Authors: The Quincunx
“What do you want?” said another older woman, rising and coming forward to speak with a mouthful of pins.
My mother repeated her words and the woman answered brusquely as she turned away: “You’re wasting my time. Be off with you.”
“How dare you speak to a lady like that!” I cried.
She turned and said scathingly: “Oh, a lady is it? I nivver heard of no lady peddling her work.”
My mother pulled me from the room but as we slowly descended the stair she said:
“Why must they be so impolite?”
By the door we were overtaken by the woman who had been making ready to leave.
“You see, my dear,” she said kindly, “there ain’t no call for fancy work. The ladies do it themselves, you know, and bring down the price to nigh on nothing.”
“But I must find work to keep myself and my son!”
“Your only hope is to find plain-sewing. But there’s no call for it just now since the Season hasn’t begun, and I don’t know if you could do the hours if you aren’t bred to it.”
We thanked her and she hurried away.
“I don’t believe it,” my mother exclaimed. “There must be people who want fine work. If only that wicked woman hadn’t stolen my things I could show them a piece and I’m sure they would buy it.”
However, what this woman had told us was confirmed — at least as far as I was concerned — during the next week or so as we traipsed from one mantua-maker’s shop to another, often received with considerable discourtesy, though occasionally with kindness.
To my relief, my mother seemed strangely cheerful in spite of these discouragements.
In the evenings she divided her time between working at a piece of embroidery that I assumed must have survived the theft, and writing in her pocket-book.
One evening when I was particularly cast down at having failed once again to persuade her that it would be wiser to attempt to find a situation as a governess at one of the registry-offices that remained to be approached, she said: “It will be all right, you know, Johnnie. I have a design.”
“What do you mean by a design?”
“Wait and see,” she said, shaking her head with a mysterious smile.
It was about this time that I suggested to her that we should find a cheaper lodging without waiting for the expiry of our month’s tenancy. For on our journeyings through the poorer streets we had observed cards in the windows advertising rooms to let at much lower prices. She reluctantly agreed and we picked out one nearby in Maddox-street that seemed clean and respectable. The
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landlady, Mrs Philliber, appeared to be a pleasant and decent woman and we negotiated with her for a single room at 7s. a week.
Mrs Marrables was not pleased that we wished to end the tenancy so soon and refused to return any of the first month’s rent unless she could find another tenant for that period. This was undeniably fair, but fortunately she found another person who was anxious to take the rooms immediately and at a higher rent than we were paying her. She declined, however, to return the whole of the unexpired portion of our rent and now revealed an aspect of her character that we had not seen before:
“Why, Mrs Offland, there’s all the fuss and bother I’ve had and that has to be considered. Time is money, you know, and I’d be robbing myself and my family not to take it into account.”
I prevailed upon her, at last, and we compounded with her to receive a rebate of a week’s rent and took possession of our new room that afternoon. Now, on closer acquaintance, it became clear that although our new lodgings were only a few streets away from our old, the district was much less respectable, and I saw that my mother’s spirits sank.
“I know!” I cried. “Let us have a feast to celebrate our new home!”
She clapped her hands together: “Yes! And then I will make negus! And it will be just like the old days. You’re right, Johnnie. This will be our home from now on, so I will write to Bissett to send the money here.”
So we enlisted the help of the young maid-servant, whom we sent out for two chops and four-pence-worth of muffins and a little brandy for the negus. Meanwhile we put the plates to warm behind the fender and made the room ready. When the girl brought her purchases back — together with some baked potatoes from the cook-shop and a jug of milk, a handful of spices, and two eggs purchased from Mrs Philliber — my mother broiled the chops over the fire on a grid-iron suspended on a couple of trivets. As we ate them we felt very jolly and pleased with ourselves, and except for a certain burnt quality on the outside and an undeniable rawness inside, the chops were excellently cooked.
