“Go now,” she said then without looking at me. “Go and pack your things. I’ll order a cab for you.”
“Yes, ma‘am.” I got up. Now we were done with the business I wanted to say something to her but I didn’t know what exactly. So I just said, “Good-bye, ma’am,” and she said, “Good-bye, Jenny.” I went to the door and opened it. Just before I went out I looked back at her. She was still standing by the window, her eyes closed, clasping her hands in a fist against her stomach.
“Oh,” she said in a little sigh all to herself.
Simon was still hiding behind the sofa.
I hope his mum is gentle with her.
SEPTEMBER 1906
Albert Waterhouse
Don’t know that I’ll tell anyone, not even Trudy, but I escorted Kitty Coleman home the other night. I was coming back from nets on the heath with Richard Coleman when I remembered that Trudy wanted me to leave a message with the vicar at St. Anne‘s—a trifle about altar flowers or some such thing. I try not to attend to that sort of detail—best left to Trudy. But I told Richard I’d catch him up at the Bull and Last and ran off like a good errand boy.
Afterward I was heading toward the pub when I looked up Swain’s Lane and saw Kitty Coleman, walking along slowly with her head bowed, kicking at her skirts. I thought her a peculiar sight, given it was twilight and she was alone and didn’t seem to be walking anywhere in particular.
“Evening, Mrs. Coleman,” I said, raising my cap. “Nice night for a stroll, isn’t it? Last spurt of summer, looks like we’re having.” My choice of words made me blush. I don’t know what it is about Kitty Coleman—she inspires me to say things I shouldn’t.
She didn’t seem to notice, though—she just stared at me like I was a ghost. I was taken aback by her appearance. Richard had mentioned she’d been ill and was not looking her finest. But it was more than that. Her looks were plainly gone, I am sorry to say.
“Are you on your way somewhere?”
Kitty Coleman hesitated. “I have been ... I wanted to climb the hill but couldn’t.”
“It is steep, that hill up to the cemetery. And if you haven’t been well it must seem like a mountain. Would you like me to take you to your husband? I was just going to meet him at the pub.”
“I don’t want to see Richard,” Kitty Coleman said quickly.
I didn’t know what to make of that, but I couldn’t leave her there on her own—she seemed so ill and childlike. “Shall I see you home, then?”
I held out my arm, feeling a little silly and wondering what Trudy would say if she could see us. I know she doesn’t think much of Kitty Coleman. Luckily Trudy was safely tucked away at home with our girls. Maude was there, too, staying the night.
After a moment Kitty Coleman took my arm. The quickest way to her house was straight past the Bull and Last, but I didn’t go that way. It would have felt strange to parade past the pub and have Richard Coleman look out and see me with his wife on my arm when I was meant to be at the vicar’s. I could have explained it, but it still didn’t look right. So I took the back way, which she didn’t remark upon. I tried to make conversation en route, but she didn’t say much, just “Yes” and “Thank you” when thanks weren’t even called for.
Never mind. I saw her home, feeling a little foolish but a little proud too—her face may not be so pretty now but she still carries herself well and wore a nice gray dress, even if it was a bit rumpled. A couple of passersby stared at us and I couldn’t help but hold myself a little straighter.
“Will you be all right, then, Mrs. Coleman?” I asked when we got to her door.
“Of course. Thank you.”
“You look after yourself, now. Tuck yourself up with a Horlicks and get an early night.”
She nodded and slipped inside. It was only when I was heading back to the pub that I realized she hadn’t said my name at all. I began to wonder if she’d even recognized me.
At the Bull and Last, Richard teased me for spending so long at the vicar’s. I just nodded and ordered another pint.
OCTOBER 1906
Lavinia Waterhouse
I was truly shocked when I saw Maude’s mother.
