Age Recommendation: 14+
One day, full of so much rain, Lotty realises that there is something more that she wants in life. Just a little escape, might make everything so much better.
It was a miserable London afternoon.
That was not to say that London were known for being altogether bright, especially at this part of the year, but it was full of rain that is cold enough to be unpleasant, but not enough to bring more than a trickling of sleet.
Ever threatening of hail, but never quite reaching towards it.
On this dreary afternoon, so full of miserable rain, that there was a woman who had come down from Hampstead to shop, and decided to lunch at the Womanâs Club.
An uncomfortable, overly small room, within a building that was grudgingly nestled between two larger ones. It may have once been a brothel of some kind, before becoming nothing but a dilapidated and empty building, before the woman seized upon it. It were as if London itself resented having to provide comfort to the female kind altogether.
The woman in question picked up the Times from the table, sitting in the smoking room across from another private patron, and ran her bored eye across the paper.
Her eye barely catching at a small something in the Agony Column.
To Those Who Appreciate Wisteria and Sunshine. Small medieval Italian Castle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be let. Furnished for the month of April. Necessary servants remain. TB.
The woman dropped the newspaper with a gesture that was both irritated, and resigned.
She stood and walked over to the window, a movement that was hardly taxing in the small space.
Two and a half steps or less.
She stared drearily out of the window, the cold glass not quite obscured as the rain ran down it at an angle, suggesting that the wind wished to discover a way to run like a river down the street. To coax the rain into being a shield that could not be protected by mere umbrella.
It was not her lot in life to dream of visiting medieval castles, even those that are specially described as small. It was not hers, to dream of the shores of the Mediterranean in April, and it was not hers to reach for the wisteria and sunshine.
Such delights, were only for the rich.
The advertisement, of course, had been addressed to a person who appreciated such things, so it had been written for her afterall, in a way. She certainly appreciated them, more than anybody that she knew. More than she had ever told another soul.
Unfortunately, it was the way of things, that she was poor.
In the whole world, she possessed only ninety pounds. Saved from year upon year, carefully measured out, penny by penny. Coins and notes saved from her dress allowance, stolen out from under the watchful gaze of her husband.
Not to say that he would be altogether upset, were he to discover she kept a nest egg. It had been an off-hand suggestion of his that she put together a shield and refuge against the rainy day, from what little he granted her. He simply would not approve her spending it, once it gathered.
She did not hold it against him, it was not as if he had some fortune in advance of her own. He did what he might, and kept them both.
The result of course, was that she was modestly dressed. She had no fashions that she might call her own, and what fashionless it was, were not particularly becoming. Nor were her clothes unbecoming either - they simply were of little note.
Francis Wilkins, her husband, was a solicitor. He encouraged thrift, in all areas of their lives, except for his food. He did not call it thrift, himself, of course. He called it housekeeping.
However, the thrift wore upon her clothes like a moth. It wore upon all the small things in life, that might lift oneâs mood, above the cold and sleet.
âYou never know, when there will be a rainy day, and you may be very glad to find you have a nest egg.â A phrase oft repeated.
A phrase too oft repeated.
Staring out of the club window into the avenue below, Lotty found her mindâs eye playing upon the Mediterranean in April. Of the wisteria and its storybook bloom, and the so enviable opportunities of the rich.
Her was mind enshrouded in the distant streaming sunlight of the Mediterranean, whilst her eyes saw the sooty rain falling upon the street, the hurrying umbrellas, and the ever present splash of feet upon the pavement.
The drudgery of day in, and day out. Rain falling down the window, rain falling sideways to the street, rain pattering away on the roof with a continuous beat.
Lotty wondered whether this might not be the rainy day that Francis had so encouraged her to prepare for.
Whether it was time to get out of such a climate, and if a small medieval castle were not where she was destined to spend her savings.
Part only, of course. A small part. The castle, being medieval might be dilapidated, and such things led to cheaper costings. She wouldnât mind a few problems. A leaky roof may not matter at all in the brilliance of a summer sky, so very absent of rain clouds.
More problems might in fact, be most desirable. They reduced the price that you had to pay⌠With enough, it might just be affordableâŚ
Nonsense. All of it.
