Open Writing

Claude had been waiting for this evening with overwhelming anticipation and excitement.

He looked around the family parlour with delight and pride.

Mum and Becky, his sister, had swept, dusted, polished, pulled up rugs and beaten them on the sagging clothesline in the yard, until not another speck of dust from the Wilson’s home could be dislodged from the faded fabrics.

Claude had been banned from the room all day in case he should tread mud or leave smeary finger marks on the polished surfaces.

The kitchen had been fogged all day with steaming pots, and delicious smells came through the door each time one of them rushed out to attend to something.

He sat at the table stiff and upright. His collar digging into his neck and his hair smoothed firmly down with his Dad’s hair oil. His stomach rolled quietly in eagerness for the delights ahead.

When he had been told they were to be honoured with Mr and Mrs Humphrey-Smyth as dinner guests his estimation of his father grew even higher. It had been very forcibly impressed on him with much finger wagging and threats of dire punishments if he should say or do anything to embarrass his parents who were to entertain the wealthiest gentleman in the town.

Claude already knew Mr Humphrey-Smyth was a very grand man. He had seen him in various places about the town wearing his heavy gold watch and chain and waving his silver knobbed walking stick. He even drove one of the new horseless carriages which exploded frighteningly as it rushed along the dusty roads shocking the ladies and being the subject of envy of the men.

He also knew Mr Humphrey-Smyth owned a very large and much decorated house which was full of marble figures of lady’s not quite dressed. He knew this, because in his apprenticeship with the postal service, he was employed as the telegram boy and in the course of his duties he had delivered telegrams to the mansion. When he had knocked on the door a maid had opened it far enough for him to see into the large tiled hallway and Claude had been astonished and thrilled to observe a large white female form on a pedestal at the foot of a curving stairway.

He would have been more than pleased to have looked for longer but the maid shooed him away.

Later in the sorting room he told his friend Tommy of his observations and Tommy agreed it would have been good to have seen more.

Mr and Mrs Humphrey-Smyth were to grace the Wilson home because Claude’s father, being the local Vicar, had recently had the sombre privilege of conducting the burial of the late Mrs Humphrey who, as the whole town knew, had disapproved of the marriage of her daughter to a plain MR SMITH and had absolutely refused permission for the marriage to go ahead unless the names were hyphenated. As Mr Smith wished to inherit the Humphrey money far more than he wish to retain his name, he agreed with much smiling and obsequious assurances he would be honoured to make the alterations.

Despite her wealth, Mrs Humphrey-Smyth was a homely and quite lonely woman, often left as she was by her husband attending to his many business interests, which she knew little about. He preferred it that way. She and Claude’s mother had become friends in a quiet distant way, each knowing the other had a position in the town to keep up for their husband’s sake.

The husbands on the other hand, endured each other for their wives sakes, but had little to do with one another otherwise. The Vicar was not a gambler or a frequenter of public houses and Mr Humphrey-Smyth did not venture into the church unless it was unavoidable.

The Vicar did however know of a property in the town which was in Mr Humphrey-Smyth’s possession and which he understood was very lucrative and which was, to most right thinking men and women, considered a blot on good society. He was sure quiet Mrs Humphrey-Smyth did not know of its existence or that part of her fortune had been spent to build it and support people who Claude, listening avidly at the door one evening when his parents were speaking, heard his father describe to his mother as ‘scarlet women’.

Mother had repeated the words in hushed and shocked tones and there had been shaking of the heads and tut tutting.

“Poor Rose.” She had sighed.

“Indeed.” Father had replied, but signalled to mother he had spied Claude hovering at the doorway and for her to be silent. Claude had listened with interest but without much understanding.

Now he sat at the very foot of the table watching the grand guest as he obviously enjoyed the meal mother had prepared.

The crystal sparkled in the candlelight and plates that were only used at Christmas looked lovely on the perfect white of the linen cloth.

He was being as unobtrusive as possible, although hearing everything. Having been told to only speak when spoken to, he thus far, had thought of many things he could have said, but remained obediently silent.

“Now young Claude” Mr Humphrey-Smyth beamed at him during a lull in conversation, a gold tooth glinting in the candlelight. “What do you propose to do with your life?”

Claude found himself blushing at being the centre of attention but was ready with his answer and replied politely, “I should like to be in business Sir.”

“Really young man? You don’t propose to be a cleric like you father?” Mr Humphrey-Smyth smiled on as all the faces at the table looked at Claude.

“No Sir, I should like to be in a business such as yours.” He was trying to be very polite and properly deferential..

“Do you know anything about my business?” Mr Humphrey-Smyth laughed thinking to catch Claude and instruct him and the others at the same time.

“Oh yes sir. I have seen you at work Sir when I have delivered a telegram to the house of the Pink Ladies.”

Claude’s parents instinctively held their breaths.

“Oh indeed, indeed,” Mr Humphrey-Smyth dithered a little.

At last Claude’s Mother interrupted “Claude dear, finish your vegetables.” Mother sensed trouble looming.

“Oh, the dear boy.” Mrs Humphrey-Smyth laughed “To whom do you refer when you mention Pink Ladies?”

Clause smiled, eagerly dabbing a drip of gravy from his chin.

“Oh, you know Mrs Humphrey-Smyth. The Pink Ladies Mr Humphrey-Smyth sits with when he is playing cards, the ones who wear those frilly dresses and show most of their legs. I saw them when I delivered a telegram to the one called Dolly, the one that was sitting on his lap.”

The silence was broken only by the Holland blind flapping lazily at the open window.

Mrs Humphrey-Smyth slowly put her knife and fork neatly onto her plate, dabbed lightly at her lips with a table napkin and turned slowly to Claude.

“Which house is this you are speaking of Claude?”

The boy had tried so hard to be polite but he felt he had said something out of place but he could not suck his words back into his mouth now.

“The one in Meadow Hill Lane, Mam, it has a red light. Oh I know!” he smile hoping to fix the situation, “they aren’t Pink Ladies are they Mama, you said they were Scarlet Ladies.’’

Claude took some time to learn what he had done and why the dinner party broke up so suddenly when it had seemed to be going so well, and why, if it had been his fault Mother and Father never explained what he had done or punished him.

Becky told him what a dolt he was but not why, and Mr and Mrs Humphrey-Smyth sold up their great properties and moved to another state.