We almost didn’t see her. We had stopped at Maude’s house on our way home from school only because I wanted Maude to lend me a book about plants so that I can copy passages from it for a school essay. Maude was reluctant to get it, and I thought it was because she disapproved of my copying, as our essays are meant to be original. (It is so tedious to think up things to write, especially about “the life cycle of leaves”!) But now I think it was because she did not want me to see her mother. Indeed, when I think back on it, Maude has been coming to my house almost every day for months—even more than before.
She hurried me up to her room for the book and hurried me down again. Just then Mrs. Coleman came out of the morning room. She looked at us so vaguely that I was not even sure she really saw us until Maude said, “Hello, Mummy,” very softly, and she nodded slightly.
I was so surprised by her appearance that I did not even say anything about it to Maude—which made me rather sad, as I thought we shared all our thoughts. But I could not bring myself to ask her why her mother is so thin, and her hair suddenly has gray in it, and her skin looks like ditch water. Worse than that—for one can always dye or pull out gray hair (as Mama does) and apply a tonic to dull skin—Mrs. Coleman does not sparkle as she used to. Admittedly her sparkle felt a little wicked at times—which is why Mama does not care for her—but without it she is very flat indeed.
Clearly something is wrong at the Colemans‘. Not only is Maude’s mother not herself, but a few months ago their maid Jenny was suddenly taken ill and had to go away. Perhaps they have the same illness. Maude says Jenny is returning soon. I shall have to look to see if she has gray hairs as well. It is just as well she’s coming back, for the temporary chars have been dreadful. Maude hasn’t liked any of them, and the house looked none too clean, the little I saw of it. The plants on the landings were terribly dusty.
I said nothing of this to Maude, poor dear. She was very subdued as we went on to my house. I tried to be especially nice to her, even suggesting that we attend the official opening of our local public library. They have been building it on Chester Road all summer, and there is to be a ceremony on Thursday afternoon. I am not keen on going—it will be all tedious speeches—but it may cheer Maude as she is so fond of libraries. And it would mean we could leave early and miss the last class at school, which is math. I can’t abide math—all those dull numbers. In fact I don’t like any of my classes, except for domestic arts and composition, though Miss Johnson says my imagination needs reining in—a compliment, I should think!
Mama will have to get permission for us both to leave school early, as Maude’s mother is clearly incapable of making such arrangements. And I expect Mama and Ivy May will have to come with us, although it is only a few minutes away. Maude and I are eleven years old, yet we are still not allowed to go anywhere alone except to walk to school together. Mama says you never know what might happen, and reads all sorts of terrible things out from the newspapers—babies left to freeze on the heath, or people drowning in the ponds, or rough men looking for girls to prey upon.
When we arrived home I asked Mama if we could all go to the library ceremony. She said yes, the dear. She always says yes to me.
Then Maude asked a funny thing. “Please, Mrs. Waterhouse,” she said, “could you ask my mother to come with us? She hasn’t been well these past months, and she could do with getting a bit of air.”
Well, Mama was nonplussed by this request—surely Maude could ask her own mother!—but she said she would. I was a bit put out, as I am not at all sure I wish to be seen with someone who has clearly let herself go. Nonetheless, I must stand by my friend. Besides, Mama may not be able to convince Mrs. Coleman to come with us—it is not as if they are close friends. If she does, though, perhaps I will steal over to their house one night and leave a bottle of hair d
ye on the doorstep.
Gertrude Waterhouse
I did not have the heart to say no to Maude. It is horrifying to think a girl cannot even ask her mother to escort her somewhere. I wanted to inquire why she felt she could not, but she looked so meek and sad that I simply said I would do my best and left it at that. I did not think I could do much good, though, even for something as insignificant as arranging an outing. I have never had any influence with Kitty Coleman, and if Maude cannot convince her to come to a little local event, I do not see how I will be able to.