She turned away from the window with the same mingled irritation and resignation with which she had thrown down the newspaper, and started to cross the room towards the door. Intending to retrieve her mackintosh and umbrella, before diving into the overcrowded streets, and heading her way home.
Fish was upon her mind. Francis only had a taste for sole, and so Lotty was wondering which recipe she might use, to treat the man to his dinner. It did not do, to always present the same thing, each night.
She was not the best cook, though it was the role she found in herself, as the wife to a man who kept the roof above her head. She was not of the working class, those few women who managed to escape from their rigid rules due to the war.
She had, for a time, been working in the fields. Such was the way of the war, freeing women and giving them the hope of a more open horizon. Yet, when the end of the war came with freedom for all, the men were hasty to shackle their women back into predefined roles.
Some fought it, and found their way through things, but Lotty was timid for all of that.
She might make the sole, the Mediterranean way. A baked fillet, with lime, olive oil and butter. Garlic and salt. She could not afford it all, but could beg a lime from a neighbour, and she might have just enough garlic powder left from the last rationing to make it work.
As she went to leave, thoughts consumed by the fish, she passed a woman she knew by sight. Mrs. Arbuthnot, who also lived in Hampstead, was sitting at the same table, by the newspaper and magazines. She was quite heavily absorbed in the front page of the Times.
They had been seated across from one another, but in such a small space as this, one always gave the other their own space to think and be. It was not couth to address another, unless you had already arranged to meet them. Not that Lotty was altogether couth.
She had yet to speak to Mrs. Arbuthnot, beyond introductions. The woman belonged to the various church sets, and analysed, classified, divided and registered the poor.
Such an upstanding woman was not one to do as Lotty and Francis. When they did go out, they went to the parties of impressionist painters. The circles within which they moved, could not be of greater difference.
Francis had a sister, who had married an impressionist, and lived up on the Heath. It was by that alliance that Lotty was drawn into a group that was highly unnatural to her, and she had come to dread the pictures hanging on their walls - or not, and upon the floor, shelves and anywhere that they might be fit.
The intense expectation that she would say things about them, when she had not a single thought of what to say. She had tried to murmur one word compliments, but felt that it was not enough.
Not that anyone appeared to mind. Nobody listened to her, at all. Nobody took any notice of Mrs. Lotty Wilkins. She was not the kind of person to be noticed at parties.
Her clothes, so very infested with thrift, made her invisible. Her face was unintriguing, and her conversation seemed reluctant - she was shy. If oneâs clothes and face, and conversation, are all but nonexistent, then what is left for a party?
Lotty recognised that she was of no interest, and she blamed no one for it. It was not a scene that she was suited well to.
She was always with Francis.
Mr. Wilkins.
The clean shaven, the fine looking man who brought a great air to a party. He was respectable, and well thought of by his senior partners. All within his sisterâs circles admired him.
He pronounced intelligent judgements on art and artists. He was pithy, prudent. He never said a word too much, nor did he ever say a word too little. He produced the impression of keeping copies of everything he once said.
He was so obviously reliable, that it often happened that those who met him at such parties became discontented with their own solicitors, and after a period of restlessness, then her husband came into a new client.
Naturally, they rarely had any recollection of Lotty.
Francisâs sister often quipped that Lotty should stay at home, and that she was ill suited to those they entertained. However, Francis would hear none of it. He would not leave his wife at home. Afterall, he was a family solicitor, and all such have wives and show them.
By the week, he took his wife to the parties, to the Brine Baths and Victoria Square, and on Sundays he went to church with her upon his arm. Being still fairly young, at thirty nine, and ambitious to collect the older clientele, he could not afford to miss church.
It was there, that Lotty first became familiar, though never through words, with Mrs. Rose Arbuthnot.
The woman was to be seen marshalling the children of the poor into the pews. Mrs. Arbuthnot would come at the head of the Sunday School procession, exactly five minutes before the choir. She would get her boys and girls neatly fitted into their allotted seats.
She was servicing the Conventry Charity Almhouses, run by a lofty family from London, that Lotty did not recall whatsoever. Such poor memory of such important folk, was a constant embarrassment to Mr. Wilkins.
