I went straight to bed after my bath, and at quarter-past four the next morning I was up again and on my way out – after first asking the night porter to change a threepenny bit for me, so I could make use of another London convenience when it became necessary. Then out into the still-dark streets – except they weren’t really dark. I admired yet another London miracle: street lighting.
I headed east. There was lots to see, even this early. London never really goes to sleep. I stopped for a mug of coffee at a stall in Fleet Street and drank it while I watched the new day’s news being loaded up and sent on its way. Then I was off on mine.
Upper Thames Street, Lower Thames Street – now I could smell my goal: Billingsgate Market. Railway vans jammed the street, and I stood watching the procession of white-smocked porters as they came trotting out of the market, handed over their metal tallies and claimed their oozing boxes of fish. With a quick heave the boxes were on top of their hard, round hats and they were off again, back into the market. Soon I followed them into the familiar, fishy air.
Threading my way through the cool, dim hall I discovered the wooden platform that jutted out over the river at the back, and watched as yet more fish were unloaded from a steamer moored there. Back in the cavernous market again I watched the stalls being rapidly built, ready for today’s supply of fish. Soon it was all on display: barrels of eels and lobsters; mounds of mussels and whelks; marble slabs loaded with huge cod, salmon, turbot, bass – and herrings. Hundreds and thousands of shining silver herrings – which somebody else was going to have to gut, thank goodness.
By the time I left bustling, shouting Billingsgate, London was fully awake. I walked a bit further down the river to watch Tower Bridge rise, and then caught the tram back for an early meat breakfast.
I spent the rest of the day exploring south of the river. I seemed to pass every kind of shop, from butchers’ hung with carcasses to ironmongers who’d stacked the pavement outside with every possible variety of brush and broom, pot and pan. I saw street sellers offering every kind of product, from old hats to toy windmills, from shrimps to sherbet drinks. Chimney sweeps, saw sharpeners, cane chair menders and front doorstep scrubbers were all out on the streets too, offering their services – as were the entertainers. Organ grinder, juggler, fire-eater – I watched them all.
On Friday I set off in a westerly direction. After gazing into the seemingly endless shop windows of Kensington High Street, I walked on to Knightsbridge, where a sudden shower of rain sent me through the doors of Harrods. Inside I stared up in amazement at the ornate plasterwork ceiling of the bakery department, and the great tiled hunting scenes that adorned the meat hall. The whole place was more like a temple than a shop – and it looked as if all the hanging bodies of dead birds and animals were sacrifices, made by the people of London to propitiate their gods. I was pleased with my observation there – I felt I was definitely getting the hang of this ethnology lark.
Next morning I made another early start – this time for Covent Garden. After battling through streets blocked by greengrocers’ carts waiting for their fruit and vegetables I elbowed my way into the crammed alleyways of the market itself, and then on into the huge Floral Hall. Dazzled by the vivid colours of the flowers and almost smothered by the over-powering sweetness of their scents, for a moment it was as if I were in India again.
After my survey of Covent Garden I walked down to Trafalgar Square to see the lions, and then headed east once more. Arriving at Fish Street I paid my threepence to climb the 345 steps of the Monument: ‘Erected to commemorate the Great Fire of London of 1666, which started at this spot.’ (Randall – gosh, he had been so useful.)
When I reached the top and looked out over the great city below me I arrived at my first conclusion: that in London you could buy and sell anything, anywhere. That decision made, I just stood there – looking. Yes, it really was a love affair.
Chapter Twenty Two
I reached my second conclusion that afternoon. I was sitting on a bench in Kensington Gardens when a stout, uniformed nanny parked her pram and sat down on the bench opposite. She had two little girls with her, and I heard her say, ‘You can go and play for a little while now – but don’t get dirty.’ And I just started giggling – because they were both dressed from head to foot in sparkling white – layer upon layer of it: starched lace and frills, white silk socks, tiny kid shoes, white gloves and wide-brimmed, flower-bedecked white straw hats! How on earth could they play – in that outfit?
