CHAPTER SIX
Mallory was eating lunch the next day, slices of leftover roast beef with home-made, horse radish chutney, between thick slabs of crusty bread, when suddenly there was a noisy disturbance. Baldwin was summoning the footmen and maids to attend his Lordship and Lady Patchford. The Honourable Ambrose was remaining at the Ettington estate for a few more days. What a surprise! They had not been expected back ’til late afternoon. Just the same, like all the others, she would have to drop everything. Making her way to the porte-cochere to receive the Tourer, she wondered what had gone amiss to cause this change of plan.
“We need to discuss this further in private Madam. Come to my suite when you are refreshed.” Lord Patchford was uncurling himself from the driver’s seat, his motoring costume today consisting of a three piece, tweed suit and a long skirted, light brown checked ‘dust coat’, revealing a yellow silk lining as it fell open. He was pulling off his gloves with short, sharp jerks, the ear flaps of his driving cap wagging in time. His words, directed to his wife were cold and would brook no argument. They were delivered to Lady Patchford’s stiffly receding back as she swept up the steps past the footmen, dealing with the luggage. Baldwin waited for her at the top, holding open the heavy door. Her Ladyship looked magnificent he thought, feeling proud to be in her employ. She wore a three-quarter length, tailored coat, cut away round to the back. It too was brown, but a deeper colour than her husband’s outfit, embroidered with a cream braid along the seams. The sleeves ended in wide cuffs above her hands, which were encased in soft chamios gloves. Her coat too was open, revealing a close fitting, high waisted, brown velvet Gilet cuirasse, just long enough to cover the bosom. This jacket bodice was fastened in the latest cross-over style with jet buttons on the diagonal. Above this, her neck was encircled with a lace collar, the ruches supporting her Ladyship’s aristocratic chin, from which an elegant cravat fell in soft folds.
Mallory observed that today Lady Patchford’s coiffure was high on top and perched above that, not to be missed and secured by two lethal looking and very ornate hat pins: the ‘monstrosity’. No wonder the Cape Cart was down. It had a large, soft velvet crown in matching brown, gathered and puffed up into mounds from a wide, flat brim. Where the two joined, decorative baubles had been stitched in a series of looping, gold curves. No flowers today.
Baldwin bowed at her passing as her Ladyship gave him a few instructions in a severely vexed tone, then requested he send for Maisie.
Mallory’s attention was drawn sharply back to the business at hand. “Look to the engine Mason. There’s some sort of knocking sound. I don’t like it!” His Lordship stamped off in his immaculate Tan Willows, dust coat flapping vigorously.
She drove round to the carriage house and parked. This would be her afternoon’s work so she reckoned she still had time to finish lunch. It would not only be the carburettor needing attention. She had seen how Lord Patchford drove.
Back in the servants’ quarters there was another summons. This time Maisie came to tell her Lady Patchford required his presence: of course, a report on the weekend.
Lady Glencora had changed out of her travelling clothes and wrapped herself in a pale lavender peignoir over her silk camisole and petticoat. She had left Maisie in charge of seeing to the sorting, storing and hanging of her wardrobe. However, she was still agitated and before facing Eustace, she needed reassurance that all was well with her daughter. The poor girl had taken her attempts at bracing and fortifying for future tribulations very hard. She could see she was distraught, but there was no doubt, this is a harsh world. She must learn resilience.
Too many people ready to bring you down if you haven’t developed sufficient resources. She sighed, longing to offer solace. No favours would be rendered by continuing to cosset, but oh, it did wound her heart to see her suffer so. Not a day went by but she must fight the urge to protect her from the agonies life could have in store. She had thought of a way – but that for later. For now, here was this Ramona business.
Mallory gave the report with only the occasional nod from her mistress then she was dismissed with the instruction that the automobile would be needed for a luncheon engagement tomorrow.
Lady Glencora did not take time to have Maisie dress her hair before going to Eustace’s dressing room, but simply had her tie it up in a foulard scarf Turkish-style, which was quite coming into fashion. Sir Eustace had changed into his quilted smoking jacket, but was not smoking. She sat herself in his padded, easy chair which left him with the hard Chippendale.
He began as usual, without preamble: “It’s no use Cora. Something has to be done – and soon. If we wait longer, the child will be too much a woman. No man will feel he has the control he desires. Too much independence in a wife is not an attractive trait.” His frown verged on fierce.
“But Eustace the girl is still not yet twenty.”
“Old enough to be married, Madam,” he shot back tersely, attended by a challenging glare. “Anyway, I believe her birthday is coming up soon,” he amended by way of conclusive argument.
“Eustace, you should have discussed it with me first. I had no idea you and Maynard were hatching this together.”
Indignantly he denied the implication. “We were not ‘hatching’ anything, as you put it. The topic came up and everything seemed to fall into place.”
“I bet it was at Maynard’s instigation,” Glencora qualified sharply. “You know he’s been trying to find someone for Sedgewick for years.”
“I thought you liked him,” his voice rasped. “I seem to recall hearing you sing his praises on numerous occasions,” he added scathingly.
“I do. I think he’s a charming man and very good company.” Eustace was right, however. There had been a time – but not now. Facing the reality of the situation, she could see numerous obstacles. “As a husband for Ramona …? I’m not sure … I know she really likes Myles Stafford-Clarke and …”
Eustace interrupted curtly: “It’s no good Cora, he’s a second son. However personable he might be, that young man has no prospects and I can’t help it if the girl fancies him. I have to think of her future and her station in Society.” His eyes became gritty and watchful. He did not want to get into an abrasive exchange with his wife, but he had as good as given his word to Ettington and there was no going back. “She’s probably suffering from infatuation and we all know how unreliable a state that is, especially as a foundation for marriage.” His irritation was getting harder to control and his voice rose sharply. “Infatuation is only for what the heart thinks it sees and for the vision that the eyes believe they see. The girl will get over it.”
What colour was left in Glencora’s face ebbed away. She did not like it when Eustace worked himself into a humour like this. No good ever came of it. She had been sure he would take care of the financial side of things. He would not see Ramona in want, but as to her ‘station’…? Anyway, what of Ramona herself? She might not take to it at all. Oh dear, she could see choppy seas ahead. And what of Sedgewick! As far as she knew he had not looked at Ramona twice. He was Ambrose’s friend.
“Did Maynard say how Sedgewick felt?” she pressed as she turned towards her husband with a sinking feeling. Counter arguments seemed to be slipping away. Perhaps she could speak to Arial, somehow get her on side with the young people before it would be too late. She was a strong woman and possibly could have more sway with Eustace.