The children went down on their little knees in their preliminary prayer, and up again on their feet - just as the organ swelled, the vestry door opened, and the choir and clergy, began to emerge. Coming in with their litanies and commandments.
Mrs. Arbuthnot kept them all performing well, so that the alms continued to flow through and keep breakfast upon their plates. She argued vibrantly for them.
She did have a sad sort of face, yet in all things she was efficient. It was a combination that led Lotty to wonder, on some occasions, that if one were efficient, one wouldnât truly be depressed. That if one does oneâs job well, one becomes bright and brisk.
There was nothing about Mrs. Arbuthnot that was not bright and brisk. Though, much in her way with the Sunday School children, that could be automatic.
As Lotty turned from the window, there was nothing that seemed automatic about Mrs. Arbuthnot. The woman was holding tightly to the first page of the Times, her eyes fixed and unmoving.
Yet, it was just a stare.
Her expressions were the ever patient, and only lightly humoured tones that she ever wore.
Lotty watched her for a moment, trying to screw up the courage to speak to her. She wanted to ask, if it were the very advertisement that Mrs. Arbuthnot had seen. Lotty did not know why she wanted to ask, but it was the thought upon her mind.
How stupid she felt, unable to speak to her. Mrs. Arbuthnot looked so kind. Yet she looked so unhappy. Why couldnât two unhappy people refresh each other, on their way through this dusty life, by a having a little real talk, a natural talk, about what they felt, and liked, and what they tried to hope for?
She could not help thinking that Mrs. Arbuthnot was reading that same advertisement. Her eyes were on the right part of the paper. Was she, too, picturing what it would be like? The colour, the fragrance, the light, of the distant place? Was if the soft lapping of the sea amongst little hot rocks, that played upon her mind?
The colour and fragrance of the sea, instead of Shaftesbury Avenue, and the wet omnibuses. Instead of the expensive and drudge of the fish department at Shoolbredâs, the tube to Hampstead, and dinner. The same thing, day after day, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
The same routine, creeping in at a petty pace, day by day, until the end of her short life. All her yesterdays lighting nothing more than a dusty road, until the last syllable of her small voice.
âAre you reading about the medieval castle?â A voice asked, and Lotty was very much surprised to find that it was her own.
Naturally, Mrs. Arbuthnot was also surprised, though not half as much as the one who had spoken.
Mrs. Arbuthnot had not yet, to Lottyâs knowledge, set eyes onto the shabby, lank and loosely put together figure opposite her, now quickly sitting down across the table from her, back into the seat she had so recently left.
They - with their small freckled face, and big grey eyes - now trying to disappear at the embarrassment of having spoken at all.
âWhy do you ask me that?â The woman said with a grave voice, a steady and teaching voice.
Lotty flushed bright red, stammering in excitement, and fear, âOh. I only ask, because I saw it, too. I thought perhaps⌠I thought somehowâŚâ
Mrs. Arbuthnot considered her carefully, weighing each word patiently, but waiting for the end of the poorly conceived sentence, rather than attempting to interpret the meaning.
âI know you, by sight.â Lotty went on, frightened by her own voice and with no true idea where she was taking the conversation. âEvery Sunday. I see you every Sunday in churchâŚâ
âIn church?â Echoed Mrs. Arbuthnot.
âAnd this thing seems such a wonderful thing! This advertisement, about the wisteria, and⌠AndâŚâ
Lotty, who must have been at least thirty, broke off into an embarrassed giggle, with an awkward shuffle into her seat like a schoolgirl. âIt seems so⌠Wonderful! And, it being such a miserable dayâŚâ
Mrs. Arbuthnot looked at her with a quiet sympathy, and spoke. âIf you see me in church, I suppose that you live in Hampstead, too?â
âOh, yes.â Said Lotty, her head bobbing, âOh yes.â
âWhere?â Asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, ascertaining the facts.
Lotty, however, laying her hand softly onto the newspaper, almost caressing the advertisement, only said, âPerhaps, that is why this seems so wonderful.â
âNo. I think it would be wonderful, anyhow.â Sighed Mrs. Arbuthnot.
