Tipping the Velvet

  Father handed out the oysters, and Mother offered beer or lemonade. Kitty picked up a shell with one hand and her oyster-knife with the other, and brought them together rather ineffectually. Father saw, and gave a shout.

  ‘Ho, there, Miss Butler, where are our manners! Davy, you take that knife and show the lady how - else she might just job the blade into her hand, and give herself a nasty cut.’

  ‘I can do it,’ I said quickly; and I took the oyster from her, and the knife, before my brother could get his fingers on them.

  ‘You do it like this,’ I said to her. ‘You must hold the oyster in your palm so that the flat shell is uppermost - like this.’ I held the shell to show her, and she gazed at it rather gravely. ‘Then you must take your blade and put it - not between the halves, but in the hinge, here. And then you must grasp it, and prise.’ I gave the knife a gentle twist, and the shell eased open. ‘You must hold it steady,’ I went on, ‘because the shell is full of liquor, and you mustn’t spill a drop of it, for that’s the tastiest part.’ The little fish sat in my palm in its bath of oyster-juice, naked and slippery. ‘This here,’ I said, pointing with my knife, ‘is called the beard; you must trim that away.’ I gave the blade a flick, and the beard was severed. ‘Then you must just cut your oyster free ... And now you may eat it.’ I slipped the shell carefully into her hand, and felt her fingers warm and soft against my own as she cupped them to receive it. Our heads were very near. She raised the oyster to her lips and held it for a second before her mouth, her eyes on mine, unblinking.

  I had not been aware of it, but I had spoken softly, and the others had quietened to listen. Now the table was hushed and still. When I took my eyes from Kitty’s I saw a ring of faces turned my way, and blushed.

  At last, someone spoke. It was Father, and his voice was very loud. ‘No bolting him down whole now, Miss Butler,’ he said, ‘like the gormays do. We won’t have that at this table. You go on and give him a real good chew.’ He said it kindly, and Kitty laughed. She peered into the shell in her hand.

  ‘And is it really alive?’ she said.

  ‘Alive alive-oh,’ said Davy. ‘If you listen very hard, you will hear him shrieking as he goes down.’

  There were protests at that from Rhoda and Alice. ‘You will make the poor girl sick,’ said Mother. ‘Don’t you mind him, Miss Butler. You just eat your fish, and enjoy it.’

  Kitty did so. With no more glances at me she threw the contents of her shell into her mouth, chewed them hard and fast, and swallowed them. Then she wiped her lips with her napkin, and smiled at Father.

  ‘Now,’ he said, confidentially, ‘tell the truth: have you ever tasted an oyster such as that, before, or have you not?’

  Kitty said that she had not, and Davy gave a cheer; and for a while there was no sound at all but the delicate, diminutive sounds of good oyster-supper: the creak of hinges, the slap of discarded beards, the trickle of liquor and butter and beer.

  I opened no more shells for Kitty, for she managed them herself. ‘Look at this one!’ she said, when she had handled half-a-dozen or so. ‘What a brute he is!’ Then she looked more closely at it. ‘Is it a he? I suppose they all must be, since they all have beards?’

  Father shook his head, chewing. ‘Not at all, Miss Butler, not at all. Don’t let the beards mislead you. For the oyster, you see, is what you might call a real queer fish - now a he, now a she, as quite takes its fancy. A regular morphodite, in fact!’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Tony tapped his plate. ‘You’re a bit of an oyster, then, yourself, Kitty,’ he said with a smirk.

  She looked for a moment rather uncertain, but then she smiled. ‘Why, I suppose I am,’ she said. ‘Just fancy! I’ve never been likened to a fish before.’

  ‘Well, don’t take it the wrong way, Miss Butler,’ said Mother, ‘for spoken in this house, it is something of a compliment.’

  Tony laughed, and Father said, ‘Oh, it was, it was!’

  Kitty still smiled. Then she half-rose to reach a pepper castor; and when she sat again she drew her feet beneath her chair, and I felt my thigh grow cool.

