Muriel

CHAPTER THREE

Phillip's Day-Book

I was reluctant to accompany them today upon this so-called visit, but they had remarked to Sylvia that we were going out, and hence I could not find excuse to her to change my mind. In any case, I wished to purchase writing paper in the town. The stationery shop there is a favourite haunt, as is the bookshop where the stock is good, though the owner is not what I would term a scholar's man. He entertains some customers sometimes in a room behind the premises. I know not why, unless they too are in the trade. They do not seem to buy books from the shop, though often carry parcels out on re-appearing from behind his private door. It is not my business. One does not enquire.

“Whence are we going?', I asked Muriel. She replied that I would 'see', and had the carriage stop behind the smaller of the two hotels, for 'that was what we used to do', she said, and made great mystery of that which I felt was intended to arouse a curiosity in me I did not really feel. Then down the High Street was I led and into a small street beside that rejoices in the name of Cobbler's Way.

At a small house halfway we stopped. The door was grimy and the paint was peeled. I had no desire to go within, but Jane was behind me, Muriel in front. The bell was pulled.

“What is the purpose of this?', I enquired. Neither replied, and then a woman in an apron let us in. The hall was carpeted but frosty. Cheap prints hung upon the walls. A staircase loomed ahead of us.

'There's three of you?', the woman asked, presumably to show that she could count.

'You remember us?', asked Muriel. The woman frowned and cocked her head, then Muriel took her bonnet off and shook her hair down and bent and murmured something in her ear.

'Oh, Miss, it's you again! Five years it's bin at least, and this is your sister, too. Leastways, and with your pardon, Miss, I always thought you was', she said to Jane.

'And the gentleman who always came with us? Do you remember him?', asked Muriel. The door was closed. We edged within. I felt my neck flush and was uncomfortable.

'Oh, I dunno, Miss. Men, they comes and goes. Now, let me think. He had a black beard-did he? — yes, I'm sure he did. Real toff 'e was, just as your gentleman is now', the woman said to my distinct disdain as she looked at me.

'Do you remember flowers?', asked Jane whose hand uncomfortably pressed at my back.

'Flowers? Oh gawd, yes, I remembers now! A posy 'e always give me. What a gentleman 'e was! No one ever give me posies, Miss, before or since. I got it now-you always came on Thursdays, didn't you? Bottles of wine you brought, and give me money to buy glasses. Basket on your arm you 'ad. A real nice wicker one, it was. You left it 'ere the last time. I still got it, if you want. Used it a bit, Miss-hoped you wouldn't mind'.

All this I heard, my mind somewhat a-reel. Thursdays-a basket-I remembered that. It was six years now since Uncle Reggie passed away. He was the youngest of our mother's brothers. Died of cholera, poor chap. We could never understand where he got that.

'I remember something, too', said Jane. We had moved while speaking into a small front room of incredibly small proportions, and so much cluttered we could scarcely move.

“What's that, Miss, eh?” The woman looked anxious for a moment, but my sister smiled.

The wallpaper just behind the bed upstairs had wine thrown on it once. Oh, not by us, as you well know, but I remember that it left a stain. Is it still there?'

'Yes, Miss, it is. I meant to cover it, I never did. Won't put you out, will it?' A wrinkling of her brow again.

'It never did. Now, let me see', said Jane with deliberate slowness and glanced at me, then added to the woman, 'Four shillings you charged him for two hours. I think that's right?'

Two hours, Miss, always. Prompt you were. Well, nearly always. Once or twice it turned out to be almost three. Your gentleman always paid me for that, though. Give me an extra bob or two sometimes as well. You don't meet many like that, Miss. I've know 'em argue for an extra 'alf an hour sometimes. Got bleedin' cheek they 'ave-begging your pardon, sir', she said to me, then added to my horror, 'Two hours now you'll want, for old times sake, Miss?'

'Not today, but may we peep? Just to revive old memories. Here's half-a-crown for your trouble. We'll be no more than ten minutes, then won't bother you'.

'No bother, Miss. It's nice to see old customers return. Begging your pardon, I mean guests'.

'Of course you do', said Muriel and laughed. 'Come, dear', she then said to me in a rather biting tone and we turned about like mussels in the self-same shell.

I had no wish to ascend the narrow stairs, but Thank you, Miss, for the money', the woman said and closed her door.

'I have no wish to go up', I then hissed. Jane got again behind me, prodded me. I was distinctly worried they would make a row and let the woman hear.

'You will, though', Muriel said and bustled up, her bottom large before my face. On the small landing she stopped and pointed to a door. There is a basin in there where we used to wash and tidy up ourselves, Phillip. This is the bedroom here. The other one we never entered into.

It's the woman's. Come! Remember what I said about the stain?

