Authors: Mary Hooper
Velvet
Contents
Madame Savoya’s First Private Sitting with ‘Mrs Lilac’
Madame Savoya’s First Private Sitting with ‘Lady Blue’
Madame Savoya’s First Private Sitting with ‘Mr Grey’
Madame Savoya’s Second Private Sitting with ‘Mrs Lilac’
Madame Savoya’s Second Private Sitting with ‘Lady Blue’
Madame Savoya’s Second Private Sitting with ‘Mr Grey’
Madame Savoya’s Third Private Sitting with ‘Mrs Lilac’
Madame Savoya’s Third Private Sitting with ‘Lady Blue’
Madame Savoya’s Third Private Sitting with ‘Mr Grey’
Some Historical Notes from the Author
In Which Velvet Faints, and Gains a New Position in the Laundry
Velvet had fainted too many times, according to Mrs Sloane, and was liable to be dismissed from Ruffold’s Steam Laundry.
‘It’s the rules,’ said Mrs Sloane, the laundry supervisor, following Velvet out to the yard and waving a bottle of smelling salts under her nose. ‘Anyone who can’t discipline themselves not to swoon has no place here. You’ve already gone down twice today.’
Leaning against the wall to try and gain some relief from her aching back, Velvet turned to face her. ‘But it’s stifling inside today, ma’am,’ she said as politely as she could, ‘and I’ve been working right beside a boiler.’ Saturday was the worst possible day to be standing next to any of the boilers – everyone knew that. All the giant water heaters in the laundry were turned off on Sundays, so at the beginning of the week conditions in the laundry weren’t too bad. As the week went on, however, the heat in the vast room became worse and worse; condensation ran in rivers down the walls, whilst sweat beaded the girls’ faces, dripped into their eyes and trickled between their shoulder blades. Every breath they took was a gasp of exhaustion.
Mrs Sloane pursed her lips and looked at Velvet over the wire-rimmed glasses which were almost permanently steamed up. ‘Rules is rules,’ she said. ‘You know that. If anyone makes a habit of fainting then they’re deemed incapable of carrying out a proper day’s work.’ She nodded towards the raggle-taggle group of girls standing just outside the yard by the curved iron sign that said,
RUFFOLD’S STEAM LAUNDRY
. ‘Look at all those girls – they’re waiting for a job here and
they’re
willing to work for a shilling less a week.’
Velvet glanced over at the girls. Tiny, thin, shoeless and mostly with neither jacket nor mantle on this first really cold day of the winter of 1900, none looked older than nine. ‘But they wouldn’t be able to work nearly as quickly or as skilfully as me,’ she said to the supervisor, who was known to be softer than she looked. ‘They’re as scrawny as day-old rabbits. They could never manage to carry a pile of bed sheets on their own.’
Mrs Sloane pushed her glasses back up her nose and frowned. Velvet was right, of course. It took at least six months to train a girl and Velvet – apart from her fainting – was a fast and diligent worker, able to switch between the washers, mangles, box pressers and flat irons as required.
‘Please, Mrs Sloane.’ Velvet filled her lungs with cold air and closed her eyes briefly, thinking of what could happen if she lost her job. ‘If I could just work a little further away from the boilers.’
‘Girls can’t pick and choose where they work! You knew that rule before you started here.’
Velvet shivered. Her dark hair had congealed into a mass of damp frizz which stuck to her cheeks, and her eyes itched with tiredness. Her skin had been hot, her blouse and smock wet with sweat when she’d fainted, but now she felt clammy and cold. ‘Could I, perhaps, go into packing and folding?’
‘There’s no vacancies there. Besides, I keep those jobs for my older ladies.’
‘Then please, Mrs Sloane. I’ll try really hard not to faint again.’ Velvet hung her head. ‘It’s my time of the month, you see – that and being on my feet so long. I shall be fine on Monday!’
Mrs Sloane rolled her eyes. ‘You girls!’
