Chapter Nine
When I first entered the top-floor flat Bram had leased for us on Southampton Street, Covent Garden, it was all I could do not to turn around and walk out again.
If our boxes hadn’t already been stacked in what was to be the drawing room, and George hadn’t been by my side, I may well have.
George had arrived in the city two days earlier and picked up the keys.
He’d been at Charing Cross station to meet us.
In shocked silence, George and I wandered through the six main rooms. There was a bedroom each for me and Bram, one for George, a kitchen and scullery combined, and another room that would serve as a study.
Not counted because they were so small, were two attic bedrooms accessed by a narrow flight of stairs.
The entire flat was dank and dusty, littered with furniture in various states of disrepair.
The mouldy wallpaper looked like it had been shredded by a maddened cat.
More positively, there were lovely large windows, including a shallow bay in the drawing room.
The view was limited to the almost identical row of businesses and flats opposite.
The street below was busy, forming a wide thoroughfare between the main road of The Strand and Covent Garden.
What swiftly became evident was that this place needed to be made habitable before I could do much unpacking or satisfy my urge to explore the city.
‘The grand facade hides a shabby interior well, doesn’t it?’ remarked George, pulling out a large kerchief and wiping his hands.
‘It does,’ I said wryly, weaving my way between boxes and a couple of sad-looking chairs towards the window. ‘Lures the unsuspecting. Do you think Bram would have taken these rooms if he’d viewed them first?’
‘I think they’re so convenient to the Lyceum,’ said George, ‘they would have been hard to turn down, despite their state. The theatre’s just a couple of streets away.’
Alternately daunted and gratified that the task of overseeing renovations to the theatre and ensuring it was ready to open after Christmas had been given to him, ever-conscientious, Bram had left me and George to take charge of the flat and raced off to attend his duties.
I stood in the bay window, peering out through the filthy glass before turning around and mentally tallying the tasks.
A good clean was first on the agenda, followed by purchasing some decent furniture, curtains, rugs and new wallpaper.
A painting here and there, some cushions, and a cabinet to display the china and silver we’d been gifted.
‘I’ll need help.’ I pointed at rodent droppings in a corner, swiping a finger along the sill that was quickly blackened with dust and smuts. ‘To get the rooms in order.’
‘You will, Florrie,’ agreed George drolly, peeling a strip of wallpaper away. We watched it float to the floor. ‘I think hiring a maid, maybe two, should be a priority.’
‘How does one go about such a thing here?’
George shrugged. ‘Same as in Dublin. An advertisement, I imagine. Or maybe the solicitors in the office downstairs can offer advice or even a recommendation.’
I sighed and would have sat but didn’t trust the threadbare armchair to hold me.
‘Don’t worry, Florrie,’ said George, patting my shoulder. ‘Until I hear confirmation about a position, I’ll pitch in.’
‘Thank you, George.’ I began to rummage in one of the boxes. ‘I’d better start making a list.’
‘You’ll need paper and pen.’ George tore open another box. It was filled with books. Another item to add to the list: bookshelves. ‘On the bright side, Florrie,’ said George, lifting something wrapped in linen, ‘think of the fun we’ll have spending that allowance Bram’s given you.’
We shared a smile. George already knew how to cheer me.
By the time Christmas arrived, I was proud of what had been accomplished, and in such a short time.
George declared it a Christmas miracle as we sat down to a delicious luncheon prepared by the marvellous Mrs Harriet Daw, the cook I’d hired, and served by her reliable niece, Emma Barton, our maid.
I’d even managed to convert the upstairs rooms into two comfortable if bijou bedrooms – one for Emma, who lived with us, the other for Mrs Daw whenever the weather or time forced her to remain overnight.
George, true to his word, had rendered assistance until he took up a position at Chelsea Hospital, looking after old soldiers mainly.
He also became the attending physician at the Lyceum.
Mrs Daw and Emma and I had laboured for hours every day, cleaning, washing, stripping wallpaper, removing rubbish and rodents’ nests, sweeping hearths and blackening them, repairing whatever furniture could be salvaged (George and Mr Daw proved quite dab hands at that), hiring chimney sweeps and other trades to help transform the flat into a home.
At first, I’d despaired we’d ever get the place clean, as the moment dirt was wiped away, a floor swept or furniture polished, the endless smuts from all the city’s coal fires would leave their hideous traces over everything.
Keeping the windows closed didn’t help either.
The smuts were tenacious. At least I understood why the windows were streaked with grime – it was futile to clean them (I’d tried) as the combination of smoke from hearth fires and dirt from the roads was as constant as a heartbeat.
The factories on the outskirts of the city ensured a miasma of odours and pollution insinuated itself everywhere.
If we weren’t tracking mud and other refuse into the house, we were trudging through it the moment we were out the door.
I despaired the hems of my gowns would ever be clean again.
London may have been the centre of the world – noisy, full of life, colour and drama, with all sorts of wonderful shops and markets that sold anything and everything imaginable – but it was also filthy.
And smelly. London stank. I’d begun to keep a scented kerchief with me to press against my nose when I went outside.
And yet, as I wrote to Phil, despite all this, I loved it.
I missed Dublin, its clatter and pong, but I loved the clop of the horses’ hooves as carriages rolled along The Strand.
I loved the cries of the newspaper boys, flower sellers and milkmaids each morn and evening.
The sing-song chant of the vendors, the cheeky winks and impudence of the entertainers in the vast market at the end of the street.