âThen, you were reading it?â
The womanâs eyes went dreamy, and she gave a small nod, âYes.â
âWouldnât it be wonderful?â Lotty almost whispered.
âWonderful.â Mrs. Arbuthnot repeated, before her face fading from hopeful excitement and back into a steady patience. âVery wonderful. But it is of no use, wasting oneâs time, thinking on such things.â
âOh, but it is!â Came Lottyâs quick reply, surprising her companion. âAnd just the considering of them, is worthwhile in itself. Such a change from Hampstead, and sometimes I believe, truly, if one considers hard enough, one gets things.â
Mrs. Arbuthnot considered her carefully, as if placing her into a category of one kind or another. âPerhaps⌠You would tell me your name. If we are to be friends, as I hope we may. It is best we began at the beginning.â
âOh yes!â Lotty said, âI am Mrs. Wilkins. I donât expect it conveys anything to youâŚ? Sometimes it⌠It doesnât seem to convey anything to me, either. I am, however, Mrs. Charlotte Wilkins, though all call me Lotty.â
She did not like her name.
It was a small name, with a kind of facetious twist, one end curving upward like the tail of pugdog. There it was, however. There was nought to do about it. Wilkins she was, and Wilkins she would remain.
Though her husband encouraged her to give her name as Mrs. Francis-Wilkins, she only did that within his very earshot. She thought Francis made Wilkins worse, emphasising it in a way that the gate posts of a villa emphasised the whole property.
When first he had suggested that she add his first name to her last, she had objected for the above reason. Francis had taken a pause, and then with much displeasure had said, âBut I am not a villa.â
His eyes had spelled so clearly what he had not said, that he thought her a fool.
She had tried to tell him that she didnât think him a villa, but in her own flustered way, had led to neither of them knowing what it was that she had been trying to say.
The more she explained, the more earnestly he had hoped that he might have, by chance, not married a fool. It led to a prolonged quarrel, with one of them adopting dignified silence, and the other earnest apology. A quarrel that asked whether she had come to call Mr. Wilkins a villa.
âMy husband,â Lotty said to Mrs. Arbuthnot, âIs a solicitor. He⌠He is very handsome.â
âWell, that must be a great pleasure to you.â Mrs. Arbuthnot said kindly.
âWhy?â
âBecause,â Said Mrs. Arbuthnot, taken a little aback, âBecause beauty, handsomeness, is a gift like any other. If it is properly usedâŚâ
She trailed off into silence. Lottyâs grey eyes were fixed on her, speaking of an excited dedication to the conversation. Waiting to be led in a way, that Mrs. Arbuthnot was unsure of the gravity.
However, Lotty was not altogether listening. As absurd as it seemed, an image had flashed across her brain, of two figures.
Two sitting together, under a great trailing wisteria with purple flowers in full blossom, that stretched across the branches of a tree she didnât know. Herself, and Mrs. Arbuthnot. She saw them. And behind them, bright in sunshine, the old grey walls of a medieval castle.
Lost in the image, she stared sightlessly at Mrs. Arbuthnot, and heard not a word that she did say.
Mrs. Arbuthnot, too, stared at Mrs. Wilkins. Arrested by the eager expression of her face, luminous and tremulous as it stared into water upon sea. Ruffled by a gust of wind.
If Lotty had been at a party, then she would even have found herself of interest to those around her. Perhaps even, Francisâ sister.
They stared at each other. Mrs. Arbuthnot with surprised inquiry. Lotty with the eyes of someone who has had some great revelation.
It couldnât be done, of course. She could not afford it. Wouldnât be able, even if she could afford it, to go all by herself.
Lotty leaned across the table, and whispered, âWhy donât we try and get it?â
Mrs. Arbuthnotâs eyes went wide, âGet it?â
âYes.â Lotty whispered, as if afraid of being overheard. âNot just sit here, and speak on how wonderful that it would be, and then go home to Hampstead, without having lifted a finger. Go home, just as usual. Seeing about the dinner and the fish, just as weâve been doing for years and years, and will go on doing for years and yearsâŚâ
Scared of the words coming out of her own mouth, she ran a hand through her hair, fingers pulling anxiously at the roots, as sounds continued to issue forth.
