The Leaving of Liverpool (17 page)

E
MILY HAD NEVER MET anyone quite like the two old ladies she had gone to meet for the first time the day after Edwin had sailed. As she knocked at the front door of the house in Princes Avenue she was very apprehensive.

The house had a look of faded gentility about it. Its pale grey paint was peeling slightly, the colour of the stucco had faded and the brasses were a little tarnished. A stooped old man had opened the door to her. When she’d given him her name, she stood in the gloomy hall while he disappeared along the narrow corridor. Old fashioned framed prints, draped in black crêpe, covered the walls. From what could be seen of the wallpaper that wasn’t hidden by pictures, it was dark green overprinted with roses that had once been blood red. All the paintwork and the anaglypta that covered the bottom half of the walls was dark green. A bust of a man Emily didn’t recognize stood on its column in the stairwell. A garishly decorated
jardinière
, containing an aspidistra, graced the foot of the staircase. The whole effect was sombre and exuded the air of a bygone age.

‘You’re to come in.’ Stockley’s reed-thin voice interrupted her thoughts.

He held the door open for her as she walked in and she acknowledged the gesture with a nod. Her first impression was of a very dark room, crammed with heavy furniture and bric-à-brac. Every surface was covered with china ornaments in varying sizes, dried flower arrangements, wax fruit and even small animals and birds under rather dusty glass domes. The ornately-framed mirror over the fireplace and all the pictures were again swathed in mourning crêpe and she wondered who had died. The heat from the fire that burned in the hearth was oppressive and unnecessary, she thought.

‘What’s your name, girl? Is that letter for me?’

Millicent Barlow spoke in a clipped, authoritarian voice. She was older than her sister and no-one was allowed to forget it by word or deed. She was tall and thin. Her greying hair was parted in the centre and tightly scraped back into a bun which was covered by a white lace cap. She wore a black silk dress that heightened the waxy colour of her skin. The dress was old-fashioned, the high buttoned collar covered with jet beads. She reminded Emily of a much thinner version of old Queen Victoria.

She held out the letter and stood, eyes downcast, while it was read. Miss Nesta, she observed from under her lashes, was small and plump and had once been a very beautiful woman and a remnant of that beauty still clung to her. Her complexion was fair, her cheeks retaining a pinkish tinge like that of a faded rose. The blue eyes were wide and Emily thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in them. Like her sister, her hair was taken back and covered by a cap, but a few tendrils had escaped or been allowed to escape, and it was noticeable that her hair curled naturally. Her dress of dove grey moire was in the high buttoned, fitted style of the Edwardian era and a white, lacy shawl was draped around her shoulders. They were like relics of another age, Emily thought. But they posed no threat to her and she had liked Miss Nesta on sight.

‘He speaks very highly of you, does my nephew, so why has he sent you here to us?’ Millicent Barlow’s grey eyes were piercing. She didn’t believe in beating about the bush.

‘I . . . I thought he might have explained . . .’ She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks.

‘What did you do wrong? Come along, I insist on frankness.’

‘Nothing ma’am. I did nothing wrong.’

‘Don’t fuss the girl, Millie! If dear Richard thinks she will suit us, she will. You wouldn’t have wanted him to send us someone who had done something dreadful, would you?’

‘Dear Richard, my foot! How long have we been asking him for more help? Now, if dear Adele were still alive . . .’ She produced a scrap of a lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

‘Now Millie, don’t upset yourself. You know it’s not good for you.’ Miss Nesta began to reach out towards her sister.

‘Don’t fuss me, Nesta! You know how I hate it!’

Nesta Barlow looked hurt and Emily felt sorry for her.

‘I’m sorry if I’m intruding on your grief, ma’am.’ Emily gestured towards the black-garlanded overmantel. ‘I wasn’t told that you’d been bereaved. May I ask who has died?’

Miss Nesta uttered a little gasp and Miss Millicent’s eyes showed her shock, but it was she who spoke. ‘Why our dear Adele of course! Didn’t
that
man tell you?’

Emily stared back in confusion. Adele Mercer had been dead for years and years. ‘But . . .’

