by Mary Hooper
In the middle of that night – or at four in the morning, to be precise – Grace woke from a deep sleep to find Jane at the window of their room, looking out into the darkness.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked sleepily.
‘Something . . . but I don’t know what,’ answered Jane in a nervous whisper. ‘The bells have been tolling for an hour or more – can’t you hear them? And I can see people in the street.’
Grace, realising that she too could hear bells, sat up in bed. It was a monotonous, heavy tolling, and not just from their local church, but also from what sounded like a score of others. ‘Have you ever heard bells like this before?’
Jane shook her head. ‘Perhaps it’s war,’ she said anxiously. ‘Or a terrible fire.’
‘Do go and ask someone!’ Grace urged her. ‘Find out who else is awake.’
But Jane was too scared, so Grace lit a candle, wrapped a blanket around herself against the bitter cold and went out on to the landing. She found two of the seamstresses there, talking excitedly to a mason down in the yard.
‘What is it?’ Grace asked. ‘Why are all the bells ringing?’
‘We don’t know!’ said one of the girls.
‘We’ve sent Wilf into the street to find out,’ said the other.
As they waited, from the direction of the reception rooms came the sudden clanging of another bell – the handbell that Mr or Mrs Unwin sometimes used to summon the servants for church, or to announce something noteworthy. Grace went back into her bedroom to tell Jane that she should make haste and come downstairs.
In a front reception room one gas light had been lit, its glimmer causing a tall marble angel to throw a soft, wavering shadow right across one wall. Mr George Unwin waited there, fully dressed and frowning, arrived from Kensington and eager to tell his workers the news.
After calling for silence, he said, ‘No doubt you’ll all be wondering what’s happening.’ There were voices of assent and he went on, ‘It is my sad duty to tell you that the Prince Consort, the husband of our dear queen, died last night.’
There was a collective intake of breath from those in the room and one or two of the girls began crying. Grace thought of that handsome, ardent face she’d seen at the carriage window, and then about the epitaphs she’d read on the tombstones only the day before. They had spoken truly: Death was waiting in line for everyone, and was no respecter of one’s station in life.
‘I didn’t know he was ill, sir!’ someone called.
‘What about the queen? It will kill her.’
Mr Unwin said, ‘I need hardly tell you what a blow this is to the country. A national disaster.’
There came murmurs of agreement, several sobs.
‘However . . .’ Mr Unwin stopped, coughed. ‘While this is doubtless a tragedy for all of us, some may, er . . .’ He paused, wondering how to put it. ‘Some may find it more of a tragedy than others. And some – though of course every bit as devastated as everyone else – may not be . . . quite . . .’
He gave up the effort of trying to tell them in the most decent way possible that he and Mrs Unwin had already discussed the matter and thought that Prince Albert’s death would signal a renaissance in the mourning industry, for surely the whole nation would want to wear black.
‘The thoughts of everyone are with our beloved queen,’ he finished devoutly.
x
It was, Grace observed two days later, most extraordinary: the whole world seemed to have turned black overnight. Shops, omnibuses, hackney carriages, trains, trees, horses, restaurants and houses had all become draped in yards of bombazine or crêpe. Dogs wore black collars, cats had black bows and babies had their long white gowns trimmed with black grosgrain. It was as if people wanted to prove their loyalty to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert – or perhaps wished others to think they were part of the aristocracy and thus connected to the royals.
Ordinary funerals were hurried on or delayed until after Prince Albert’s, which was fixed for the 23rd December, and Grace, desperate to call upon Lily in order to discover the truth about her mysterious suitor, soon realised that she was not going to be able to do this, for at six o’clock in the evening two days later, the funeral workers were again summoned into the red room by Mr Unwin. Mrs Unwin was there also, dressed in a very smart watered-silk mourning gown, a black fur bolero over her shoulders, a three-row black pearl necklace around her neck and looking, Grace heard one of the girls mutter, like Lady Muck.
