felt even more bustling now Jenny was on foot.

  All the famous newspapers were here and many others she’d never heard of. Jenny’s courage faltered, but what had she to lose except her pride?

  Stepping into the vestibule of the Daily Clarion, Jenny found a wall plaque which listed the names of the senior staff. Committing one name to memory, she approached an enquiry desk staffed by two young women.

  ‘Might I have a word with Miss de Carlisle?’ Jenny asked, and was puzzled when the girls swapped amused glances. ‘The Women’s Page editor?’ she pressed.

  More amusement. ‘Miss de Carlisle doesn’t see visitors, but you’re welcome to write a letter,’ one of them said.

  ‘Constance de Carlisle isn’t her real name?’ Jenny guessed. ‘I don’t care if she’s called Hilda Higginbottom. I only want five minutes of her time.’

  ‘Not Hilda,’ the girl corrected. ‘Howard.’

  ‘He’s a man? Are all editors men? Even of the women’s pages?’

  ‘Most of them.’

  Jenny supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Wasn’t Lydia always saying that men had all the best opportunities?

  ‘There’s a woman at the Herald,’ the girl told her, ‘though I’ve heard she’s more frightening than any man.’

  ‘The Herald?’

  ‘London Evening Herald. It’s just across the street.’

  Jenny’s stomach fluttered at the thought of a frightening woman, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  She crossed the road to the Herald only to realise there was no helpful list of senior staff here. She should have asked the girls at the Clarion for the name, but it was too late now.

  A messenger boy swept past and approached the reception desk. ‘Package for Miss O’Hara.’

  ‘Second floor,’ the receptionist told him, then murmured, ‘Good luck,’ as though he’d need it.

  On impulse, Jenny followed the boy upstairs. As they neared the second floor, she could hear shouting. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Enough! Out!’

  A flustered woman burst through a door and scuttled down the corridor. The door closed behind her and Jenny saw it bore a sign announcing:

  MARGARET O’HARA WOMEN’S INTERESTS.

  The messenger gave it a tentative knock. Someone snatched it open.

  ‘What?’ a woman demanded.

  She was forty or thereabouts, tall and thin with bright orange hair, an outrageously short orange dress and large feet stuffed into high-heeled orange shoes. Even her cigarette holder was orange as were the strings of beads that reached to her waist.

  ‘Delivery for Miss O’Hara,’ the boy announced nervously.

  ‘I’m Maggie O’Hara.’ There was a hint of Irish in her voice. She clicked her fingers and the messenger handed the package over. Tearing it open, she walked back into the room, glanced at the contents – papers of some sort? – and tossed them onto a table. ‘Atrocious.’

  Several other people were present. One of them strode unhurriedly to the table to see what she’d thrown aside. All day, Jenny had been seeing men in sober suits or dark workmen’s clothing. This young man was like a breath of summer. Tall and trim, he wore cream flannel trousers and a pale blue jacket that wouldn’t have been out of place at a garden party. His hair was as fair as Jenny’s, and when he looked at Maggie O’Hara, Jenny saw his eyes were just as blue. He tapped one of the papers. No, not papers. Photographs. ‘This is why you need me, dearest.’

  Maggie O’Hara snorted. ‘Still here, Mr Fitzpatrick? Your welcome – such as it was – expired some time ago.’

  Mr Fitzpatrick simply smiled at her cheerfully.

  The messenger boy had hung back, waiting, but now he coughed to remind Maggie O’Hara he was still here. ‘I need a signature.’ he explained.

  ‘What you’ve brought me isn’t worth signing for,’ Maggie O’Hara told him, but she scribbled in his receipt book and he beat a hasty retreat. ‘Close that door!’ Maggie O’Hara roared after him, but then she noticed Jenny. She frowned, looked her slowly up and down, then made a circular motion with her finger. ‘Turn.’

  Jenny turned in a circle willingly, keen to do everything she could to get this powerful woman on her side.

  ‘At least one person in this godforsaken city has a sense of style. It’s a feminine look, but it reminds me of something.’

  ‘A chauffeur’s uniform?’ Jenny offered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s because I’m a chauffeur,’ Jenny explained, seizing her opportunity. ‘Or rather an assistant to one until I learn to drive. I’m part of a new car-hire business for women. Silver Ladies. We have a Rolls-Royce which is purest silver. I thought you might want to feature us in your newspaper.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ Her tone suggested she thought Jenny was being cheeky but she didn’t look offended, perhaps because she’d used a lot of cheek herself to get to where she was.

