Evan Hunter - Lizzie

On the evenings when they went to the theater (it was he who obtained tickets to the D’Oyly Carte and to The Private Secretary at the Prince of Wales) he took them to supper afterwards, and often they would walk homeward together in the deep London fog, Geoffrey explaining that he would not advise them to do this alone, even now that their beloved Jack no longer seemed to be afoot with his scalpel. They had heard of Jack the Ripper even in America, and Felicity plied him with questions about the infamous murders, causing Lizzie to shiver in the dark.

“I still shouldn’t go wandering about in Whitechapel alone at night,” Geoffrey said, “though Lord knows our Jack seems to have been quiet these past two years. His victims, of course, were ‘ladies’ of another sort, but even genuine ladies aren’t quite immune to the rudeness of many of our so-called gentlemen (and here a rolling of his Alison-like eyes.) I’m sure you noticed that in the theater district it’s impossible for ladies if they’re alone, and even unpleasant if they’re accompanied by a man. I should warn you, too, if ever you’re afoot without me, to avoid Leicester Square and its adjoining streets, where there’s a large foreign population and it’s not usual for young women to go about alone; if you feel you absolutely must go, please do so in the mornings. Or better yet, wait for me to accompany you. The same applies to the Strand, which in the late afternoon has a decidedly mixed class of — ‘passengers’, shall we say? As for the Burlington Arcade, admittedly full of luxurious little shops that might entice you, do avoid it in the late afternoon when women for whom you would not care to be mistaken begin their little walks there.”

Everything then — all that any tourist might have wanted to see — he showed them. But he took them to other more surprising things as well. One night he walked them to the Westminster Bridge and asked them to gaze at the shimmering reflections in the Thames — the avenues of gaslights and rows of illuminated windows; the solitary electric lamp shining from the immense station at Charing Cross; the factories on the south side of the river, ablaze with light; the long straight line of lamps that stretched as far as the eye could see, above the bridge where Lambeth Hospital faced the houses of Parliament; the red, blue and green lamps on the railway bridge far away, and the long white plume of smoke drifting upward from an unseen locomotive, capturing the colors, reflecting them in a watery kaleidoscope. And one afternoon — she forgot which one, they all seemed to rush by so rapidly — he took them to see the annual review of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade on the football ground in Victoria Park, where fifteen steam fire engines and four manual engines and four hose vans and a hundred officers and men demonstrated their skills to a crowd of some fifty thousand spectators.

When he took them by the penny boat to Greenwich, he explained that the excursion was not in itself particularly attractive, but that it would give them an effective view of part of the waterfront “of our monstrous city; and besides, we shall be surrounded by a characteristic crowd of lower-class Londoners.” One day he took them back to Westminster Abbey, where he paid an attendant sixpence and then led them up a steep winding stair above the Islip Chapel to show them a little room in which were eleven life-sized figures with wax faces, explaining that they were once carried at the funerals of the people they represented, and pointing out the effigy of Queen Elizabeth herself!

He saved the best — she would never forget it — for the Friday before their departure. He had warned them in advance that it would be a long day and that they would not be deposited at their hotel again until rather late that night, but he assured them they could sleep as late as they wished on the morrow, complete their packing without any sense of hurry, enjoy a leisurely lunch and then catch the late afternoon train to Folkestone, which would get them there in time for dinner at the hotel he’d already booked. He had also arranged with the Albemarle to make certain that their luggage (he would insist on calling it luggage) was labeled directly to the Anglo-Français in Paris and transported to the railway station sometime tomorrow. He advised them to keep out of their trunks whatever clothing they might need for today and the next two days, which they could easily pack into their overnight cases.

“I apologize in advance for the paucity of the spectacle you are about to witness,” he said, “but the Henley Regatta takes place at the beginning of July, and anything following it is by comparison dull. I thought, however, that you might care to see to what use our citizens put the Thames in summertime, and perhaps you shall be pleasantly surprised. Besides, it always rains at Henley.”

They were a bit dismayed when he took them to the railway station, apologizing again for the necessity of yet another rail journey when they would be taking one on the morrow, but explaining that the only attraction the Thames had to offer between London and Richmond was its muddy banks, and promising that the trip would be a short one. It was somewhat longer than they’d expected, and the cars were thronged with people taking early advantage of the long bank-holiday weekend, but his surprise was waiting at Richmond — a hired rowboat large enough to accommodate the entire party and two muscular young boatsmen as well.

The fields on either side of the river were rolling and green. The water lapped the sides of the boat. The sun was strong overhead. Felicity, more to capture the attention of the boatsmen than to make any pertinent comment, kept pointing out remarkable sights on the banks — a cow, a frolicking spotted dog, a man playing an accordian — objects of interest she seemed never to have seen before. The river was uncluttered and tranquil. On the grassy embankments, bees buzzed in the clover. And then, quite suddenly, the traffic became heavier, and a tiny cat-and-mouse smile touched Geoffrey’s lips for here was the true surprise he’d planned.

“We call it the Hampton Court and Dittons Aquatic Sports,” he said, “which is in itself a mouthful. But if you like boats — well, ladies, you shall have boats indeed!”

There were more boats than Lizzie had ever seen in a single place before. They choked the river from shore to shore — sailing boats whose masts were covered with flowers, palms and exotic plants; rowboats decorated with flags and lanterns; canoes and steam launches, and dinghys and outriggers and houseboats; boats Geoffrey described as “dongolas” (had he twisted his tongue on gondolas?) and others he described as “sculls”; boats with brilliantly colored canopies and boats with striped awnings, boats poled by pairs and longer boats paddled by six or even eight — boats everywhere she looked! And all along the river bank were carriages and other vehicles, and gaily dressed people standing on the towpath under the hot summer sun, cheering or shouting or singing or simply watching the race — if indeed it was a race. But Geoffrey had made reference earlier to the Henley Regatta, hadn’t he? And what was a regatta if not a race? Still, none of the people here on the river seemed frantically striving to win anything, seemed instead to be caught in some joyous exodus, their exuberant voices rising above the clatter of the paddles to join the buzz of voices on the embankments. A summertime spirit of — gaiety, she supposed — hung on the air, as palpable as the warm sunshine and the cool river breeze. She had never known such gaiety in her life.

And later, as dusk claimed the countryside, electric lights flashed on many of the pilings up and down the river, and on some of the boats as well. A houseboat named Pitti-Sing had hanging over its doorway two miniature canoes, each aglow with what Geoffrey called “fairy lights”. The lone had her name spelled out in similar lights — the candles of these, however, flickering in red glass containers — and yet another boat was decorated with a large gilt crown outlined in lights, its center ablaze with the letters V. R. A punt slipped past, the name La Capa Negra stitched in white on a red bunting that flew from a tall pole, and the three musicians in the boat spoke Italian to each other and wore black crepe masks and sang Italian songs (though Geoffrey assured her the men were English) and then passed about a fishing net, soliciting money. In another boat there were men singing what Geoffrey called “nigger music”, and in yet another a young girl sang to the accompaniment of a harp, her lilting voice floating out over the dark waters reflecting the glow of Chinese lanterns and illuminated stars in lamps draped with flags.