âI see no end to it. There is no end to it! So, there ought to be a break. An interval. It is in everybodyâs interests. Why, it would be the most unselfish thing to do. To go away, and be happy for a little, so that we can come back, be much nicer. Everybody needs a holiday.â
âBut⌠How do you mean, get it?â Asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.
âTake it.â
âI donât understand.â
Lotty shrugged energetically, âRent it. Hire it. Have the thing.â
âBut⌠Do you mean, you and I?â
âYes. Between us. Share.â Lotty said brightly, âThen it would only cost half, and you look⌠You seem as if you wanted it, just as much as I do. You ought to have a rest. Something happy, just for you.â
Mrs. Arbuthnot frowned, âWe do not know each other. We are strangers.â
âBut just think how well we might know each other, if we went away together for a month! Fah to strangeness!â Lotty went on, âI have saved for a rainy day. I expect you have, as well. And see the window! This is indeed, a very rainy day.â
Mrs. Arbuthnot clearly thought she was losing her sanity, and yet the woman was still seated. Hesitating, but caught in the wake of her excitement.
âThink of getting away for a whole month! From all of it! It would be heaven!â
âThe⌠VicarâŚâ Mrs. Arbuthnot fumbled with her words, before steadying herself. âHeaven is not somewhere else. We are told, it is the here and now.â
The womanâs voice became more earnest, that of one trying patiently to help and enlighten. âHeaven is within us. We are told that, on the very highest authority. The coming of heaven is not something that can be observed, because heaven is within us.â
âYes, yes.â Lotty said impatiently.
âHeaven and home, and kindred points,â Continued Mrs. Arbuthnot, unused to being interrupted, âHeaven is within our home.â
âIt isnât.â
Mrs. Arbuthnot started for a moment, before saying gently, âOh, but it is. It is there, if we choose to make it.â
âI do choose, and I do make it, and it⌠Isnât.â
The woman fell silent, looking uneasily at Lotty, and seemingly failing to weigh her up in the church womanâs mind.
The silence was long, as Lotty waited for the relative stranger to answer to the thrust of her suggestion. She knew from the womanâs expression that her own home life was not altogether happy. There was excitement in the idea in front of them, but there was also regal propriety, holding her back.
âI would like so much to be friends.â Mrs Arbuthnot said earnestly, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a card, âWonât you come and see me, or let me come to you sometimes? Whenever you feel as if you wanted to talk.â
Lotty ignored the card. âItâs so funny. But I see us both, you and me, in the medieval castle, this April.â
Mrs. Arbuthnot became uneasy again, âDo you?â
âDonât you ever see things in a kind of flash, before they happen?â Lotty asked.
âNot once.â The woman replied, giving an unsteady and sort of trembling smile, before lowering her voice, âOf course, it would be most beautifulâŚâ
âEven if it were not, it would only be for a month.â
âThatâŚâ Mrs. Arbuthnot began, trying to firm her voice and opposition.
âAnyhow.â Lotty said quickly, âIâm sure itâs wrong to go on being good and perfect, for too long. Until one becomes miserable. I can see youâve been good for years and years, because you look so unhappy.â
Mrs. Arbuthnot opened her mouth to argue, but Lotty didnât stop.
âIâve done nothing but duties, for other people. Ever since I was a girl. And Iâm afraid it has led me to believe⌠Only to believe⌠That nobody loves me a bit. Not a bit. The better⌠And I⌠Long⌠I long for⌠Something else! Something elseâŚâ
Mrs. Arbuthnot looked uncomfortable, sympathetic and concerned. She probably thought that Lotty was going to cry. She was not going to cry. Not here. Not in this room, with strangers coming and going. Not in front of this proper woman.
She quickly tugged, and then tugged some more, to pull a handkerchief out of her pocket. Blowing her nose quickly, before giving a nervous smile. âWill you believe, that I have never spoken to anyone before, like this, in my life? I simply donât know what has come over me.â
âThe advertisement.â Mrs. Arbuthnot nodded gravely.
âYes.â Lotty Wilkins dabbed furtively at her eyes, âAnd us being so very⌠Miserable.â
© Copyright 2024, James Milne