Tipping the Velvet (49 page)

W
hen next I knew myself I was lying flat upon a rug with my feet apparently raised on a little cushion; there was the warmth and the crackling of a fire at my side, and the low murmur of voices somewhere near. I opened my eyes: the room turned horribly and the rug seemed to dip, so I closed them again at once, and kept them tight shut until the floor, like a spinning coin, seemed slowly to cease its lurching and grow still.

After that it was rather wonderful simply to lie in the glow of the fire, feeling the life creep back into my numbed and aching limbs; I forced myself, however, to consider my peculiar situation, and pay a little thoughtful heed to my surroundings. I was, I realised, in Florence's parlour: she and her husband must have lifted me over their threshold and made me comfortable before their hearth. It was their murmurs that I could hear: they stood a little way behind me - they had evidently not caught the flash of my opening eyes - and discussed me, in rather wondering tones.

‘But who might she
be
?' I heard the man say.

‘I don't know.' This was Florence. There was a creak, followed by a silence, in which I felt her squinting at my features. ‘And yet,' she went on, ‘there is something a little bit familiar about her face...'

‘Look at her cheek,' said the man in a lower voice. ‘Look at her poor dress and bonnet. Look at her hair! Do you think she might've been in prison? Could she be one of your gals, just come from a reformat'ry?' There was another pause; perhaps Florence shrugged. ‘I do think she must've been in prison, though,' the man went on, ‘judging by the state of her poor hair...' I felt slightly indignant at that; and indignation made me twitch. ‘Look out!' said the man then. ‘She is waking up.'

I opened my eyes again to see him stooping over me. He was a very gentle-featured man, with short-cut hair of a reddish-golden hue, and a full set of whiskers that made him look a little like the sailor on the Players' packets. The thought made me long all at once for a cigarette, and I gave a dry little cough. The man squatted, and patted my shoulder. ‘Ho there, miss,' he said. ‘Are you well, dear? Are you well at last? You are quite, you know, amongst friends.' His voice and manner were so very kind that - still weak and slightly bewildered from my swoon - I felt the tears rising to my eyes, and raised a hand to my brow to press them back. When I took the hand away, there seemed blood upon it; I gave a cry, thinking I had set my nose off bleeding once again. But it was not blood. It was only that the rain had soaked into my cheap hat, and the dye had run all down my brows in great wet streaks of crimson.

What a guy Diana had made of me! The thought made me weep at last in earnest, in terrible, shaming gulps. At that, the man produced a handkerchief, and patted me once again upon the arm. ‘I expect,' he said, ‘that you would like a cup of something hot?' I nodded, and he rose and moved away. In his place came Florence. She must have put her baby down somewhere, for now she had her arms folded stiffly across her chest.

She asked me: ‘Are you feeling better?' Her voice was not quite as kind as the man's had been, and her gaze seemed rather sterner. I nodded to her, then with her help raised myself from the floor into an armchair near the fire. The baby, I saw, was lying on its back on another, clasping and unclasping its little hands. From a room next door - the kitchen, I guessed - came the chink of crockery and a tuneless whistle. I blew my nose, and wiped my head; then wept some more; then grew a little calmer.

I looked again at Florence and said, ‘I am sorry, to have turned up here in such a state.' She said nothing. ‘You will be wondering, I suppose, who I am...' She gave a faint smile.

‘We have been a little, yes.'

‘I'm,' I began - then stopped, and coughed, to mask my hesitation. What could I say to her? I'm the girl who flirted with you once eighteen months ago? I'm the girl who asked you to supper, then left you standing, without a word, on Judd Street?

‘I'm a friend of Miss Derby's,' I said at last.

Florence blinked. ‘Miss Derby?' she said. ‘Miss Derby, from the Ponsonby Trust?'

I nodded. ‘Yes. I - I met you once, a long time ago. I was passing through Bethnal Green, on a visit, and thought I might call. I brought you some watercresses ...' We turned our heads and gazed at them. They had been placed on a table near the door and looked very sad, for I had fallen upon them when I swooned. The leaves were crushed and blackened, the stems broken, the paper damp and green.