And then two women came walking slowly past – their heads weighed down with great elaborately decorated hats, waists obviously pulled in by steel— boned corsets, legs constricted by hobble skirts, feet balancing on high heels. No wonder they were walking slowly – it was a wonder they could walk at all! And my second conclusion burst out: that in England the more money people had, the dafter the clothing they wore – to the point where their clothes actually became an inconvenience to them. But could that really be true?
I jumped up, ran across into Hyde Park, and paid a whole penny for one of the little green chairs there – and just looked. It was like being Alice through the looking glass, now that I could see the whole absurdity of it.
I looked at the men next, and realised that they were no different from the women: carrying those useless canes under their arms, and wearing gloves – in this weather! Then they were sporting those high, stiff wing collars which Apa always said were so uncomfortable – and to top it all, there was that crowning absurdity, the top hat. So totally impracticable as a hat, its function could only be to make the wearer look taller than men of lowlier status. In fact, they were no different from peacocks, spreading their great burdensome tails!
As I watched, fascinated, two men met in front of me: two right hands rose to two identical top hats before being extended in a formal handshake – and immediately I remembered my grandmother referring to greeting rituals – she’d written that they vary from tribe to tribe, but always consist of the repetition of certain well-defined gestures combined with recurrent, meaningless phrases – and two voices in front of me grunted: ‘How d’you do?’, ‘How d’you do?’ A question with no reply given or expected. Gosh, it was exactly the same here, in Hyde Park, today – I was witnessing the tribal rituals of the English upper class.
I sat glued to my chair, watching and trying to eavesdrop for so long that I missed my meat tea and had to eat egg on toast at a Lyons’ Corner House.
My excitement had worn off a bit by the following morning morning. Half of the fun of doing interesting things is telling someone about them afterwards – but there was nobody for me to tell. Since it was Sunday I went to church – and prayed from the Anglican prayer book Apa and I had always used – oh, how I missed him. But I knew he wouldn’t have wanted me to stay indoors moping, so I went back to Hyde Park, to watch all those people parading in their even-more-elaborate tribal regalia for Sundays. Lots of top hats today – so silly, because most them were taller than normal to start with. I saw several men as tall as Horseface, even.
No, I hadn’t forgotten Horseface. Especially as my plans for the afternoon were not wholly unconnected with that personage. Back in Almora Apa and I had often gone out visiting on a Sunday afternoon, and I’d planned to do the same, here in London. I would make my call just after tea, I’d decided, since there was a good chance he’d be in then. And I did have an excuse for my visit.
I arrived on Mr Parton’s doorstep just as a nearby church was striking the half hour after four o’clock. I’d whiled away some time looking at the mummies in the British Museum, then headed east, to the City. By consulting the map in the hotel I’d discovered that Mr Parton lived off Bishopsgate, just beyond Liverpool Street Station. There weren’t that many places to live around there, and Old Street was just a short terrace of tall, plain houses, facing the blank back wall of a warehouse. I bet they had trouble with rats. I tugged firmly on the bell.
When the maid opened the door I asked in my best Scots ac
cent, ‘Is Mr Parton in, the noo?’
She looked pretty surprised. ‘Is he expecting you? He didn’t…’
I cut in quickly. ‘Aye, in a manner o’ speaking, he is. I’m calling tae collect some photographs tae dae with a book he’s writing. An’ seeing as I was passing…’ She still looked dubious, so I held out the card. ‘He gave me this.’
Her face cleared. ‘If you’d come in and wait – What’s your name?’
‘Eve Gunn – frae Caithness.’
She was soon back. ‘This way.’ I followed her up the stairs.
Mr Parton was very pink above his beard and even stammering slightly as he exclaimed, ‘The photos! I know they’re somewhere.’ I reassured him. ‘There’s nae hurry – I’ll be glad of a rest. I bin daeing a lot o’ walking, seeing the sights o’ London.’
‘Ah – um – I see,’ He gathered courage, ‘You’ve been having a – little holiday?’
‘Aye, that’s richt – a wee break.’
‘Would you – care to take a seat, while I look?’
