1901

Edwin Fiveash was drenched to the skin. He hammered on the door of 2 Etheldene Terrace as if his life depended upon it.

Four floors above, Beatrice Horradine, proprietress of the boarding house woke with a start. Without troubling to light a candle, she crept out of the attic and felt her way down the narrow stairs that creaked through the building like a twisted spine. She paused for a moment in the midnight black hallway, before opening the door to the stranger.

‘Your noise is enough to wake the dead.’ The rain lashed her face and landed needle sharp on her tongue as she spoke. It tasted of coal dust and autumn.

‘Pardon me, Madam for disturbing you at such an ungodly hour, but I was advised by a policeman that this was a reputable place to find a lodging.’

Bea took a step back from the door and considered the sodden wretch that stood before her. She folded her arms across her chest, conscious that the rain had begun to soak her calico nightgown, making her heaviness more visible to the stranger’s eye.

‘This is no time of night for a decent man to be looking for a bed.’

‘And I am heartily sorry for that, Madam. As you can see, I carry only that which I stand up in and this small bag. I have been cast out of my previous lodging this evening without warning. All I can do is beg your kindness.’

Bea looked the man up and down. He appeared to be in his late twenties and was slightly built, with an apologetic bearing. After a moment of thought, she gestured to the stranger to step inside. She considered herself to be an excellent judge of character. In all her forty years, her instincts had never let her down. And if they did, she could handle trouble just as well as any man.

‘Rent is twelve shillings a week, half board. Extra if you want your washing done and a spiced bun on a Sunday afternoon. I don’t allow alcohol in the house. Nor are you to entertain members of the opposing sex in your room.’ The raindrops flew from Mr Fiveash in all directions, as he nodded energetically in response to Bea’s speech.

‘You’ll have to wait until morning for a cup of tea. But there’s cold mutton chops left over from dinner, if you’ve a fancy for them.’

‘That is a very generous offer, particularly at this late hour, Mrs…’ Edwin Fiveash faltered for want of a name.

‘Horradine. It is Miss Horradine.’ The emphasis was placed on the Miss. ‘You’re lucky we happen to have a vacancy.’

Mr Fiveash followed dutifully behind Bea as she led him through the darkness to a room on the second floor. She then bid him a brief but courteous goodnight and returned to the attic. Nothing more was said of the mutton chops.

Little Sarah Pedwell was the first to see Edwin Fiveash by the light of day. She was sitting at the foot of the stairs when she heard his polite cough creep around the half open door that led to the dining room.

After a struggle of toes and ankles, she shook her feet free from the bottom of her nightgown, which had been specially wound about to keep them warm. It didn’t matter how many fires were lit in this house; the air in the big rooms always felt like stone to the touch.

Sarah tucked her book of fairytales under her arm for safekeeping and slowly crossed the hall. She popped her head cautiously around the dining room door and smiled at the stranger who sat alone at the large table.

Originating from Ireland, this grand piece of furniture had spent the first sixty years of its life as a stand for coffins, being expandable in every direction and sturdy enough to take the weight of a dead butcher in his prime. Generations of weeping widows had done nothing to warp its construction or stain its surface. Considered to be one of the best pieces of furniture in the house, its history was not generally mentioned to the guests.

Sarah was about to say hello, when she was startled by a voice from the stairs.

‘Sarah, what have I told you about wandering around the house in a state of undress. The devil will catch you. What if one of the lodgers were to see you? You have to be more careful with so many strange men in the house…’

Sarah turned from the door to face her mother and began her defence. ‘But Aunt Bea says…’

Elizabeth Pedwell scowled. She had given up the battle against the hard expression that had taken over her face and defeated the youthful bloom that had retreated long before its time.

‘Don’t interrupt, Sarah. And you mustn’t heed your aunt. She doesn’t know what it’s like to worry for a child. And she knows nothing of the wicked ways of men.’

‘Don’t fret the child, Elizabeth.’ Bea’s head appeared around the doorway that had been abruptly vacated by her niece. ‘Sarah, run upstairs and throw on your pinafore. Then you can help me serve breakfast. Our new lodger, Mr Fiveash looks the type to be partial to an egg.’

Sarah galloped upstairs as Bea entered the hallway, closing the dining room door firmly behind her. Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

‘Don’t turn your little girl against half the human race before she’s grown enough to make up her own mind, Elizabeth. Not every man is as wicked as George Pedwell.’

Elizabeth blushed at her sister’s words. Whether the colour was due to embarrassment or anger, it was difficult to tell. Since her husband had abandoned her on the night of Sarah’s birth, his name had barely been mentioned. His presence, however, continued to hang in the space that floated between them likepoison.

Within ten minutes, Sarah was hovering at the table in a blue pinafore, her hair hanging down in a hastily woven plait and her eyes focussed on the strange young man with the delicate features.

The regular lodgers held little interest for her any more. She had figured out their strange accents that jarred against the Southern speech she had grown up with. She knew about their lives and their sorrows. She had listened to everything they had to say, and overheard their secrets through half-open doorways and from lingering on landings.

