The Green Man Cometh
via The Green Man Cometh.
I am a guest this week – what a novel experience that was! Many thanks to Dean Lombardo for inviting me – here is the opening :
“The next time you visit a cathedral, crane your head up to look at the ceiling, where the building’s arches lurk in shadow. What else do you see? You might need binoculars—but the older the cathedral, the more likely you are to find, nestling atop corbels and capitals, a singular face with leaves and branches climbing out of its mouth. Sometimes fierce, sometimes cheerful, mostly a trifle wild … this often-sculpted entity has been with us far longer than the cathedrals, and long before the Normans who built them, with a name that has regained resonance only recently: the Green Man…”
Post continues here …
The Sounds of London …
Couldn’t resist this, another little foundling for the old scrap-book (it’s 1915, so a much younger Julia Warren was perhaps still learning her craft as a fledgling journalist, but already with dreams of becoming a writer…)
“Night-time sounds of Kingsland Road:
My first night was the same as every other. My window looked out on a church tower which still further preyed on the wan light of the street, and, as I lay in bed, its swart height, pierced by the lit clock face, gloated stiffly over me. From back of beyond a furry voice came dolefully—
Goo bay to sum-mer, goo bay, goo baaaaay!
That song has thrilled and chilled me ever since. Next door an Easy Payments piano was being tortured by wicked fingers that sought after the wild grace of Weber’s “Invitation to the Valse.” From the street the usual London night sounds floated up until well after midnight. There was the dull, pessimistic tramp of the constable, and the long rumble of the Southwark-bound omnibus. Sometimes a stray motor-car would hoot and jangle in the distance, swelling to a clatter as it passed, and falling away in a pathetic diminuendo. A traction-engine grumbled its way along, shaking foundations and setting bed and ornaments a-trembling. Then came the blustering excitement of chucking-out at the “Galloping Horses.” Half a dozen wanted to fight; half a dozen others wanted to kiss; everybody wanted to live in amity and be jollyolpal. A woman’s voice cried for her husband, and abused a certain Long Charlie; and Long Charlie demanded with piteous reiteration: “Why don’t I wanter fight? Eh? Tell me that. Why don’t I wanter fight? Did you ‘ear what he called me? Did you ‘ear? He called me a—a—what was it he called me?”
Then came police, disbandment, and dark peace, as the strayed revellers melted into the night. Sometimes there would sound the faint tinkle of a belated hansom, chiming solitarily, as though weary of frivolity. And then a final stillness of which the constable’s step seemed but a part.”
by Thomas Burke, from A Lonely Night, 1915.
An excellent site for sounds of London, past and (fairly) present : The London Sound Survey
Now, something a little closer to Julia’s time in Greenwood Tree…. :
Gin, Julia and Mary Pickford
The clock in the corridor outside chimed seven. Drinks. And then dinner. Julia snatched a dress out of the wardrobe.
‘. . . so Dawton’s bought it up, lock stock and barrel . . .’
‘. . . make it a going concern. . . .’
‘. . . I thought it in particularly bad taste, and then she said . . .’
‘ . . . last of the Gorgons, that woman, don’t you think, Isobel ?’
‘. . . I have never actually had a conversation with
her myself. . .’
‘. . . pass the potatoes will you, old bean ?. . .’
‘ . . . more gravy, sir ? . . .’
‘Now then Julia, stop hiding behind your glass, old girl, and tell me about the plot. How many murders are in it this time?’ Cousin Richard was sitting next to her, so she could not very well evade his cheeriness with social deafness; not that she wasn’t fond of him, but any talk about a book of hers, especially one she had not yet written, was apt to be a little wearing. Perhaps other writers suffered the same. She had never asked. Talking to other writers was even more wearing than talking about one’s own unwritten novel. ‘I don’t know yet.’ She turned impish. ‘Do you feel like being murdered ? I’m sure I could find a nice spot for you in there somewhere.’
‘Oh, why not. Who does me in, then – the butler ?’
‘Shuush, you’ll upset him. He’s trying to serve the duck.’
‘Nonsense, Haughton’s always ready to oblige, aren’t you Haughton ?’
‘Sir ?’
‘I mean, for the purposes of Miss Julia’s next best-selling novel -’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Richard . . .’
‘ . . . would you be prepared to do me in, and thus supply her with the plot ?’
‘As you wish, sir.’
‘There you are.’ Richard turned to Julia. ‘Now you can get started.’
‘I fear Miss Julia might find your suggestion less acceptable, however, sir.’
‘Yes, I certainly would.’
‘Oh ? How so ?’
‘Lack of motive, sir. Gravy, miss ?’
‘Hah! That’s you dealt with.’ Julia hit Richard with her napkin.
‘Ouch. I hope, little cousin, you will not come to regret this, in years to come, when people come up and say “Have you read ‘What the Butler Did’ by Richard Crewe? Stunning stuff, isn’t it ?” and you are obliged to reply “Yes. I wish I’d thought of it first. But you see, he offered me the plot, and I turned it down – silly, wa-” ’ He interrupted himself with a squeak as Julia gave him a hard pinch. ‘Now I really wish I was sitting next to Anne,’ she commented.
‘The writer’s secret. Always sit next to your fan to keep your spirits up.’
‘Swine.’
‘Well, at least I don’t deluge you with flattery and requests for autographs. You’d really detest that.’
‘That reminds me – somebody on the train -ۥ
‘Don’t tell me – he asked you for a signature, and was most put out when you turned out not to be Mary Pickford.’
From Greenwood Tree, chapter 10
Mary Pickford as photographed by Alfred Cheney Johnston in 1920
After re-blogging the previous post from the Gin Club, it occurred to me that a post on cocktails and flappers might be apposite . . .
Nellie Melba and Pavlova inspired desserts, Garibaldi a biscuit, Wellington a sturdy piece of beef in pastry and . . . Mary Pickford, – a cocktail : rum, pinapple juice, grenadine and maraschino liqueur. Which noxious combination may well have done the rounds in the London night clubs of the time, but I fear would have left Julia unmoved. Her tastes are I believe of a simpler nature, and where others might be rushing to the bar for novelty to refresh their jaded appetites, Julia is more likely to be seen sitting behind a palm sipping occasionally at a plain, simple G&T. If she is feeling particularly adventurous, she might allow some Angostura Bitters to be added . . and I could add she might well be interested in perusing the Gin Club’s Newsletter now and then . . .
“Where there’s smoke there’s fire” by American artist Russell Patterson 1920s
And yes, she does have a dress or two in her wardrobe like the one above – although she might wear a more toned-down version for a country house. But the one pictured above would do for cocktails and the odd formal dinner. The Flappers meanwhile appear soon after in GreenWood Tree. Loud, cheerful, rumbustious, probably rather noisome. Certainly Aunt Iz felt the strain after a little while and sent them off on long walks across the countryside . . well, after watching the following, what would you do with them ?
A few links of possible interest to the curious :
http://thelondonginclub.wordpress.com
http://lupecboston.com/2009/04/08/birthday-shout-out-to-mary-pickford/
(includes several cocktail recipes associated with Miss Pickford . . .)
http://www.angostura.com/Brands/AngosturaBitters (the main page asks date of birth to establish that you are of drinking age – both impertinent and pointless; anybody could type in anything . . .;))
And this looks rather fun if you have a Singer machine to hand and are of a couturier-like turn : http://www.1920-30.com/publications/fashion/?hop=pagecat
Bustling along bookshelves . . . 