A stranger to herself, p.13
A Stranger to Herself, page 13
‘Well, it won’t be me,’ Violet said promptly. ‘I don’t care if she’s having triplets. See here, Allie, I may need a month or two. You sling your hook, say you couldn’t find me. You’ve spent the day at the Salvation Army, the hospitals, no one could help – just give me a little bit of time, to see what I can manage, that’s all I’m asking.’ If things didn’t work out, Violet reflected, she’d have to go home, expecting a baby, and she and her mother would have to settle down together with squalling babies, two out-of-hand hooligan brothers, an angry husband and father, while Allie, now, would be the one who escaped to a good job in an office and a bit of dignity.
‘If I do this for you, what about the typewriting?’ Allie said implacably.
‘I promise I’ll see what I can manage.’
‘Well, I’m not stopping, anyway,’ said Allie. ‘I’ll go into service, I’ll do anything to get away. You can’t imagine what Pa’s like with this latest little bit of news. You’d think Ma’d done it on her own, just to spite him. He hit Ma the other day. He’s always walloping the boys. I’ll be next, I know it. The worst thing is, another man got promoted to be a sergeant when he thinks it should have been him. Ma’s very tired – she can hardly do anything. I’d help, honest I would, Vi, but if I do, what’s to become of me?’ She looked around the pleasant sitting-room, cut herself another slice of cake and said, ‘All right. I’ll help you out. I’ll say I never found you. But don’t forget Pa’ll get you traced through the police, if he can. He’ll keep after you and God help me if they find you and it comes out I knew all along.’
‘I’ve never seen you,’ said Violet. ‘You push off. You know the address now – don’t write it down. If you want to get in touch with me, write me a letter or a telegram. I’m known as Mrs Frazier – remember that. I’ll reply, I swear it, but you can see for yourself I could be more use to you in the end sitting here than sweeping the steps at home.’
Allie took the shilling Violet offered her and left. Violet, in a panic, went into the kitchen, where the cook was knitting by the kitchen range, and the two maids sitting at the table, having a cup of tea with a fruit cake on a plate between them.
‘I’ll see the accounts, now,’ she announced, ‘and also that fruit cake I asked for just now.’
‘Mr Sturgess said he was to see the accounts monthly,’ said the cook.
‘That’s not to say I can’t see them whenever I want,’ said Violet. ‘I’m not sure things are going right here.’
The cook stood up. ‘Mrs Frazier, the bills haven’t been put in order yet.’
‘I’ll take them before you’ve had a chance to fudge them,’ Violet told her. ‘So find them.’
‘I’ll bring them to you,’ said the cook.
‘I’ll wait,’ said Violet, sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘And don’t bother to carry that cake off,’ she said to the maid who had stood up with the plate from the table, ‘because I can easily see you’ve been eating cook’s fruit cake, while I’ve been eating shop-bought seed cake.’
‘It’s not the practice in good houses to offer a cut cake to guests—’
‘It’s not the practice in good houses for the servants to scoff their employers’ grub in the kitchen, either,’ Violet told her. ‘And send up the bought seed cake to the drawing-room.’
‘If I had known two cakes would be required today …’ the cook countered, implying that the better sort of people did not ring all day long for cups of tea and pieces of cake.
‘Just produce those bills,’ Violet demanded.
The bills were taken from a kitchen drawer, and one from the cook’s basket. Scrutinising them, Violet could find little wrong. Obviously, the servants were eating well, the grocer and butcher were charging high prices. They might well have been embarking on the usual arrangement whereby they charged the cook more for goods supplied or not supplied at all, and split the difference with her, but this system, if it existed, was still in its infancy. Violet made a fuss about an error of sixpence on one butcher’s bill, said that of the two pounds of cheese which had come into the house she had seen none, mentioned the cake again, and dismissed the staff.
‘I’m stopping this rot before it starts,’ she declared.
The cook and two maids were stunned. ‘You’ve no right to do this,’ Dorothy said, nearly in tears.
‘I shall speak to the agency, and Mr Sturgess,’ said the cook.