She preceded me. I had no choice. Jane had the impudence to punch my back. The door opened and I saw a large, iron bed with brass rails at both ends, brass knobs on top, a mirrored stand and two old chairs were facing it against the further wall. The stain was there upon old, faded paper of quite hideous flowers that twined among a painted trellis of a sort. The floor was black and there were threadbare rugs.

'The brass knob on the end, it used to rattle. Listen', Muriel said and shook the rail a little bit. The knob tinkled till she took her hand away.

'I do not wish to know', I said. I had too many bitter thoughts. I pushed past Jane and ascended as quietly as I could. My sisters stayed for a moment I could hear them whispering. Jane giggled-so did Muriel. Then to my utter alarm the woman appeared, wiping her hands upon her apron still.

'Nice gals they are. You don't wish to stay?', she asked. I felt disdainful of her horrid leer and shook my head.

They are not girls, but ladies', I replied at last, but forced the words.

'Didn't mean no imprudeness, sir', she said, when she obviously meant 'impertinence'.

My sisters then came rustling down. They'd heard what I had said and laughed.

'He is jealous, Mrs. White', said Muriel, and thereat, in a rage, I strode to the door and went beyond.

'“Ow nice, 'ow lovely! Still, you'll come back, won't you? You've already paid your first hour', the woman called, but I already striding up the street and was full ashamed that such words should be spoke. Indeed in my anger I hailed a cab and then remembered that our carriage waited, so I turned towards the old hotel, the cabby calling something after me such as I could not lower myself to answer.

I reached it a full minute before my sisters did, was minded not to wait, but then regretfully decided that I must. They entered at last without a word and sat quite silent as I hoped they would.

'Oh, you remember, Phillip, well enough', said Jane as the carriage turned into the High Street once again.

'You will both leave my house tonight', I said and stared away from them and pursed my lips.

'We never travel by night, my dear', said Muriel and yawned infuriatingly, for I knew it was not real. They knew I had no power to throw them out, for Sylvia would know, or worse-if she did not-they would say that it was my fault and might say-as often had my once-beloved- that I was moody, dull, and quarrelsome. Moreover, in the cunning way of women they had guessed that I remembered certain things. Thursdays had always been their 'visiting day', they'd said, and Uncle Reggie was their so-called chaperone. They took-in the very basket I recalled-both cakes and wine 'for the poor cottagers', and frequently did not return till dusk. Several times Mama had wished to accompany them, but always they said that it would bore her. Yes-the memories came back and were as bitter aloes in my mouth.

The silence in the carriage was alarming, but I would not break it. For a half an hour we rode, and Muriel sometimes hummed just to infuriate me more. 'You are horrible-are wanton', I wished to shout, but somehow kept my tongue. I sensed the sarcastic answers that I would receive, and that they would not further my cause. I went up to my room and stayed. I heard them laughing downstairs with Sylvia. I fear from hour to hour what they might say to lay a blight upon her innocence.

Amy Mansfield's Day-Book

I saw Richard kissing Mama today. She had her skirt up and his hand was on her leg. I shall not speak to them for weeks. I don't like Liverpool so much as I first did. I want to go back home. Mama said no. I would write to Papa and tell him, but I know that I cannot. Mama asked me why I was so quiet. I wouldn't tell her, but she kept on and on until I did not know what to say. It was because of Liverpool, I said. 'No, no, there's something else', she said, and then I blurted out that I saw Richard scratch her leg. I did not know what else to say. 'Oh, I had a gnat bite there, and he came in. He was being silly, Amy, scratching it for me. I pushed him off. Some boys are silly sometimes, don't you know', she said. I told her I was sorry then, but I didn't see her push him off. I didn't say that last bit, though. I'm glad I didn't write to Papa after all. Mama says she writes all our news, but I never see her take a letter to the post.

Deirdre's Day-Book

I trust that Amy is not becoming sly. I must confess I felt myself infused with guilt at what she told me yesterday, but then curiously enough my emotions altered. In order to have seen she must have peeped through the crack between the door frame and the door instead-as one might have supposed-of simply walking in the drawing room. I have told Richard he will have no more cuddles (a euphemism for naughtiness that both of us employ). He looked most glum. Amy had witnessed that which she should not have done, I said. It mollified my statement, as I thought, but did not stop him brooding all the day, and I felt glum myself in different ways.

A diversion occurred, though, yesterday, I having become acquainted with a gentleman of good address who helped me when I slipped upon the cobblestones. Indeed, he saved me from a fall, and then accompanied me to a coffee house, inviting me to drink to calm my shock.

