The Petticoat Men
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To Richard
M
Y
NAME
IS
Mattie Stacey and my mother runs a lodging house in Wakefield-street near Kings Cross and I was that
angry
at everything that happened about Freddie and Ernest, that’s why I stayed awake in my room after the others had gone to bed, sitting at my long work-table next to Hortense, and just writing everything down. Hortense is a plaster head. Ma got it from a theatre long ago and I painted red lips and big dark eyes on her and we chat. But really she’s for trying hats on when I’m making them.
If your house got rude words writ on it and people yelled WHORE at you in the street and if your address was published in the newspapers and called a bordello and ‘the seedy headquarters of criminal activity’ and other lies wouldn’t you pick up a pen and dip it in the ink and write what
you
know happened? course all the other people we found was involved, they didn’t get their houses writ on, no one wrote on the grand houses did they?
And it’s true my heart was caught up, and I know that part is stupid and you’ll think I’m stupid, well – well that just cant be helped, you cant always tell your heart what to do.
The sharp, brisk sound of a door-knocker echoed through the house in Wakefield-street, near Kings Cross.
A young woman opened the door.
An elegant, top-hatted gentleman stood there; behind him she could see a carriage shadowed in the crisp darkness of the chill February evening, and the lights of the rattling, passing carts, and cabriolets. Yelling street voices blasted in and she heard the bells on several of the nearby churches tolling the hour of ten, not necessarily in unison.
The young woman smiled at the visitor, and when he had haughtily stated his business, she called loudly up the stairs. ‘Ernest! Freddie! A carriage is here! And a gentleman!’
‘We shan’t be long!’ A man’s voice shouted down.
‘Shall I send the gentleman up?’
‘No, no, Mattie! Certainly not!’ Loud laughter. ‘Advise him we shall be down in just a moment.’
The top-hatted gentleman at the front door, thus dismissed, felt in his waistcoat pocket for a cigar.
The young woman politely offered him the small parlour where a fire was lit; she saw him glance amusedly, dismissively, at the hallway and the narrow staircase, although everything was impeccably clean and tidy and there were flowers on a polished table by the door.
‘I would prefer to wait outside,’ he said.
She left the front door part open, deciding not to be rude by closing it in his patronising face; cigar smoke drifted in from the front steps with the cold air. Above the never-ceasing noise of passing traffic (even though the street was back from the main Euston Road) the young woman heard the waiting horse shift its feet on the cobbles, the bridle shook and jingled, and as usual there was the sound of angry, screaming voices further down Wakefield-street as if people were killing each other; occasionally they were. She also heard old Mr Flamp telling himself the story of his life as he often did, for company, in his room under the stairs of this house.
Then running footsteps and laughter exploded from above, and perfume and powder swirled downwards excitedly with Ernest Boulton and Frederick Park: the flattering light of the lamps caught them softly, petticoats rustled, silk-and-tulle and satin shimmered, corsets held, chignons towered upwards, bracelets tinkled. Ernest came first in a low-cut white gown decorated all over with pink roses; pink roses too in the fair chignon and wig. Freddie was in blue with a train, with a bright red shawl around his shoulders, and a red feather decorating his flaxen hairpieces.
The landlady, Mrs Isabella Stacey, appeared from the basement, carrying a large teapot. ‘Oh my heavens, Ernest, look at you! You look fit for a royal ballroom – you could dance with the Prince of Wales himself! But – ah – there’s two hooks broken! you can’t go out like that – here, Mattie, we’ll give old Mr Flamp some tea in a moment, to cheer him.’
Mattie took the big teapot from her mother, and Mrs Stacey took a needle and cotton from her apron and sewed Ernest together, and Mattie, even as she balanced the teapot, managed also to smooth Freddie’s red shawl over the blue gown and she smiled and said, ‘You look lovely, Freddie.’ Freddie put his hand to her cheek in a brief thank-you and her face lit up with a bigger, warmer, beautiful smile even as he then put his hand to his own cheek in the manner of a coquette, and laughed.