“Sedgewick will do his duty.” Temper flashed momentarily across her husband’s face as the cords in his neck pulled tight above the starched, white linen collar. “He knows where his responsibilities lie.”
In fact Sir Maynard had made no mention of his son’s interest in the Lady Ramona. They had broached the issue purely from the point of their respective titles and positions. He was keen to have his daughter marry higher into the peerage. The fact that Knowlesworthy would one day be Earl of Ettington, more than made up for the almost ten year age gap. It was unlikely Ambrose could aim so high, being a Viscount. Of course, there was always Nigella. But right now Ramona gave him the best chance to cement his rank.
His mind raced: After all … this is in the best interest of all of us and certainly Ramona will be swayed by the prospect of becoming a Countess. And when Nigella is presented … well her prospects could only be enhanced by a liaison such as this. No, Cora has to see this is the sense of it; the best solution.
Eustace moved his chair closer to Glencora’s, then sat and clasped her hand in both of his. He must try to be more conciliatory. Softening his voice he continued: “My dear, you know how much I love our girls and want only what’s best for them and …” Glencora’s hand spasmed at his words, though she tried to control it. He misread the response believing her to be tired and too upset. Quickly he resorted to a warmer reassurance, hoping to prevent an attack of the vapours, to which she was so prone and which privately, he could not abide.
“Cora it’s all right, my dear. You’ll see. This will work out very well. It’s not like we’ve picked an ogre for Ramona. Sedgewick is a jolly good sort, has an excellent seat … they know each other. I have confidence he will treat our little girl right and when it comes Nigella’s turn … she could be in good standing to aim even higher.” He smiled again at the thought and sat back. A Marchioness, a Duchess even….
“Eustace, there’s no need for this. Our circle is the very best.” A chill was growing inside her as alarm flared; the direction of his desires too disturbing. Her frown grew more pronounced as she pressed stiff fingers to her forehead, feeling the stabs of yet another awful migraine right behind her eyes, but she rushed on. “We don’t need aggrandisement through marriage. You don’t think our situation to be so dire, surely?”
“No of course not, but in this world, associations of the right sort can only be to the good.” He stood and strolled to his dressing stand, opening a drawer to extract a handkerchief then smoothed his moustaches. The more he thought, the more positive he felt this was the best course of action – definitely. He tucked the kerchief into his breast pocket.
“Speak to Ramona this very night Madam, the sooner the better. I can send word to Ettington that we’re ready to arrange the contract and negotiate the settlements.” Once the plan had been conceived then it should be full steam ahead. He looked at his wife again and nodded decisively. “Nothing gained by dilly-dallying,” he puffed.
Glencora reached out her hand to suggest prudence, her deep, hazel eyes round with pleading. “Let’s see how this goes with Ramona first Eustace. You want me to broach the subject, but perhaps we should be together. If we encounter resistance, you can lend your weight to the argument,” she appealed. Perhaps she was being persuaded, but had no confidence in Ramona.
“Very well my dear.” Eustace could see things turning his way. “This evening after dinner, we can send Nigella off and tell Ramona the good news.” He clicked open his fob watch with masterful fingers: “It’s time we got ready.”
His wife inclined her head and gracefully rose to her feet. It was throbbing, worse than when they had arrived home. She would send Maisie to Constance for some more Beecham’s Pills. She would need to feel better than this for tonight’s drama. The pills helped not only with her sick headaches, but also in the calming of her nerves. These days she seemed to live on them. At least she had not resorted to Laudanum, like some of her friends. She suspected a possible addiction on their part, calling for it whether it was needed or not.
* * *
“Are you awake?” Ramona’s whisper carried clearly to the sleeping form as she hesitated on the threshold of Nigella’s room. Not a heavy sleeper, Nigella stirred at her sister’s voice and rolled over.
“No, come in.” She sat, pulling up her knees as she smoothed out the covers for her to sit. “What’s the matter, Mona?”
Ramona approached the bed and sank onto it, feeling for Nigella’s hand in the gloom. Only moonlight, filtering through the chink in the chenille drapes enabled her to see her sister’s body.
“Oh Jellie it’s so awful!” Ramona’s throat, tight with emotion allowed just faint sounds to be emitted, but these were enough to alert Nigella to her agitation.
“Come, lie here next to me.” She stretched down her legs and drew Ramona towards the pillows to cradle her head in the crook of her arm. “What is it Sweeting?”
“Oh Jellie it’s too, too horrible.”
“Tell me Mona.” Now Nigella was beginning to feel alarm herself. Ramona was the one who was always so bright and cheerful. She and Ambrose could be the ones to go moody, or throw a tantrum. Mona was everyone’s darling.
“Papa says I am to be married to Lord Sedgewick Knowlesworthy. What am I to do? I love Myles and I’m almost sure he loves me.” Big tears began to spill onto her cheeks as she sobbed into the soft shoulder, her own heaving with the effort to draw breath.
“Is this why Mama sent me to my room?”
“Yes. Papa said he had some good news for me.”
“Mona you poor lamb. What is there to be done?” She put her other arm around her sister’s trembling body and held her tight. “Speak to Papa tomorrow. You can plead with him that you love another. He likes Myles doesn’t he? Mama does, get her to tell him.”
“It’s no use Jellie, Mama is as set on this liaison as he. I already appealed to her. She knows my feelings. She only turned away from me and looked at Papa.” The sobbing broke out afresh and the two girls clung to each other.
Ramona had been her happiest this past weekend. The dinner party with Myles had been wonderful and during lunch with Phyllida, the secrets she had revealed had given her so much pleasure. Phyllida had been thrilled for her, envious even. Now this! How could she bear such torture? How can Papa … and Mama especially, be so heartless, so cruel? And I thought they loved me. This new assessment altered her entire perception. What a wretched, wretched life. What a horrible, horrible world. She wished she could die.
“Mona Sweeting, something may yet be done. Let’s sleep on it and see what tomorrow brings.” Nigella began to disentangle herself. “Come under the covers with me.” Her voice too, sounded strangled, squeezing as it was past such a big lump in her throat.
“No I cannot stay, I’m too restless. I need to devise something. I shall go to the kitchen and get myself a drink. I’ll meet you in the orangery after my music lesson and we can talk some more.” She sat up, pulling her wrap more tightly across her chest and bent down to give her sister a thank-you kiss.
“All right Mona, I’ll see you then.”
