"Miss Evelyn, dear, I've been thinking--wouldn't it be a duty-like, to
be having a bit of sun? Seems like we could wrestle along a bit better
if we faced the right way!"
Poor dear! Above all the drawbacks, it was the darkness of the
interiors of those small flats which most perplexed the good
countrywoman: the passages lighted only through the ground glass panels
of bedroom doors; the windows shadowed by walls of other buildings,
which towered up at but a few yards' distance; the kitchens staring
blankly into a "well," ornamented with the suggestive spirals of a
fire-escape.
"If we could maybe face somewhere where there was a bit of green!"
pleaded the eloquent Irish voice. "Sure the leddies and gentlemen you
are meaning to help--you'll be more likely to find them in the place
you'd choose yourself, if you were settling in earnest?" Bridget rolled
an eye at blocks E, F, and G of a colossal pile of buildings which
stretched their inky length over the two blocks of a narrow
thoroughfare. "Cast your eye over them window curtains!" said she
scathingly. "Ye can tell what's inside without troubling to look. A
dirty, idle set that will sponge on you, and laugh behind your back!"
I looked, and shuddered, and was thankfully convinced. In my efforts
not to aim too high, my standard had fallen impossibly low, and
Bridget's keen common sense had been right in prophesying that I was
more likely to find a congenial type of people in a neighbourhood which
appealed to my own taste.
No sooner said than done! I escorted Bridget to a restaurant, and fed
her and myself with lots of good hot food, and then straightway hired a
taxi, and drove back to the agents to demand addresses of flats a little
further afield, which should have at least a modicum of light and air.
It appeared that I had demanded the thing above all others for which
tens of thousands of other women were already clamouring!
"Everybody wants a cheap flat in an open and airy situation. For one
that is to let we have a hundred applicants. Of course, if you are
prepared to pay a long price--"
"But I am not."
"Quite so. Otherwise I have some fine sites in Campden Hill. Lift.
Central heating. Every convenience."
"Seventy pounds is the utmost--"
"Quite so. Then we must rule out Campden Hill, or Hampstead, or
Kensington." The agent switched over the leaves of his book, ran his
finger down a list, and hesitated, frowning. "There is _one_ vacancy
which might suit--a small block of flats on the borders of Hammersmith.
The postal address is Kensington. I don't know if you are particular as
to address?"
"Not a bit."
"Ah!" The agent evidently thought small beer of me for the admission.
"Most ladies are. In this case we can ask an extra five pounds a year
because of the Kensington address, and the class of tenants is much
better than in the adjoining blocks a few hundred yards off, where the
postal address is Hammersmith."
Bridget coughed in an impressive fashion which was intended to say,
"Better class! Hark to that now! That's the place for us!" As for me,
I was torn between amusement at the rank snobbery of it all, and a
tender pity for the pathos that lay behind! Poor strugglers, clinging
on to the fringe of society, squeezing out the extra pounds so badly
needed for necessities, for--what? The satisfaction of seeing a certain
word written on an envelope, or of impressing a shop assistant with its
sound. In some cases no doubt there were deeper reasons than
snobbishness, and it was thought of them which supplied the pathos.
Some careworn men and women had weighed that extra rent in the balance,
and had considered that it was "worth while," since a good address might
prove an asset in the difficult fight for existence, or perchance some
loved one far away had vicariously suffered in past privations, and
might be deluded into believing in a false prosperity by the
high-sounding address. My ready imagination pictured the image of an
invalid mother contentedly informing her neighbours: "My daughter has
moved to Kensington. Yes! Such a charming neighbourhood. The gardens,
you know. _And_ the royal palace!" Five pounds a year might be
worthily expended on such a gain as this!
Well, there seemed nothing for it but to prospect Weltham Mansions at
once, so we chartered yet another taxi, and hurried off without delay to
have daylight for our inspection. We drove for miles, through streets
at first wide and handsome, then growing ever dingier and more
"decayed". Is there anything in the world more depressing than a
third-rate English suburb? I can imagine being poor contentedly in
almost every other land--in India, for instance, I know of impecunious
couples who have lived in two tents beneath two mango trees with comfort
and enjoyment, but it takes a super Mark Tapley to enjoy poverty in
London!
We had left the gardens a long way behind before at long last we reached
a block of dull red buildings, the various doorways of which were
decorated with different letters and numbers. A 1 to 40--C 41 to 80--D
81 to 120--etcetera, etcetera. The windows were flat, giving a
prison-like effect to the exterior, and I was just saying devoutly to
myself, "Thank goodness, _that's_ not--" when the taxi stopped, and my
eyes caught the fateful letters carved on a dull grey stone!
It _was_ Weltham Mansions, and there were two flats to be let. The
porter produced the keys and led us up, up, endless flights of stairs to
a crow's nest near the roof, and then down, down again to what was
described as the "sub-basement," which, being interpreted, meant that
the level of the rooms was a few feet beneath that of the road. Now I
had always set my affections on a basement flat, chiefly--let me
confess--because the sound of it appealed to my ears as so suitable and
appropriate to my new role. Also, to be able to walk in and out,
without mounting the stairs, minimised the risk of discovery, which was
no light point under the circumstances, but it was a distinct surprise
to find that the flat itself appealed to me more than any which I had
yet seen. Why? Not because of the rooms themselves, for they were
ordinary and prosaic enough, but because the bank which sloped from the
floor of the area to the street railings was of _grass_,
closely-growing, well-conditioned grass, broken here and there by tiny,
sprouting leaves of--yes! extraordinary as it seems, there could be no
doubt about it, for both Bridget and I recognised them in one lightning
glance--_primroses_! Some former tenant who loved the country had
planted those roots in a hopeful mood, and they had taken hold, and
grown, and multiplied. When spring came the owner of that basement flat
would have a primrose bank between herself and the world outside those
high railings. She had also a strip of cement area in which she could
place tubs filled with soil which would provide blossom for later days.
The exposure was south, and the railings were high, so that the tiny
garden would be assured of sun and security. The soot would fall, and
the dust lie thick, but there would be colour and life, and on the air
faint wafts of perfume.
We went back to the porter's room to hear the particulars of the lease,
and on my way I stopped to read the list of names printed on little
slides on a mahogany board. There were forty in all, and they were as
illuminating as such names usually are, when suddenly, three parts down
the list, I came upon one which made my heart leap into my mouth. I
stood reading the few words over and over, actually _spelling_ the
letters in my incredulous surprise, but there it was; there was no doubt
about it--the words plainly printed for every one to see--
"Number 32. Mr Wenham Thorold."
Well, talk about fate! There are some circumstances under which one
realises at once that it is useless to struggle. This was one! I
turned to the porter with an air of resignation.
"I will take the flat. Please prepare the necessary papers, and send
them to me to sign." Then I gave him my new name. After due
deliberation I had determined to be "Miss Mary Harding," as Wastneys is
unusual, and might draw undesirable attention. Miss Mary Harding, of a
basement flat!