‘Speak to who you like,’ said Violet.
‘I believe we’re being discharged on account of that visitor you had, while Mr Frazier is absent,’ she said, ‘and I shall say so.’
‘I shall say,’ Violet told her, ‘that my visitor was an informant, shocked by your dishonesty, who took it on herself to let me know what was going on in my house.’ She stood up. ‘All out, first thing tomorrow morning, and references will be supplied, by Mr Sturgess, on my report, which means you won’t be wanting to give any trouble, doesn’t it?’
And she left the kitchen, went upstairs to her bedroom, and went to bed, where she cursed Allie for turning up, her mother and father for fools, and Tom Rawlinson for ignorantly leaving his seed in her. She did not think about her own part in all this, for when the chips were down Violet Crutchley had hot blood, steel teeth and claws and no tendency to self-criticism. She was fighting for survival now.
Next day she presented herself prettily in a blue cloak and hat, clutching a small blue reticule, at the office of Mr Sturgess at Levine-Schreft. The servants, she said, had seized the opportunity of Mr Levine’s absence to be rude and inattentive to her, and she had reason to believe some, if not all, were dishonest. Henry Sturgess, who had already had the woman who ran the domestic agency on the telephone, expressing faith in the servants for whom she found employment, and, implicitly, doubts about the lady of the house’s suitability as an employer, now sympathised with Violet and said he would send fresh staff to the house for her to interview. Violet might or might not be the innocent young woman she seemed to be, but Sturgess was not going to challenge her. She was at present a force to be reckoned with in his employer’s life.
His wife had cautioned him against Violet. ‘There’s something wrong behind her eyes,’ Mrs Henry Sturgess had said by the fireside as she sewed buttons on the baby’s new velvet coat. Then, picking up a roll of elastic and beginning to make a fresh set of garters for the baby’s stockings, ‘I don’t know what it is, but it’s not what you’d expect. And talking of expecting, Henry, I wouldn’t rule out the possibility—’
‘What?’ Sturgess had said, staring at his wife in alarm.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, cutting a thread with a small pair of gold scissors, which, with a gold thimble, had been a Christmas present from Frederick Levine. ‘All I’m saying is, where Miss Violet Crutchley’s concerned, Henry dear, I’d advise you to be very careful.’
So Sturgess, who had no feelings about Violet, but every. concern for his employer, accepted Violet’s story. Fresh staff arrived for interview that afternoon.
Violet took on two plain maids, sisters, refused two cooks, whose strength, she guessed, was cooking, and the next morning hired an elderly French chef whose weakness, she could tell, was drink. ‘I’ll put it like this,’ she said. ‘Any bad habits you have will be tolerated as long as the food’s on time, up to scratch and the maids aren’t interfered with. I also want ice kept in the shed, winter and summer. That way you can cool the wine and, if you’ve got any sense, keep something in a basin you can hot up at short notice, if you’re not feeling too well. It’s up to you. And I’ll need you to teach me French, one hour a day, in the mornings, when I give you your orders.’
‘Teach you French?’ he said, startled.
‘Yes. And German too, if you know it. During the afternoons I’ll get a proper lady in to teach me. In the mornings, on weekdays, you can stand here and talk to me.’
‘Very well, Madame,’ he said.
‘Come on a week’s trial, starting tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And this business about the French is between you and me.’
‘Trés bien, Madame,’ he said, beginning to see the point of Violet’s request, but privately not thinking her appearance and manners up to the task of becoming a truly successful adventuress, the mistress of a peer, or a famous politician. Violet was not really planning any such future, only dreaming, still, of her flower shop, Violette’s, where a knowledge of French and German might be useful for dealing with a better kind of customer.
Before the week was out she had also hired an elderly lady who had been a governess in the family of Russian aristocrats. She would come in for an hour on two afternoons a week to teach her French and German, so long as Frederick was not there, seeking her attention. Violet then joined a circulating library, so as to keep up her reading, and, still profiting from Frederick’s absence, found a local seamstress to make the clothes she wanted, and alter others to her requirements. She also moved the furniture and started an account with a local florist, so that the house was always full of hothouse blooms.