  When the oyster-barrel was quite empty, and the lemonade and the Bass had all been drunk, and Kitty declared that she had never had a finer supper in all her life, we moved our chairs away from the table, and the men lit cigarettes, and Alice and Rhoda set out cups, for tea. There was more talk, and more questions for Kitty to answer. Had she ever met Nelly Power? Did she know Bessie Bellwood, or Jenny Hill, or Jolly John Nash? Then, on another tack: was it true that she had no young chap? She said she had no time for it. And had she family, in Kent, and when did she see them? She had none at all, she said, since her grandmother died. Mother tut-tutted over that, and said it was a shame; Davy said she could help herself to some of our relations, if she liked, for we had more than we knew what to do with.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Kitty.

  ‘Yes,’ said Davy. ‘You must have heard the song:‘There’s her uncle, and her brother, and her sister, and her mother,

  And her auntie, and another, who is cousin to her mother...’

  No sooner had he finished the verse, indeed, than there was the sound of our street-door opening, and a shout up the stairs; and three of our cousins themselves appeared, followed by Uncle Joe and Aunt Rosina - all got up in their Sunday best, and all just popped in, they said, for a ‘peek’ at Miss Butler, if Miss Butler had no objection.

  More chairs were brought up, and more cups; a fresh round of introductions was made, and the little room grew stuffy with heat and smoke and laughter. Somebody said what a shame it was we had no piano for Miss Butler to give us a song; then George - my eldest cousin - said, ‘Would a harmonica serve the purpose?’ and produced one from his jacket pocket. Kitty blushed, and said she couldn’t; and everyone cried, ‘Oh please, Miss Butler, do!’

  ‘What do you think, Nan,’ she said to me, ‘should I shame myself?’

  ‘You know you won’t,’ I said, pleased that she had turned to me at the last, and used my special name before them all.

  ‘Very well, then,’ she said. A little space was cleared for her, and Rhoda ran down to her house, to fetch her sisters to come and watch.

  She sang ‘The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery’, and ‘The Coffee Shop Girl’ - then ‘The Boy’ again for Rhoda’s sisters, who had just arrived. Then she whispered to George and to me, and I fetched her a hat of Father’s and a walking-cane, and she sang us a couple of masher songs, and ended with the ballad with which she finished her set at the Palace, about the sweetheart and the rose.

  We cheered her then, and she had her hand shaken, and her back slapped, ten times over. She looked very flushed and hot at the end of it all, and rather tired. Davy said, ‘How about a song from you now, Nance?’ I gave him a look.

  ‘No,’ I said. I wouldn’t sing for them with Kitty there, for anything.

  Kitty looked at me curiously. ‘Do you sing, then?’ she said.

  ‘Nancy’s got the prettiest voice, Miss Butler,’ said one of the cousins, ‘you ever heard.’

  ‘Yes, go on, Nance, be a sport!’ said another.

  ‘No, no, no!’ I cried again - so firmly that Mother frowned, and the others laughed.

  Uncle Joe said, ‘Well, that’s a shame, that is. You should hear her in the kitchen, Miss Butler. She’s a regular song-bird, she is, then: a regular lark. Makes your heart turn over, to hear her.’ There were murmurs of agreement throughout the room, and I saw Kitty look blinkingly my way. Then George whispered rather loudly that I must be saving my voice for serenading Freddy, and there was a fresh round of laughter that set me gazing and blushing into my lap. Kitty looked bemused.

  She asked then, ‘Who is Freddy?’

  ‘Freddy is Nancy’s young feller,’ said Davy. ‘A very handsome chap. She must’ve boasted about him to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Kitty, ‘she has not.’ She said it lightly, but I glanced up and saw that her eyes were strange, and almost sad. It was true that
I had never mentioned Fred to her. The fact was, I barely thought of him as my beau these days, for since her arrival in Canterbury I had had no evenings spare to spend with him. He had recently sent me a letter to say, did I still care? - and I had put the letter in a drawer, and forgotten to reply.

  There was more chaff about Freddy, then; I was glad when one of Rhoda’s sisters caused a fuss, by snatching the harmonica from George and giving us a tune so horrible it made the boys all shout at her, and pull her hair, to make her stop.

