The Falling Thread, page 11
There was a lull in the conversation. Tabitha took it upon herself to restart it.
‘Please, do tell us more about your recent trip.’
‘What raised eyebrows in New York was positively libellous out on the Great Plains,’ said Bessie.
‘Was that very distressing?’ Tabitha asked.
‘Not at all,’ said Bessie. ‘We were delighted.’
‘You’ll have heard about our own recent drama at the gallery,’ Charles said.
‘Charles is a member of the board there too,’ Tabitha explained.
‘The attendant heard the smashing glass. Watts, Burne-Jones, Rossetti, a big Millais. I was at the assizes with Peacock, the chief constable. This Forrester woman gave some rambling cant, claiming she was a patriot. Well, I’ve the bills for the repair work upstairs, tell me what is patriotic about that.’
‘Good for them,’ said Bessie, drawing a brief look of incomprehension from Charles.
‘And what are your first impressions of the city, Miss Montana?’ asked Tabitha.
‘I had pictured a miasma of smoke and fog. But it seems Eloise’s stories have been untrue – fine rain and green trees are all I have encountered.’
‘Plenty of smoke a few miles in. I’m sure Claude would be happy to show you. We have one of the oldest calico printing operations in the country.’
‘I should like that.’
‘Well, see to it Miss Montana gets to view all the places of interest,’ said Charles, ‘Perhaps McDonald can accompany you.’
‘Very well,’ said Claude obediently as he gently helped his mother through the door and towards the stairs, his hand not quite touching her back.
‘Striking woman,’ Bessie said to Eloise. ‘That hair must take a God-awful amount of brushing. I’m glad I’m not her lady’s maid.’
*
The general office sat between the boiler house and the coal yard. A drab-looking cube of chestnut brick. Stems of buddleia, lilac at their tips, grew from cracks in the masonry. The building seemed squat among the high banks of lighted windows in the Wright & Co. complex. Eloise remembered visiting in childhood, her mother’s injunction she must not interrupt her father as he walked ahead, the cool, clean smell of the finished cloth. Eloise paused to adjust the belt on her suit, honeycomb hexagons on the wide turquoise collar. The motor taxi had driven her into the centre of the mill, the gatekeeper opening the swing barrier to the lane usually reserved for wagons carrying finished cloth. It was raining as she dashed across the cobbles, the motor taxi waiting as instructed, the driver looking out over his spare wheel, as Eloise made her way inside having promised she would be back soon.
Claude stood from behind his desk. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled to above his elbows, a narrow necktie in a four-hand knot. There was a softness to him, an openness to his face, which had grown handsome albeit in a boyish way. The tin-ceilinged office was separated by a thin wall from the samples room beyond. The desk beside Claude’s belonged to McDonald. There was a set of technical drawings spread across it. McDonald was going through registration cards from the machine shop.
‘I thought I’d take you to lunch,’ said Eloise.
‘You should have called ahead,’ Claude said, gesturing to the compact wooden box fixed to the wall behind McDonald’s desk.
‘Yes, but then I should have had to speak with Mr McDonald.’
‘I mustn’t be too long, they struggle without me,’ said Claude, then louder, ‘don’t you?’
McDonald shook his head and began writing something very precisely in a ledger.
‘Back by one please, Mr Wright,’ he said without looking up.
‘Nonsense, darling, we shall be as long as we like,’ Eloise whispered, and once they were beyond the door added, ‘No privileges for you, I see.’
‘None whatsoever,’ Claude said, retrieving his jacket from the coat rack. ‘Treated the same as anyone, point of honour.’
‘Well, it won’t last forever.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind one bit.’
Eloise drew the corner off a roll of cloth, holding it across her face like a figure from Arabian Nights.
‘Don’t think McDonald would be too pleased to see his samples in disarray.’
She pushed the reel over; it sent several more clattering down. Behind the glass of the door they saw McDonald rise from his desk.
‘Better scarper,’ Eloise said, taking Claude by the wrist, running down the stairs and across the cobbles to the waiting taxi whose driver seemed relieved his exotic-looking fare had finally returned.