Then, while I speared the muffins on a toasting-fork and grilled them, my mother set about making the negus. As I watched her she seemed suddenly very innocent and vulnerable, filled now with delight at the prospect of the negus and, I guessed, at the thought of writing to one whom she loved and trusted. I feared that she had not yet realized how difficult things were going to be for us and I felt oddly as if I were older than she. I had seen strangers look at her with so cold and calculating an expression that I felt that I could take nothing for granted — and certainly not Bissett’s loyalty.
When the negus was ready she poured me a third of a tumbler and we toasted each other in the hot, fragrant liquid.
I gasped: “It tastes even nastier than usual!”
She laughed and sat down to begin her letter.
“Are you telling her our address?” I asked.
“Of course, my dearest. How else should she know where to send the money! You are funny.”
I hesitated, but I could not bring myself to say anything.
She glanced at me, the point of the quill pressed thoughtfully against her cheek as she pondered: “I am telling her to deduct from what she sends us all her expenses —
arranging the sale, paying for this letter, and so on — and, 156 THE
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in addition, a quarter’s wages in lieu of notice.” She removed the point of the pen leaving an inky trace on her face: “Do you think that is fair?”
“Indeed. And perhaps more generous than we can afford to be!”
She frowned: “Do you think I should ask her to take less?”
“No, I think we must treat Bissett well.”
“Yes, Johnnie,” she said delightedly. “That’s just what I think. You know, she is really our only true friend.”
We confided the letter to the post-office the next day. Assuming that Bissett had had time to sell the furniture and settle with the creditors, we expected to hear from her by the end of the following week.
When by that date no letter had arrived, my mother assumed that it was taking her longer to settle up than we had calculated. We had other, more pressing worries by that time, anyway, for it had been a week of further disillusionment. For one thing, we had become concerned about our new lodgings, for the house was dirty and often rather noisy late in the evenings, while the servants, though friendly, were careless and slovenly.
And Mrs Philliber frequently smelt unmistakably of spirits and on those occasions tended to be robustly informal.
Additionally, still convinced that she would be able to earn our keep by doing fine embroidery, my mother had insisted that we start looking for a school for me. I had protested and told her the size of the fees that I had seen in the newspaper, but she had remained obdurate.
The first academic establishment we visited was in Goodge-street and was kept by a gentleman with a very red nose, an unsteady gait, and an equally uncertain grasp of English grammar. The second was up a dirty bye-street off fitzroy-square where, after a long silence, our knock was greeted by a grubby curtain moving cautiously at a window.
Then the door was opened by a thin man in patched clothes who, declaring himself to be the “High-master”, instantly remarked conversationally that he had never had to answer the door before but as it happened the maid-servant, the cook and the kitchen-boy had all been given a holiday that day and the parlour-maid had been sent out on an errand that very minute. We went in and, noticing that we were struck by the absence of furniture in the hall, the High-master mentioned that it had all been sent away for French-polishing. He led us into the school-room and we found that the establishment appeared to consist of two small frightened boys covered in ink and chilblains and wearing collars that were too large for them.
That evening I put it to my mother that since there was clearly no point in her continuing to look for orders for fine work, we would have to consider other ways of earning our living and therefore abandon the quest for a school.
She smiled and said: “But you’re quite wrong, Johnnie. I have a surprise for you. I have finished my design.”
She held up a piece of
broderie anglaise
and I saw that it was a length of silk with beautifully worked designs in silver and gold of the kind I had often seen her undertake at Melthorpe.
“I thought all your good stuffs had been stolen. Where did the material and the thread come from?” I demanded.
She blushed: “I bought it, Johnnie.”
“How much did it cost?”
“Three pounds,” she said, looking away.
“Was it?”
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She reddened: “Well, the thread was another two pounds. But don’t you see, when I show this, I will be certain to get work.”
“It was very wrong of you not to ask me before spending so much!” I cried, feeling a surge of rage at her simplicity and deceptiveness.