Nonetheless, I called on Kitty the next morning when the girls were at school. The moment I saw her I felt terribly guilty for not having gone there sooner. She did look awful, thin and pinched, and her lovely hair no longer glossy. It is such a surprise to see the lifeblood sapped from someone once so vital. If I were a more spiteful person, it might have made me feel better to see such loveliness brought down. Instead my heart went out to her. I even squeezed her hand, which surprised her, though she did not jerk it away. Her hand was chilly.
“Oh, you’re so cold, my dear!” I exclaimed.
“Am I?” she asked absently.
I pulled the yellow silk shawl from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her. “I’m so sorry that you have been ill.”
“Did someone say I was?”
“Oh, I—” I grew flustered. “Maude—she said you’d had pneumonia some time ago.” That much at least was true, or so I thought, though from Kitty Coleman’s reaction I began to wonder.
“Is that what Maude said?” she asked. I wondered if Kitty would actually answer a question rather than ask one. But then she shrugged. “I suppose that may as well do,” she muttered, which made no sense, but I did not try to question her.
She rang a bell, but when the girl appeared—it was not their usual maid—Kitty looked at her blankly, as if she had forgotten why she summoned her. The girl stared back just as blankly.
“Perhaps some tea for your mistress,” I suggested.
“Yes,” Kitty murmured. “That would be good.”
When the girl had left I said, “Have you seen a doctor recently?”
“Why?”
“Well, for your convalescence. Perhaps there’s something you could take—a tonic. Or go to a spa.” I was trying in vain to name remedies for whatever afflicted her. All I could think of were novels I’d read in which the heroine went to spas in Germany, or to the South of France for the climate.
“The doctor said I must build up my strength with plenty of food and fresh air,” Kitty repeated mechanically. She looked as if she ate little more than a mouthful of food a day, and I doubt she went out at all.
“That is just what I was coming to speak to you about. I am proposing to take the girls on a little outing to the new library that is about to open on Chester Road, and I wondered if you and Maude would join us. We could go afterward for tea up in Water-low Park.” I felt a little silly, making it sound as if I were suggesting an expedition to Antarctica rather than a trip just around the corner.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It’s a bit far.”
“The library itself is quite close,” I said quickly, “and we don’t have to go all the way up the hill for tea—we could choose someplace closer. Or you could come to me.” Kitty had never been to my house. I did not want her to sit in my cramped parlor, but I felt I had to offer.
“I’m not ...”
I waited for Kitty to finish her sentence, but she did not. Something had happened to her—she was like a little lamb that has lost its way and is wandering aimlessly in a field. I did not relish playing her shepherd, but I also knew that God did not intend for a shepherd to judge His flock. I grasped her hand again. “What is wrong, my dear? What has distressed you so?”
Kitty gazed at me. Her eyes were so dark it was like looking into a well. “I have spent my life waiting for something to happen,” she said. “And I have come to understand that nothing will. Or it already has, and I blinked during that moment and it’s gone. I don’t know which is worse—to have missed it or to know there is nothing to miss.”
I did not know what to say, for I did not understand her at all. Still, I had to try to answer. “I think that you are very lucky indeed,” I said, making my voice as stern as I dared. “You have a fine husband and a good daughter, and a lovely house and garden. You have food on the table and a cook to cook it. To many you have an enviable life.” Though not to me, I added silently.
“Yes, but ...” Kitty stopped again, scanning my face for something. It appeared she did not find it, for she let her gaze drop.
I let go of her hand. “I am going to send around a tonic that my mother used to prepare for me when I felt low, with brandy and egg yolk and a little sugar. I’m sure it will be an effective pick-me-up. And do you have any brilliantine? A bit on your brush will do wonders to your hair. And, my dear, do come with us to the library ceremony on Thursday.” Kitty opened her mouth to speak, but I bravely talked over her. “I insist upon it. Maude will be so pleased, as she so wants to go with you. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her. She’s such a good girl—top of her class.”
“She is?”
Surely Kitty must know how well her daughter was doing in her studies! “We shall come to collect you at half past two on Thursday. The fresh air will do you good.” Before she could object I stood up and pulled on my gloves, not even waiting for the tea to arrive (their girl is very slow) before taking my leave.
