Habits of the House (20 page)

‘By the way,’ said Mr Baum, ‘I had notification from Coutts that the rent you’re paying for the Half Moon Street flat has been increased.’

His Lordship looked blank.

‘Viscount Arthur’s tenancy,’ Mr Baum said.

‘Flora!’ exclaimed his Lordship. ‘Good God, is that still going on? I don’t think Tessa O’Brien is going to appreciate that.’

Tessa O’Brien, his Lordship explained, was an American, and the mother of a very pleasant young lady, and there was some hope that she and his son would have a future together.

‘“Stockyard” O’Brien from Chicago?’ asked Mr Baum.

‘The very one,’ said his Lordship.

‘Well done,’ said Mr Baum. ‘I certainly have to hand it to you, my Lord, one way and another.’

Grace at Brown’s

Wednesday 8th November onwards, 1899

Grace, at her Ladyship’s pleasure, had been loaned – ‘as if I was some slave’ – to the O’Briens, with instructions to help the pair with the intricate niceties of dress and custom in London’s high society. She had been installed, at Tessa’s insistence, not in the servants’ quarters of Brown’s, in the attic rooms, but in a real, if smallish, guest’s room down the corridor from the O’Brien’s suite, complete with fruit, flowers, chocolate, cleaned twice daily by the chamber maid and supplied with unlimited fresh dry towels.

In the beginning Grace had gone down to meals in the hotel staff dining room, where the servants’ food was a lot worse than it was in Belgrave Square. Within a couple of days she felt bolder, and dared to ring for room service. She loved the Club Sandwiches, a new invention from the United States, a whole seven course meal pressed between two pieces of bread – chicken, beef, ham, turkey, tomatoes, salad and fruit chutney – taking up only one plate.

This luxurious living, instead of impressing her, made her restless and annoyed. A box spring mattress could only be so soft, linen so crisp and white, apricot jam so delectable. There must be an end to indulgence? And how did it happen that the idle rich managed to live so well and do so little except spend? She had become accustomed to escorting Rosina to the many
meetings where political and social indignations of one kind or another were expressed, and when Mr Eddie asked if she would join him in an outing to the International Workingmen’s Association – which now accepted women – she had no hesitation in accepting. She found herself soothed by the thought of the inevitability of revolution amongst the masses, the certain victory of the working man and woman. But she could see that though hotel staff could well be organized into strike action to hasten the day when the proletariat could take over the means of production, there would be a difficulty in getting domestic staff to revolt. At No. 17 they were too wellfed, and too busy bickering and gossiping to worry about long working hours and low pay.

In the meantime, Grace did what she was employed to do as perfectly as she could. She would teach Tessa and Minnie how to dress and behave. Barnardo’s children’s home had instilled in her long ago the need to fulfil her obligations and live each day as if her last.

‘
To sweep a room as for Thy cause makes that and th’action fine
’, she had sung at least once a week for all her young life, and the message had sunk in. There was virtue in servitude. God dealt you cards at birth – your looks, your wealth, your status – and it was your duty to play them as best you could.

For a week there was no sign of the rumoured invitation from Master Arthur. Grace was both relieved and not surprised. Minnie was so unlike the girls Master Arthur normally favoured, neat and refined, rather than full of body, lips and bosom (as she, Grace had been fifteen years ago; no longer now, alas, thanks to late nights, early mornings, cold attics and the passage of time) that he would see no more of the girl than civility required. He would stand out against his mother’s wishes easily enough. He was not one to woo where
he was not inclined. And very possibly he had been told about Minnie’s past, and realized she was not a fit branch for the Hedleigh family tree.

Her task as lady’s maid to Mrs O’ Brien (‘just call me Tessa, dear’) and Miss Minnie (‘do drop the “Miss”, Grace. I’m just Minnie’) was not onerous: they preferred to do their own dressing and coiffing: Miss Minnie would go off unchaperoned about London, spending time at the art exhibitions at the Foundling Hospital and the Victoria and Albert Museum while her mother had fittings at the dressmakers, beauty treatments in Bond Street and spent money, which she clearly liked to do. Offered a choice between the most expensive and the not so expensive, Mrs O’Brien unthinkingly chose the former. Miss Minnie used more discretion. She was beginning to be quite attached to Miss Minnie. A pity about her past.

