London Folk Tales (22 page)

Many expectations changed in Queen Victoria’s reign – even the view of a woman at the helm. After she had gone, these changes still went on, for women as well as men. Londoners looked to a wider, brighter world. Great Exhibitions influenced how people thought, how they looked at what they saw, what they might aspire to own, even how things could be bought.

Innovation opened commercial doors. Entrepreneurs like Selfridge created ‘Department Stores’. That made London shopping in itself an end; you could just go and look and not even spend. Where else in the world would women’s silk hats sit side-by-side with scientific advance? The display of Bleriot’s monoplane was a masterstroke. No wonder people flocked to London town.

For some it was a long way to come. One young lady decided to break her journey by staying a night with friends along the way. They had a fine old manor house with plenty of room for visitors. Her bedroom was delightful, with windows opening to the front. But for some reason, perhaps because she was excited, she found it hard to sleep.

She was still awake at four o’clock, when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves. Wheels crunched on the stones along the drive. Who on earth could be arriving so late at night? She looked out of the window and was shocked to see a black hearse driving up towards the house. Instead of a coffin, it seemed to be full of people.

It stopped just below her, and the driver stepped out. She saw his face quite clearly as he looked up at her. ‘Room for one more,’ he said, with a smile.

Terrified, she shrank away from the window, and when she looked again, the hearse had gone.

In the morning she realised it must have been a dream, though the sense of it clung to her for hours. But London, of course, proved the perfect antidote. Harrods was heavenly; Liberty liberating; and Oxford Street stimulating beyond all belief.

It was teatime before she noticed how exhausted she was. By then she had ‘done the round’ of the department stores. She was right at the top of one, on the fourth floor, but luckily it had a lift, which was a new thing in those days. That meant there might be a queue, but she was ready to wait. Five flights of stairs were more than she could take. Besides, a free lift ride was the icing on the cake. It even had a button to summon it up!

The lift arrived, and people poured out, replaced by a bigger wave rushing in.

It was so crowded now, she hesitated, and the lift attendant, seeing her, smiled. ‘Room for one more,’ he said.

His face was the same as the driver of the hearse. ‘No,’ she cried, backing away. He shrugged, and pulled the safety gates back across, then she heard the doors close, and the lift started to descend. Suddenly there was a scream, followed by an awful crash. The cable of the lift had snapped. Everyone inside it died.

Lionel was one of those lucky young men whom fate seems to have smiled on from the start. Well bred, well heeled, and well beloved by male and female friends alike, he had sailed smoothly from cosy cradle to comfortable career without so much as a hiccough along the way. From his father he inherited a modest but solidly established publishing business. From his mother he acquired a drive to succeed and an instinct for opportunity. This, coupled with his own good nose for modern innovation, and accurate gauging of post-First World War sensibilities, had caused him to back several new works which – against all expectation – had turned out to be fashionable favourites and best-selling books. Still relatively young, he was now the head of one of one of London’s most prestigious publishing houses.

His love of modernity extended to gadgets and machinery. Instead of pen, paper, and messenger boys, he favoured the typewriter and telephone. The ground floor of his office shook with the smack and slide duet of fast fingers finding keys, and typewriter carriages returning. The upper floors thrilled to the clamour of telephone bells, swiftly intercepted by calm, clear-speaking secretaries, who never confused the operator with wrong numbers or letters, nor tried to talk into the earpiece. And somehow, too, the girls knew if Lionel would want the call redirected to his private line, up in his inner sanctum.

Despite his penchant for new styles and appliances, Lionel had a sensible appreciation of traditional necessities for a decent standard of London life. He was a member of a reputable gentleman’s club, and had a bachelor apartment in the best part of Kensington. Here too, his staff were excellent, presided over by a butler of the ‘old school’, and Bowden, an indispensable personal valet. And although Lionel delighted in his stylish, if somewhat loud motorcar, he would frequently elect to walk to work or to visit a friend. He liked the exercise and it kept him trim.

Perhaps that was why, on a bright Sunday afternoon, having popped down to his office to check that a tiresome little job had been completed satisfactorily, he decided to leave his vehicle there, and stroll home slowly. Since it was such a promising day, he chose a very circuitous route, looping round and up to the green slopes of the western edge of London. He was already somewhat tired when he came to the wide spreading cemetery of Kensal Green, famous for its catacombs, and monuments in glorious Arcadian classical style. Particularly interesting too, from Lionel’s point of view, was the burial place of the great Victorian engineer and innovator, Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

Determined though he was to see and appreciate this, the whole place was so enormous and sprawling he was feeling rather faint by the time he finished his sightseeing. Hurrying back towards the entrance lodge, without paying enough attention to where he was going, he soon found, to his rising panic, that he had lost his way. By now it was getting late. Perhaps it was near to closing time? Surely then someone soon would be making their rounds to ensure that everybody had left. He stood still and listened. Nothing. Although he wasn’t squeamish, to be surrounded by the dead in this way was most unpleasant.

Setting off again, trying to retrace his steps, he determined to be more methodical in his search for the exit. Before long he came to a place that he thought he recognised, but on studying the graves he realised that they were more unkempt and uncared for than any he had seen so far. Then, at last, to his enormous relief, he saw a clear sign post stating the region that they were in: SWE 103. Well, he wasn’t where he thought he was, but at least he now had some idea which direction to head in. Calmer now, he looked around for further clues.