Sleep was impossible, so much seemed to be changing around them. She had been upset for herself, now she was distressed for Ramona. She knew Lord Knowlesworthy slightly. He was awfully old, although he and Ambrose seemed to get along well. She punched her pillow and turned it over. It was hard to think of him as Ramona’s husband and it was easy to see why she had fallen for Myles. What had happened to their parents that they had turned on them so? What had they ever done to deserve this? In the end her brain, having taken too many turns, it could twist no more. Exhausted, she fell into a broken, un-restful sleep.
* * *
Ambrose returned the next afternoon, hollow-eyed and distraught. Nigella met him on his way to the stables, casually dressed in riding gear crop in hand, intent upon saddling up Chester and taking off. He pressed on, not breaking his stride.
“You’re in a mighty rush Patchy.” she observed, slightly breathless.
“Just feel like a gallop, that’s all,” he responded curtly, looking to neither left nor right.
“That’s what I was going to do. Can we go together?” She matched his step as they approached Tricklebank to ask for assistance.
As it happened, Mallory was giving Jake a hand cleaning out an old stall which Mr. Higgins wanted ready for the farrier. She had collected Lady Patchford after her luncheon engagement then Jake had put in a request for her services. She was dumping the muck on the pile when she saw brother and sister cantering off towards the north paddock and surmised there would be no need of her surveillance duties whilst they were together. She would hang about to be sure of her safe return though.
Out on the grassy slopes Ambrose opened up Chester, snapping the reins in his gloved hands, urging the horse on into a frantic gallop. Nigella gave Burrow his head. He responded with that boundless eagerness, as always. The inner restlessness driving her brother was familiar to her. She knew that need to release pent up energy; the release that could leave you feeling cleansed and recharged. She felt exhilarated and gloried in their speed for speed’s sake, tearing through the wall of wind of their own making. The sky was high and intensely blue, with only an occasional silver grey cloud. Faintly, a rooster’s call pierced the thudding isolation of their world.
Eventually Ambrose loosened up on Chester’s reins and they resumed their canter, all the while climbing higher until they slowed to a walk, the hooves clinking over loose stones. They followed the upper reaches of the same water course she had ridden that day with the groom. The air was fresh and cool. When they turned, the view that unfolded showed almost the whole of the Guilfoyle Estate, a patchwork of fields, hedges and copses, picked out in vibrant greens or charcoal greys, depending upon the high flying clouds.
Ambrose looked to the distance, his body rigid, unmoved by the beauty and immensity of the sight. This would be his domain one day. He noted the various accretions to the house each Patchford, in his time had added: the Jacobean Wing, then the Georgian Wing until finally, his grandfather created the ‘obscenity’, as he called it, the Victorian Wing. It was not with pride he observed them, but the jaundiced eye of hostility. Giving the horses their freedom they could take their ease, resting against a large, round boulder. This was a favourite haunt for Ambrose. Deposited by the ancient glaciers, the rock held within it a transcendent power bestowed by the primordial universe from which, in the past, he had drawn strength. Nigella shaded her eyes as she looked out. Ambrose continued idly tossing stones at another rock, his faded blue eyes remaining as ice cold as his glaciers.
“Something’s bothering you Patchy,” she turned back to her brother giving him a probing, keen-eyed inspection. He did not look up.
“What makes you say that?”
“Come on, I know you … and we’re too alike. When I ride like that … something inside me wants out. Want to talk?”
“So little sister’s going to be the sage adviser?” he sneered, angry at himself more than her. A gentle breeze disturbing his fair hair was the only softness about him.
“It’s all right Patchy, you can tell me,” she encouraged affectionately, her eyes roaming his drawn face for clues, as the shadow of a stray cloud concealed his expression.
He did not respond, but did sit back his body relaxing slightly, then: “Jellie, have you ever wished you were not as you are?” His wild gaze continued to traverse the pastoral scene, then turned upward where he enviously watched the Raptors in their aerial circling, apparently so lazy yet all the while their keen eyes on the look-out for prey.
“What, a boy not a girl?” she laughed, but there was no jollying him.
He glared at her now unsmiling, brows deeply furrowed. She stopped abruptly, feeling a charge about them, like electricity on an airless day. “Sorry!”
As though there had been no interruption he continued: “I will have to take on the responsibility for all of this one day.” His hand, finely sculpted and delicate, swept out in a large arc coming to rest heavily on his thigh.”
“You’ve always known that, Patchy.”
His voice cracked as he asked: “Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps I don’t want … all this?” Once more the arm swung out, jerkily this time.
“No. Don’t you want it?”
“If I didn’t have to do my duty, carry the line etcetera, I could please myself what I did.” Although his blue eyes gleamed brightly, they were blank of emotion, as if deliberately concealed. “It would be my decision where I lived and with whom.” The jaundiced smile contorted the corners of his full mouth into an ugly line, reflecting a darkness gripping his heart. He took a convulsive, frustrated breath.
She had never seen her brother so bitter. “You and Mona are the same.”
“Mona?”
“Yes. We had a long talk this afternoon. That’s why I felt like a ride. She’s so miserable, feeling alienated and dejected.”
Ambrose did not have to ask why. He sat silent, this time looking at the ground, but his cold eyes, bottomless pits of anger and bitterness, saw only Sedgewick’s saturnine face. The fine aquiline features: the flared nostrils, the sensitive mouth with the cynical twist to the lips as he had told him of developments. A life of privilege had its price and he and Ramona were now to pay up. He felt a stark sadness for her. Poor girl! Like him, she would have to let go her dreams and learn to live with compromise. The difference between them – he had always known. His life would always have its dark side; furtively lead, hidden in the night from prying, judgemental eyes. His mind raced ahead.
Can I lead a double life? Sedge thinks it’s possible. But betray Mona? No! I can’t do that. We might have carried it off if Sedge were marrying anyone else. But Ramona! Their continued association was impossible. He felt a tightening inside him, in the grip of a hard, profound emotion. The time had come to renounce his heart’s love. It was a brutal truth, but any continued denial would be pointless. Life was too unfair. Any other chap – like that new chauffeur – a blasted no-body he didn’t even know his infernal name, he could live where he liked; marry whom he damned well pleased. But for him, with wealth and position, his was a prison, circumscribed by obdurate society. A sense of oppression was closing in on him. He had no freedom of choice; his duty was to toe the line and look bloody pleased about it. His head was ready to burst.
“We should go.” The air had increased its chill, with more clouds rolling in. A dampness in the breeze brought up to them woody smells of matted leaves and decaying bark, from the grove of trees below. A heavy autumn shower might not be far away. He felt drained, supporting a lethargy too much to bear under this upsurge of dejection. He would return to Pembroke College next week; a chance to see Sedge in his rooms one last time.
