M. V. Hughes - A London Girl of the Eighties

This edition is published by BORODINO BOOKS www.pp-publishing.com

To join our mailing list for new titles or for issues with our books borodinobooks@gmail.com

Or on Facebook

Text originally published in 1936 under the same title.

Borodino Books 2018, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publishers Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

A LONDON GIRL OF THE EIGHTIES

by

M. V. Hughes

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Your father, dear old chap, is always so anxious about you, and afraid of your becoming an ordinary schoolgirl, with an ordinary schoolgirls tricks and mannerisms.

THIS sentence is part of a letter from my mother to me in 1879, when at the age of twelve I was spending my summer holiday in Cornwall. The term old chap was merely one of endearment, for he was only a little over forty, and to us children more like an elder brother than a father. He never worried us about our behaviour, so that any hint he let drop was the more significant. And when a few weeks later in that same year he met with a fatal accident, it was natural for us to treasure everything that we remembered about him. The particular hint quoted above was occasioned by a letter I had written home with several postscripts and facetious turns of phrase. I knew quite well that what he meant by ordinary was the silly attempt to be extraordinary, and that he wanted me to be as simple and straightforward as possible. The same idea had been rubbed in by my four elder brothers, with less delicacy. So, paradoxically, I tried to carry out the wishes of these my household gods by being as ordinary and as little conspicuous as I could, suppressing a childs desire to shine by using grand words and witticismsall that the boys summed up in the dreaded phrase trying to be funny.

My mothers ideas for me gave a healthy make-weight. She was for encouraging any scrap of originality in anybody at any time, and allowed me to run free physically and mentally. She had no idea of keeping her only girl tied to her apron-strings, and from childhood I used to go out alone in our London suburb of Canonbury, for a run with my hoop or to do a little private shopping, and once even went to Cornwall by myself. Her precepts were extremely few and consequently attended to. Never talk to anyone in the street except to tell them the way. To back this up, lurid stories were told me of children offered sweets by a kind lady, or taken for a ride in a gig by a kind gentleman, and never heard of again. The mystery of their fate was alluring, but deterrent enough. When a little older, I was warned, If out late, walk fast and look preoccupied, and no one will bother you. Why I should be bothered I had no idea, but adopted the line of conduct without question. One striking instance of the potency of fewness in commands comes to my memory. Mother came in rather agitated one day; she had seen some very dreadful pictures in a shop in a side street not far away; she begged me not to walk down that street ever. Although curious enough to know what the pictures could be, I never dreamt of going to look. She showed even greater restraint in refusing to give advice; when I applied for such help she would nearly always say, Use your own judgement.

Another policy of my mothers was not so commendable. She wished to make me indifferent to my personal appearance, provided only that I was tidy and had no buttons missing. She snubbed me once quite severely for remarking that I thought I looked nice in my new dress: Its no business of yours what you look like. She told me that the moment anyone put powder or paint on her face she was taking the first downward step. This was not from a moral point of view, but self-regarding. You have to keep on with it more and more because you look queer without it, and then when you get older you look like poor Miss Dossit. This was a dressmaker who served as a helot in another direction, too: she was never punctual, and we had to say that a dress was required three days before it actually was, in order to get it in time. My mother drove home the moral, concluding with the remark, The Queen is never unpunctual.

By common conspiracy, as I discovered in later years, all of them, father, mother, and brothers, kept me from any knowledge of the evils of the world. Today this seems ridiculous, if not dangerous, but there was some wisdom in it after all, for my life all along has been fresher and jollier for being free from fears and suspicions. As for little points of savoir-faire I picked these up unconsciously from hearing the boys comments on the behaviour of their numerous acquaintances. The characteristics of the girls who came to the house were freely discussed in the family circle, and I easily discovered some types that were not popular. There was the extravagant girl, who was always wanting to be taken out, making serious holes in pocket-money. There was the managing kind, who knew how to deal with men. There was the empty-headed silly giggling kind, bearable for only a very short time. The wonder-struck girl with big eyes, who said, Oh, Tom, fahncy! to everything he said, lasted only a little longer. Then there was the intense and interesting typeall right, you know, mother, for a chat, but not much as a companion for life. Least popular of all, I gathered, was the aggressively sensible girl who was never taken in.

The family tea-time, when such opinions were let loose as we all sat round the table, was a pleasant and I think useful part of our education. The main work of the day was over and the family pooled what gossip they had got from school or books or friends, discussing future plans and telling the latest jokes. Mother, pouring out at the head of the table, liked us to chatter freely, but I, as the youngest, seldom got a word in and was often snubbed when I did. Thus, after venturing, I did well in French today, I had the chilling reminder from Charles, Self-praise is no recommendation. If I related a joke, Weve heard that before would come as a chorus. Once when I confided to Dym that we had begun America, he called out, I say, boys, at Mollys school theyve just discovered America. In short, I was wisely neglected.

I say wisely, because at the private school to which I trotted off every day I was a person of importance. I shared with another girl the glory of being dux , as our Head called it. We took places in class, and the one who was top at the end of the morning wore a silver medal. This nearly always fell to Winnie Heath or me. She and I were good friends and shared a hearty contempt for our teachers. The only things they taught us quite thoroughly were the counties and chief towns, dates of the kings, French irregular verbs, and English parsing. Since these were immutable and mainly irrational, they were unsullied by explanations and remained useful possessions.

One day Winnie came to school all flushed and excited, took me aside, and said, Ive got an idea. Lets work at something for ourselves. Yesterday I came across in a book all about the different races and languages in Austria. You wouldnt believe what a lot there areso jolly. And I thought, why not get the things we want to know out of books ?