Rags to Riches

It happened slowly over time. It was not always like this, I was not always the domineered one; there was a time when I had fight in me. As a child, I could give my fair share of insolence. As you get older, I supposed it comes down to favouring anything for a quiet life and so slowly that fight became subdued, hibernating like a sleeping bear.

Rose was the eldest of the two of us by five years. This automatically put the control in her hand. The eldest always leads the youngest. From the moment, she discovered the power she had, she used it to its full effect.

We were born in to a wealthy family, father making the family fortune in the cotton mills.
He was continuously missing from the family fold, travelling on business, making new contacts. To him we were part of the success package, like the big house and the being seen in all the right places with all the right people.
Having a perfect family was always viewed as a positive attribute, which carried a substantial amount of respect.

All that said, we were just a necessary accessary, like the best china bought out to impress and reinforce success, but never to be seen on a daily basis. In our household, not being seen was the new partner to not being heard.
Mother’s role was as the dutiful wife, putting on the best dinner parties for father’s business associates. Even to her we were an extra chore included in the daily running of a large household. If she could, she would have happily stored us next to the family silver.

“Would someone please get these children from under my feet, a dinner party for twelve does not organise itself. Anne did you order the goose from the butcher?” at which point we would be herded out into the grounds regardless of the weather outside.

Rose felt it her duty, as eldest, to take on the role as guardian in between the periods of hired help. She made all the decisions, which at that age were mainly what games we played and how we wore our hair. In our teens and early twenties, this went on to include what we wore, what we ate and what we thought and said and to whom our friends would be.

The one attribute she got from mother was an inherent need to keep up appearances. She took every opportunity to pass comment on my appearance, “Iris, just look at your hair, how do you ever expect to find yourself a husband when you come out looking like that”, or “Why don’t you put on that nice blue dress, that colour purple does nothing for your complexion, you look washed out”. Nor did she mind who was around to hear them, discretion not being one of her strong points. I felt most of my teenage life was spent feeling self-conscious not quite living up to the mark These little comments continued all through our adult life, along with her constant preoccupation with finding a husband for herself and me.

For Rose, this stopped being a full time profession when at 24 she married Thomas Grosvenor, a young and wealthy business associate of Father’s. As with all things in our family’s existence, this was a marriage of appearance and mutual benefit instigated by Father. He got a son-in-law who knew the business and Thomas, married into an already established family. In those days, love was not a basis for marriage, so Rose got nothing really.

I, on the other hand was a constant worry to all, wondering what would become of “Poor Iris”, the “Poor” was becoming a permanent addition to my name as if it had been on my birth certificate since I arrived. It was beginning to look as if the shelf was the only place I was heading or so everyone else was thinking. I was the only one who was not the least bit concerned. I saw enough of the going ons in Rose’s marriage to know this was not how I wanted to spend my days.

Thomas and Rose lived behind a constant charade of married bliss, when in reality they were like strangers sharing a house. There were many nights when Thomas did not even make it home. Reference was made to him being “at the club”, but everyone know this really meant and it did not involve any stuffy old men discussing the nation’s economy or the cost of labour. On these nights, more often then not, I would hear Rose helping herself to the drinks cabinet and then the sobbing, even those who had dedicated their lives to keeping up appearances sometimes let the façade slip when alone.

Once we reached our thirties, it had become a well established fact to Rose anyway, that I was never going to married and so she resigned herself to the idea that I was going to be “Poor Iris the spinster”. She also made sure she let everyone know what a supreme sacrifice she was making in taking me in and taking care of me.

Was I such a burden? I think probably not, but she was not going to let anyone else know that. Anything that would put her in a good light with the upper echelons of society could not be a disadvantage.

To escape the oppression of the house and the constant critical eye of Rose, I would go out. I had mastered the art of being invisible, enabling me to spend hours in a café with the same cup of coffee and a book that, I would never read.
If the weather was fine, I would spend hours just out wandering the suburban streets. Breathing deep of the clean free air and gazing at the curtained windows of the houses, trying to imagine the lives going on inside, wishing for a role which I could fill.

