Authors: Marjorie Eccles
The clouds outside had dispersed, leaving a tender green and rose sky, and the dying sun found its way through the fronds of greenery in the conservatory; a ray of warmth fell onto Grace’s outstretched foot as she sat by the table. Outside, a blackbird sang in the rain-drenched garden, so pure and sweet it almost brought tears to her eyes. But at the same time, she felt light as air, free at last of something she now realised had been growing into an insupportable burden. Her heart lifted. She might not be doing the right thing in deciding to go and live in London with the Martagons, but at least it would be a mistake which would affect no one but herself.
And after that? It might be that her adventure would amount to nothing and she would have to pocket her pride and resume living with her mother, and her aunt, at genteel Frinton-on-Sea – which would undoubtedly be more tedious and even less rewarding than the sort of life she was now leading…except that… Well, who knows? Grace asked herself. In a new age when women were climbing mountains in Switzerland and trekking through Africa, anything was possible. She smiled to herself, not really expecting anything of the sort to happen – but at least, she need never return here.
As far as Robert went, she had burnt her boats and she was not displeased to see them flaming behind her.
‘Oh, Mama, it’s such an unexpected opportunity, please be happy for me,’ she pleaded later, telling her mother what she’d decided. ‘Things will be so different, in London.’
‘Opportunity?’ The only opportunity a woman needed, in Mrs Thurley’s opinion, was to meet Mr Right, receive his proposal, and thereafter be a good wife and mother. ‘You surely don’t mean to join those frightful suffragettes,’ she added in sudden alarm, ‘like that woman who threw slates from the Bingley Hall roof onto the prime minister?’
‘Mama, if I was of that mind, I needn’t go to London to join them, there are plenty here. I admire them tremendously, but I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of courage. I wish I had.’
‘Well, I for one am glad that you have not. I don’t call what they are doing courageous – I call it madness. And so unwomanly. She might have killed Mr Asquith, you know.’
‘Not to mention herself, climbing onto the roof,’ said Grace. ‘Then, somebody might have taken notice. As it is, she’s had to try and starve herself to death.’
‘Sometimes, Grace, I don’t understand the things you say.’
‘Sometimes, I don’t understand myself.’
‘Well.’ Mrs Thurley sensed this was dangerous ground. Grace was, after all, only twenty-two years old and sensible as she undoubtedly was, not by any means as independent as she liked to appear. ‘I hope you won’t go putting ideas into the head of an innocent young girl like Dulcie Martagon when you get to London – though I’m quite sure Edwina would soon put a stop to it if you did. On second thoughts, however, I believe you’ll be quite a match for her.’
‘Mama! You make me sound like Miss Grimshaw!’
‘Well, my dear, she taught you very well for seven years and you can’t deny that you’re more than a little that way inclined. Perhaps it did rub off on you, a little,’ said Mrs Thurley, softening the remark with a fond kiss, and then adding unexpectedly, ‘and perhaps I’ve leant on you too much since your dear Papa died. I’ve got used to you managing things, but maybe it’s time I learnt to stand on my own two feet.’
Despite her feelings of anxiety for Grace, Mrs Thurley began to cheer up when she thought of the changes in her own life that Grace’s decision would bring about. And she thanked Heaven fasting that Grace would not, after all, be marrying Robert Latimer.
At a quarter to six on a cool, fresh spring morning, while most of London was still waking up, the housemaid at number 8 in one of the better streets of run-down Camden Town ran to the top of the area steps with her earthenware pitcher, in order to intercept Charlie, the milkman, already doing his rounds. In the early morning quiet, before things and people got really moving, she could hear his cheerful repartee coming up the steps from the basement of a house further along as he ladled out the milk at the kitchen door. He’d be a few minutes yet, but Janey waited, knowing he’d serve her as soon as he saw her. She felt in her pocket for the bruised apple she’d brought for Benjie, but the horse had his nose in his feedbag, so she had nothing to do but wait impatiently, her arms goose-pimpling in the fresh, early morning breeze. Another housemaid further along the street came out to sweep the front steps and waved to her. An early tram clanged by on the Hampstead Road. The world was stirring. But meanwhile, it was a beautiful, quiet, sparkly morning and Adelaide Crescent was looking as good as it ever would do – the new leaves on the trees in the public garden looked lovely and – oh, wouldn’t a bit of ribbon of that same colour trim her old hat a treat for spring? Or maybe a bunch of cherries would be better? And maybe she might just manage sixpence for a new pair of gloves as well…
When Charlie clattered back up the steps and saw her waiting, he gave her a wink before going to the back of his two-wheeled cart to tip one of the ten-gallon churns into the smaller one he carried to his customers’ doors.