Florence said, ‘That was kind of you.' I smiled a little nervously. For a second there was a silence - then the baby gave a kick and a yell, and she bent to pick it up and hold it against her breast, saying as she did so: ‘Shall Mama take you? There, now.' Then the man reappeared, bearing a cup of tea and a plate of bread and butter which he set, with a smile, on the arm of my chair. Florence placed her chin upon the baby's head. ‘Ralph,' she said, ‘this lady is a friend of Miss Derby's - do you remember, Miss Derby that I used to work for?'

‘Good heavens,' said the man - Ralph. He was still in his shirt-sleeves; now he picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and put it on. I busied myself with my cup and plate. The tea was very hot and sweet: the best tea, I thought, that I had ever tasted. The baby gave another cry, and Florence began to sway and jiggle, and to smooth the child's head, distractedly, with her cheek. Soon the cry became a gurgle, and then a sigh; and hearing it, I sighed too - but turned it into a breath for cooling my tea with, in case they thought I was about to start up weeping again.

There was another silence; then, ‘I'm afraid I've forgotten your name,' said Florence. To Ralph she explained: ‘It seems we met once.'

I cleared my throat. ‘Miss Astley,' I said. ‘Miss Nancy Astley.' Florence nodded; Ralph held out his hand for mine, and shook it warmly.

‘I'm very glad to meet you, Miss Astley,' he said. Then he gestured to my cheek. ‘That's a smart eye you have.'

I said, ‘It is, rather, ain't it?'

He looked kind. ‘Perhaps it was the blow, as made you faint. You gave us quite a scare.'

‘I'm sorry. I think you're right, it must have been the blow. I - I was struck by a man with a ladder, in the street.'

‘A ladder!'

‘Yes, he - he turned too sharp, not seeing me and-'

‘Well!' said Ralph. ‘Now, you'd never believe such a thing could happen, would you, outside of a comedy in the theatre!'

I gave him a wan sort of smile, then lowered my eyes and started on the bread and butter. Florence was studying me, I thought, rather carefully.

Then the baby sneezed and, as Florence took a handkerchief to its nose, I said half-heartedly: ‘What a handsome child!' At once, his parents turned their eyes upon him and gave identical, foolish smiles of pleasure and concern. Florence lifted him a little way away from her, the lamplight fell upon him; and I saw with surprise that he really was a pretty boy - not at all like his mother, but with fine features and very dark hair and a tiny, jutting pink lip.

Ralph leaned to stroke his son's jerking head. ‘He is a beauty,' he said; ‘but he is dozier, tonight, than he should be. We leave him in the daytime with a gal across the street, and we are sure that she puts laud'num in his milk, to stop his cries. Not,' he added quickly, ‘as I am blaming her. She must take in that many kids, to bring the money in, the noise when they all start up is deafening. Still, I wish she wouldn't. I hardly think it can be very healthful...' We discussed this for a moment, then admired the baby for a little longer; then grew silent again.

‘So,' said Ralph doggedly, ‘you are a friend of Miss Derby's?'

I looked quickly at Florence. She had recommenced her jiggling, but was still rather thoughtful. I said, ‘That's right.'

‘And how
is
Miss Derby?' said Ralph then.

‘Oh, well, you know Miss Derby!'

‘Just the same, then, is she?'

‘Exactly the same,' I said. ‘Exactly.'

‘Still with the Ponsonby, then?'

‘Still with the Ponsonby. Still doing her good works. Still, you know, playing her mandolin.' I raised my hands, and gave a few half-hearted imaginary strums; but as I did so Florence ceased her swaying, and I felt her glance grow hard. I looked hurriedly back to Ralph. He had smiled at my words.

‘Miss Derby's mandolin,' he said, as if the memory amused him. ‘How many homeless families must she not've cheered with it!' He winked. ‘I had forgotten all about it...'

‘So had I.' This was Florence, and she did not sound at all ironical. I chewed very hard and fast on a piece of crust. Ralph smiled again, then said, very kindly: ‘And where was it you met Flo?'

I swallowed. ‘Well -' I began.

‘I believe,' said Florence herself, ‘I believe it was in Green Street, wasn't it, Miss Astley? In Green Street, just off the Gray's Inn Road?' I put down my plate, and raised my eyes to hers. I knew one second's pleasure, to find that she had not after all quite forgotten the girl who had studied her, so saucily, on that warm June night so long ago; then I saw how hard her expression was, and I trembled.