‘Staff and servants,’ Mr Unwin began portentously, ‘following the death of our queen’s dearly beloved husband, a message has come from Buckingham Palace to say that the queen wishes everyone in the land to make a decent mourning.’
Some of the servants exchanged puzzled looks.
‘A decent mourning,’ Mrs Unwin repeated, adjusting her pearls in order to draw attention to them. She had been waiting for just such an event – a major and significant funeral – in order to give them an airing.
‘In memory of our dear Prince Albert, the whole of Britain will be required to wear, at the very least, a black armband,’ Mr Unwin explained. ‘And those who have connections with Court will be required to be in full mourning for three months.’
Mrs Unwin gave a wise, sad nod at this. The Unwins had absolutely no connections with Court, but Mrs Unwin had decided that she and Charlotte would be in mourning for six months at the very least, would correspond only on black-edged paper and also have the family brougham relined in bombazine.
‘Half-mourning will follow for another three months after, and then quarter-mourning,’ said Mr Unwin.
‘Indeed.’ Mrs Unwin dabbed her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief, planning her wardrobe of flattering lilacs and mauves.
While his wife was engaged in looking sorrowful, Mr Unwin went on, ‘With regard to mourning wear, some of you will know that my cousin, Mr Sylvester Unwin, owns the Unwin Mourning Emporium in Oxford Street.’
The workers nodded. They all did know.
‘He has asked for our help.’ He paused momentarily for effect, then went on, ‘The mourning store has been utterly inundated with shoppers, both personal and postal. They begin queuing outside at six o’clock in the morning, and are still arriving at six o’clock at night.’
‘They have tried to order entry by timed ticket,’ put in Mrs Unwin, ‘but still can’t cope with the vast number of people.’
‘He can’t take their money fast enough!’ Mr Unwin shouted, becoming rather over-excited. His wife nudged him hard, and he continued in a more sober fashion, ‘What all this means is that Mr Sylvester Unwin has asked for as many staff as we can spare to go to work temporarily at the store in Oxford Street. Everyone will be given brief training as to how an exclusive store works, and each of you will be partnered by an experienced person. We will only keep a skeleton staff here.’ He paused. ‘Skeleton staff. Rather good, what?’
There was a little respectful laughter before he read out the names of those not expected to go to work in the store: the blacksmith and his boys, two country-born grooms and a few elderly seamstresses were clearly unsuitable for waiting upon gentry. All the young women, however, including Grace, were to go along first thing the following morning.
x
Chapter Nineteen
The Unwin Mourning Emporium was close to Oxford Circus in London’s famous Oxford Street, and positioned quite close to Jay’s Mourning Warehouse, the first and most famous of those large stores which sold nothing but mourning clothes, accessories and ephemera. A great deal of rivalry existed between them regarding who stocked the most garments – and the most fashionable garments – and who had the most aristocratic customers. Occasionally, a lord, lady or minor member of the royal family would contact one of the stores, causing the other no end of resentment.
Grace found she was looking forward to this temporary place of employ, for she was already tired of being a mute, of being permanently grief-stricken and of walking around half blind, peering at people t
hrough black veiling. Besides, department stores looked such enticing places. She had passed them often enough, but never been inside one, for stern uniformed men stood at the entrances and, if you looked poor or inadequate, refused to open the doors and tried to turn you away by hard looks or shouts of ‘Be off!’ Department stores were not – usually – for the likes of Grace.
The following morning, twelve workers from the Unwin Undertaking Establishment were walked in crocodile fashion by Mr George Unwin from Edgware Road to Oxford Circus. They arrived there at seven o’clock when, as predicted by Mr Unwin, there was already a queue of potential customers outside. A good number of these were ladies’ maids or menservants with lists from their mistresses of garments required, or notes asking that a store dressmaker should call upon them personally.