For the first time since I have known Kitty Coleman, I was in the position to dictate the tone of our relations. Rather than relishing the power, I simply felt miserable.
No one ever said Christian duty would be easy.
Maude Coleman
I don’t know why Lavinia was so keen on going to the library opening. She seemed to think I would be thrilled to go as well, but she has confused celebration with function.While I am of course glad we are to have a local public library, I was more interested in borrowing books than in the ceremony. Lavinia is just the opposite—she has always liked parties more than I do, but she cannot sit still in a library for five minutes. She does not even like books much—though she is fond of Dickens, of course, and she and her mother like to read aloud Sir Walter Scott. And she can recite some poems—Tennyson’s “Lady of Shalott” and Keats’s “La Belle Dame sans Merci.”
But to please her I said I would go, and Mrs. Waterhouse somehow persuaded Mummy to come out with us—the first time she has been out at all since she was ill. I do wish she had worn something a little gayer—she has so many beautiful dresses and hats, but she chose a brown dress and a black felt hat trimmed with three black rosettes. She looked like a mourner among partygoers. Still, at least she came—I was pleased just to walk with her.
I do not think she understood very well where the new library is. Daddy and I had often gone on a summer evening to inspect the progress of the building, but Mummy had never come with us. Now as we turned into Chester Road from Swain’s Lane she grew very agitated at the sight of the southern wall of the cemetery, which is bounded by Chester Road. She even clutched my arm, and without quite knowing why, I said, “It’s all right, Mummy, we aren’t going in.” She relaxed a little, though she held on to me until we had passed by the southern gate and reached the crowd outside the library.
The library is a handsome brick building with tan stone trimmings, a front porch with four Corinthian columns, and side sections with high arched windows. For the opening the front was decked out with white bunting, and a small platform placed on the front steps. Lots of people were milling about on the pavement and spilling into the street. It was a windy day, making the bunting shake and men’s bowlers and women’s feathers and flowers fly off.
We had not been there long before the speeches began. A man stepped onto the platform and called out, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. It is my great pleasure, as chairman of the Education and Libraries Committee of the St. Pancras Borough Council, to welcome yo
u to this most auspicious occasion, the opening of the first free library in the borough as the first step in adopting the Public Libraries’ Acts in St. Pancras.
“We are indebted to the Alderman T.H.W. Idris, MP, and late mayor, for his successful endeavor in getting Mr. Andrew Carnegie, of Pittsburgh of the United States, to give forty thousand pounds for the purpose of the adoption of the Acts—”
Just then I felt an elbow in my ribs. “Look!” Lavinia hissed, pointing. A funeral procession was coming along Chester Road. The chairman on the platform stopped speaking when he saw the carriages, and the men in the crowd removed their hats while the women bowed their heads. I bowed mine as well but looked up through my lashes, counting five carriages behind the one carrying the coffin.
Then a great gust of wind made the women all grab at their hats. Lavinia and Ivy May and I were wearing our green school berets, which usually stay snug on our heads, but Lavinia pulled hers off as if the wind had loosened it, and tossed her hair and shrugged. I’m sure she did it just to show off her curls.
The undertaker’s men walking alongside the front carriage clamped their hands on their top hats; one blew off anyway and the man had to run after it in his long black coat. The horses’ black plumes were swaying and one horse whinnied and bucked as the wind got up its nose, so that the driver had to crack his whip, making some ladies scream, and halting the procession. Mummy trembled and clutched my arm.
The wind had loosened the bunting on the library so much that the next gust caught a length of it and blew it up in the air. The long white cloth sailed over our heads and did a kind of dance over the funeral procession, until suddenly the wind dropped and the bunting fell, landing across the carriage that carried the coffin. The crowd gasped—Lavinia of course screamed—and the nervous horse bucked again.