‘Come on,’ Janey called, ‘I ain’t got all day to wait.’ Cook’d give her what for if she knew she was hanging about up here, when she should be starting the porridge and making sure the fire in the breakfast room was well alight so that everything would be just so when the master came down. But she hadn’t wanted to wait until Charlie knocked at the kitchen door, when there was every chance Cook might choose that moment to appear and overhear his cheeky backchat. Cheeky, yes, but Janey smiled. The morning exchange with him set her up for the day. She was – very nearly – walking out with Charlie.
At last, he finished what he was doing, and crossed the pavement to where she was waiting. Dumping his churn, he deposited a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘Beautiful as the mornin’, Janey me duck, as usual.’
‘Two quarts today and look sharp about it, and who are you calling your duck and taking liberties?’
‘You, darlin’, and how about down the Empire, Sat’day? Your night off, ain’t it?’
‘We’ll see. Have to think about it.’ She slipped the apple into Charlie’s pocket. ‘And that’s for Benjie, not you.’
‘Oh, sharp this morning! Watch you don’t cut yourself,’ rejoined Charlie, lowering the pint dipper four times into the milk and transferring the brimming contents, thick, creamy and foaming, into her jug. You could trust Charlie; his milk was always new and fresh and never watered, not like some. She gave him a smile that showed her dimples. If she got that ribbon for her hat, it would be just right for an evening in the gallery at the Empire.
‘So long then. Till termorrer, and don’t forget Sat’day.’ Charlie turned back to his float and then stood rooted to the spot. ‘Gawd!’
‘What’s up?’ Janey turned to follow his glance back along the street and when she saw what he’d seen, the pitcher fell from her hands. Pieces of brown and yellow pottery scattered in all directions and a white river ran over her boots and the pavement. ‘Oh, my Gawd,’ she echoed Charlie, colour draining from her face and leaving it white as the milk itself.
Further along the street, impaled on the area railings, as though on a skewer ready for spit-roasting, was the body of a man.
Embury Square, at a safe distance from those less than salubrious parts of Camden Town, boasted large, prosperous-looking houses on three of its sides, and on the fourth a road lined with plane trees which led eventually into Piccadilly. Number 12 was situated at the back of the square, the last house before it turned the corner. Echoing the formality of its neighbours, it was double fronted and four-storeyed, including the attics, with a shallow flight of steps leading to a pedimented front door. It differed from the other houses only in the colour of its stuccoed fascia; this the late Eliot Martagon had decreed should be painted dark green, with sparkling white trim, while the front door and the area railings were the same smart, shiny black as the railings around the square’s central gardens.
Discreetly curtaining the inside of the house from the curious glances of passers-by hung fine ecru lace, through which lamps shone at dusk, hinting at the luxury to be found inside: the warm colours of the floor tiles in the hall and the hushed carpets and richly papered walls; the large pictures hanging in heavily gilded frames; the solid, ornate furniture gleaming with years of polish and the elbow grease of housemaids; a sweeping staircase in the spacious entrance hall rising to the next storey where it divided to form a gallery.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, the road beyond the square was busy with shoppers, errand boys on bicycles and home-going nursemaids pushing baby-carriages; and noisy with motor omnibuses, taxicabs, horse-drawn traffic and the cries of newsvendors. Faintly, in the distance, there came the sound of a barrel-organ. But none of this penetrated the well-built, prosperous façade of number 12.
Dulcie wasn’t the fidgeting sort, but today she found it hard to sit still, longing to be outdoors on such a heavenly day, where the spring breeze was chasing the clouds to shadow the sun from time to time, dappling the gardens in the square with flickering light. Daffodils danced amid the dark evergreens and under the blossom-trees, and already the wallflowers were showing hard, clustered buds which would later burst into rich colours and delicious scents. Eminently suitable subjects for young ladies to paint. Dulcie, however, preferred something more austere.