His rooms! His mind went back to that day they had been alone together, just talking and listening to the latest dance craze on his new phonograph. Without thinking much about it, he had told Sedge how he liked dancing, but could never do it. Like a shot, Sedge had been on his feet and was saying: “Of course you can old thing, just follow my lead.” There and then, he had hoisted him up and there he was, in his arms, lurching about all over the place in a tango. Sedge had not minded his two left feet. He had wanted it never to stop. Such a revelation, such rapture! With a sigh, heavy with regret, he knew this would have to be the end.
Nigella accepted the abrupt change without demur, but found it odd nonetheless. No more to say? No questions about Ramona? Did he not care about her? No – that was not true. They collected their mounts, riding at a more leisurely pace back to Guilfoyle Park, each lost in private thought. Blinding rain held off for them; in the end it was only a passing shower.
Enjoying time with Jake talking about horseflesh, Mallory observed the return of the two riders and stepped forward to accept Burrow from Lady Nigella as Jake took Chester, leading him off to summon Ned. Burrow had not been worn down today Mallory noticed, but she still spent time in calming talk. He obviously appreciated the attention and even gave her ear a soft nibble.
Hot walking and grooming completed it was time for feeds. Unlike before, where an easy camaraderie had developed between herself and Ned, Mallory experienced a distinct coldness. She felt she was being given the silent treatment. A casual remark addressed to him in passing, received no corresponding banter. Chores continued like this, the other lads agreeably joking their way through, but not Ned. Oh well, we can’t always be on a good day, she reasoned.
“‘Is Lordship ’as instructions fer ya’,” Jake tapped Mallory on the shoulder: “When ya’ve finished.”
She went to her quarters to wash, but did not change into the liveries. She could remain casual for this she reckoned and then go straight to supper. Could this mean a driving job? It would be good to get out again. The restriction on her movements had been getting to her. Compared with this, her former world had ranged far and wide. The people here did not know what it was to have such freedom: the Gentry and those above perhaps, but not ordinary folk.
When she left Sir Eustace she was in good spirits. This is more like it. The family would be visiting Ettington Manor. They were to celebrate Lady Ramona’s twentieth birthday and the announcement of her forthcoming engagement; it was up to London for shopping and to make the arrangements. The Ladies would be staying over in Belgravia for a few days. She had tomorrow to be sure everything was ‘ship-shape’ then they would leave early Wednesday morning. The best part; she would remain with the Ladies then bring them back after the completion of their affairs. London, now this will be something.
* * *
The drive to Belgrave Square was uneventful. It took most of the day with a stop for lunch at Banbury and again at Saint Albans for light refreshment. The servants would have dinner ready on their arrival. The Cape Cart remained up for the whole of the trip since the weather had threatened stormy clouds on and off. The Ladies had decided to dress comfortably in blouse and skirt: a double breasted golf jersey for Lady Patchford and long-sleeved cardigans for the girls. Their head covering was also casual each wearing a jaunty tam-o’-shanter, the bobble in the centre a matching colour to the cardigan. The journey was subdued, no animated chatter from any one, which surprised Mallory. Where was their girlish excitement?
Banbury still retained its old charm and Mallory took pleasure in the sights as she ate her lunch, seated out front of the ale house keeping a watchful eye on the Rolls. Saint Albans likewise was historic, but being that much closer to the city, more developed and bustling. The Ladies ate ‘al fresco’, in the manicured grounds of a smart restaurant while Mallory remained with the vehicle. She bought a local paper to help pass the time.
Gaining the outskirts of London, progress was fitful as traffic converged onto the clogged streets; too many automobiles and not enough courtesy. She had to be alert not only to the horse drawn omnibuses, but to the many carts and cabs that seemed to be all over the place, busily delivering not people, but goods and messages.
Where are the traffic lights when you need them?
The rival to the London General Omnibus Company was the newly formed London Road Car Company, each vehicle seemingly bent on passing the other. Mallory knew it would take the advent of the First World War for the combustion engine to come into its own and emerge triumphant. Meanwhile, these different modes of transport were vying for space on roads never designed for such traffic. She felt like she was in a futuristic nightmare as envisioned in Blade Runner, but this was the past.
Fortunately she knew her way around the city, having done all the touristy haunts on her arrival in the UK, especially the ‘big five’ and the city environs. Never had the thought occurred that one day she would be staying at an aristocratic address in Belgrave Square: history come to life – my life.
Driving along Victoria Embankment she recognised Norman Shaw’s design for Scotland Yard; that mixture of Baroque style with Scottish Baronial was unmistakable. Here traffic was heavier, a constant bottle-neck of congestion. There was little she could do but wait, and look about. Although completed in 1890, she could see the appearance of the police headquarters would not change in the intervening century, despite the ravages of two world wars. It was bizarre, as though time had stood still and for a moment she was neither here nor there, a ‘being’ caught in a warp. For that instant she was completely lost – without reference, of no consequence, but still trapped in space. The traffic moved and she shook her head. Concentrate!
The Old Bailey Criminal Courts and the Admiralty Offices looked new and imposing, having been completed only three years before. They attested to England’s affluence and might. This year the City was redesigning the Mall. From 1906 the Baroque, so beloved of the City Fathers, had fallen from favour and was being replaced by designs more in the classical style; chaste and restrained. It was easy to see the French influence in the layout of the Mall. It would finish up as the only truly grand processional avenue leading from Trafalgar Square to Buckingham Palace. However, she knew London would never be able to emulate Paris, although it was trying very hard at the moment. That nineteenth century splendour would single out Paris as one of the most majestic of the world’s cities.
She had read in the paper that Aston Webb’s submissions were the ones selected as the winning designs for Admiralty Arch. She continued past more impressive imperial buildings: the King Edward VII Galleries at the British Museum, the Royal Automobile Club in Pall Mall, which they were still working on since construction had only begun last year and would not be finished for a while yet.
Concentration was a challenge being so distracted by the sights, but at last they arrived at number seventeen. It was a noisy and boisterous affair with much to-ing and fro-ing from the legion of servants who maintained this establishment. A tall, somewhat narrow three storey house with the typical pillared double frontage of all the dwellings in the square, it looked onto the gardens of the park in its centre.
Mallory, having deposited her charges was shown through the wrought iron archway that led round the back to the Mews, where the Rolls would be parked and above which she would reside. She had her leather case with personal things, but no change of uniform then discovered, when she looked in the wardrobe, a complete set of neatly pressed liveries. Double breasted again, this time in black serge. As befits the big Smoke, I expect. The jacket was slightly tight in the shoulders, but the breeches were no problem.