‘Thank ye, kindly.’ I sat down, and while he looked, I did the same – round at the room. It was lined with bookcases, except for where a grand piano stood under the window. There was also a low table near his armchair – on which stood a tea tray.
He turned back from his desk with a large envelope in his hand. ‘Here they are.’ He smiled before adding, ‘The weather’s very warm, today, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, it is that. Makes thirsty work for a body, walking round London.’ I let my gaze rest for a moment on the tea tray.
Five minutes later I was sitting with a cup of tea in my hand, and a cucumber sandwich on my plate, chatting to Mr Parton.
I told him of all the sights I’d seen in London, and when I went on to explain about Jeannie coming to take over at the gutting he said, ‘So you’ve not always been a herring girl, then. What is your usual occupation?’
Well, I wasn’t going to tell him I’d been at school at Wick, was I? Not with the English Mr Henderson’s office practically just round the corner. So instead I said, ‘Housemaid.’ And the minute I’d said it I had this simply brilliant idea – what a marvellous opportunity for studying the tribal rituals of the upper classes! I leant forward, ‘Truth is, I’m between places the noo. Maybe ye’d ken a body in need’ve a maid? I’ve been well trained,’ and remembering I added, ‘I’ve ma character with me, too.’
‘Well, I hardly…’ he looked baffled – then his face cleared, ‘I know – we’ll consult my friend, Dr Travers.’ He picked up a window pole and banged the blunt end on the ceiling, explaining as he did so, ‘His rooms are upstairs – he lives with me, when he’s in London.’ Sitting down again he gave me one of his shy smiles saying, ‘He’ll know what to do, Travers always does.’
I felt a moment of apprehension – surely Dr Travers couldn’t be Horseface – could he? Light footsteps were coming down the stairs – no, he couldn’t be… The door opened – and I fell in love again.
Tall, slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed – Dr Travers was the most handsome man I’d ever seen in my life. I was so dumbstruck I hardly spoke for five minutes, and by then Dr Travers had written a note for me take to the housekeeper at his aunt’s house in Richmond Park. ‘I happen to know she requires a new housemaid,’ a slight frown creasing his noble forehead. ‘One has just had to – ah – embrace matrimony rather sooner than expected. I was consulted in my professional capacity. And As Mrs Salter prefers not to employ local girls – the risk of gossip – and my aunt won’t allow her to use a register office, not even Mrs Hunt’s, you could be just what she’s looking for. As he turned to leave he wished me good luck before adding, ‘And if you’re successful, I’ll see you there when I pay my autumnal visit.’ He smiled at me, and my knees felt as if they were about to give way.
Oh yes, I’d jumped to my feet the minute he came into the room – I knew enough about tribal rituals to get that one right. No, be honest, Eve – I’d just jumped. But it had been the right thing to do for those planning a career in good service, and I was – I was. Gosh, Dr Travers was good looking; and unlike the rest of the upper classes he wasn’t idle, he was a real doctor.
He was also half American; Mr Parton had let that out after Dr Travers had returned to his rooms upstairs. I’d sunk back into my chair, and offered to pour him another cup of tea. ‘No thank you – but if you’d like one yourself – and perhaps another sandwich?’
‘There’s nae sense in letting ’em gang tae waste, is there?’ I took one bite, then put it down again. My appetite had gone, because it had just occurred to me that if Mr Parton was a friend of Dr Travers’, then maybe Dr Travers had other friends, like … I couldn’t say ‘Horseface’, and I didn’t know his real name.
I chose my words carefully. ‘I daresay as Dr Travers wouldna like tae think as someone as wanted tae be his auntie’s new housemaid had had a herring unfortunately slip from her hand, and go flying through the air…’
‘I won’t say a word.’
Good old Mr Parton. ‘The other gentleman, your friend, who found himself in the way o’ that herring – is he friendly wi’ Dr Travers too?’ My voice tailed glumly off – I could see the answer in Mr Parton’s face. ‘But, maybe he didn’t mention to anyone…’ Mr Parton’s expression squashed that hope too. Rotten, rotten Horseface, ruining my new career before it had even started. ‘Oh – then there’s nae much use ma going to Richmond tomorrow, is tha?’ I sighed.