‘Where’s Billy?’ said Ernest, peering over his shoulder impatiently to see why the landlady was taking so long. Mrs Stacey caught a drift of gin. ‘We would like a
masculine
opinion of our gowns!’
‘He’s not home from his work. He often has to work late.’
‘Running the country,’ said Ernest, preening and smiling, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Of course he is!’
‘He wouldn’t be half bad at it if he was,’ said Mrs Stacey dryly, satisfied now with the propriety of the hooks on the pink and white gown, and retrieving the large teapot from her daughter. ‘Are you performing tonight?’
Freddie shimmered and quivered, unable to keep still. ‘Ernest has been prevailed upon to sing, Mrs Stacey – and it is indeed a ball, although not a royal one! – at Mr Porterbury’s Hotel by the Strand, and the Prince of Wales
has
been known to occasionally attend such soirées. Although I expect, this month at least, now that his unmatrimonial royal activities are being discussed all over London, he is being somewhat more discreet than usual!’ and everyone laughed.
‘But I do assure you, my dears,’ said Ernest as he pulled up his elegant gloves, and his eyes glittered in the lamplight and fumes of gin mingled with strong perfume, ‘that, unlike that wearisome little martyr Cinderella,
our
fairy tale shall not end by midnight, nor in a pumpkin!’ and he looked coyly at the landlady and her daughter from under his eyelashes. All the petticoats rustled with further impatience; both men were laughing and the perfume and the powder swirled again – and then they were gone, disappearing into the night in a fever of anticipation and excitement and – some other thing also: a
frisson
– daring? hazard? danger?… something…
As the sound of the horse’s hooves echoed away in the darkness, the scent of the powder and the perfume and the gin lingered for a moment in the hallway of the house in Wakefield-street (they preferred brandy, but sometimes gin was a cheaper way to prepare themselves). And something unreadable lingered for a moment also in the face of the young woman, Mattie, as she listened to the last sounds of the carriage dancing away into all the other traffic, towards the Strand.
And then the house sighed and settled and became itself again, a tall, narrow terraced house near Kings Cross Station among a hundred such houses, and the mother and the daughter took the large teapot into the lonely room of Mr Flamp, another – less glamorous – lodger, so that he could, for a little while at least, have someone to tell his stories to, other than himself.
Mr Amos Westropp Gibbings, a very wealthy young gentleman of independent means, had hired for this particular, private soirée the whole first floor – that is, a large central room with much smaller rooms leading off it – of Porterbury’s Hotel in Wellington Street, just off the Strand.
‘A few particular friends,’ he had said to Mr Porterbury some weeks earlier, ‘perhaps thirty? Let us cheer up these chilly days with beauty and pleasure! Music, entertainment, supper, etcetera, etcetera – the etcetera to include the best champagne. I shall also expect to pay for all extra
accoutrements
of course.’
And now, tonight, a clock in the distance striking ten, they waited at the top of the first-floor staircase: Mr Gibbings, and Mr Porterbury the proprietor, almost as if they were a couple, for although Mr Porterbury was attired in his best gentlemen’s evening wear, Mr Amos Gibbings was dressed in a mauve gown and pearls.
There were fires burning for warmth. Everything looked beautiful. Large baskets of flowers scented the already heady room; straight-backed, gilt chairs lined the wall as was the custom at soirées; bowls of fruit and little plates of breath-enhancing pastilles stood on small tables, and the chandeliers threw soft shadows across the floor, embracing the visitors with that warm, flattering glow. The musicians were already playing a cheeky polka and many guests in their colourful evening gowns and sober dress suits had already arrived; excitement mounted as the room filled. And Mr Porterbury the proprietor smiled and smiled and rubbed his hands together slightly (for Mr Gibbings was a valued customer, and money had already changed hands, and it was clear that more than thirty guests had already entered the large room, therefore more money would be changing hands at a later date). Despite the extra guests it appeared to be a most respectably patronised occasion: a Member of Parliament and a member of the judiciary arrived together, followed by two members of the clergy; all were immediately served champagne by the handsome young waiters who looked so fine in their smart jackets and very well-fitting trousers.