Twenty minutes later they were standing by a rack of ties on the third floor of Pauldens.
‘Tell me, Claude, have you a sweetheart?’
Eloise held a lavender silk bow to Claude’s throat, then another, midnight blue with tiny white polka dots, in its place.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Claude said, keeping his head still as he acted as mannequin.
‘Strapping lad like you, there must be someone, at the Tennis Club perhaps?’
‘Oh no, I’m far too busy for any of that,’ he said with a sort of smirk.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘So what have you been doing?’ Claude asked.
‘Oh, this and that.’
‘I always enjoyed the cards you sent. I have them all.’
‘What a good nephew you are. Tell me – do you enjoy your work?’
‘Yes, though I’m still learning. McDonald knows so much about the business, right back to my grandfather’s day. He’s some marvellous stories about his time in the Transvaal. He and some pals took a Long Tom at Ladysmith. Crept inside in the dead of night, wrecked its muzzle with a charge of gun cotton. Made off with the breech block as a trophy. Told me he thought I was officer material.’
After buying Claude two shirts and a silk bow tie, they made their way, on Claude’s recommendation, to the Albion Hotel on the corner of Oldham Street and Piccadilly; a row of new canvas awnings looked out onto the interchange of tramlines. A waiter, whom Claude seemed to know, led them through the Coffee Room into the vaulted ceiling of the restaurant, forty uniform tables with white cloths.
‘I shall have a glass of the Rüdesheimer.’
‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ said Claude.
‘My nephew here shall have the same.’
‘Do you think Miss Montana will be staying long?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Eloise, ‘I imagine she just wanted to take the measure of your father.’
‘My father?’
‘She takes an interest in the home lives of all the artists she supports.’
‘I see,’ said Claude tactfully.
‘How’s your mother?’ Eloise asked. ‘I’ve barely seen her.’
‘Oh, you know Mother. She has her ways, at the moment it’s Christian Science. Heal the sick, raise the dead, cast out demons,’ Claude said with a good-hearted yet not quite believing laugh. ‘Last year it was the Fur, Fin and Feather Folk or whatever they’re calling themselves these days. Over Easter she had Dolly throw out all manner of hats, boas, dresses. A good day to be an egret.’
Eloise laughed.
‘Though she entered one of her slumps afterwards.’
‘I see.’
‘She’s very kind to me, you know, she just gets so tired.’
‘Is there nothing that can be done?’
‘Aunt Tabitha suggested a nature cure in Meadstead.’
‘A nature cure?’
‘Vapour baths, air huts, a rigorously enforced diet. Father dismissed the idea. Now Aunt Tabitha has to hide her copies of the New Age whenever it arrives. Seditionist bunkum he calls it.’
The food was wheeled to the table. A waiter in a white shift carved, with a long pearl-handled knife, pale slices of pork shoulder.
‘You know you looked like your father just then.’
‘Don’t tell him, he’ll be delighted,’ said Claude, tucking into his food.
‘How did you know that boy on the way in?’
He seemed to colour a little.
‘Oh, Father brought me here for a Rotarians lunch earlier in the year, he was awfully keen to make a good impression. This will amuse you, as we were leaving we inadvertently walked in on an auction.’
Eloise was on the verge of asking another question about the boy but stopped herself.
‘Something exciting, I hope?’ she said ‘Diamonds? Motor cars?’
‘The pier at Rhyl, believe it or not,’ Claude laughed, ‘along with some buildings and a parcel of land on the foreshore.’
‘Did you bid?’
‘I encouraged Father to. Came with its own Bijou Theatre and Refreshment Room.’
‘Can’t imagine he was tempted.’
‘Not sure how it would sit with the Rotarians. Out of good manners he made us wait until the auction had finished before we left.’
‘Did it make its reserve?’
‘Not a single bidder. Now, Aunt Eloise, here’s a question for you, what was the name of that Frenchman you brought to the house in Windermere, when I was a boy?’ Claude asked, sawing into his pork.