Mr Parton said thoughtfully, ‘The tale was told without reference to any names.’ I perked up. ‘And Dr Travers has been away – his father is American, so his parents live in that country. He can’t have had the opportunity to hear the story yet. And I’m sure if I spoke to our mutual friend, and asked him to be discreet, then…’
‘Och, Mr Parton – thank ye, thank ye kindly.’
He held out the plate, ‘Would you like the last cucumber sandwich?’ What a nice man!
I didn’t set off for Richmond immediately the next morning; there was a little task to be performed first. I went out and spent Sixpence on a box of William Mitchell’s Black Magnum pen nibs with a broad ‘R’ point – just like the minister always used. Back at the hotel I found my reference in my Bible box and took it down to the writing room to insert the missing date. But which date?
I thought this one over carefully, and eventually decided I would tell the housekeeper about my going on the gutting. It explained why I was on holiday in England now. And besides, if I didn’t tell her the truth, Mr Parton might let it slip, and then suppose it got back to Dr Travers? I wouldn’t like Dr Travers to think I didn’t know the difference between truth and falsehood. I picked up my pen, and carefully imitating the minister’s handwriting wrote in ‘May 2nd., 1911.’ How lucky he’d forgotten to date it – and it was even luckier that Mairi had noticed.
Armed with my reference I set off for Richmond. It was a huge house on the edge of the Park itself, though I couldn’t see much of it from the back entrance – the only suitable way in for intending housemaids. A maid escorted me to the housekeeper’s room. Mrs Salter was wearing a black silk dress with a bunch of keys tinkling at her waist.
I handed over my character and Dr Travers’ note. It was obvious from the expression on her face as she read the note that Dr Travers was a favourite of hers – but it was Annie Butterfield who tipped the balance. ‘Now, tell me exactly how you would set about turning out a bedroom,’ was Mrs Salter’s first question. Translating Butterfield page 72, Section I into my best Scots accent I rattled off the moves.
We then progressed through ‘Daily Work of Bathroom’, (page 43) ‘Care of Mops and Brushes’, (page 10) and ‘Cleaning of Wool Carpets’ (page 19). By the end of ‘Polishes, Various’ (Appendix A) I was fourth housemaid to Lady Stokesley at £25 a year, to be paid in twelve instalments of £2 1s. 8d. on the first day of every month. She’d barely looked at my character. There’d only been one sticky moment. She’d said, ‘Now there is the question of your age. F
ourth housemaid is a responsible position – she works in the front of the house, and she’s also one of the travelling housemaids, so I do feel she shouldn’t be too young.’
I had to move quickly. Taking a chance I asked, ‘Is nineteen old enough?’
Her face cleared. ‘Oh, certainly – I think a girl of that age would be quite suitable.’
Personally I disagreed; I thought myself that a girl of seventeen would be every bit as suitable – but I didn’t see any need for debating the point. Mrs Salter’s next question was an easy one to answer, ‘Now, when can you start?’
‘Today.’
There’s no point hanging back when a new experience is on offer, is there? Though there was the question of my hotel booking being for two more nights.
But after some brisk bargaining the manager agreed to split the difference – which was the best I’d hoped for, so I was pretty pleased with myself as I left to pick up my trunk. I took a cab to Euston on the strength of my saving – besides I wouldn’t need my return fare to Wick, now. Wick – the Mr Hendersons – Mrs Sinclair – I hastily scribbled a postcard to say I’d got a job, so wouldn’t require my room any longer, and found a guard willing to deliver it. ‘Where are ye away tae?’
‘Manchester.’ That was alright, then. The Mr Hendersons would never find me in a city that size – especially as I wouldn’t be there in the first place. But where would I be? The answer was Shropshire.
Apparently that was the site of the Stokesley family seat, Wenlock Court. Richmond was their Town house, and only used at certain times of the year. The family would shortly be moving back down to Shropshire for the autumn, and in the meantime I was to help with the preparations for their return. The head housemaid, called Doris, who stayed there all the time, would give me my orders.