“I knew you’d stop me if I told you,” she exclaimed, near to tears.
We quarrelled and, unreconciled, both sobbed ourselves to sleep. Next morning a sort of peace was restored between us and, making the best of our appearance, we set off for New-Bond-street. There we entered a grand shop (by the rear entrance, of course) and found the forewoman.
Before my mother had finished her introduction, she seized the material, briskly unrolled it and, with a grimace, held it stretched out: “Why, this was a dacent piece of silk what I might have done something with, only you’ve gorn and sp’iled it.”
My mother flushed and I cried: “Why, whatever can you mean?”
Ignoring me the woman said to my mother: “This is journey-man work. Look at the size of them stitches and the unevenness of the lines. I’d send any girl out of my shop what did work like that. And it’s a provincial style as well. Take it away and begone with you.”
I cannot bring myself to describe how we dragged ourselves out of there nor how, after finding explanations of the woman’s attitude that served to rally each other’s spirits (for our previous night’s quarrel was quite forgotten), we tried other shops, only to hear the same verdict — though usually less offensively worded.
So now at last accepting the impossibility of what she had been hoping for, my mother consented to visit the other registry-offices. Here, however, my worst fears were confirmed for we met with the same reception as at the first one: there were far too many educated women competing for places for there to be any likelihood of employment for one without excellent references, experience and a greater degree of proficiency than my mother could claim. At each office we remembered to enquire for Miss Quilliam, and it was strange that although none of the clerks could tell us anything of her, they always seemed to recognise the name as soon as we mentioned it.
The realization that even the dreaded recourse of governess was not open to her was a heavy blow for my mother. And so now we began the dreary round again, this time visiting those much more squalid registry-offices which undertook to find positions as lady’s companions or children’s nurses. But even here the lack of a reference from a previous employer or even of a “good name” — a character reference from a respectable individual — proved to be an insurmountable obstacle since we had decided that we dared not ask Mrs Fortisquince.
“Is there no-one who knew you before you lived in Melthorpe?” I asked her again after a day of renewed disappointments.
She shook her head. “My father and I lived very quietly. We knew almost no-one.”
“What about whoever it was you went to see that day soon after we arrived?” I demanded irritably.
She shuddered and shook her head: “Oh no, that wouldn’t serve at all.”
Yet even if she could have found such work and we were enriched by our little capital due from Bissett, I could see that, since the usual terms were “all found” and io£ a year, living would be very hard and there would certainly be nothing to spare for my education.
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At last, deciding that her only marketable skill lay in her ability as a plain needlewoman, my mother went back to the first mantua-maker’s shop in Regent-street from which we had been turned away.
By chance we encountered in the mews the woman who had spoken to us kindly before, and when my mother explained what she had come for this time, she said: “Let me see your hands.” She took them in her own: “So white and fine. Look at mine.”
They were as hard as horn and yet were covered in little sores where she had been pricked by the needles.
“Nobody will take you on, my dear. You could not work fast enough. Nor could you stand the long hours. Fourteen, at least, and often sixteen or seventeen, and sometimes we have to work all night at no notice. And all for ten shilling a week.” She glanced at me and added in a low voice: “But a young woman with a pretty face need never go hungry in London.”
My mother blushed as if at the compliment and I felt reassured by this. There were kind people here after all and we would be all right.
She was at least correct in her assumption that my mother would fail to find employment, though it was only after we had spent many hours walking the long grey streets without success that we acknowledged this.
By the end of the following week — that is the third after we had sent the letter —
there was still no reply from Melthorpe. Now worried by this at last, my mother wrote again. Our little reserve of capital was disappearing quickly and the rent which had seemed so self-denyingly parsimonious when we had moved from our original lodgings, now began to seem an extravagance that was no longer justifiable. Yet we were reluctant to move again because of the waste of time and money involved, and when a smaller chamber at the top of the house came available at 5s. a week we negotiated with Mrs Philliber and moved into it.