Miss Millicent waved her into silence. ‘We won’t dwell on it, it’s too upsetting. Do you know your duties?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ She was puzzled, but Miss Nesta gave her a lovely smile. She smiled back. They were both a bit odd but she had warmed to Miss Nesta and she’d probably grow to like Miss Millicent once she’d got used to her.

‘That dress won’t do. Only paupers and loose women show their legs. You’ll dress properly in this house.’

‘Yes, ma’am. I understand. I’ve had my uniforms lengthened.’

Lily had spent the last two nights adding six inch strips to the hems of her black working dresses and when she’d tried them on she’d wondered how she would ever manage to cope with the long skirts constantly threatening to trip her up. ‘Humour them,’ had been Lily’s advice. ‘You’ll have to get changed before you come home; you can’t go walking the streets like that. It’s so old-fashioned everyone will die laughing,’ had been Phoebe-Ann’s advice. Lily had tutted in annoyance.

‘Good. Now get along, Emily. Cook will inform you where everything is kept. We rise early and retire early. Prayers are at nine a.m. sharp. This is a Christian household.’

They didn’t belong to this century, Emily thought with amusement as she went downstairs. Family prayers every morning had gone out with the death of the old Queen nearly twenty years ago. The same antiquarian order prevailed in the kitchen and she sighed. There would be no Goblin vacuum cleaners in this house.

Cook was a wizened old woman but a kindly soul. Over a cup of tea she told Emily something of the family history. The old man had been a sea captain and a fierce disciplinarian who ruled the household with a rod of iron when he was at home. Miss Nesta had been a real beauty but he had refused all offers for her hand, despite the protests of Nesta and her mother. By the time he died their mother too was dead and Nesta’s beauty had faded. The former suitors had all been married for years by then. Millicent Barlow was a lot like her father but destined to be a spinster, Cook added. ‘She bosses poor Miss Nesta around something awful at times and Miss Nesta is such a sweet soul.’

‘Why do they still have all the mourning up for Mrs Mercer?’

‘Lost track of time in that respect. They wanted time to stand still. Adele Mercer’s father was their brother and they doted on them both. It shattered their little world when she died. She used to come here every week without fail and brought Master James and Miss Olivia when they were young. Oh, those were the days. This house used to come alive. It was just what was needed – the sound of children’s laughter.’

At the mention of James Mercer Emily felt sick and she hoped Cook wasn’t going to question her further.

‘So, you see they are a bit odd but there’s no harm in either of them. A word of warning though. Never, never move anything. Not a picture or a vase or a knick-knack. They know where every single thing is and if they’re moved there’s hell to pay. The last girl made that mistake, apart from which we couldn’t afford her.’

‘Don’t they . . . I mean . . .’

‘Have any money? Not much. They have this house and a small allowance Mr Mercer makes up to a decent amount and he pays our wages. I’ve been with them since they were girls, and Mr Stockley too. Just the two of us left now. Sad really, there used to be a big staff when the old man was alive. I started as a scullion and Stockley as a footman. Aye, it’s sad.’

Emily warmed to the woman and as she looked around the old-fashioned kitchen she felt at ease. More at ease than she’d felt since she’d left Upper Huskisson Street. Oh, they were eccentric but she liked them both, especially Miss Nesta. ‘I’d better make a start then,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘Your being here will make a difference, Emily. It will make life easier for us.’

Emily smiled. ‘Just as long as I don’t move anything.’

She settled in well. The work was not too hard or demanding, once she’d given everywhere a thorough ‘bottoming’ as Lily always called a good clean out. She found that Miss Millicent’s bark was worse than her bite and that Miss Nesta had a streak of mischief in her. They both lived in the past which she found odd. They had no wireless and no newspapers were delivered, so events in the world outside passed unnoticed and unmarked. It was an atmosphere whose tranquillity suited Emily. The quiet charm was balm to her battered spirit and she began to look forward again.

 

She had been there two weeks when one afternoon she decided to sort out the linen cupboard which was situated on the top landing. She knew that the linen was really the responsibility of a housekeeper, but as there wasn’t one she supposed she’d have to do it. Miss Millicent was out. Once a month she ventured from the house by taxi, to the committee meeting for the Society for Distressed Gentlewomen. She said it did her good, made her count her blessings for there but for the grace of God, not to mention the benevolence of Richard Mercer, went herself and her sister. Miss Nesta did not accompany her. ‘I was never very good at committees and things,’ she said airily when Miss Millicent’s forthcoming outing was explained.