‘Oh dear,' I said, closing my eyes and putting a hand to my brow. ‘I think I am not quite well after all.' I felt Ralph take a step towards me, then grow still: Florence must have stopped him with some significant look.

‘I think Cyril might go up, now, Ralph,' she said quietly. There was the sound of the baby being passed over, then of a door opening and shutting, and finally of boots upon a staircase, and the creaking of floorboards in the room above our heads. Then there was silence; Florence lowered herself into the other armchair, and sighed.

‘Would it really make you very ill, Miss Astley,' she said in a tired voice, ‘to tell me just why it is you're here?' I looked at her, but couldn't speak. ‘I can't believe Miss Derby really recommended you to come.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I only saw Miss Derby that once, in Green Street.'

‘Then who was it told you where I live?'

‘Another lady at the Ponsonby office,' I said. ‘At least, she didn't
tell
me, but she had your address on her desk and I - saw it.'

‘You saw it.'

‘Yes.'

‘And thought you would visit...'

I bit my lip. ‘I'm in a spot of trouble,' I said. ‘I remembered you -' Remembered you, I almost added, as rather kinder than you are proving yourself to be. ‘The lady at the office said you work at a home for friendless girls...'

‘And so I do! But this ain't it. This is my home.'

‘But I am quite, quite friendless.' My voice shook. ‘I am more friendless than you can possibly know.'

‘You are certainly very changed,' she said after a moment, ‘since I saw you last.' I looked down at my crumpled frock, my terrible boots. Then I looked at her. She, I now saw, was also changed. She seemed older and thinner, and the thinness didn't suit her. Her hair, which I remembered as so curly, she had pulled back into a tight little knot at the back of her head, and the dress she was wearing was plain and very dark. All in all, she looked as sober as Mrs Hooper, back at Felicity Place.

I took a breath to steady my voice. ‘What can I do?' I said simply. ‘I've nowhere to go. I've no money, no home...'

‘I am sorry for you, Miss Astley,' she answered awkwardly. ‘But Bethnal Green is busting with badly-off girls. If I was to let them all come and stay, I should have to live in a castle! Besides, I - I don't know you, or anything about you.'

‘Please,' I said. ‘Just for one night. If you only knew how many doors I have been turned away from. I really think that, if you send me out into the street, I shall keep walking until I reach a river or a canal; and then I shall drown myself.'

She frowned, then put a finger to her lips and bit at a nail; all her nails, I now noticed, were very short and chewed.

‘What kind of trouble are you in, exactly?' she said at last. ‘Mr Banner thought you might have come from - well, from gaol.'

I shook my head, and then said wearily: ‘The truth is, I've been living with someone; and they have thrown me out. They have kept my things - oh! I had such handsome things! - and they have left me so miserable and poor and bewildered...' My voice grew thick. Florence watched me in silence for a moment. Then she said, rather carefully I thought, ‘And this person was... ?'

But that made me hesitate. If I told her the truth, what would she make of it? I had thought her almost tommish, once; but now - well, maybe she had only ever been an ordinary girl, asking me to a lecture for friendship's sake. Or perhaps she had liked girls once, then turned her back on them - like Kitty! That thought made me cautious: if a torn with a bruise turned up at Kitty's door, I knew very well what a welcome she would get. I put my head in my hands. ‘It was a gent,' I said quietly, ‘I've been living in the house of a gent, in St John's Wood, for a year and a half. I let him make me a'- I remembered a phrase of Mrs Milne's - ‘a pack of promises. He bought me all manner of stuff. And now...' I raised my eyes to hers. ‘You must think me very wicked. He said he would marry me!'

She look terribly surprised; but she had also begun to look sorry, too. ‘It was this bloke blacked your eye for you, I suppose,' she said, ‘and not a ladder, at all.'

I nodded, and raised a hand to the bruise at my cheek; then I put my fingers to my hair, remembering that. ‘What a devil he was!' I said then. ‘He was rich as anything, could do what he pleased. He saw me on my balcony, just as you did, in a pair of trousers. He -' I blushed. ‘He used to like to make me dress up, as a boy, in a suit like a sailor...'