Sidney had been with them for over six months. He had left his wife and four children somewhere in the North, while he laid the bricks for the new houses in the surrounding streets and sent the money back home. He said he was happy to be able to put good food on the family table, even if he was not there to enjoy it himself. He took his trade wherever there was work, but always cried when he received a letter from his wife.

And then there was Daisy, a girl of twenty with pale green eyes. She hoped to find a position as a lady’s maid in one of the grand houses that perched like exotic birds on the edge of Wimbledon Common. She had been trying to find a place for two months. Nobody had bothered to tell her that she would never be offered a job with a lady of quality, while she painted her cheeks red.

But none of this interested Sarah as she stood beside Mr Fiveash with her hands neatly folded behind her back. Here sat a new curiosity for her childhood eyes and ears to unravel.

‘Aunt Bea would like to know if you would prefer kippers or eggs this morning, Sir. As you are new to us, we do not know your preferences.’ But this was not the question that was really burning on her lips.

The young man lifted his eyes to Sarah’s bright face. ‘I wouldn’t want to be any particular trouble. I’ll eat whatever is placed before me. Please tell your aunt that those mutton chops she mentioned last night will do just as well as anything.’

Sarah nodded and left the dining room with a tight-lipped expression. All she had wanted was an answer to a simple question. Now she had to relate whole sentences of politeness.

Bea was red faced from fighting with the stove that stubbornly refused to light as Sarah entered the kitchen.

‘I think he wants mutton chops, but I can’t be sure.’

Bea hit the stove with the nearest thing that came to hand, which happened to be a large saucepan. The pan in question already carried many scars and dents from similar treatment, being a regular victim of Bea’s temperament. The stove however, seemed to withstand such violence quite readily, and still refused to light.

‘I hope he doesn’t intend rising this early every morning. I don’t expect guests at my table for at least another half an hour. At this rate, we’ll have even less time in our beds.’

Elizabeth’s head appeared from within a cloud of crumpled bed sheets that were ready for laundering, once the stove had been lit and the water heated. ‘Once you’ve served breakfast, Sarah I want you to start cleaning out the grates in the third floor bedrooms. Then you must black them as I showed you the other day. Don’t forget to knock on each door before entering. And while you are there, make sure you open the windows. Those rooms are due a good airing.’

‘But Mother…’

‘You’re a big girl now, Sarah. You have to do your share of the work. Your aunt and I can’t manage all by ourselves.’

‘Mutton chops,’ barked Bea, thrusting a pile of greasy leftovers at Sarah. They slid around precariously on the plate as she carried them through to the dining room with nervous, unpractised hands.

Life had changed for Sarah in the months since her ninth birthday. Aunt Bea had given her a powder blue ribbon to mark the day. She had been running it through her hands, feeling the pleasure of its silkiness against the soft flesh of her fingers when her mother had taken her aside and told her she was grown enough to start helping in the house.

From that moment, she had been made to put aside her books and her childhood toys. Her fairytale castle at the top of the house where she had once played princesses, was now just the attic where she washed and dressed and slept alongside her mother and her aunt.

The three single beds, neatly lined up against the wall were no longer boats that carried her across the sea to imagined foreign lands, but places to fold yourself into at the end of each day when your limbs ached so badly they felt all rubbery.

Her mother had promised that when she had completed her chores each day, she would be allowed to look at her books. But there was always something to be done in the unforgiving house, where soot smeared every surface and the lodgers conspired to bring home every peck of the day’s dirt on their boots.

‘Caper sauce, Mr Fiveash? Or would you prefer tomato?’ Before Sarah had placed the food on the table, Bea had appeared in the dining room, brandishing a jar in each hand. ‘They are both home made to my own secret recipe.’ Mr Fiveash’s initiation process was about to begin.

By the time his knife hovered above the first withered chop, Bea had placed herself at the opposite side of the table and was vigorously scraping marmalade across a piece of toast, under the pretence of joining him for breakfast.

‘So tell me, Mr Fiveash. What brought you to these parts so unexpectedly? And at such a strange hour?’ Sarah hovered by the door, her childhood curiosity brimming over. Bea’s eyes flashed in her direction and turning for a moment from the new guest, she discreetly gestured to Sarah to return to the kitchen.

Mr Fivesh put down his knife with polite resignation. He had not eaten since yesterday lunchtime, but now was not the time to pander to his growling stomach.

‘I’m no stranger to these parts, Madam, having lived in Wimbledon all my life. It just so happened that I had an unfortunate altercation with the husband of my landlady yesterday evening and so was forced to leave the house with some urgency.’

‘Oh?’ Rather than satisfying Bea’s curiosity, which was almost as intense as Sarah’s, this morsel only served to whet her appetite for further information. The questioning lilt in her exclamation was enough to prompt Mr Fiveash to further revelation.

‘Hmm, yes.’ He cleared his throat and pushed aside his plate as Bea bit into her toast, pulling the bread away from her clenched teeth with a distracted tearing motion.

‘The gentleman is question had been in the Surrey House of Correction for some years, which is why his wife had found it necessary to take in a paying guest. Having been given his freedom yesterday morning, he celebrated by visiting a number of alehouses before returning home.’