I find him most simpatico indeed. He shares my own age and is robust in his frame. He had lately read Mr. Carroll's charming work and vaunted his idea of speaking freely for 'cabbages and kings', said the gentleman, meant that all topics should be free. I acquiesced in that, to his delight, while expressing apologies as to any forwardness that I might show in choosing terms that ladies do not use.

That is precisely what I seek, my dear', he uttered and looked quite enchanted, praised my face and figure, and my dress. 'I confess to you, Madame', he continued in all seriousness, 'that my dear wife and I are what we call Libertarians and have gathered a few like-minded gentlefolk around us to the ends of-may I say it? — pleasure such as prim Society abhors, or I would rather say, pretends to, since so many lack but opportunity. May I invite you to meet my lady? You may discuss such even more freely with her than you can with me'.

'Oh, I am not a loose woman! Neither, of course, can she be. We shall only talk', said I, though my heart was quite a-flutter at the thought of finding those of my own turns of mind.

'Let us away then', he uttered to my astonishment, whereupon, despite some gentle protests on my part, I found myself whisked off in a cab to his residence which was not for away. And there I was greeted by the most delightful lady by the name of Eveline.

'Another convert, my dear', her husband said when introducing us.

'Oh, as to that, I do not know', I laughed, but such immediacy of friendliness there was that I was soon un-coated, gloves and bonnet off and invited to take sherry with the two.

Eveline has an hourglass figure despite having two daughters and a son. Her hair is invariably combed up high which leaves her swanlike neck in all its glory to be seen. Her breasts are weighty and her bottom full. Maurice, the husband, had as she said engaged her attention first in Rome the year before. Both their partners being deceased, they took to one another amourously and were soon wed. Maurice has a son and daughter of his own.

'I gained heaven when I married her', he said, and perched upon the side support of her armchair-he bent her head back and kissed her fully on the mouth. Had Phillip ever done that to me in front of others, oh how pleased I would have been! I have a penchant to be watched sometimes when an amourous mood is on me.

'A heaven with several mansions, dear', his wife said and then she laughed. I clearly was meant to raise my eyebrows in enquiry, and I did. My third glass of sherry was at hand. I felt emboldened.

'In what way?', I asked, and felt my question foolish and naive, but evidently it pleased them both. Eveline rose and walked across to me. I somehow knew the manner of that walk and placed my glass down on a table near my chair. She then bent over me and placed a hand beneath my chin. My eyes melted into hers. I saw a twinkle there.

'Come again tomorrow afternoon and you will see', she said, then asked in a much softer voice, 'May I kiss you to set the seal thereon?'

I knew that she would kiss my mouth while Maurice watched. He had the hawklike eagerness. To taunt her a little I did not reply, but parted my lips in readiness. O sweet and soft her mouth! Our lips met, tongues touched, I felt her gathering up my dress but swiftly pushed her hand away even as she bared my knees.

'No! Please, not yet', I said, my face averted. A small silence fell and then she took her hand away, unbent and soothed my dress back down.

Tomorrow afternoon at three?', she asked.

I rose unsteadily, and Maurice smiled. 'Kiss her again', he urged. His eyes were bright-not illumined solely, though, by lust, but by a seeming fondness for us both.

'I shall tomorrow; she knows that', I said, and Eveline clapped her hands and laughed, said, 'Oh, I like you very much! You will come, won't you? Yes, I know you will. Maurice will fetch you in our carriage, if you wish'.

'No, I shall bring my own', I said. I had no wish to be dependent on them so, however agreeable might their company be. Besides, I then could leave at such hour as I wished.

Maurice escorted me into the hall. 'She will have your drawers down if you come', he said, but put no lechery into his tone.

'If I stay long enough for that', I taunted him. The atmosphere was warm and free. I felt no fretful urgings on their part such as I had had sometimes in youth when jovial lusty males made free with me, whether I wanted them to or not.

'Our carriage will take you home, my dear', said he, and courteously escorted me to it.

Had Phillip only been thus too, what a wondrous marriage we might have had!

Richard's Day-Book

Mama came home yesterday in a most curious mood and would not say where she had been. She hummed and sang, but much avoided me. Amy was spiteful to me all the day and had her nose up in the air. I care not what she thinks in any case. I pleaded with Mama to let me kiss her, but she would not do, and said we should not do it any more. I ruffled her and she got quite fierce and in a paddy.

'May I not cuddle you tonight', I asked.-'No, you may not, dear Richard, no. There must come an end to naughtiness', she said. I was quite bereft and wished we had a pretty maid whom I could tumble, but the only one we have is dry and plain. I have a plan though for tonight. I only wish to kiss my dear Mama, but she will not believe that that is all I intend. I knelt and kissed her legs.

'Oh, Richard, please don't press me, dear', she said and went upstairs and locked her door.

If I carry out my plan, I'm sure she will.