“Herbert Thwaite got ’is knighthood, and ’e didn’t move away from Bradford.”
“I’m sure Herbert Thwaite found influential sponsors in some other way.”
Henstall loaded his fork. “Thwaite built a school for ’is workers, and a little village with special ’ousing. Last time I saw him ’e was thinking of makin’ working day shorter.”
“And what do you think of that?”
“Must be soft in the ’ead. How can yer keep production goin’ on less than fourteen hours a day? It’s ’ard enough now.”
“Precisely. And what are his girls going to do with their free time? It’s just a licence for drunkenness and debauchery. These people have no education. It’s a service to them to keep them busy.”
He replied through the mouthful he was chewing. “Ay, but all that good work got ’im noticed, didn’t it?”
“Edward, you know better than anyone that the key to success in business is to spend your money where it counts. Lady Bebington has her pet charities. Talk to her about them. Be impressed. Make a generous donation. Lord Bebington is very influential in the government. You’ll be noticed all right.”
He was silent for a while as he worked steadily through his plate. Then he drained his cup of tea and sat back, running his tongue around his teeth.
“I suppose you’ll be wantin’ another new dress.”
“Well of course I’ll be wearing a new dress! Whatever next! Do you want me to turn up to the Bebingtons wearing something they’ve seen before? Really, Edward, you do surprise me sometimes! Quite apart from anything else, you don’t seem to appreciate that I am a living advertisement for your products when I attend these functions.”
“What d’ya mean? You ’ardly ever choose materials from my range.”
“Well, yes, but they don’t know that, do they? They’re fine silks, and that’s all that matters. The ladies I mix with are your richest and most important clientele, you know.”
“Oh ay, I know that,” he breathed. “Oh well, at least it doesn’t cost you much to get the stuff made up. I think you pay that seamstress of yours less than I pay my factory girls. And my girls only work six in the morning to eight at night. Your woman – what’s her name, Megan? – looks like she works all day and all night. I don’t know why she puts up with it. There must be dozens of ladies around who’d give her more money than you.”
“I’m not having the girl take my styles and patterns to some other woman to flaunt in my face!”
His eyebrows lifted. “She’s a free agent. ’ow can you stop her?”
“How? By making it clear to her, Edward, that if she doesn’t work for me she most certainly won’t work for anyone else.”
“You can’t guarantee that, can you?”
“I most certainly can.” She smiled grimly. “I’m already quite well connected around here. I only have to drop something into the conversation. ‘I’m not suggesting anything, of course, but I’ve noticed that every time she comes to the house for a fitting something seems to go missing’. Or, ‘She does seem to overestimate the amount of material I need. Do you think she might be holding some back to make dresses that she can sell on the side?’ Oh, it really would be hardly any trouble at all, I assure you. And she knows it.”
“What about ’er ’usband?”
“Dead. I think he drank himself to death – you know these people.” She sighed. “It’s an act of charity to employ her really. If it weren’t for me she’d end up in the workhouse.”
*
“Excuse me, ma’am. Megan is here with your dress.”
“All right, show her in.”
Megan hesitated at the threshold. “Excuse me, Mrs. Henstall, my daughter Molly’s with me. She’s been helping me with the dress. Is it all right if she comes in?”
Mrs. Henstall responded with an impatient flutter of the fingertips.
Megan and her daughter entered the dressing-room, bearing a large box between them. They began to unpack the dress. As they did so, Molly stole quick glances at Mrs. Henstall. Last night Molly had helped with the dress until she could barely stay awake. Her mother had packed her off to bed with the assurance that it would only take her another hour to finish the job. But when she’d looked at her mother’s weary face this morning she knew without asking that the poor woman had been working all night again. Now she was curious to see the lady who gave her such dire employment.
Although Molly understood that Mrs. Henstall was only in her late twenties, the woman that she saw seated at the dressing table already had a matronly appearance. Her hips were full and her jaw heavy. Her hair, which had been dyed a reddish-brown colour, was dull and coarse. It had been gathered and pinned high on her head but Molly noticed that some black curls had escaped which, she thought, looked quite unsightly on the back of the woman’s neck. Her mouth was set in a permanent look of disdain. A habit of wrinkling her nose briefly, as if she had caught a whiff of something unpleasant, had left lines at the bridge of her nose that even a heavy application of powder had failed to disguise. She was wrinkling her nose again as she watched them.
“Oh dear, is it badly creased?”
“I packed it very carefully, ma’am. I feel sure it will hang out but I’d be happy to give it a little press if you like.”
Then Mrs. Henstall caught sight of Megan’s hands.
“Megan! Your hands! They’re bleeding!”
Megan shrank, trying to conceal the red smudges on her fingers. “I’m sorry, ma’am…”
“You’ll get blood all over the dress! Oh, leave it! Leave it alone!” She rose impatiently and pulled at a heavy sash to summon her maid. “Sally will help me on with it.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Megan whispered, “I was sewing all night…”
And it was so cold she couldn’t feel her fingers being shredded by the blunt end of the needle, you ungrateful woman, Molly thought, although of course she said nothing.