One of the footmen came to show her to the servants’ quarters which in this house were located below stairs. She followed him outside, down some steep stone steps to a narrow door which he pushed open into a dark scullery. This led to a big kitchen well lit by gaslight. It was just like the one at Guilfoyle Park, but more cluttered. Meeting with the other staff went well. They accepted her warmly and being in uniform, her masquerade was securely intact.
The food however was another matter. Rather less nutritious than the suppers she usually devoured, but the broth and dumplings still disappeared with relish. They were a friendly bunch, their talk lively and stimulating. She enjoyed the cockney accents and in turn, they were intrigued by her and wanted to know all about Australia. She remained evasive. In the end they appreciated she was tired after a long journey. Breakfast would be on from five o’clock.
* * *
Mallory did not need the alarum. Five o’clock, the city was coming to life. The sound disturbing her sleep was the clopping of shod hooves as the Household Cavalry, astride their magnificent steeds, rode to the Palace for the Changing of the Guard. The clatter was exciting, but she could only imagine the resplendence of their uniforms; the black and red in vivid contrast, the flashing of burnished steel in the raking light of early morning. She knew Edward VII was inordinately keen on ‘observances’ and had re-introduced many of the old protocols, previously dropped by his mother as she had advanced into her dotage. Yes, he was the one for ‘pomp and circumstance’.
Once her mind had been thus engaged any prospect of further sleep was impossible. As the morning light edged across the bedroom wall, her day began with a cold sponge bath. She took the soiled clothes down to the basement to find the laundry maids. They were stoking the fires to heat the boilers for the day’s wash. One young woman, perhaps in charge, indicated a spare wicker basket where she could dump them. Her sudden arrival on their doorstep however, sent the others into an animated dither with much elbowing and giggling. How they would enjoy telling the others what they had missed.
After a more substantial breakfast: eggs, kidneys and thick slices of black pudding, she reported to Lady Patchford in the morning room which was located on the second floor. Its two tall, narrow windows gave a good view of the spreading Plane trees and in the distance, the steeple of Saint Paul’s. The colours were once again light and bright, this time reminiscent of the ocean: muted greys, blue/greens and whites. The effect was less formal than at the Park, the walls being panelled in the palest oak and instead of heavy brocades, floral chintzes had been selected. The surface glaze brought out the bright colours of the large flowers lending a light airiness to the room. It was more inviting compared with the Victorian heaviness Lady Patchford usually tolerated.
She removed her fine-rimmed spectacles to set them on the delicate inlaid table. She had been looking through the latest Paris designs for Mona, who was not being the least bit co-operative and she could see it would fall onto her shoulders alone, to get her appropriately attired for this gala event. A long, low sigh escaped from deep within her. Why did everything have to become so complicated? Even Jellie had withdrawn her interest and she was also in need of formal wear. It was too much. I must send for Francine. I cannot deal with this on my own. If she takes the train she could be here tomorrow.
“Ah Mason, we will spend the morning at the dressmaker’s, then take lunch at the Ritz Hotel. You may drop us off at #36, Curzon Street and return at twelve-thirty.”
“Very good my Lady.” She noticed how drawn her face looked today; the fine lines around the eyes, the deeper ones etched either side of the curved mouth. “At what time do you need the Rolls?”
“Nine o’clock will suit.”
“Thank you my Lady.” Mallory made to leave, but was arrested by Lady Patchford’s raised hand.
“Mason!”
“Yes my Lady.”
“You remember our discussion, when you first came into my employ?”
“Yes my Lady.”
“The Lady Nigella will want to do things whilst here in London. She is free to choose how she wishes to spend her time, but I remind you to keep a sharp watch when she is out and about. In the house there will be no problem. The Lady Ramona will not always want her tagging along, so I rely on you to remain heedful.”
“Excuse me my Lady, but what exactly should I be attentive to?”
“I thought you understood from her accident that there were people out there who could do her harm.”
“My Lady,” Mallory’s eyebrows shot up. This woman must be paranoid. If not, at least under excessive strain.
“Someone might try to talk to her, for example at the museum; when shopping, in the park.” Her hazel eyes clouded over almost to grey as her mind scanned the possibilities and blood drained from her face. “It could be almost anywhere.”
“There’s no question of … abduction then …” Mallory responded guardedly, but her mind racing ahead, “… my Lady?”
“No…o. I don’t think so.” By now her voice was almost a strangled whisper. “But harm could come in any guise.”
“Would the person approaching be male or female?”
“Either is a possibility.” She looked back at the young man. “A woman could be used as the introductory agent, I suppose.”
“The Lady Ramona … there are no similar problems there?”
With rather more force than was warranted, Lady Patchford retorted unequivocally: “There’s no problem with my other children.” Oh dear, what an ill-judged comment. Have I said too much? “Err…r, they are older … can take care of themselves.”
I don’t think this is the story, Mallory thought privately. Possibly there’s more here than just a mother hen. “I understand my Lady.”
“Take her where she wants to go, but stay within distance and collect her if anything suspicious arises. You can always say it’s time to be leaving.”
“Absolutely, my Lady.”
Lady Patchford retrieved her glasses feeling the need to be alone. “Nine o’clock then, Mason.”
“Yes my Lady.” Somewhere in a distant room of the house, Mallory heard the soft whirring of a mantel clock as it began to chime the hour of eight. This gave her forty-five minutes to give the Tourer the once over, get rid of the grime, bring it back to its sparkling splendour. However, there was no time to waste.
* * *
With fewer distractions everyone was ready and waiting when she drove up. The day was mild with clear skies. No need of heavy top coats. Nigella had selected a high necked, natural-waisted dress with a loose-fitting over blouse which hung below the bosom in a short frill. The sleeves, which extended to the elbow, were finished with hanging, three-quarter flounces, leaving her forearms bare. She wore white, net gloves and looked quite jejune Mallory thought, but attractive nonetheless. Her wide, yellow straw hat had a low crown, with rose flowers on either side. She had a demur appearance which Mallory knew was not her persona, but probably appropriate for a day in the city.
Ramona, being older wore an olive green, tailored day-dress of form fitting ninon, hanging straight to the ground. Two ornamental fastening tabs were attached just below the knee. The decolletage was low, with ‘in-fill’ of cream muslin to cover the upper bosom. This rose high to encircle her neck. Although the whole effect looked chic and sophisticated, Mallory was disappointed to see she had chosen the highest-crowned hat ever. The ‘monstrosity’ was dark green and bore purple and blue fruit, proudly aloft on its massive brim. Just looking at it gave her a headache.