Yet in spite of all these occupations she was still gnawed by anxiety. Each evening her last thought before she slept was of keeping her pregnancy a secret until she could tell Frederick the child was his, of how she would tell him, and how he would respond. Another month would have to pass before she could dare to hint she might be expecting a child. By then she would be actually over three months pregnant. She pushed aside the thought that by November she would bear a child she would have to claim to be almost two months premature. She could only take one step at a time, and her sole ambition now was to get Frederick to believe the child was his. As bad luck would have it the nausea she had barely noticed for the past fortnight returned at full strength the day before Frederick was due to return. She was sick in the morning, and dizzy with illness in the afternoon, and she knew she would have to conceal all this discomfort for several weeks more.
It was almost a relief when Frederick did not return. Instead a telegram arrived, saying he would be delayed until the middle of the following week, and, next day, a small parcel, containing a gold bangle, inscribed inside, ‘for Violet from her loving F’. Violet, pricing it at no more than thirty pounds, hid it with the telegram in the tissue paper under a new hat in a hat-box and reflected that a man who didn’t send a more expensive gift, or put his name in full upon it, seemed to be acting with a suspicious caution. She began to fear, again, that he would find a new lover in Vienna. She had imagined at first that Frederick Levine was a man with a good position at a bank and, perhaps, a little financial help from a well-off family. She was amazed when a visit to the bank showed the name of Levine above the door. That certainly explained the speed with which everything had been arranged by Henry Sturgess, the sudden rallying of attention in shops when Mr Frederick Levine’s name was mentioned – Frederick did not work for the bank. He owned it. The family’s resources were beyond anything she could imagine. This told her that Frederick could get anything he wanted with money. And the question after that became, why then, would he want her, and for how long? It was not a reassuring thought for a penniless, pregnant seventeen-year-old.
Although nervous, she was also extremely bored and spent days without talking to anyone, except Felix, the chef, in French, which was a matter of remarking that it was a fine day today and she had seen a bird eating bread in the garden.
Nevertheless, on Wednesday, the day of Frederick’s return, she put on underclothes, drawers and chemise in heavy crepè-de-chine, an excellently cut frock in very pale, light wool, silk stockings and little cream patent leather shoes with buckles. She added a careful touch of rouge to revive her pale complexion. She got Felix to cook some veal and make a custard and sat by the fire in a flower-filled room reading and trying to compose herself. When the door opened she pushed the book under a chair and ran to greet Frederick.
He embraced her, saying, ‘Fourteen hours for the crossing from Amsterdam. What a storm,’ then let her put him in a chair. She poured him a brandy but he waved it away. ‘I drank all the way. It’s supposed to make you feel better, but I’m not so sure. That’s it – if there are any more trips like that I’ll hire an aeroplane, and get there in half a day, not two days in trains and boats.’ He gave her a pale smile. ‘Would you like to come with me?’
‘Oh, Frederick,’ she said, expressing timidity and excitement, like a child. ‘I’d be so frightened.’
‘Ring for some tea, there’s a good girl. Then come and sit on my knee.’
He did not notice that the maid had changed. Violet sat on his knee, asking, ‘Did you manage all you had to, clever Frederick?’
‘I think there’ll be a war.’
Violet was alarmed, thinking of her own concerns. ‘When?’ she said. ‘You won’t have to go for a soldier, Frederick?’
He smiled. ‘Not so soon. Plenty of time for us. Shall we go upstairs? I’ve missed you, my little flower.’
Violet, thinking of the servants, who would know what they were doing if they went up now, and of Felix’s joint of meat in the oven, did not demur, but said, ‘Oh yes, Frederick. Yes.’ The nightmare of the Austrian countess receded.