‘Belgian, Monsieur Verstraeten, Georges Verstraeten.’
‘That’s it, yes,’ Claude said, brightening as he recalled the visit. ‘I was thinking of him only the other day.’ He stabbed a piece of pork, which he then dabbed in his apple sauce. ‘Do you ever hear of him?’ He took a sip from his wine. When no answer came he looked up from his lunch.
‘A friend wrote to me last year telling me Mr Verstraeten had been killed in an automobile accident.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Yes, so was I.’ Eloise’s voice seemed to dry up. There were tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with the tip of her finger. ‘Look at me. Here, pass me that napkin.’
Claude handed the napkin to her. She attempted to eat some of her own lunch, then pushed the plate to one side and took a sip from her wine.
‘How old are you, Claude?’
‘I’m twenty-three.’
‘Did the varsity never appeal?’
‘I attended for a term. I found it all rather, well, dull. Father suggested I come and work for him. I think it was supposed to shock me back there. Truth is, I don’t much mind the work. That was almost four years ago.’
‘And will you stay?’
‘Father thinks I should consider the Army.’
‘Oh, Claude, the Army?’
‘Believes a commission might help me get along.’
He had eaten almost everything on his plate save half a new potato which he now used to swab up the remaining apple sauce.
‘Father seems to have his mind set on it, if not the regulars then the Yeomanry.’
He seemed to accept his father’s view without reflection.
‘Now, as I am your aunt you must tell the truth. If none of this existed, no rolls of cloth, no Rotarians, what would you most like to spend your time doing?’
‘Aside from running the Bijou Theatre on the pier at Rhyl?’
‘Aside from that.’
‘Well,’ Claude said, setting down his knife and fork and reclining, his hands with their clean nails, folded neatly across his stomach, ‘I should like to breed ponies.’
‘Ponies?’
‘Shetlands, Father’s friend has some. They’re the most fascinating creatures, much nastier than people imagine.’
‘Claude, I can’t tell if you’re joking.’
‘Oh no, I’m quite serious.’
*
What sounded at first like a fracas or a quarrel revealed itself on approaching to be raucous laughter. Gathered at the far end of the kitchen were Cook, Dolly and Dolly’s daughter Esme, a nervous girl with red hair, very pale skin. As Charles drew near, the group fell into a hush. Miss Montana turned to see what had caused the change in her previously attentive audience.
‘I was just telling these girls about the buffalo.’ She formed two primitive horns with her thumbs and forefingers. Dolly and her daughter suppressed more giggling. ‘My father had one mounted on my nursery wall – imagine that, girls, a buffalo looking down on you in the cradle.’
Charles looked coldly at the servants.
‘I expect Mr Wright has all manner of work for you to be getting along with.’
The group dissolved. Before Charles could demur, Bessie linked his arm and led him to the drawing room. She gestured to an armchair between the unlit fire and a mahogany drinks cabinet, as if she were hosting him.
‘Do you know Esme wishes to be a seamstress?’
She pulled the plug from a glass decanter, then poured a measure of Scotch into a crystal tumbler.
‘I did not.’
‘And that your cook is sixty-four next April?’
‘Again, you have the advantage.’
‘I can’t abide servants,’ Bessie Montana said, settling herself in the chair opposite Charles. ‘They clutter places up, or else take offence at the smallest things. But those are fine girls.’
Charles smiled perfunctorily.
‘So I understand you have spent the past year with my sister?’
‘I predict one hell of a future for her.’
He plucked a piece of dust from his lapel, smoothed it with his fingertips.
‘And may I ask what your plans are?’
‘We’ve a berth booked on the steamboat from Bordeaux to Galveston, Texas, December first, and from there it’s the railroad to Arizona. I’ve a ranch house looked after by Pueblo Indians. But we shall see out the summer here in England.’
‘You intend to travel to Arizona with Eloise?’