  While they quarrelled and swore, Kitty leaned towards me and said softly, ‘Will you take me to your room, Nan, or somewhere quiet, for a bit - just you and me?’ She looked so grave suddenly I feared that she might faint. I got up, and made a path for her across the crowded room, and told my mother I was taking her upstairs; and Mother - who was gazing troubledly at Rhoda’s sister, not knowing whether to laugh at her or to scold - gave us a nod, distractedly, and we escaped.

  The bedroom was cooler than the parlour, and dimmer, and - although we could still hear shouts, and stamping, and blasts from the harmonica - wonderfully calm compared to the room we had just left. The window was raised, and Kitty crossed to it at once and placed her arms upon the sill. Closing her eyes against the breeze that blew in from the bay, she took a few deep, grateful breaths.

  ‘Are you poorly?’ I said. She turned to me and shook her head, and smiled; but again, her smile seemed sad.

  ‘Just tired.’

  My jug and bowl were on the side. I poured a little water out and carried it to her, for her to wash her hands and splash her face. The water spotted her dress, and dampened the fringe of her hair into dark little points.

  She had a purse swinging at her waist, and now she dipped her fingers into it and drew out a cigarette and a box of matches. She said, ‘I am sure your mother would disapprove, but I’m just about busting for a smoke.’ She lit the cigarette, and drew upon it heavily.

  We gazed at one another not speaking. Then, because we were weary and there was no where else for us to sit, we sat upon the bed, side by side, and quite close. It was terribly strange to be with her in the very room - on the very spot! - where I had spent so many hours dreaming of her, so immodestly. I said, ‘It ain’t half strange -’ But as I said it she also spoke; and we laughed. ‘You first,’ she said, and drew again upon her fag.

  ‘I was just going to say, how funny it is to have you here, like this.’

  ‘And I,’ she said, ‘was going to say how funny it is to be here! And this is really your room, yours and Alice’s? And your bed?’ She looked about her, as if in wonder - as if I might have taken her to a stranger’s chamber, and be trying to pass it off as my own - and I nodded.

  She was silent again, then, and so was I; and yet I sensed that she had more to say, and was only working up to saying it. I thought, with a little thrill, that I knew what it was; but when she spoke again it wasn’t about the contract, but about my family - about how kind they were, and how much they loved me, and how lucky I was to have them. I remembered that she was an orphan, of sorts, and bit back my protests, and let her talk; but my silence seemed only to dampen her spirits the further.

  At last, when her cigarette was finished and thrown into the grate, she took a breath and said what I had been waiting for. ‘Nan, I have something to tell you - a piece of good news, and you must promise to be happy for me.’

  I couldn’t help myself. I had been longing to smile about it all afternoon, and now I laughed and said, ‘Oh Kitty, I know your news already!’ She seemed to frown then, so I went on quickly, ‘You mustn’t be cross with Tony, but he told me - just today.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘That Tricky wants you to stay on, at the Palace; that you will be here till Christmas at least!’

  She looked at me rather strangely, then lowered her gaze and gave an awkward little laugh. ‘That’s not my news,’ she said. ‘And nobody knows it but me. Tricky does want me to stay on - but I’ve turned him down.’

  ‘Turned him down?’ I stared at her. Still she would not catch my eye, but got to her feet, and crossed her arms over her waist.

  ‘Do you remember the gentleman who called on me last night,’ she said, ‘ - Mr Bliss?’ I nodded. She hadn’t mentioned him today; and in all my fussing over her visit, I had forgotten to ask after him. Now she went on: ‘Mr Bliss is a manager - not a theatre manager, like Tricky, but a manager for artistes: an agent. He saw my turn and - oh, Nan!’ - she couldn’t help but be excited now - ‘he saw my turn and liked it so much, he has offered me a contract, at a music hall in London!’

  ‘London!’ I could only echo her in disbelief. This was terrible beyond all words. Had she gone to Margate or Broadstairs, I might have visited her sometimes. If she went to London I would never see her again; she might just as well go to Africa, or to the moon.

  She went talking on, saying how Mr Bliss had friends at the London halls, and had promised her a season at them all; how he had said she was too good for the provincial stage; that she would find fame in the city, where all the big names worked, and all the money was... I hardly listened, but grew more and more miserable. At length I placed a hand before my eyes, and bowed my head, and she grew silent.

