Anonymous: Muriel

'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'.