While listening to her mother with half an ear, she was automatically observing the plane trees she could just about glimpse in the main road. The branches were still bare and leafless on the rough, scaly, elephant-grey trunks, and the lopped ends sported bottle-brush fans of twigs, as feathery and elegant as a Japanese print, especially when seen through the soft focus of fine lace. Her fingers itched to be out there sketching, chilly though it was, despite the bright, chancy sun, as she’d found when she’d taken her little pug, Nell, for her run in the garden. Cold for the flower woman on the corner, shivering under her shawl, chilblained fingers emerging from her woollen mittens as she bent over her basket the way Dulcie had sketched her from memory, dozens of times, using the sharp, fine strokes that had begun to characterise her work. Poor thing, sitting there hour after hour, selling her violets and mimosa; a plain old woman whose broad face under her red shawl was yet beautiful. And who, ridiculous though it might seem, in some ways reminded Dulcie of her father. Perhaps it was that strong nose and wide forehead, perhaps it was the smile she always had for Dulcie…
But Dulcie turned her thoughts determinedly away from her father. It was a matter of pride that she wasn’t a person prone to tears, yet whenever the memory of him returned she could never be quite sure she wouldn’t cry. Something warm and vital had gone for ever when Eliot’s spirit had departed this life.
‘Have another cake, Dulcie,’ commanded her mother, dispensing tea. Because they had company she smiled, showing her beautiful teeth, but her look brooked no refusal. She sat very upright, as always, splendidly corseted, wearing a bronze silk tea-gown trimmed with black velvet, an ecru lace modesty vest at the crossover of her bodice, but only just veiling her magnificent curves. Yet it struck Dulcie that for some reason she didn’t seem as quite in command of herself as she invariably was. It was hard to say just how. She made the usual striking picture behind her tea-table, her head held high and proud on her long neck, around which gleamed the string of large, evenly matched pearls she almost always wore. It was no accident that the colour of the gown gave a subtle depth to her still-glorious hair, which was sculpted and waved, dressed wide, its rich brown enhanced now by gleams of silver. ‘Cake, Dulcie?’ she repeated.
Dulcie returned her mother’s smile to prevent herself looking mutinous. She hadn’t wanted the first pink-iced fairy cake, tiny as it was, but only a very few people ever argued with Edwina Martagon, and her daughter wasn’t one of them. It was her mother’s oft-stated belief that Dulcie needed ‘filling out’ to complement her height, so that it would become an asset for which many women might envy her, rather than the burden to her it so obviously was. At seventeen, Dulcie ought to have learnt to hold herself straight, with her shoulders back – and she should surely have developed a bosom by now. ‘There’s really nothing at all wrong with your looks, child,’ was her regular admonition. ‘You’re extremely fortunate to have such an excellent complexion and very nice eyes – but why must you be so stubborn about having your hair waved? You won’t be able to wear it scraped and tied back like that when you’re out, you know.’
Dulcie knew she would never come up to her mother’s expectations and bore these strictures, if not with patience, at least in silence, which unfortunately gave her an air of aloofness and secrecy which irritated Edwina even more. Obediently, she stood up now and lifted the tiered, cut-glass cake-stand. ‘Perhaps Mrs Cadell would like another cake, too?’ she asked politely, offering the prettily decorated fancies on their lace doilies to their visitor.
Cynthia Cadell stretched out a be-ringed white hand and took one with a smile before returning to the subject they had been discussing: the art exhibition currently running at the Pontifex Gallery and the artists at the centre of it, presently being eulogised by those in pursuit of the latest fad. Mrs Martagon was diverted, and the moment passed without her noticing the absence of another cake on Dulcie’s plate.
‘Darling, such
outré
sorts of persons, these young artists, or at least one assumes so through their paintings… I have never met any of them…but madly intriguing, don’t you think? One can hardly afford to ignore them, though one has to admit that the subjects they paint are not those normally considered – well, artistic, shall we say? Common people and places, and – and that sort of thing,’ said Mrs Cadell delicately, one eye on Dulcie.
‘Nudes, don’t you mean? And not very attractive ones at that, I suppose,’ returned Edwina forthrightly, helping herself to another chocolate éclair, lifting a delicious creamy morsel to her mouth on her silver fork. She hadn’t been married to an art dealer for thirty years without learning that since nudes were Art it was permissible to speak about them without embarrassment.