‘I hope your sister will produce her first mature work there. We’ve grasslands, meadows, the Santa Rita Mountains in the distance. A whole herd of javelina – skunk pigs we call them. The Benson–Nogales Railroad ships five thousand head of cattle daily to the East. My father bought the place the year before he died. Adobe houses dotted all across it. I’ve promised your sister the run of one. We’ve no servants, unless you count the Indians who fairly well do as they please. We do our own washing, floor-scrubbing; the place breeds practical people.’
‘Miss Montana, in Paris I am able to make regular visits to my sister. I have acquaintances in the city that she can turn to should she need assistance. I am sure you understand having an unmarried sister living alone is Paris is one thing, but to have her travelling to corners of the New World with –’
‘This old hag?’ Bessie gave an immense, bellowing laugh.
‘I think it’s liable to attract the very worst kind of attention.’
Hettie came into the room and looked at the pair uncomprehendingly, as if she had discovered two tramps at rest.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked.
‘Not at all,’ said Bessie, raising her glass.
‘Miss Montana intends to take my sister to Arizona.’
‘Is it not rather dangerous?’ asked Hettie.
‘Only if you are a rebel constitutionalist. Besides, Eloise enjoys a little danger.’
Bessie rose and helped herself to more whisky.
‘Mr Wright, there is something you must understand: Lillie Bliss has never beaten me to anything and I’ve been buying work from under the nose of Louisine Havemeyer for aeons. Not long ago I travelled to the Villa Curonia to visit Mabel Dodge.’ She turned to Hettie and lowered her voice. ‘She’s had a difficult spell, fell for her chauffeur, tried to take her own life. Twice. Second time with laudanum, the first eating figs with shards of glass. But, you see, unlike those girls I never married a single cent that I own. It makes all the difference.’ She turned to Charles and raised her glass. ‘Disregard my sex – I assure you it is the only way you will tolerate me in your home.’
‘I shall try my level best,’ said Charles with more tartness than intended.
*
A weak sun was inching around the pines behind the grass courts. The net sagged, wire showing through the worn cloth. There were parched ovals by the service lines; the courts beside them were empty. Tabitha removed the frame from the head of her racket. Her sister fired a ball over the net; it struck her skirt with a thud.
‘My serve,’ said Eloise as she strutted along the service line.
‘A few rallies first perhaps.’
‘Is Charles really going to run for Parliament?’
‘Hopes to, there’s a seat in Cheshire.’
‘I always thought he was a Liberal.’
‘So did he, but he had a terrible falling-out with a man called Arthur Haworth, now Sir Arthur. I don’t know if you saw in the papers?’
Eloise shook her head.
‘All got rather nasty when he blocked Charles’s appointment to the board of the Exchange. Charles claimed it was a fix-up – something to do with Dilworths, where Sir Arthur is a partner, wanting to move into one of our markets.’
‘Gosh,’ said Eloise.
‘Also, and I’ve no idea why, but our brother seems to have become absolutely fixated on tariff reform.’
Tabitha reached for a return from Eloise which went bobbling off the end of her racket. She walked over to the court’s edge where the ball had come to rest among a patch of dandelions.
‘I must admit he has a gift for public speaking. Campaigned for Glazebrook in the by-election after Sir Arthur was appointed Lord Commissioner to the Treasury.’
Tabitha served, receiving a gentle return which just managed to make it over the net, then bounced softly on the grass. She picked the ball up and stepped back to the service line.
‘The irony is the only reason Sir Arthur won in 1910 was because Glazebrook turned up late to the Town Hall, after the nominations had closed, his agent’s fault apparently. Well, no such bad luck in the by-election. Not with Charles campaigning for him. Ever since, Glazebrook and Charles have been thick as thieves. He won by only a few hundred votes and a good deal of those I put down to Charles.’
‘What’s this Glazebrook chap like then?’
‘Rather odd.’ Tabitha whacked the ball back to emphasise her point. ‘Family sell oil, Farrier and Glazebrook’s. Charles is often there at weekends. He is likely to stand should there be another by-election any time soon and if not there’s a feeling he’ll be put forward as a candidate whenever the next election is called, which I suppose must be sometime in 1916.’