Funny, even these mundane and ordinary worlds, with just every day people getting on the every day dramas; making sure the children weren’t late for school, deciding what to have for dinner were more interesting and inviting then mine. How I envied their riches.

It was on one such walk that I met Howard. I had turned down a small quiet street, which I had never entered before. The houses where larger then the preceding streets and all immaculately kept. I stopped at one, which was beautifully cared for. The paint was fresh and white on the weatherboards and porch. Images had instantly came to my mind of children running around the garden chased by the family dog. The parents standing watching, secretly congratulating themselves on their perfect lives,

One the other side of the front gate was a thick growth of jasmine entwining the fence. I had bent to take in the strong aroma escaping the many white flowers peppering the green.

“Hello”

I had stood up, startled. There standing on the house side of the hedge was an attractive greying man. He smiled at me warmly.
“Lovely isn’t it? It seems to grow so fast in the summer I feel like I need to come and cut it back every day before the whole street is swallowed up”

I laughed. He had alluring blue eyes and was slim built. He looked like he took care of himself.

“My name’s Howard” and he held out a gloved hand. “Opps! sorry” again he held out
his hand minus the glove.

I took it. His grip was not too firm, his nails well manicured. He look directly at my face, I felt mildly embarrassed at this small attention. I was only used to scornful looks from Rose.
We stood and chatted for a few minutes about the garden. I would have happily stayed and chatted for longer, content to stay looking at those amazing blue eyes.
From inside the house came the sound of a telephone ringing.

“I’m sorry, that’s my telephone. Excuse me”. He strolled back to the house to take the call.

Alone again, I carried on my walk.


The following week I took the same route, hoping to see him again, my stomach doing small somersaults. Was this how it felt to be a teenager with a crush? I walked on the other side of the street; I did not want to look obvious.
However, I did not see him that day. I walked to the end of the street, waited on the corner for five or ten minutes and then walked back past his house. I sighed and came home.

I went back the next week. I felt slightly foolish, I did not even know if he had a family in that big house.
I suddenly felt awkward when I saw him coming towards me from the other end of the street, I was sure he would know what my reason was for being there.
He gave me a wave.

“Hello again. Enjoying your afternoon stroll?”

“Yes, I love the gardens down this street”

He asked if I would like to come in a tour of his garden. I agreed, excited at the idea of spending more time with him.
We walked slowly around the extensive garden, admiring the beauty of flowers and plants. He asked me to stay for afternoon tea, which, I readily agree to. We sat on the lush green lawn, enjoying the heat of the afternoon sun.
He was a widower. His wife had died five years earlier after a long illness.

He took me to lunch next, out to a large manor house out of the city. We drank champagne and giggled like teenagers.

We continued to meet once a week and then more frequently. The periods in between were like a limbo that I endured as a trial before my reward.
Sometimes we would spend the morning in the garden sitting and talking, other times we would spend the whole afternoon out in the car, driving in the country.

What would Rose say is she know, I am sure she would quickly remove the “Poor Iris” label, although it would soon be replaced with what? Something far more insulting I had no doubt.

She had started to question to my comings and goings. Had she notice the subtle changes in me? The bit of colour in my cheeks, the new scarf and smudge of lipstick I was occasionally wearing.

I had noticed things to; she was no longer making such a concerted effort to hide her drinking. There was an increased contempt in her voice when she spoke to me, as if I was the source of all her misery. Thomas was coming home even less.
When Howard asked about my family I was reluctant to tell him. I did not want my “Other Life’ to contaminant this rich perfection.

It was six months into our relationship that Howard made the suggestion. He said it was always something he had wanted to do, but just had never had the time or opportunity, but that looked to have changed.

I felt like someone was slipping me the key to unlock the cage I had been held in all these years. I reached out to take it, albeit tentatively, sure that it would be snatched away just as my finger touched the metal. He was persuasive and soon put an end to my apprehensions. Before I knew it, we were buying tickets to an eighteen-month around the world cruise.

As I sit on the bed, I try to picture Rose’s face when she finds the letter I have left for her. I look across the ship’s cabin to the big double bed and the dinner jacket laid out and then to the right and the dressing table where his shaving things are. I smile to myself; I doubt my name would be associated with “Poor” now.