In contrast their mother was quite restrained. Her day-gown was aimed at comfort; white muslin dotted with pale blue flowers, a loosely-cut, high-waisted bodice and a high neckline with a collar of small frills. The sleeves too, were loose-fitting and tapered only slightly. The gloves were navy blue net, to match the dramatic central panel of the dress. All three wore button boots of the softest kid, each pair in a matching colour to the wearer’s outfit and hanging from the forearm, a small beaded purse.
So much detail, so much hand sowing, Mallory observed. These women must keep many a seamstress busy. Well, at least it allows for some distribution of wealth to the poorer classes. From what she had seen so far, there were an awful lot of them in this latter category. Lady Patchford’s hat, although not so high in the crown and Mallory judged she already had enough height, gave ample room to display in the round, masses of gentian blue flowers with bright green leaves. She had collected a navy blue Alpaca stole to guard against a possible chill. These people obviously don’t understand the concept of ‘less is more’.
They were not devotees of the ‘Reform Movement’ in their dress, but then those were mostly the artistic types and some of the literary intelligentsia. Perhaps one day she would get used to all this ostentation, meanwhile their affluence gave her a living so perhaps she should not be so judgemental.
“Good morning Your Ladyship,” she tipped her cap to the girls.
It was a smooth drive to Curzon Street. In her time off, she planned to go to Selfridges on Oxford Street to look for some clothes. The Department Store, open a few months only would be an interesting place to check out. It was a truly exhilarating experience right from the outside in. The ground floor was all glass and steel, the upper storeys beautifully carved stone. The luxury that abounded behind and beneath the display cabinets was overwhelming. Just the amount of highly finished timber and the intricate tiling of the terrazzo floors showed opulence at every turn. There were five floors, each accessible by elevator.
The attendants, both male and female were impeccably attired and although they regarded her curiously, they maintained their deferential attitude. It made her feel self-conscious, but she was determined to be kitted out appropriately, as someone in the employ of Lord Patchford, even if it were only ‘off-the-peg’.
She settled for a box of white, celluloid collars rather than hoping someone would starch linen ones for her. She was told they “were all the rage”. Against the cold, a Norfolk jacket should serve very well. This she figured would fit in with country life and chose a lovat green, Harris tweed with vertical pleats down the front, either side of brown, leather covered buttons. It was belted at the waist.
For underneath Mallory was attracted to the Reform Movement’s latest innovation in a natural fabric – Aertex. It was explained that the weave being loose and therefore full of holes, allowed the air to be trapped. This would keep one’s person warm in winter and allow the body to breath in summer.
“You will appreciate Sir, that this will permit the noxious exhalations to be released.” The assistant assumed a very important manner as he imparted this scientific piece of information. Since wool was the only other alternative for next to the skin, she thought Aertex should be the go. She came away with two short sleeved vests, buttoning down the front and two pairs of men’s ‘drawers’, also with front buttons and covering the thighs. Oh well, nobody’s going to see me in this ‘neck-to-knees’ so I shouldn’t worry about appearances. Just concentrate on staying warm. All this heavy clothing would also disguise her shape which was good.
Three quarters of an hour later she had a smart serge single breasted, light brown ‘sac’ suit in the ‘round-cut’ style, with padded shoulders. The serge was durable worsted with large, black checks running across. Money well spent, it would last her a long time. The trousers were narrow legged, sharply creased in front and sported the latest style in turn ups.
“Very dapper Sir,” the assistant nodded his approval.
When it had come time to choose something for her head the decision had been difficult, torn as she was between the new look soft ‘golf’ cap in tweed, or a straw boater. The boater won. Budget blown it was time to stop. Time anyway to return to Curzon Street.
Her wait outside was extended and a light, fresh mist was beginning to descend. Just as she began considering her options, the Ladies appeared. She was informed they would be returning to Belgrave Square for luncheon.
“The girls have decided to take tea at Fortnum and Mason’s at four o’clock.”
She thought Lady Patchford looked even more stressed and much in need of some ‘down’ time. Obviously their morning had not gone as well as hers.
“Drive them over at three-thirty. Don’t be late!”
There was dejection all round, judging from the two dispirited faces.
“No my Lady.”
* * *
How different the young Ladies appeared this afternoon. Although she needed to concentrate on where she was going, Mallory observed the mood to be buoyant and expectant. Sitting in the back they whispered together in animated conspiracy.
It took substantial manoeuvring to get through the traffic, but now she was more adept. Really though, London’s streets were a nightmare. And I wanted to do this? As she pulled up outside the store, a uniformed doorman jumped into action swinging open a big glass door.
“Mason, you can safely park the Tourer at the back, then meet me in the lobby.” Lady Nigella was delivering these commands as Lady Ramona alighted not waiting for her sister, but rushing in without a glance.
Whatever’s going on? “Yes my Lady.”
She obeyed the orders and returned to the front. The doorman looked surprised, but she explained she was to receive further instructions. Inside, the height of the arched ceilings immediately impressed her, seeming to dwarf the shoppers milling below. The intricate tiling in a bold, black and white design made footsteps resonate and the openness of the space created a noisy, echoing hubbub.
The front department of the store housed displays where the public could browse and choose from a selection of varied fabrics: bolts of surah, plush or fustian to name a few. She saw a shoe section in a quieter, carpeted alcove well supplied with comfortably upholstered, easy chairs and individual, wood-framed mirrors at floor level. Millinery was prominently displayed with every imaginable trimming for customization, especially silk flowers and laces. Close by was a Drapers wing where she glimpsed boxes of handkerchiefs and scarves. There were more cases beyond with gloves of different materials and leathers; all manner of decorative purses had their own subdivision.
Nigella was on the lookout and came forward to lead her through to the tearoom.
I’m expected to take afternoon tea? She followed.
On their way they passed an extensive display of different types of tinned goods, from oriental teas to custom candies to shortbread biscuits. Mallory thought just the tins themselves were collectors’ items.
The hostess in formal black dress, greeted and guided them to two tufted chairs set across from a small table. This was covered in white linen with an elaborate vase of yellow roses in the centre. Other patrons, handsomely attired and engaged in animated conversation, were sipping tea. Frequently bright laugher interspersed their delicate nibbling. Mallory felt the inadequacy of her appearance, but Nigella seemed oblivious.
In this room the ceiling was not so lofty and the decor, which included soft damasks and velvets of pale pinks and greens, muted the intrusive sounds of china and silver-ware. A female pianist, situated in a corner and slightly camouflaged by magnificent Foxtail Palms and Aspidistras, deftly touched the keys, stringing together a medley of well-known arias from popular operas. Her ear was caught by the melody of the Humming Chorus from Madam Butterfly.