God knew she wasn’t a hard woman, but there were schedules to maintain, bosses to keep happy and customers to placate, and every day a mountain of sheets, pillowcases, towels and tablecloths arriving from every boarding house and hospital in the area. At Ruffold’s everything was soaked, washed, boiled and blued, rinsed three times (‘We rinse them Thrice to make them Nice’ was their motto), put through a box mangle, dried, pressed and finally folded into cardboard boxes ready to go back from whence it came. If too many girls fainted, the schedules would go awry.
‘One girl going down too often can lead to the others playing copycat,’ Mrs Sloane admonished. ‘It can spread faster than scarlet fever. Why, I remember once when the girls went down in fainting fits one after the other right across the room. Fell like skittles, they did!’
‘I’ll work an hour next week without pay,’ Velvet said desperately. She straightened up, trying to look bright and alert. If she lost this job it would be near impossible to get another, and without a regular wage she couldn’t pay for her room, buy food, coal or anything else. And then what would happen? She always kept a silver shilling hidden in her shoe for an emergency, but that was all that stood between her and the workhouse. The workhouse . . . that fearful institution where the destitute were made to live and work under harsh, prison-like conditions. ‘You’ve always been most fair to me.’ As she spoke, Velvet’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘Please, Mrs Sloane . . .’
Mrs Sloane hesitated, looked at the unhappy girl again and sighed. She knew Velvet had no family to support her, and besides she was a quick and intelligent girl who could read and write well – certainly better than the others, most of whom had only had a year or two’s intermittent education at a ragged school.
After thinking for a moment, Mrs Sloane decided on the course of action which was to seal Velvet’s fate.
‘Well, I’ll probably live to regret it, but there’s a vacancy in Personal Laundry, if you think you’re up to it,’ she said. As Velvet gasped and said she could do it –
of course
she could do it – and would be most grateful for the opportunity, Mrs Sloane continued, ‘It needs the utmost care and attention to detail, mind; a meticulous awareness of a fashionable lady’s adornment and decoration.’ She took off her glasses, polished them on her apron and looked at what Velvet was wearing under her regulation white smock: a dark skirt made of hard-wearing gabardine and a plain, high-necked blouse. Mrs Sloane looked doubtful. ‘Usually, a more mature lady fills this sort of position, someone who’s worked as a haberdasher or seamstress.’
‘I’d be suitable, I’m sure! What would I have to do?’ Velvet asked, thinking that whatever Mrs Sloane said, she would certainly say she was capable of it.
‘It means taking responsibility for our most valued clients’ personal garments,’ said Mrs Sloane. She paused for these portentous words to take root and Velvet nodded at her, wide-eyed. ‘It means you would work at the top table and take charge of a laundry box containing a particular customer’s laundry. You would remove any delicate buttons, lace or precious embroidery, deal with stains, then wash each garment by hand and see to its drying. Once dry, you’d replace whatever fine detailing you’d removed, then press everything into shape, reform any frills, ruffles or pleats, and return the garments to their box ready to be delivered to the customer.’
Velvet nodded eagerly. ‘I can do all that!’
‘I need hardly add that the good name of our laundry rests on this particular exceptional service that we provide for our wealthiest clients,’ Mrs Sloane went on, although she was not being perfectly truthful here, for the reputation of Ruffold’s had actually been based more on the fact that they used washing water hot enough to kill bedbugs.
‘I know how to look after fancy things, ma’am,’ Velvet said. ‘My ma was a laundress – and before that, a governess,’ she added proudly. ‘When I was small I used to watch her. I learned how to do buttonholes and make repairs, too.’ This, at least, was true. Necessity demanded that all working-class girls knew how to repair, mend and make do with whatever materials they could lay their hands on.
‘It’s exacting, finicky work,’ said Mrs Sloane. ‘Our private customers tend to be
very
fussy.’
‘Then I’ll be just as fussy,’ Velvet said eagerly. ‘I’ll take care of their precious garments, Mrs Sloane – I’ll look after them like they’re babies!’
‘It must be understood, mind, that any less than perfect results, any little mishaps that might befall these most treasured garments, will result in your instant dismissal.’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ Velvet agreed hurriedly. ‘I wouldn’t expect otherwise.’