  ‘You’re not happy for me, after all,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I am,’ I said - my voice was thick - ‘but I am more unhappy, for myself.’

  There was a silence then, broken only by the sound of laughter and scraping chairs from the parlour below, and the shriek of gulls outside the open window. The room seemed to have darkened since we entered it, and I felt colder, suddenly, than I had all summer.

  I heard her take a step. In a second she was sitting beside me again, and had taken my hand from my brow. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I have something to ask you.’ I looked at her; her face was pale, except for its cloud of freckles, and her eyes seemed large. ‘Do you think that I look handsome today?’ she said. ‘Do you think I have been kind, and pleasant, and good? Do you think your parents like me?’ Her words seemed wild. I did not speak, but only nodded wonderingly. ‘I came,’ she said, ‘to make them. I wore my smartest frock, so they would think me grander than I am. I thought, they might be the meanest and most miserable family in all of Kent; yet I will work so hard at being nice, they’ll trust me like a daughter.

  ‘But oh, Nan, they’re not miserable or mean, and I didn’t have to play at being nice at all! They are the kindest family I ever met; and you are all the world to them. I cannot ask you to give them up ...’

  My heart seemed to stop - and then to pound, like a piston.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. She looked away.

  ‘I meant to ask you to come with me. To London.’

  I blinked. ‘To go with you? But how?’

  ‘As my dresser,’ she said, ‘if you’d care to. As my - anything, I don’t know. I have spoken to Mr Bliss: he says there will not be much money for you at first - but enough, if you share my diggings.’

  ‘Why?’ I said then. She raised her eyes to mine.

  ‘Because I - like you. Because you are good for me, and bring me luck. And because London will be strange; and Mr Bliss may not be all that he seems; and I shall have no one...’

  ‘And you truly thought,’ I said slowly, ‘that I would say no?’

  ‘This afternoon - yes. Last night, and this morning, I believed - Oh, it was so different in the dressing-room, when it was just the two of us! I didn’t know then how it was for you here. I didn’t know then that you had a - a chap.’

  Her words made me bold. I drew my hand away from hers and got to my feet. I walked to the head of the bed, where there was a little cabinet, with a drawer in it. I opened it, and took something from it, and showed it to her. ‘Do you know this?’ I said, and she smiled.

  ‘It’s the flower I gave you.’ She took it from me, and held it. It was dry and limp, and its petals were brown at the edges and coming loose; and it was rather flat, because I had slept many nights wi
th it beneath my pillow.

  ‘When you threw this to me,’ I said to her, ‘my life changed. I think I must have been - asleep - till that moment: asleep, or dead. Since I met you, I’ve been awake - alive! Do you think I could give that up, now, so easily?’

  My words startled her - as well they might, for I had never spoken like this before, to her or to anyone. She looked away from me, about the room, and ran her tongue over her lips. ‘And all of them, downstairs?’ she said, nodding towards the door. ‘Your mother and father, your brother, Alice, Freddy?’ As she spoke there came a shout, and the sound of voices raised in friendly argument.

  They mean nothing to me, I wanted to say, compared with you ... But I only shrugged, and smiled.

  She smiled then, too. ‘And so you really will come? We must leave on Sunday, you know - a week from today. It doesn’t give you long.’

  I said it would be long enough; and she placed the faded rose upon the bed, and seized my hands and squeezed them hard.

  ‘Oh Nan! My dear Nan! We’ll have such times together, I promise you!’ As she spoke, she flung my hands aside and gripped me in a fierce embrace, and laughed with pleasure, so that I felt her body shudder in my arms.

  Then, all too soon, she stepped away, and I had only empty air to clutch at.

  There was more noise from below, then the sound of a door opening, followed by the thud of feet upon the staircase, and a cry: ‘Nancy!’ It was Alice. She paused outside the bedroom door, but was too polite - or fearful - to turn the handle. ‘Everyone is leaving,’ she called. ‘Mother says will Miss Butler just step down for a moment, please, for them to say good-bye.’

  I looked at Kitty. ‘You go on,’ I said, ‘without me, and I shall come down in a minute. And don’t,’ I added in a lower voice, ‘say anything to them about - our plans. I’ll talk to them about it, later on.’