There were jugglers, sword-swallowers, singers, puppeteers, people standing atop fruit crates proclaiming the end of the world or that Jesus saves.
Some were more political, chastising the prime minister, Mr Disraeli, or lamenting the offspring of Queen Victoria as ne’er-do-wells.
These people weren’t confined to the market either, but appeared on street corners.
Stepping outside was like entering an outdoor theatre.
I couldn’t help but think of the character Jacques from Shakespeare’s As You Like It, proclaiming that all the world was a stage.
The world might not be, but London felt like one.
I adored the quirkiness of the knocker-uppers, paid to wake people by rapping on windows and doors at a set time.
If I rose early enough, I’d see them with their long bamboo sticks or mallets.
The chimney sweeps’ sooty faces became familiar sights as they strolled up and down the street, long brushes over their shoulders, kerchiefs hanging out of their pockets.
The young ones trotting along beside them with their vacant eyes and moist coughs were stark reminders that, for all the beauty, there was also great ugliness here.
The drunken lads and lasses, the whores who paraded around the market and surrounding streets come nightfall, the toothless crones begging for coin, the barely dressed children pleading for a scrap of food.
Not a day went by without an act of terrible violence being reported in the newspapers.
I was warned never to venture to Covent Garden without George, Emma or Mrs Daw.
Fortunately, they were always willing, which was just as well, because Bram was rarely home.
Each day he was gone by mid-morning, and I sometimes didn’t see him again until the following one.
I’d hear him return at three, four of the clock, sometimes just before dawn.
He didn’t deliberately disturb me, but I was still adjusting to being alone in bed after sharing with Phil all my life, so often woke.
On the odd day he managed to be home for dinner or took a few hours off to relax, attend to correspondence, or pay some of the bills I was accruing, he’d be summoned back to Mr Irving’s side courtesy of a note delivered by courier. Not even Sundays were sacrosanct.
Twice one Sunday – before luncheon – messages arrived. I was still trying to grasp that a new note had appeared within the space of a couple of hours, when Bram, cursing slightly as he tossed it on the second-hand sideboard, went in search of his hat and an umbrella (the heavens had opened).
George and I regarded each other in disbelief.
‘Surely, that’s not another summons?’ I scooped it up. George lowered his newspaper.
‘What is it this time?’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Iron my shirt? Pick up a loaf of bread?’ He rolled his eyes.
‘I need two fivers for a ten-pound note. H.’ I threw it down in disgust.
‘Irving wants change?’ said George incredulously.
‘More to the point, he wants Bram to find him some.’ I clicked in annoyance. ‘Can’t the man do anything for himself? It’s Sunday.’
George returned to his paper, shaking his head. ‘What’s Irving about, treating Bram like his lackey.’ He flashed me a sympathetic smile. ‘I think you can forget your promenade around Covent Garden today, Florrie.’
‘I think the weather had already cancelled that.’ Rivulets dribbled down the window.
‘That’s beside the point,’ said George.
He was right. ‘Could you say something to Bram? About the notes?’
‘Me?’ George scoffed. ‘I’m only his brother.’
‘Ha! I’m only the Wife. Anyhow, you’ve known him years longer than me.’
‘Aye, but I don’t kiss him, do I?’
‘If you say so,’ I began, grinning. ‘Though you are very close …’
‘I’ll give you close, you hallion —’ began George, rolling the newspaper as if to thwack me with it.
Bram chose that moment to return. George abruptly tucked the roll under his arm. I gave him a pressing look. ‘Ah, er, Bram …’ began George. ‘Florrie has something she wants to say to you.’
I glared at him.
‘I’ll be on my way,’ he said, heaving himself out of the chair. ‘I’m expected at White’s.’
Coward, I mouthed. He winked.
Waiting until the door closed and I’d heard George bid Emma farewell, I held up the note. ‘Bram, surely, this can wait,’ I said gently. ‘It doesn’t need to be dealt with right now.’
Bram put on his coat. ‘I can’t simply ignore it, Florrie.’
‘I’m not asking you to ignore it. I’m suggesting you act on what Mr Irving asks later. When it suits you.’
Bram blinked. ‘It suits me now.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Really? It’s the second message he’s sent just this morning. The first had you racing to the theatre mid-breakfast to check you’d reserved seats for Mr Irving’s wife.’
‘It was important.’
‘What? The wife he abandoned when she was pregnant with his second child because she offended him.’ I’d heard the sorry story from George, who’d heard it at Boodle’s.
‘It was a bit more than that —’ began Bram.
I brushed it aside. ‘A wife he’s not spoken to since, never mind the two sons he has nothing to do with.’ My dander was up now. ‘Unlike Mrs Florence Irving, I’d at least like to share one uninterrupted meal, let alone some time with my husband – especially on the Lord’s day.’
Bram fussed with his gloves. ‘And you will, Florrie.’ He went to kiss my cheek. I stepped out of reach. ‘Florrie!’ He threw up his hands in exasperation, gave me a withering look, turned on his heel, and left the room.
I waited a beat, then strode to the drawing room door and wrenched it open. ‘Henry doesn’t always have to come first, you know,’ I shouted.
But he was already gone.
I slammed the door and fell into a chair.
Rain battered the glass, accompanied by a loud growl of thunder, matching the tempo of my thoughts.
The day had grown dark, thick, oppressive.
The more I considered it, the more I realised only one cloud loomed over my new life in London.
A Mr Irving-sized one that managed to not only douse every plan Bram and I made, but usher storms in its wake.