At this point, Bea clicked her tongue and shook her head in displeasure. The young man paused to allow the lady space for further comment, but as none was forthcoming, he took the act of her taking a second bite of the toast as a cue to continue.

‘I can only imagine that something untoward had been said to him during these intervening hours, concerning my residence under his roof. He took one look at me and flew into a rage. I won’t trouble you, Madam with details of the terrible scene that followed, but needless to say, despite his wife’s protestations I was made to leave the house with only those personal belongings that I could quickly throw into a bag.

‘I was then forced to walk the streets of Wimbledon for some hours in the pouring rain until an obliging policeman pointed me in the direction of your door.’

‘That would have been Jack. It’s always a good idea to keep the uniforms on your side, when you’re a woman alone in business.’ She gave Mr Fiveash a knowing wink and poured herself a cup of tea.

‘I must assure you, Madam that nothing untoward ever took place between myself and my previous landlady. She always behaved with complete propriety towards me. And despite my lowly place in this world, I consider my behaviour equal to that of the highest born gentleman.’

Mr Fiveash’s cheeks pinked with vehemence as he fought to impress his sense of honour upon Bea. He had been unjustly treated and had yet to recover from the humiliation. He waved his arms wildly in the air to emphasise his point.

‘You do not have a wife, Mr Fiveash?’

‘No, Madam.’

‘Has no young lady yet captured your heart?’

Mr Fiveash blushed yet a deeper shade of pink and shook his head. ‘No, Madam, and I have no expectation of one ever doing so.’

Bea gave a knowing nod, but said nothing. Despite the delicacy of his hands and the lightness of his movements, she noticed the skin was rough and callused and his nails were so thickly embedded with dirt that it looked as if it had grown there.

‘So what is it you do, Mr Fiveash?’

‘I am a gardener, Madam.’

‘Ah, you work in a garden attached to one of the grand houses up the hill. Do they not offer accommodation in one of their sheds?’ Mr Fivesh let out a small laugh and put his handkerchief to his lips, though no food had yet passed there.

‘It’s not that kind of garden, Madam. I work in a market garden. It’s a small family concern. We supply local traders with fruit and vegetables. These very hands may well have grown the tomatoes that went into that fine sauce of yours.’

Bea appeared uncomfortable at the thought and shuffled her buttocks on the chair for a moment while she considered a reply.

‘That may well be. Gardening is one pleasure that we have little time for in this house. There’s a great patch of land out back begging to be cultivated, but it’s as much as we can do to keep the house running, never mind worrying about the frivolity of flowers and weeds.’

‘But a garden could be a great asset to an establishment such as yours. Think of the produce you could grow to supply your table. Think of the advantage to your guests. What could be more desirable on a hot afternoon, than the prospect of resting in the pleasant shade of a large tree? Think of the extra rent you could charge for such a facility.’

Bea, who had been on the point of rising from the table, planted herself more firmly in the chair and leant forward. ‘Are you saying, Sir that a well kept garden could pay us back?’

‘It would not only pay you back, Madam but if it was worked in the right way, you could even profit from it. Think of the benefits. Fresh fruit in season at no cost to yourself. You’d only have to go as far as your garden for freshly picked vegetables and salads. And imagine the herbs you could grow. You would be serving meals to match the quality of those offered by the ladies in the grandest houses at the top of the hill.’

Bea tapped the butter knife thoughtfully against her lips while she considered the idea. Her face brightened for a moment before being defeated by practicality.

‘That’s all very well, Mr Fiveash but as I have said, neither my sister nor myself have the skill or the time to devote to such an occupation. We grew up in the city of London, you know. Our father did very well for himself at the bank, even managing to purchase his own house, which I am sure you know in this day and age, is a very rare thing indeed.

‘He was a very prudent man, and eager that he should have something of value to leave to his daughters. He was insistent that we should have the means to keep ourselves, to be sure we would never starve. This is why he strove to become a man of property. A house with a garden however, was beyond his means and so we have no experience of such things.’

‘Ah, it seems such a pity. But perhaps, if there was someone else who could help you. Someone who knew about these things. Someone who could perhaps lay his hands on the necessary seeds and plants at a reasonable price...’

Bea leaned back in her chair and considered for a moment. ‘I would have to consult my sister about any such changes. This is, after all a family business.’ There wasanother long pause, during which the young man took the opportunity of retreating to the mutton chops.

‘Do you intend staying with us long, Sir?’ Mr Fiveash nodded furiously, his mouth being too full of yesterday’s meat for him to be able to answer politely. After a further pause and one or two hard swallows, he was finally able to speak.

‘You have the reputation of being the best boarding house in Wimbledon, Madam. And now that I’ve tasted the excellence of your mutton chops, I’d be foolish to look elsewhere.’

Despite herself, Bea was unable to fight the smile of pleasure that lit up her face. She opened the jar of the caper sauce and dolloped a large spoonful onto the young man’s plate. ‘Then perhaps we could come to some arrangement.’

And so it was that Edwin Fiveash became a long term resident of 2 Etheldene Terrace. It was an occupation that would last for many years and would change the history of the house and the people who resided within its walls forever.