Even a close examination of the dress – and Mrs. Henstall examined it very closely – failed to reveal any traces of blood on the material. And even a critical appraisal – and Mrs. Henstall appraised it very critically—failed to reveal any fault with the fit or the quality of the workmanship.
“It looks very nice on you, ma’am,” Megan ventured softly.
“It’s beautiful,” Sally agreed.
Mrs. Henstall ignored both of them. She was staring at Molly in a way that the girl found quite uncomfortable. Mrs. Henstall’s lips curled in a bleak smile that did not ascend to her eyes. “Come here, girl,” she said.
Molly moved forward and stood in front of her.
“What’s your name again?”
“Molly, ma’am.”
“How old are you, Molly?”
“Fourteen, ma’am.”
“You have nice hair, Molly.” She described a pirouette with her fingers. “Turn around.”
Molly did as she was told. She did have beautiful hair. It cascaded like silk over her shoulders and down her back to the level of her waist. She brushed it every morning until it shone. When there was time, her mother liked to brush it with her while they chatted happily together. These were precious, close moments in a hard existence.
“Wait outside, will you, Molly?” Mrs. Henstall commanded. “I have business to discuss with your mother.”
Megan said nothing when she emerged from the dressing room. On the rear staircase they encountered the housekeeper, a ramrod-straight woman who was dressed to the neck in black. She acknowledged them with a brisk nod. Megan dipped her head and said politely, “Good morning, Mrs. Gillot”.
The woman’s posture and expression did not change, but as she passed them she said in a voice of quiet authority, “Go via the kitchen, Megan. Cook’s waiting for you,” and walked briskly upstairs.
The kitchen was hot and full of wonderful, appetising smells. Cook greeted them.
“Well, look at little Molly. Not so little now. She’s a real beauty, and no mistake. Look at her lovely ha
ir. Ain’t she got lovely hair, Meg?”
An old lady, who was working at a deep sink and looking at them over her shoulder, smiled toothlessly and nodded vigorously.
“Lord love you, Megan,” Cook continued. “You look all wore out. Come and sit here. We’ll get somethin’ nice and hot down you ’fore you go.”
They sat at the massive wooden table and Cook set a loaf of freshly baked bread on the table, and a bowl in front of each of them, into which she ladled soup from a steaming cauldron hanging in the fireplace. There were vegetables and potatoes and even pieces of meat in the soup. Without prompting, Cook refilled the bowls three times before Megan held up a hand to signal enough. When they rose to leave she was close to tears.
“God bless you,” she said quietly to Cook.
“Lord, if you’re going to bless anyone, bless Mrs. Gillot. I didn’t even know you was in the ’ouse until she told me. Come on, my loves, you can go out the side entrance here.”
She watched them go, her mouth puckered in sympathy.
*
“My hair? She wants my hair?”
“That’s what she was talking to me about. She wants to make a hairpiece out of it. She’ll pay me well for it, she says.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I couldn’t.”
“And what did she say?”
“She wondered out loud if she shouldn’t dispense with my services. She said Emily Wainwright has made some nice dresses for a friend of hers. She does lovely work, she said, and quite inexpensively.” She swallowed hard. “And her fingers don’t bleed.”
“Mother, why don’t you let her take on this Emily Wainwright? You’ll be well rid of her. You’ll get other clients, ladies who’ll appreciate your work, who’ll pay you decently for it. You’ll see.”
Megan sighed. “You don’t understand, child. She’s a very spiteful, jealous woman. She won’t let me sew for anyone else, even if I’m no longer making dresses for her. She’s said as much. I’ll have no work. There’ll be nothing coming in.”
“Unless…”
Megan looked at her daughter, nodded, and then burst into tears.
“I should never have taken you with me, only the dress was too heavy to carry on my own…”
Molly put her arms around her mother. Her voice was flat.
“Don’t cry, mother, don’t cry, she’s not worth it. Let her have my hair if that’s what she wants. I don’t care. It’ll grow again.”
*
“I say, Tabatha, our hostess certainly has a fine head of hair, what?”
“Don’t be silly, Bertie, it’s not her own.”
“Oh, isn’t it? Really? Well, looks very fine anyway. Oh, there’s Angus. Must ask him how that lame hunter of his is.”
“Bertie, the concert starts in fifteen minutes. I want you back before then. I’m not going in on my own.”
“Right you are, my dear.”
Lucinda Henstall’s soirées were – she had to do herself justice – an inspiration. They enabled her to demonstrate the quality of the Henstall table and cellar and to show off the fine china, crystal and silverware. Her generosity as a hostess usually resulted in return invitations, which helped her to circulate in her chosen echelon of society. The recital in the drawing room, when the eating and drinking were over, established her as someone of cultivated tastes, although in reality she had no interest whatsoever in music. Finally, by holding the soirées during the week she could legitimately spare herself the presence of her husband, whose lack of social skills and graces were a constant embarrassment to her, while enabling her to hint at the extent of their properties in the north. Her husband was, of course, only too pleased to be elsewhere on these occasions for him to entertain any concerns about their expense.