He was on her as soon as they reached the bedroom, gobbling her neck, pulling at the buttons down the back of her dress; she heard the stitching on her chemise rip. Her breasts were very sore and she felt extremely sick. A long hour of pretence passed for her. Finally, as he attempted to make love to her for the second time, she had to get up and go to the bathroom, where as silently as possible, she vomited, rinsed her mouth with cologne and came back into the bedroom, wishing only that he would get up and leave her alone, in bed, with the curtains drawn. While he had been gone she had missed him, enjoying the sensation of being like the heroine of the novels she enjoyed, but now he was back she resented him. He was hard work, like a baby who needed a lot of attention, but didn’t appreciate the effort. It was a pity. He was a handsome man and good-natured, but underneath he was just like her father, and she supposed all men were: Mr Asquith, King George, probably even terrible Fenian men, whom she imagined coming in with their faces all black with gunpowder and bloody shirts falling in chairs even after blowing people up, so poor women would still be rushing with cups of tea, and boiling up water so they could wash themselves, putting bloody shirts in buckets of cold water to soak. And when you added on the physical side – well, Violet thought, it made you wonder how married women stayed on their feet and weren’t all dead of exhaustion or lying in hospitals. Slipping back into bed, she murmured and moaned while Frederick made love to her again. Then he, to her relief, fell asleep. Some women, she’d heard, enjoyed all this, but she knew from her experience with Tom Rawlinson that she was not one of them.
She lay restlessly in the darkness, then got quietly out of bed and dressed. She went downstairs to tell Felix to prepare a cold supper and go. He was itching for his visit to the pub, where he went every evening, and she could tell he had already had a glass or two. As if he had anticipated the cancellation of supper, he produced chicken in jelly, a chocolate mousse, and began rapidly to slice cold beef and ham into thin slices. He even produced a lettuce, beat up a salad dressing, poured it into a small silver jug and told her to stir it and pour it over the lettuce just before they ate it. Violet was suspicious of this, but decided to trust him. The whole thing took five minutes as Violet watched him fascinatedly.
‘Pas mal?’ he remarked, catching her look. ‘Vous voulez aussi des legons de cuisine?’
‘Jolly good,’ came Frederick’s voice beside her. He was standing there in his dressing-gown.
‘This is Felix, the new cook,’ Violet said.
Felix bowed. ‘Mr Frazier.’
‘You can go now, Felix,’ Violet said with dignity.
‘Thank you, madam,’ Felix responded.
‘Well, the maids seem to have disappeared, so let’s carry it in ourselves,’ said Frederick, putting slices of beef and chicken on a plate. ‘I must say I’m ravenous. He’s a good thing that Mr Felix. I suppose he’s only standing in for the other one.’
‘He’s permanent,’ said Violet. ‘I’ve discharged cook and maids.’
‘Up to you,’ said Frederick. ‘Mind you, I don’t hold with changing the staff every five minutes myself.’
‘I think I’m suited now,’ said Violet with dignity.
Frederick laughed, took her in his arms and spun her round. ‘To the manner born, Violet. What a little wonder you are.’ He held her off and examined her. ‘What a lucky chap I am to have found you.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Violet teased, resolving that once he’d eaten she’d ask him for some money. Apart from anything else, a guinea and the promise of more to come might help Allie to keep her mouth shut. Her plan collapsed when, as soon as the meal was over, the doorbell rang and she let in Henry Sturgess, who greeted her cordially and went straight into the study with Frederick to write some letters.
‘Would you arrange some coffee and brandy for us, Violet, my dear?’ Frederick asked.
Violet went into the kitchen, didn’t know what to do, boiled a kettle, made coffee like tea, poured some out, decided it was too weak, made it again, decided it was too strong and took it into the study on a tray anyway, interrupting a conversation about shares in a button factory. She heard Frederick say, ‘I count on you to manage the affair slowly – nothing to startle the horses, Sturgess.’ And heard Henry Sturgess reply, ‘You may count on that, Mr Levine.’
Later she said to Frederick, ‘Why did Mr Sturgess come over so late just to talk about buttons?’
‘Oh – buttons? Oh, buttons – well, Violet, even buttons have their significance to bankers.’
Violet smiled, still wondering. Then she asked a question more on her mind than buttons. ‘Do your family know you’re back?’
‘I imagine so,’ he replied. ‘I telegraphed from Belgium and France to say I was on my way back.’