  ‘I came to you because you’ve made a success of yourself in business and I thought you might be interested in other women who want to succeed in business.’

  ‘Have you been taking letters in flattery from Fitzpatrick here? Who’s still outstaying his welcome, I see.’

  Jenny glanced at Mr Fitzpatrick, who sent her a grin. What a nice smile he had.

  She turned back to Maggie O’Hara. ‘There are four of us. All forging our way.’

  ‘Successfully?’

  ‘Our business is new. But we’re determined to succeed.’

  ‘Hmm. I write news, Miss… What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Mallory. Jenny Mallory.’

  ‘I write news, Miss Mallory. I write about reality. If I walked into Trafalgar Square and climbed Nelson’s Column naked, that would be news. Merely announcing an intention to do so wouldn’t be news because it might never happen and then my readers would be disappointed. I’m not in the business of disappointing my readers.’

  ‘I see.’ Jenny swallowed down disappointment.

  ‘What you’re looking for is advertising and for that you need to see the staff on the floor below. Naturally there’ll be a cost.’

  Which Silver Ladies couldn’t afford.

  ‘Come back when you’ve some real news.’ With that, Maggie O’Hara began to bellow at one of her team members.

  Feeling awkward now, Jenny turned away and walked to the door. There was a small table beside it. She threw down a couple of business cards and left.

  She’d almost reached the bottom of the stairs when she heard someone calling. ‘Miss Mallory!’

  Looking up, she saw Mr Fitzpatrick.

  ‘A moment of your time,’ he called.

  He jogged lightly down the remaining steps, then accompanied her onto Fleet Street.

  ‘Johnnie Fitzpatrick,’ he said, offering a hand, which Jenny took. His eyes danced good humour. ‘I have an idea that might help with your new venture,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Jenny felt excitement flare.

  ‘It’s only a possibility, so I can’t promise anything. And I can’t explain now because I have to be somewhere else. But I’ll be in touch soon. At least, I hope I will.’

  Only hope? Jenny’s excitement faded. Mr Fitzpatrick’s idea looked like yet another dead end.

  He ran across Fleet Street, dodging a delivery van, then turned to wave before hastening on. He looked a happy-go-lucky sort of person whose enthusiasms came and went like sunshine. Jenny supposed he’d have forgotten all about her by evening.

  She headed back to Silver Ladies, thankful that she’d kept her idea to herself so no one else would be disappointed by its failure. Would Johnnie Fitzpatrick’s idea have proven equally useless? Probably. Even so, Jenny would have liked to know what he’d had in mind.

  Twenty-one

  The customer had tried on so many pairs of shoes that they surrounded Ruth in two large semi-circles. Ruth didn’t mind helping customers who were genuinely interested in buying shoes but too many of them were simply idling their time away. It was terribly
tedious to have to attend to them, then return all the shoes to their boxes and stack them back on their shelves. Then there were the customers who found fault with everything from quality to price. Ruth was always glad when closing time came and she could go home and see what had happened at Silver Ladies. ‘Goodness,’ Ruth said, walking in one night. ‘What are these?’

  ‘Pretend parcels,’ Lydia explained. ‘I’ve been carrying them behind Jenny as she pretends to be a wealthy young woman out shopping. Jenny’s idea.’

  ‘I thought it might be another way of getting noticed,’ Jenny said. She’d wrapped the boxes in paper and tied them with ribbon. She’d even painted names of pretend shops along the sides – Celestine, Roberto and Antoinette.

  ‘Who’d have thought these boxes once contained sardines, boot laces and custard?’ Lydia mocked.

  ‘They’re wonderful.’ Ruth was in favour of anything that helped Silver Ladies. She only wished she had more to contribute herself but she wasn’t the sort of person who had ideas.

  ‘There’s something else to see,’ Jenny told her.

  Down in the garage a sign had been fixed to the car’s driver’s door to announce the name and purpose of the business, together with the telephone number. It was a pretty sign like the one outside.

  ‘People who see us will know the car is for hire with a sign like this. There’s another one on the passenger door. They’re attached by magnets so we can put them on and off as we like.’

  ‘Clever, isn’t it?’ Grace said, when Ruth returned upstairs, impressed once more by her friends’ ingenuity. ‘There are two letters for you today.’

  One was addressed in her mother’s writing and was certain to contain the usual litany of complaints. The other was addressed in the laboured handwriting common to Ruth’s brothers, though none had written to her before. Percy must be complaining too – or asking for money.

  Sighing, Ruth sat on the sofa to read them. As expected, her mother simply carped about the price of food and medicine, the possibility of a rent increase, the lack of help…