A neat waitress approached to take their order. Mallory indicated she would like Nigella to choose so with the tea, which was Darjeeling, their waitress brought a plate of cucumber sandwiches and an assortment of light Congress tarts. At last they were alone. Mallory looked across enquiringly.
“Please, Mason. You won’t say anything about this,” Nigella pleaded, drawing her dark eyebrows together in earnest entreaty.
“Say anything about what?”
“Oh dear … it’s so difficult.” Hastily, she looked away then looking back, marshalled her reserves and resumed: “You see we need your help. There’s no-one else we can turn to. I assured Ramona you would be a brick, but she’s very nervous. She doesn’t know you as well as I do so naturally … she lacks confidence, but I don’t.”
“You know my Lady I will help you … and the Lady Ramona … any way I can. You have my word on that, but I need to know how.”
Nigella had ignored her tea, but now proceeded to take some refreshment as her nerves settled and she was able to relax. She made explanations, without elaborating on their parents’ part in all of this, but enough for Mallory to comprehend the seriousness. With a candid smile she concluded: “You see, today was a chance for Ramona to tell Myles all about it and to have some time to make plans.”
“They are here?” Mallory looked about in surprise.
“Yes, they’re taking tea in one of the private alcoves. Ramona needed to apprise Myles of what could happen if they didn’t do something … and quickly. I think she’s hopeful they can elope.”
Mallory tried not to show her dismay at this possibility. Yes she was willing to help them … but to run away….
“My Lady …” she hesitated, returning her cup carefully to its delicate saucer: “… are they thinking of a drive to Gretna Green?”
“I’m not sure what they have in mind. I think Ramona hopes Myles can come up with some sort of plan.”
“This Lord Knowlesworthy … do you know him? Is he a bad man?”
“Not really. I’ve met him a few times. He seemed very nice, but Ramona doesn’t love him …” Nigella held her stare and stated emphatically: “… she loves Myles.”
“May I ask, my Lady? Does the Honourable Sir Myles Stafford-Clarke love your sister?”
“I think so …” Nigella dropped her gaze, seeming less sure on this point. She looked across at her companion, the sudden stab of doubt deadening the striking dynamism of her eyes as she viewed the situation from another angle.
Mallory moved on to the tarts. “On my honour my Lady, I will not mention one word of this to anyone, but may I suggest we find out what sort of plan the young couple come up with? Then we can see how we might be able to help.”
The seed of this new doubt blunted Nigella’s appetite, shaking her reliance on a ‘sort of plan’. “Yes. We must wait on their decision,” she concurred. With nothing decided her mind moved on. “Mama gave us an hour and then we have to return to change.” She inspected a small timepiece she had pinned to her dress. “We’re going to a concert at the Wigmore Hall. Sir Thomas Beecham will be conducting an all Elgar programme. It seems we will be treated to his Salut D’Amore and his Chansons de Matin et Nuit: three pieces Ramona’s been working on.” The green eyes took on an emerald sparkle again, with her excited anticipation of the evening ahead. In spite of herself, effervescent spirits bubbled over. Her first attendance at an adult engagement how could they not?
“Lord Bromley is escorting us. It’s a special treat for Ramona since Mama knows she’s been unhappy of late.”
“And you, my Lady … you will enjoy it?”
“Oh yes. His music is so romantic.” Her lips pouted in that girlish habit Mallory was coming to recognise. “Handel and Mozart are all right in their way, but a bit fuddy-duddy don’t you think?” She looked quizzically across the table, head tilted slightly. Mallory did not want to answer directly, but neatly side-stepped with: “My taste runs rather more to Rachmaninoff, or Richard Strauss. His A Hero’s Life is a beautiful, lyric tone poem. You know … something more modern.”
Lifting her chin she protested: “You can’t get more modern then Sir Edward Elgar!” then realized that had not sounded very cordial and tried to make amends. “Well, I see you like the foreigners.”
“Music is such a personal taste isn’t it my Lady?” Mallory was conciliatory in turn, not wishing to deflate this bright and impulsive enthusiast. “I would be willing to bet you like Jean Sibelius … and he’s Finish.”
“Yes, very true,” she had to acquiesce and her lips curved up. The difference of opinion was allowed to exist without animosity. She looked at the time once more. “I must fetch Ramona.”
“I’ll collect the Tourer and wait for you out front.” Mallory pushed back her chair, expressing her thanks for the tea.
When the two girls arrived, there were no smiles. They sat in the back in silence. At #17 they alighted, but only Nigella remained to speak. “I know you have to see Mama in the morning for instructions.” She looked hard into Mallory’s eyes. “You will keep your promise?”
“You have my word my Lady.” She hesitated then quickly asked if everything was all right.
Nigella turned to the house, it seemed she was trying to decide something then briefly turned back. “After you have seen Mama, wait for me in the Gardens, we can talk there.”
* * *
A night off in the Big Smoke! Mallory was stretched out on her cot after supper, at ease in casual cords and shirt, listening to the quietness of the night, a gentle breeze rustling in the trees and only loneliness for company. A silence, dense and impenetrable was beginning to fill the room, then an emotional pain so tortured, invaded her and hot tears stung her eyes. They spilled onto her cheeks to dampen the pillow. This was happening all too often, but she was powerless to stem the torrent of feeling that could swamp her. Everything about her was suddenly unstable; the walls of her paltry life seeming to close in, with no escape.
She could just hear at the edge of her mind, the long ago whispers of those she loved so much and melancholy filled her empty spaces. She looked into the abyss and sorrow so intense, welled up inside, as waves of suffocating terror rolled over her. An instinct bone deep, was telling her this wretchedness would never end. She was doomed to live a life of aching isolation; a life more acquainted with loneliness than love. It seemed she was on the edge of a precipice, looking down into a gully of her own trepidation. It was dark and deep down there; the monster that was her fear, threatening to tower over her and consume her. Writhing onto her side she curled into a ball knowing she needed to find the strength to make this misery go away, but her spirit was defeated, her optimism all but crushed.
She had to get out. This was no good. She could lose herself in a crowd … anything would be better than this. If she had learned something from the twenty-first century it was the value of living in the moment – for the moment. She could do nothing about the past and the future was a law unto itself. The question crossed her mind: why is it that time is normally unidirectional? She was living in an aberration of time-shifting, but generally time went only one way. Did it have something to do with the structure of our universe as part of a Galactic entity, the same as light waves? Perhaps from the Big Bang? Too weighty for me, but still I have to get over this. She needed to take the infinity of the human mind and chill it to clockwork.