Minnie’s Odd Ideas

11.30 a.m. Saturday, 11th November 1899

‘You know,’ Minnie said to her mother, a week to the day since her walk in the park with Arthur, ‘it is all very well and very enjoyable to spend one’s life having one’s clothes fitted and spending money on them while others wear rags but I fear it will merely draw the revolution nearer.’ They had left their hotel room to scour the stores for yet more filmy chiffon tea gowns Tessa could take home as gifts for her friends. Elegant home gowns from Marshall Field’s back home and even occasionally from Sears Roebuck were all very well, but even Tessa had to admit they lacked the fanciful quality of what could be found in London.

‘Just you keep your wicked radical ideas to yourself,’ said Tessa. ‘Grace wore the prettiest little hat yesterday. Quite cheap and plain but it kept out the rain which was more than mine did, and quite a few men glanced after her.’

‘You mean she could always sell herself if she had to.’

‘I suppose so dear, yes.’

‘Conspicuous consumption is the mark of the unfree servant,’ said Minnie and her mother groaned and asked her not to start.

‘You read too many books,’ she complained. Minnie said it was her mother’s fault because she had booked them on the
Oceanic
on the trip over and there had been nothing to do but
use the library. You couldn’t look out of portholes; there were just big round, modern electric lights where they were meant to be.

‘The sooner you’re married and settled the better,’ said Tessa. ‘Before you turn into some cranky old maid. Aren’t you looking forward to going shopping? Have they found something wrong with it? All you thinking young women are such goshdarned wet blankets.’

‘The
Oceanic
’s library had all the latest books, naturally. I was reading Veblen’s
Theory of the Leisure Class
. But the library was only for first class passengers. Four hundred of us. The thousand in steerage were not allowed in. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that those who need to read most are not allowed to read?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Tessa. ‘The poor things would only dirty the pages with their grubby fingers.’

‘Mr Veblen talks about women’s dress as a burden placed upon them by men, to bring order to the confused and transient social structure of a highly organized industrial community.’

‘Spare me,’ said her mother. But Minnie would not.

‘It has never occurred to me before,’ she said, ‘that women wear corsets and white gloves to show the world that they need not scrub floors,’ she said. ‘But it’s true. Fashion renders you helpless. High heels and hobble skirts stop you running, corsets stop you breathing, and hats stop you seeing. The more fashionable you are the more helpless you are. A man hangs you with jewellery to show you off as a possession. In the modern civilized scheme of life the woman is still the economic dependant of the man.’

‘Cuss that boring library and Mr Vabberlin too,’ said Tessa. ‘All he wants is for everyone to have nothing and look
miserable. Don’t let your young Arthur get a whiff of these fine new opinions or he’ll be off like a shot. A man likes a girl to dress well.’

‘I’m afraid my young Arthur is already off like a shot,’ said Minnie. ‘A full week and I haven’t heard a word.’

‘Oh, that’s why you’re so darned cranky,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t you worry. He’ll be back when he thinks you’ve missed him enough. Any time now, I’d say.’

‘Anyway,’ said Minnie, ‘a woman can’t be forever wondering what a man thinks or doesn’t think.’

‘Oh yes she can,’ said Tessa firmly. ‘What else is there to do? I’d best wire your father for more money. Things are so dear over here. Back home a girl gets proper value for what she spends.’

When they got back to the hotel, there was a card from Arthur asking Minnie if she’d go riding with him on Saturday.

Minnie Prepares to Go Riding

In the Morning, Saturday, 18th November 1899

Minnie was in such a good humour the next morning that Grace, who had been thinking it might be as good a plan to tell Miss Minnie about Master Arthur’s carry-on with Flora, as to tell Master Arthur about Miss Minnie’s scandalous carry-on with a married madman, did not have the heart to do it. A ride in Rotten Row, she told herself, was as likely to put them off each other as put them on. Minnie looked too delicate to be much of a rider and would have no idea how to conduct herself with the formality required on the Row.

Her practical concern now was that Minnie had neglected to pack her riding habit, and there was no time to purchase a new one, let alone fit and alter it by Saturday. So Grace walked all the way over to Belgrave Square in the hope of borrowing one from Miss Rosina.