Emily assumed Miss Nesta was in the drawing room, so she was startled to see her disappearing through the door that led to the attic. She followed her.

‘Is there something I can do for you, Miss Nesta?’

Nesta turned around, her hand going to her mouth, her eyes darting along the landing. ‘Oh, you won’t tell Millie will you? She doesn’t like me to come up here.’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

Miss Nesta beckoned her into the room. ‘Shut the door, Emily. Now, if you promise not to tell Millie I’ll show you my special things.’

Emily was mystified and curious. ‘I promise.’

‘Then open that trunk for me, please.’

Emily did as she was bid and was surprised to see no accumulation of dust on the lid of an old cabin trunk. Inside were layers and layers of tissue paper and small muslin sachets of lavender and lemon verbena.

Miss Nesta had sat down in an old wicker chair. ‘Take them out.’

Under the tissue was a froth of cream lace and faded pink satin. It was a ballgown that had once been beautiful.

‘Oh, Miss Nesta, it’s lovely!’

‘Yes, it is. I call this my “yesterday chest”. Take them all out, I want to look at them.’

Emily shook out the folds of a blue organza looped up with bows of blue satin ribbon, then a buttercup yellow silk festooned with ecru lace. ‘Oh, they’re beautiful! Are they yours?’

The old lady nodded, her expression wistful, her eyes misty.

‘You must have looked gorgeous.’

‘I did. Mama used to say, “Nesta, you look just like a princess.” There should be some other things.’

Emily delved into the trunk again. At the bottom was a pair of embroidered satin slippers, so small they could have been made for a child, and a fan of painted silk stretched between ivory ribs. Little silver tassels decorated the handle. Half a dozen dance-cards, silk tasselled and all full, were the last items. She passed them to Miss Nesta who fingered them lovingly.

Emily smiled at her. ‘I bet you were the belle of the ball.’

‘Oh, indeed I was. I never had an empty dance-card like Millie sometimes did. I was always the centre of attention and all those handsome young men would make such a fuss of me that Mama said it would turn my head.’ Her blue eyes were misty as though she could visualize again those happy, far off days.

Emily felt so sorry for her, remembering what Cook had told her. ‘Did you . . . did you ever want to get married, miss?’

‘Yes. Oh, yes I did, Emily. And I could have had my pick too.’ She sighed. ‘But they were never good enough or wealthy enough. Papa always found fault . . .’ Her words died away and Emily was sorry she’d asked. It had been tactless of her.

‘If only he had given me the chance . . . I would have been so happy I know I would, and I’d’ve been a good wife too.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

Miss Nesta smiled, a smile full of regret. ‘I know you didn’t. I like you Emily, you’re a good, kind girl. Do you have a young man?’

She nodded.

‘And will you marry him?’

‘I don’t know, miss.’

‘Oh, you should, Emily!’

‘It’s not all that . . . easy.’

‘Does your mama not approve of him?’

‘Yes. At least she would, but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘It’s hard to explain.’

‘Don’t you love him?’

‘Yes. But . . .’

‘Then marry him, Emily! Time is so precious. It slips away and all that is left is . . . memories.’ She stared down at the objects in her lap, stroking the satin slippers gently. ‘Memories. Memories are dry and dusty and sad.’

Emily felt so sorry for her. ‘Maybe I will marry him one day,’ she said softly.

Miss Nesta consciously pulled herself out of her reverie. ‘Will you put them away carefully, dear?’

‘I will. They are so lovely.’

The old lady got to her feet. She held out the fan. ‘I’d like you to have this, Emily.’

‘Oh, Miss Nesta, I couldn’t!’

‘Of course you can. It’s not valuable. I insist!’ She pressed it into Emily’s hand. ‘As a reminder that youth and beauty and hope don’t last for ever. They tarnish, like the silver tassels on this fan.’

Emily took it. ‘I’ll treasure it, Miss Nesta, I promise.’

Miss Nesta didn’t seem to have heard her. The familiar vague expression was back in her eyes and she walked slowly to the door, leaving Emily kneeling on the floor surrounded by the finery that was like a tissue of half-forgotten dreams.