Sitting up, she swung her legs to the floor and determined to take herself down to Piccadilly Circus; blend in, mingle, be at one with the Londoners. She needed to make herself feel a part of 1909. She changed into her serge suit and slicked down her hair.
Recognising familiar landmarks was good, but watching the people was something else. Here was Nelson’s Column and the lions, but to see the passers-by as though dressed in fancy costume – that was surreal and totally confronting. She had made herself part of the scene and yet was still apart; she was here in the flesh, but still outside. Would a drink help? She went in search of the nearest public house. This took some time as a gathering fog was beginning to wreath the street lights in a yellow haze. Visibility was decreasing, blotting out the signs and it was not until she was almost upon it that she found The Wellington Arms. Unfortunately she had to run the gauntlet of a Band of Hope Reformists who enthusiastically urged her to see the light and sign the temperance pledge: Renounce the demon drink and remain teetotal. Already familiar with the sight of reeling drunkards, both here and in the village, she was aware of the seriousness of the problem. It would not be until the first war that opening hours would be moved to late morning, with the implementation of the afternoon ‘gap’. For now, she knew that at least in London, the working man could continue to buy his cheap drinks from dawn ’til midnight.
Refusing their offer rather abruptly, she pushed open the frosted glass door of the pub elaborately etched with a coat of arms which she guessed, most likely to be the Duke’s. Hot air blasted her immediately with its strong smell of hops and bodies. Next she was struck by the lustre on everything: the brass rails, ceramic beer pumps, highly polished timber, the sparkling glasses. Everywhere felt warm and welcoming – and busy, despite the earnest efforts of the Nonconformists outside.
She waited her turn to order a draught noting the bonne hommie of the regulars. Here was no cheerless drinking den. Most of them were working class and the Cockney humour was all around. She needed this and paying her two pennies, took the foaming glass to a small corner table, content to drink and observe. She had been warned before she went to the local with the stable lads, that the beer served could be adulterated. After that epidemic of arsenic poisoning a few years ago, they had urged caution if she drank elsewhere. Her opinion of this brew was that it tasted like diluted piss, certainly not what her taste buds were used to. It seemed very salty. Perhaps the publican was keen to boost his sales. If this were current practice, to add salt to the barrel, then no wonder bottled beer, although more expensive, was becoming the beer of choice.
Quickly the drinkers filled the place with their booming voices ’til raucous laughter surrounded her. In a short time, as the crowd increased, she was joined at her table by three bright sparks who asked if she were getting ready to see the show.
“What show would that be then?”
“Harry Tate’s at the Alhambra tonight, before he moves on to Manchester,” the young man they called Fred offered enthusiastically.
“Oh, yes. That theatre’s just a short walk from here,” she remembered passing it.
“It’s a Variety Show, so there’ll be all sorts of turns,” the more flamboyant dresser of this jovial group expanded and was bold enough to ask if the young Gent was on his own? Would he care to join them? It took no moment of consideration for her to agree. They were planning on attending the second house, the first being too sparse and stuffy, so it was drinks all round while they introduced themselves. She began to relax and enjoy the ‘moment’ as she had planned. By the time they headed down the street she was ‘one of the boys’ all bent on a good time.
The Alhambra Theatre suggested a certain degree of luxury which imparted to the patrons an exciting style of living, in contrast to their normal work and home. As they climbed the stairs, she could hear the auditorium abuzz with anticipation. Inside, the air of cosiness was enhanced by the rich stage drapes, their damask sheen reflecting the different colours of the bright lights which partly tinted the curling smoke rising to the ornate ceiling. A brassy orchestra was tuning up as the new friends found their cheap seats, high up in the gallery.
Mallory felt the excitement within her. She was about to witness a live performance at a genuine West End music hall show. Not only the performers, but with a real audience as well. These variety shows had evolved from the ‘singing rooms’ of the Victorian public houses, but the Edwardians had brought their own idiosyncratic influence to bear and she was interested to see the changes.
A hush fell as the lights dimmed and the curtains parted. The first few ‘turns’ were solo performers singing old ballads whose sentiment was at heart, working-class. Some, with violin accompaniment reminded her of the cliché of the ‘smallest violin’, but for these people the pathos was real. Each one lasted about ten minutes, the theme generally being the poor against the rich.
Listening to the singers, she realised how much she missed her own music. An ear-piece had accompanied her most places on her ‘off’ time, unless she really had to concentrate. Now she lived in a music-free world and hearing it again brought home what an important part, music had played in her life.
In addition to the vocalists and comedians, typical of the large, established singing rooms, this program had been expanded to include dance routines and some sketches. One was a rustic, genteel act about ‘dear old dad’ and his two daughters set in a drawing room, dimly lit by shaded lamps. It was all a bit tedious. The audience felt it, giving no more than polite applause. After intermission they were treated to a half hour play written by J. M. Barrie, especially for George Robey. It was all laughter and tears and everyone adored this.
Who the audience was really waiting for was the male impersonator. Since the success of Vesta Tilley, many had sprung up to ride the wave. Mallory squirmed as she watched the energetic performance, but was able to relax when it was obvious, the woman on stage was far from sounding like the soldier she was pretending to be. Nonetheless, she was glad when the show moved on to three saucy soubrettes who took the ‘naughty-but-nice’ approach to their acts. She noticed the women in the audience picked up the innuendos the quickest and laughed the loudest.
Next on stage were the cleaver performances of the comedians and conjurers. She could see where the seeds had been sown that would eventually travel to the new-world of the cinematograph. Those early slapstick movies had taken their method, style and inspiration from these elaborate clowning pieces. They formed part of the dumb show of the comics, superbly timed, always hilarious. They did not need speech, all the action taking place in a manic, almost demented world.
At last Harry Tate rushed on stage, eccentrically dressed bawling out a string of nonsensical ditties, their humour ranging from the wildly incongruous to the dry and sardonic. Mallory was overwhelmed by a too strong a suggestion of lunacy, but the people’s response was uproarious. Following another dance interlude he returned, this time in a sketch playing a self-important sportsman, perpetually amazed and indignant, in a world drifting away from all sense or logic. Despite the laughter around her, she personally found the feast of unreason too much. However, the off-beat surrealism interspersed with ironic, black humour was appreciated by the poor and often hard-pressed onlookers. She could see how this could be just what they needed, to lift them out of the soul destroying banality of their working day and relieve the tedium of long hours at those relentless machines.
A rousing finale, all the performers on stage singing their hearts out, brought the curtain down and the show to a close. She thanked her companions, but declined to join them in a night-cap, returning instead to Belgrave Square in a much brighter frame of mind.