The recitals offered other opportunities. Her guests did not expect a busy hostess to be present the entire evening. Nor did they remark if a handsome young man ventured out onto the terrace with a small cigar, especially if they did not observe him taking a short cut to a private staircase. Mrs. Henstall would make it clear to the musicians that she was paying them for a programme of at least one hour, and then she could indulge in some quite wild liaisons, yet still be on hand at the end of the evening to see the guests out to their carriages.
The current object of her attentions was the young Marquis of Lambourne. He was a tall, rather elegant young man, given to wearing military uniforms, although as he had never served in any regiment the uniforms he wore invariably came from beyond the Empire. He was keenly interested in expanding his already extensive experience of married women, and did not feel constrained by a nice regard for size, shape or countenance. He was, moreover, totally discreet and therefore the ideal partner for Lucinda Henstall, who had no intention of allowing a little immoderate pleasure to disturb her comfortable domestic arrangements.
As soon as she had introduced the musicians she withdrew gracefully and hurried to the private bedroom where the Marquis was already waiting for her. Their appetites were keen and they paused only long enough to remove her dress and some nether garments before she fell back on the bed reaching her arms out to him. He entered her quickly and she immediately wrapped her legs around his back. She began to thrash her head from one side to the other, and luxuriant tresses of hair – Molly’s lovely hair – were soon spread out all over the pillow.
*
Molly went to her room and sat in front of the mirror, the mirror in which she had so often looked as she and her mother brushed her gleaming hair. She had not ventured outside the house since this precious gift had been shorn from her head. There had been no tears, no recriminations. Her mother had fashioned a little mobcap, trimmed with spare lengths of lace, and she wore this all the time, to spare her mother’s feelings more than her own. Now she pulled the cap off, shaking her head out of sheer habit, only to be reminded instantly of the weight that was no longer there. In the mirror was a reflection that she barely recognized as her own, her countenance pale, the outlines of her skull distinct under a short stubble which was all that remained of her crowning glory. She started to stare beyond her reflection. A new intensity entered her gaze and she felt herself to be travelling. Images formed fleetingly and dissolved: Mrs. Gillot’s austere expression, Cook’s broad, kindly features, her mother covering her anguished face with her hands, and finally a stable image of extraordinary clarity: that woman, that vain and selfish woman, her head moving restlessly on a pillow with Molly’s hair spreading out over it. Her eyes narrowed and a powerful surge of hatred flowed like a black river from every pore of her body.
*
Anyone who made love to Lucinda Henstall had to be prepared for a certain amount of noise. She moaned, she sighed, she blabbered incoherently, and she cried out. The Marquis closed his eyes, doing his best to shut out these distractions, and concentrated fully on the agreeable sensations that were growing and spreading in his loins. So absorbed were they in the pursuit of their own private pleasures that they failed to notice something. The hair on the pillow had begun to move.
The furthest flung strands began to stir first, sliding slowly across the pillow, joining other strands, coalescing gradually into a single, long switch. And then, with every thrust of the Marquis’s loins, the hair twisted.
The Marquis began to surge towards his goal. He dismissed her strange, muffled cries as further signs of her mounting pleasure, and responded to her bucking body by simply riding her harder. Finally he reached his shuddering climax and dropped his head to her bosom. At this point it registered with him that she had been unusually passive at the end. He opened his eyes and recoiled.
Lucinda Henstall was dead. Her eyes were open and bulging; her swollen tongue protruded between blue lips. Wrapped tightly around her throat, like the coils of a constricting snake, were the successive turns of a long, twisted rope of gleaming hair.
*
The butler would later recall, for the benefit of the police, how the Marquis of Lambourne had appeared su
ddenly in the entrance hall in a highly agitated and dishevelled state, and asked for his carriage, even though the recital was still in progress. The police tried in vain to take a statement from the hysterical maid who had gone to look for her mistress when the baffled guests were becoming impatient to take their leave. When Mr. Henstall had been acquainted with what had taken place he promptly gave instructions to his solicitors to dispose of all his interests south of Macclesfield.
*
The people filed out of the church, following the coffin, and gathered in a small black knot around the grave. A thin drizzle of rain fell. The rising and falling tones of the vicar’s voice carried across the cemetery. Then the group broke up and people walked quickly away. Near the gate they passed a young girl with a mobcap, standing silently with her mother, hand in hand.
“Who were those two, Gerald, do you know?” asked a woman, as he held the gate open for her.
“Don’t know, dear. Never seen them before. Why?”
“It’s odd, that’s all.”
“What’s odd, my love?”
“That young lady was smiling.”
[First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]
FLAUBERT
It wasn’t a real bad cut, but it was bad enough – I knew I’d have to get him some medical attention. You don’t just let things ride when you’re working way out in the boonies. That thumb could go septic and fall off or something and then he’d sue for compensation and the Company would go bananas and want to know what kind of a Senior Field Operator neglects the only employee he’s responsible for, and so on and so forth.
Paul was looking even more hapless than usual. He showed the wound to me and then quickly clamped a none-too-clean rag back on it. Blood was already soaking through.
“I’m sorry, Marty. I was just trimming the hydraulic feed. The blade went through quicker than I expected and right into my thumb. I’m really sorry, Marty.”
The Tomb and Other Stories Page 7
