As the train pulled out of Scarborough I decided I’d have a week’s holiday in London, and see the sights. Surely by then everyone in Wick and Helspie would have forgotten about my involvement in that minor incident on the fish pier? I’d decided that was how I’d play it, when I did eventually return – a herring slipping from my hand had unfortunately collided with the chest of a spectator – they will insist on gawping at busy fishergirls there, nothing better to do with their time – and if people do have outsize chests, well, what do they expect? The chase round the fish pier? Just a joke, a game – he didn’t really spank me, simply pretended – it was all good clean fun.
Which is not to say that I’d forgiven Horseface for the humiliation he’d inflicted on me, I certainly had not – but there was no need to admit to that humiliation. After all, a humiliation denied is a humiliation considerably lessened. So, as far as the world was concerned, all a joke. But if I ever saw him again…
Reluctantly I admitted that my opportunities for revenge were likely to be limited in that direction, in the absence of a nobs’ cricket festival in Wick.
Ah yes, Wick. Return to which was being delayed by yet another week – well, since I was overdue in any case, one could argue that it was only prudent to economize on excuses. I’d have plenty of time on the journey back to think of a really good one. In the meantime, I would attend to my false trail as soon as I reached London. I put my hand to my head – where, because of Jeannie’s arrival my plaits hung free. I was also wearing my own weekday skirt, which swung comfortably at mid-calf length – but, needs must. The minute I arrived in London I’d buy a proper full-length skirt for everyday wear, and stab those wretched hairpins into my scalp once more. This holiday would not be taken by Evelyn Courtney of barely seventeen, but by Scots-accent speaking Eve Gunn, aged – ? Well, nineteen would do nicely.
The question of money, you ask? True, herring gutters aren’t paid for their work until the earnings of the whole crew are totted up at the end of the season and divided into three – but fortunately Mairi had had something of a conscience over that one. So she’d performed various calculations the night before I’d left in order to estimate what I was owed, and then handed over to me the savings we’d made on the five shillings a week living allowance the curers paid us, together with her own arles of a pound – Jeannie had spent hers/mine on her train fare to Scarborough, since the curer only paid fares when we all moved in a group.
And then there had been those tips. Mairi had said to Bridget, ‘I really think we should pay Eve for her work now, so—’ Bridget had rather reluctantly handed back her own share of the gold and silver, and Mairi’s calculations had been brought to a successful conclusion. Added to what still remained of Mr Henderson’s allowance I now had in my pocket enough for a decent holiday as well as my train fare back to Wick at the end of it.
And there was a definite, though slightly sour, satisfaction in the thought that between them Mr Henderson and Horseface were paying for my extended truancy. Horseface, how could he have done it – and after he’d been so friendly? Don’t think, Eve – just get on and enjoy your holiday.
And don’t think either about what Mairi said this morning. But it was true, there was no-one left now who really cared what I said or did, or where I went, no-one at all – and the clicking wheels of the train seemed to pick up the rhythm of my thoughts: ‘No-one cares – no-one cares – no-one cares…’
I simply couldn’t stop thinking about that one – quick, Eve – look at it the other way up. Aunt Ethel used to say that, ‘Turn the coin over and look at the opposite side.’ My hand in my pocket found a half-crown – one of Horseface’s I suppose – and on one side it says, ‘You’ve got no-one to care what happens to you,’ but if you flip it over – my fingers did just that – then on the other side it says, ‘So you can do exactly as you please.’ And that’s what I was doing – beginning with going to London to see the sights. And as we crossed the points the wheels clicked out of their old rhythm and on into a new one of: ‘See the sights, see the sights – see the sights—’ And with every turn of those wheels my excitement mounted.
I admit that my courage did initially falter a moment at King’s Cross. When I arrived to all the noise and bustle of a large railway station I stood amidst the hiss of steam, the smell of smoke, the screech of whistles – and remembered India. But where were the cries of the pani sellers, the rich scents of sweat and spicey food, the colours – and where, oh where, was Apa?
Then I told myself firmly, ‘You can do it, Eve – you’re in charge of your own life now. So you can choose to do whatever you want, however you want.’
‘Porter, miss?’
‘Aye, I’ve a trunk with me.’ We set off for the guards van.
At the left luggage office I tipped the porter 3d and fended off the man behind the counter while I searched my trunk for a nightgown and spare pairs of knickers. Once these were safely stored in my kari I pushed the trunk across to him for labelling. ‘A week, please.’
Next, the ladies’ cloakroom, where I reinstated my gutting bun, and then, on the advice of the attendant, set off down Westbourne Grove to Whiteley’s department store. Taking a deep breath I plunged into the huge be-windowed emporium – and came out again wearing a new pair of unholed black cotton stockings (1s 8d) and a plain, full-length navy blue serge skirt (5s 11½d).
Clad in my new status I set off to inspect Buckingham Palace before finding somewhere to stay for my holiday in London. Palace duly inspected I spotted a respectable-looking temperance hotel near Victoria and marched inside to inquire about their weekly terms. ‘Thirty-eight shillings for a single room,’ the clerk announced, ‘And as many baths as you want. Meat breakfast and meat tea included.’ I closed on the deal and he pushed pen and register across the counter. Dipping my nib in the inkwell I wrote firmly, ‘Eve Gunn’.