As they passed in front of the store’s vast gas-lit windows, those in the crocodile line admired the mannequins who, wearing the latest in mourning garments, stood distraught in a number of different situations. One model was shown gracefully descending a staircase, another was gazing mournfully out of an open window, a third was reading a ‘last letter’ before a fireplace. Each window scene, Grace thought admiringly, told a little story in its own right. Passing the store, the Unwin workers went along an alleyway and through the staff entrance at the far side. The rather shabby quarters here led through into the shop itself, where all gazed in awe at the soft furnishings, multiple gas lights, thick carpet, velvet curtains and general air of opulence. There was even a grand piano standing near the entrance in order to play contemplative music and soothe the shoppers’ melancholy.
This was what it was like to be rich, Grace thought, looking around her. Not merely to have food and shelter, but to be able to live with luxurious trappings and an abundance of possessions, to own as many clothes as one wanted . . . to wander through stores like this, pointing at things and having your maid scurry to get them for you.
Mr Sylvester Unwin had been told by his cousin that Grace Parkes, sister of the more valuable Lily, would be coming to work temporarily in the store, but this had not caused him a moment’s unrest. The swindle they were perpetrating against the Parkes was, to him, a thing apart. Besides, he reasoned, the Unwins were doing the sisters (both probably a little simple, he thought) a favour in taking them in and giving them shelter. What sort of a life would they have had otherwise? How would they have coped with such a fortune? Sooner or later someone would have taken it from them; this way they were spared even knowing they’d had it. And thus he reasoned his path to a clear conscience.
Before the store opened, Mr Sylvester Unwin stood halfway up the sweeping staircase which led to Footwear and Accessories, surveying both his old and new staff with some satisfaction. Those who had arrived from his cousin’s business would not, of course, be allowed to actually serve customers, but would make themselves useful telling lady customers how extremely well a garment suited them, by tearing off lengths of brown paper for wrapping, tying up parcels with string, and coming and going with bills and receipts from the cash desks. The cash desks, he reflected complacently, rang from morning until night; they had never seen so much activity. Of course, it was terrible that Prince Albert had been cut down in his prime but, at least as far as the owner of London’s premier mourning store and his cousin were concerned, it had its compensations.
Sylvester Unwin waited for complete silence from those standing below him on the shop floor, then bade a pompous good morning and said he had some very important things to say, especially to the newcomers.
‘It is a grand and noble thing that in someone’s hour of anguish and despair we may be able to soothe their troubled spirits,’ he began. ‘Prince Albert was a much loved member of our royal family, so by mourning him sincerely the country is showing its respects and helping our dear queen through her darkest hours. To this end, do not hesitate to offer your customer a little extra garnish to their mourning outfit in order to prove how much they care. If a gentleman seeks a black band for his top hat, suggest he has gloves or black spats, too. If a woman requires gloves, offer a veil, a jet mourning ring or a new black bonnet in addition.’
He cleared his throat. ‘When mentioning the purchase of these items, remember to indicate to the customer that mourning clothes should not be kept in the house for any great length of time following the death, for custom dictates – and who are we to contradict? – that it is unlucky to keep them under one’s roof for more than one passing.’
Grace heard this with some shock, knowing that half of London could barely afford to put food in their mouths, let alone purchase a new outfit each time a member of their family died. She gave her full attention to her new employer for the first time, seeing a man with a black tailcoat, shoes that were polished like dark glass, a shirt so snowy-white it could only have come freshly from the seamstress and black leather gloves soft as butter. Sylvester Unwin prided himself on his appearance.
‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘not everyone who comes through our doors over the next few days will be here to honour the memory of Prince Albert. Some will be mourning a member of their own family. Here I ask you to recall that helping the bereaved into full and fashionable mourning helps focus their minds and ease their pain. In my charity work I’m often called upon to aid ladies who have been widowed, and I emphasise the fact that they owe it to their husbands’ glorious memory to go into the very best mourning gowns they can afford.’