Immediately beyond the notice were a few almost forgotten graves, one with carvings of roses upon the stone, but almost obliterated by ivy. Something about it caught his eye. Moving closer, he made out the words written on the stone. ‘RIP Elsie …’ he read – and then stopped. It was the name of a girl that he had known very well, in fact. She had been a girlfriend for a long time, off and on. He checked the birth date. It tallied. And the death? It was only a couple of years after he had last seen her. They hadn’t exactly parted, just drifted apart – he couldn’t quite remember why. He had been concentrating on work, getting ahead, his eyes fixed on higher things, and somehow she had been left behind. Extraordinary he hadn’t even known that she had died. What a pity. She had been a sweet thing, good natured, with a lovely laugh. So full of life.

Now, as he looked again at her grave, he thought what a sorry state it was in. Was there no one who cared enough to clear the weeds and leave fresh flowers? Well at least that was something he could do. Resolving to pay for it to be cleaned up and restored to order, he went on his way. This time he found his way easily to the entrance, and met a cheery gatekeeper preparing to lock up.

‘Oh Sir!’ he said, ‘Thought everyone was out already. Nearly here for the night you were! Still … peaceful place to sleep, alright!’ Still smiling at his own joke, he hailed a hackney cab and helped Lionel in. ‘Look proper tired you do Sir, if you don’t mind me saying. Good night!’

It was dark by the time Lionel got home, and it was only as he let himself in that he remembered it was Sunday. This was a day that he insisted his staff had an evening off. He liked having a bit of time entirely to himself.

Supper was laid out ready for him, as usual, and a welcoming fire in the grate. He poured himself a glass of wine, and picked at his food. But he didn’t feel like eating. Nor being alone. Not tonight. He kept remembering Elsie. The way she walked; how she loved to dance; her eyes lighting up when he said something nice. How ready she always was to go out, or stay in, always agreeable to his whims. How quickly she’d turned away when he last said goodbye, having told her he’d be too busy to see her for a while – as if there was a sadness that she wanted to hide. Perhaps she had always cared more about him than he had for her?

He shook his head. No use sitting around and brooding. He had plenty of friends, usually more than he had time for. He’d invite someone round to share supper. Flicking through his address book he found a couple of possibilities – if one was out, another would be bound to be in. He picked up the telephone before he could change his mind, and asked the operator to connect him.

It rang a long time, and then there was a pause. ‘Hello,’ said a voice at last. It sounded rather distant. Perhaps they were standing too far from the mouthpiece.

‘Hello,’ said Lionel. ‘Is that,’ – he paused for a moment. Which was the number he had asked for? Which girl had he picked off the list?

‘Hello,’ whoever she was repeated, louder this time. ‘Who is ringing? This is SWE 103.’

Lionel had already given his name before he stopped to think. Was that really the number he had asked for? There was something oddly familiar about it – and the voice too.

‘Lionel?’ The girl was clearly delighted. ‘Is that really you, darling?’

This time, to his horror, Lionel thought he recognised it. And the number? Wasn’t that the same as the signpost by Elsie’s – no! It couldn’t be.

‘Sorry I took so long to answer!’ she was saying. ‘I was a long way away from the telephone. I’ve moved, you know. What about you?’

She sounded so normal. Somehow Lionel stuttered a reply.

‘Still at the same place? Things must be going well then.’ She laughed, and then stopped suddenly. ‘But you don’t sound … quite yourself. Are you alright, sweetie?’

Typical Elsie. Always sensitive to his moods.

‘I’m … well,’ he said, ‘it’s just – I … I …’

‘Feeling a little lonely? Poor Lionel! Shall I come round? I’m not doing anything.’

He wanted to say no but instead, he mumbled something incoherent.

‘Is that a yes?’ He shook his head, but the words wouldn’t come. ‘Or a no?’

‘No!’ he cried. ‘Not …’

‘Not a no! Oh good,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll be along as soon as I can.’

He heard her put the receiver down, but he himself could not move. Earpiece still clutched in his hand, he waited. A long time passed. Just as he was beginning to think it had all been a horrible nightmare, and had finally managed to get to his feet again, he heard a light step outside. Someone ran up the steps and tapped three times with the knocker. Three times swiftly and lightly. That had always been her special signal. He stumbled to the front door and pressed his ear against it.

‘Lionel?’ she said. ‘Are you teasing me? I can hear you in there darling.’ He saw his hand moving towards the handle of the door as if of its own accord.

Lionel’s butler was, as usual, the soul of discretion, much to the annoyance of the downstairs servants, who were not aware of their master’s unexpected seizure until after he had been taken to the hospital. Bowden, however, at least in the confines of his master’s club, and then only to valets of a similar station, was more forthcoming. After all, it was he who had first discovered Lionel’s body lying in the hall, on his return from his evening off. A dreadful sight to be met with.

‘Particularly,’ as he explained to his select group of listeners, because of the ‘awful way young master’s mouth was twisted. Lip lifted right up – like a scream frozen on his lips. Eyes staring from their sockets.’ There’d been white marks on his face, too, which were oddly cold to the touch. ‘But the strangest of all,’ Bowden admitted, when pressed into further disclosures, ‘was the clay. White clay. Don’t sound much but it was smeared all over the carpet. And he was always so finicky about wiping his feet, wasn’t he? But it couldn’t have been anyone else. There were no footprints at all.’