Rosina rarely rode, seeing riding as demeaning to dumb animals, though she looked extremely handsome in her habit. It would be a good enough fit for Minnie. When laced, Rosina had the same twenty-two-inch waist as Minnie, though unlaced Rosina’s was a good three inches more. The habit consisted of a very nice tailored jacket in grey twill with a flared skirt, silk-lined, smart waistcoat, gaiters which made the most of dainty feet and a jaunty and very modern bowler hat.

Rosina was happy enough to lend the costume out. Grace presumed upon the almost-friendship she managed at times with Rosina to ask her what she thought Master Arthur’s motives were in relation to the O’Brien girl.

‘Viscount Arthur’s motives? Arthur has no motives. He has no brain. Not even enough to successfully marry for money,’ Rosina snapped. She was in a hurry, as so often, on her way to a meeting of the Fabian Society in Essex Hall just off the Strand, and not interested in pursuing the line of conversation. She was having to go without Grace as an escort, and that put her out. Grace tried, in passing, to persuade Miss Rosina to wear a corseted dress if she was going out alone in the crowds, but failed.

‘They’re only Fabians,’ Rosina said. ‘They wear sandals and socks and never trim their beards. They talk a lot about the Life Force and Free Love but are far too nervous to do anything about it. I will be perfectly safe. Far safer than you will ever be amongst your revolutionaries, properly done up and corseted though you are, and with not an inch of flesh showing.’

‘I have an escort in Mr Eddie,’ said Grace, proudly, and was pleased when Rosina darted an almost friendly smile at her in response.

Miss Rosina was not so bad. At least lately she had taken to feeding Pappagallo on Brazil nuts and not oily pine nuts, so that the peevish creature left a less messy trail behind it as it half-flew, half-hopped with its clipped wings about Miss Rosina’s rooms. When both Miss Rosina and her Ladyship were safely out of the house Lily would be sent to clean up after the creature. She was proving really useful.

It seemed to Rosina unfair on first principles that, of the two of them, Arthur would succeed to the title and the estates. She was the elder child, but the younger male took precedence
and would inherit the lot, whereas she was obviously the more competent. One day she would raise the matter at a meeting of the Fabians. They fought for social justice, and surely the equality of the sexes should be amongst their aims; they shouldn’t only be interested in the betterment of the poor. It took courage to stand up and speak in public – one’s voice squeaked and rose in pitch when one was nervous – but one day she would manage.

Mind you, her voice could be no squeakier than that of Mr H.G. Wells of whom everyone took an inordinate amount of notice, but whom she found rather disappointing to meet, he being rather smaller than one had supposed. He had an interesting gift for stirring up trouble, she’d observed. She’d been to a talk by him about his novel
The War of the Worlds
. He’d suggested that the cruel Martians with their invincible fighting machines were perhaps the human beings of the future, when human brains had outstripped all of their other organs, and that technology was the path to victory. It seemed reasonable enough to her, but various religious groups, both the Quakers, who were pacifists and the Catholics, who were anti-evolutionists, had been loud in protest. Blows were exchanged. Grace had had to hurry her out before things grew nasty, and Rosina, annoyed by her persistence, had failed to give her the usual five-shilling tip. She quite liked Grace and sometimes she had stimulating things to say; she liked to think that she, Rosina, had helped educate her, but Grace had to remember she was a servant.

Warm Toes in Golders Green

7.50 a.m. Thursday, 16th November 1899

The smart new bronze-plated letterbox made its customary clack and Naomi ran in her stockinged feet to see what the postman had brought. The carpet – newly fitted, three-ply Australian wool, a beautiful dark red with a light olive scroll decoration, was thick and soft beneath her toes. The whole house was warmed by the best and slimmest grey iron radiators available. Eric had spared no cost. There was no invitation amongst the letters but Naomi now had the feeling that one day soon it would come.

She was suddenly feeling more cheerful, at last, she imagined, recovering from the death of her mother, becoming accustomed to the peace and quiet of the suburbs. The children’s noses no longer ran. The necks of their shirts were not grimed with dirt after a couple of hours’ wear. Their faces had smoothed out and their cheeks glowed. The carpets were in and the builders almost gone. She had a lovely home. The streets outside were being paved and the mud would soon be under control. The street even had a name. The plates had just gone up. Hampstead Way. A few more Jewish families were known to be moving in. The local butcher had agreed to sell kosher meat, and she didn’t have to schlep the children all the way to St John’s Wood to buy it. Eric was generous with the housekeeping: if she wanted
something she asked for it and the money to do it would be there.