Next move, false trail. On two plain postcards I wrote two identical messages: ‘Am taking a short holiday. Returning next Wednesday. Eve.’ After addressing one to Mrs Sinclair at Wick and the other to Mistress McNiven at Helspie I hared round the corner to Victoria station and found a guard, who promised to post them for me when he arrived at his destination. As an afterthought I asked, ‘And where are ye away tae?’
‘Dover.’
Even better – with luck they’d all think I’d gone to France for the week.
I’ll never forget the sheer joy of those first hours in London; it was the start of a love affair. Like all love affairs, London and I have had our ups and downs since – but as in any sound, long-lasting romance the bond is always there, even when you hate each other.
Good old smelly, dirty, noisy London. That first day I wandered round in a happy daze – just looking, listening, smelling, touching – yes, it really was a love affair.
I returned to the hotel for my meat tea, and then was off out again. London was even more fetching in the evening. I walked for miles. Over to Ludgate Hill to admire St Paul’s: ‘This magnificant and colossal edifice took thirty-five years to build’; up Threadneedle street to view the huge bulk of the Bank of England: ‘guarded every night by the military’ – yes, my reading of this section of Randall’s Reference Book was coming in handy at last.
But when I reached the Tower of London I forgot about real life and remembered only Gilbert and Sullivan – for this was the setting of Apa’s favourite ‘Yeoman of the Guard’. Here, brave Phoebe Meryll – a mezzo, like me – saved the life of Colonel Fairfax – who most ungratefully then fell in love with Elsie, the feeble soprano. Standing in the shadow of that ‘grim old fortalice’ I sang the very same song that Phoebe sang to distract Wilfred Shadbolt as she stole the vital keys,
‘Were I thy bride,
Then all the world beside
Were not too wide
To hold my wealth of love –
Were I thy bride!’
Yes, I’d fallen in love with London alright. But the first wrinkle in the bedsheet occurred that evening. I found my way back along the river, the ever-changing, ever-fascinating, magical Thames. At Westminster I stopped to stare up at the Houses of Parliament – seat not just of the government of Britain, but of India, too. Here was the Sirkar itself – I was standing at the heart of the Empire, at the very hub of the world. I moved on to Westminster Bridge to get a better view, and while I lingered there a policeman came past. He paused, saying, ‘Now, young lady, it’s past eleven o’clock – time you were getting home.’
Home.
I went back to the hotel. A hotel, not a home. It was all very well reversing the coin – but the truth was, I had no home now. I hadn’t truly had one since Aunt Ethel died. It was a bad time, that. If I’d gone to bed I might not have been able to stop from myself crying, so instead I stood at the window, looking out.
Luckily there was a coffee stall opposite, so I was able to focus on its comings and goings. Cab drivers, down-and-outs cadging the price of a slice of bread, workmen in caps and mufflers – and then a man in a top hat came in sight. He was taller than the other men, and his walk was faster and more confident. With silver-topped cane under one arm and opera cloak swinging from his shoulders he strode up to the counter – and the others drew back. Because the newcomer was a Brahmin, a man of a higher caste. A man like Horseface.
Horseface – oh, how dared he do what he did! Don’t even think of him, Eve – but with thinking came anger, so much warmer and stronger than despair. So I did think of him: as an idle, cricket-playing member of the unproductive upper-class, with its set-apart dress and manner and bearing –
And that’s when I had the idea – the most brilliant of ideas. I would follow in my grandmother’s footsteps and become an ethnologist. But whereas Fanny Gunn had gone to practise her observational skills in places like Africa, or China, I, for the time being at any rate, would study the economy and tribal rituals of the inhabitants of London. Exit Eve, homeless herring gutter; enter, Eve Gunn – explorer and ethnologist. I could hardly wait to start playing my new role.
I slept soundly, did full justice to my meat breakfast the next morning, and then set out to study the economy of London. I was, as you’ll have realised, somewhat better qualified for this than for the tribal rituals, since I had studied my Watt far more thoroughly than my Fanny Gunn. In fact, the truth is, I still hadn’t read more than the first three pages of my grandmother’s ‘Variety and Diversity in Humankind’.
However, those first three pages had fortunately covered the Introduction, and I could distinctly remember her writing that the first rule for an ethnologist studying a new tribe was to be as inconspicuous as possible – so I went out and bought a hat. Everyone else seemed to be wearing a hat in London, so in my new navy tam o’ shanter (price 1s 3d) I should fade nicely into the background.
Which was more than Fanny Gunn could ever have done, since according to Aunt Ethel my grandmother had been nearly six foot tall, broad-shouldered and with a flaming head of bright ginger hair. Still, perhaps she was a good actress.
Her second rule was that one shouldn’t reach any conclusions until a full observation had taken place; so I decided to spend the next three days simply looking and listening, and then arrive at my conclusions over the weekend.
I tramped for miles that day. Luckily my meat breakfast was very sustaining, and London being as well-provided with drinking fountains as it is with horse troughs I did not go thirsty – though I scorned the little metal cups on chains, preferring to drink out of my hands, in the Indian fashion. By the time I got back for my meat tea (congratulating myself on having picked a hotel near Victoria Station – it made things much easier when it came to asking directions) I felt extremely pleased with myself. And the curious thing is, that although I would probably have spent the day in exactly the same way without last night’s decision I don’t think I would have enjoyed it nearly as much. As Apa used to say, ‘It’s not so much what you do, as the spirit in which you do it.’ (He often said this when l was moaning about maths lessons. I had not been convinced on that score – but, it’s curious how circumstances can change one’s mind…)
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.