There was more of this ilk, but Grace found it difficult to concentrate on Mr Unwin’s words. There was something about his appearance which jarred, something almost repugnant, but she could not work out what it was. She appraised his appearance yet again, but could see nothing amiss. On the surface, he was perfectly respectable. Was it something about his posture, then, or his face with its port-wine nose, or perhaps it was just his oily manner and the many faux-modest references to his charitable works that made him so objectionable to her?
Suddenly, mid-sentence, Mr Unwin smacked his hands together and pointed at Grace. ‘You, there! What was I just saying?’
Grace went scarlet and shook her head to say that she didn’t know, making Mr Unwin shake his own head mockingly in response. There was a ripple of laughter from the regular staff.
‘Is that what you’re going to do when my customers ask you something – shake your head at them?’ said Mr Unwin. Playing to the crowd, he came down the steps and stood in front of her. ‘Can you nod as well?’
At close quarters Grace found Mr Unwin’s presence almost terrifying: the bulk of him, the strength, the faint aroma of something sweet and pungent.
‘I said, can you nod?’ he demanded again, putting his hand on her head and pushing it up and down.
Grace, frightened, nodded despite herself.
‘Ah!’ crowed Mr Unwin. ‘She can nod!’
He turned around and went back to his position of superiority on the stairs. ‘You see how you must all be alert to what the customer is saying! No matter if you are serving your first customer or your eighty-first, be alert and be aware. Never let an opportunity for a sale pass you by.’
Grace looked up at him, trying to hide both her fear and her loathing. That smell; that acrid, sugary smell . . . where had she smelt it before?
And then she remembered. It had been at the funeral of Cedric Welland-Scropes, when the last man to go into the church had passed her. And perhaps even before that, too, although she could not have said precisely where.
She was not able to ponder upon the matter longer, however, for the Unwin workers were divided up and she was assigned to a girl wearing a badge which named her as Miss Violet, who was several years older and quite pretty enough in her own right not to resent Grace’s beauty. Miss Violet was one of five lady greeters and her job was to ascertain a customer’s wishes as well as assess their status as soon as they entered the store, for Mr Unwin liked those who were at the top of the social scale to be served only by those similarly placed in the store’s hierarchy.
Grace had not met a young woman like Miss Violet before. Educated and smart, with short hair in a mass of curls (and shiny lips which were not come by entirely naturally), she was one of the new breed of office and shop girls who, not content to sit at home waiting for a man to come along and propose marriage, went out into the world to begin carving a career for themselves. Grace liked her immediately.
‘All you have to do,’ Miss Violet explained, ‘is accompany the customer to wherever I tell you to take them. I might say a department, or I might say a member of staff within that department. I might, on occasion, tell you to take a very important customer to be served by Mr Unwin himself.’
Grace nodded but, as the hated name was mentioned, could not stop a tremor of fear crossing her face.
Miss Violet patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t let him upset you,’ she said. ‘Sly is a bully who picks on someone every day – several people if he’s being particularly horrid.’
‘His name is Sly?’
‘Sylvester, actually, but Sly by name and Sly by nature, eh?’ Miss Violet smiled. ‘I’ll take you around the store now and show you where the different departments are.’
Grace found the amount of stock available in the store quite overwhelming, and as Miss Violet led the way through bodices, boas, bonnets, boots, skirts, shawls, capes, umbrellas, aprons and mantles, her head was spinning before they’d even reached the men’s departments.
‘So many garments; so much black!’ Grace said, and found it a welcome relief when they went into the half-mourning department where grey, lilac and pale mauve predominated.
‘We have so much stock because Mr Unwin hates losing a sale,’ Miss Violet said. ‘I do believe a dart pierces his heart every time someone walks out of the shop without opening their purse.’ She paused beside a discreetly curtained alcove. ‘A new department,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Mourning undergarments.’
