The Devotee

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

22 May 1905

Now that Mrs Freeload, as I almost called her in a moment of unconscious candour, has gone, Mr Squire and I are settling at last into a pleasant rhythm.

Whether or not I have had a swim, and now that my observer has left the scene I am not afraid to do so, I rise at seven, take exercise, wash myself and dress.

Mr Squire and I breakfast at eight, together. He reads theTimeswhile I sort through any correspondence that has arrived (and there is a steady stream of letters from people inviting him to dinner, to make a speech, to hand out school prizes, to be present at the opening of things, and most dreaded of all, to read their manuscripts.)

At nine, I present him with such correspondence as requires an immediate answer, and let him know what the rest of it consists of. He dictates letters with great swiftness. At ten, we get down to the real work.

At half past twelve, we cease work, and we eat lunch at one. Sometimes we do this together, but it is understood that it is not compulsory. Mr Squire likes to eat at table, but I sometimes content myself with a sandwich and some lemonade, and I walk on the lawns, or further afield.

We resume promptly at two, rest for fifteen minutes at half past three, and finish at half past five.

Then begins my real leisure time, which I generally begin with half an hour's vigorous exercise (my dumbbells having at last turned up), followed by washing myself, and then around ninety minutes' reading in the library (I am still reading all of Mr Squire's published works), and then I dress for dinner and we meet for a sherry before dinner, followed by dinner itself at eight or eight fifteen.

This is the second formal meal of the day, and Mr Squire takes it very seriously, which is not to say that he is not pleasant company.

He has a great store of anecdotes and reminiscences, which I would be happy to listen to, but he also asks me about myself: my ambitions and my hopes. I have let him know that I do not ever see myself marrying, and have generally been reticent about my personal life, but I have told him that I would one day like to write something that others may find useful or interesting.

He is quite certain that he would like enquiries to be made about the possibility of converting the unfinished baths into a pool, and I am to go into the town tomorrow afternoon, to make enquiries at a builder's yard whose services he has employed before.

*

Edith Fawcett to Ida Plank

22 May 1905

My dear Ida,

How have you been? I very much enjoyed our conversation that morning by the little pool. I hope you found it instructive, or at any rate helpful.

I hope you are finding time to improve yourself. I am in an almost constant state of trying to improve myself; they say education never ends, and that is certainly true in my case.

I shall be in London in the first week of next month, and I should very much like to see you. Perhaps we could have tea together, and take a walk in the park?

I think of you very fondly,

With very great affection

Edith Fawcett.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

22 May 1905

It is bloomin hot.

I am enjoyin mister Tennysons book but it is not easy. I go back and 4th a bit cos it is ard to keep readin in one way, if that makes sence.

There is one bit that makes me think of EF (I write her name that way cos I don't want no one pickin this up and knowin who im talkin abowt):

And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart

Adored her, as the stateliest and best

And loveliest of all women on the earth.

That is ow i feel abowt EF.

The stateliest and best and loveliest of all women on the earth.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

23 May 1905

I went to the town this afternoon and soon located the builder's yard, owned and run by a Mr Hitchin. Nobody was about, except a man who was transporting bricks from one place to another by means of a wheelbarrow.

I hung back a while and watched him, admiring the apparent ease with which he lifted many bricks at once and deposited them in the barrow almost delicately, so as not to damage them. He was a remarkable well-favoured man in, I estimate, his early thirties, with dark hair and a noble, alert, handsome face.

He paused at one point, reached for a flask that stood nearby and drank from it, and then, looking around, he saw me, so I came forward.

I introduced myself and explained my business. He listened attentively and told me that Mr Hitchin was on a build at that moment, and would not be back that day, but that he would pass on my inquiry to him. I thanked him and he was most polite.

His name is Jack Page. I do hope that, if Mr Squire decides to employ Mr Hitchin's firm, that Mr Page will be one of the workmen.

He really is remarkably well-favoured.

Remarkably.

25 May 1905

A letter came from a Mr Doughty, deputy Chief Engineer of a London council and an acquaintance of Mr Squire.

Mr Doughty has designed several municipal baths. It seems that the chief difficulty in swimming pools is not supplying it with water, but ensuring that the water be heated, cleaned, filtered, and kept in circulation, so that it does not grow stagnant and develop algae and germs.

This, it seems, requires in turn some investment in equipment. Apparently, the most advanced thinkers in swimming pool design hold that chlorine is the best way of keeping the water clean. Used in the right concentration, it kills germs but does not damage the human body, although it can lend the pool water a distinctive but apparently not repulsive odour.

I have now to make inquiries into how much this will all cost.

This is far from what I thought would be the work of an amanuensis to a great novelist, but I will see that this pool is built to a standard that Mr Squire deserves.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

28 May 1905

I ave been feelin odd lately and the Tennyson book werent cheerin me up. If anythin its a bit grim like.

But all these thawts kept comin in my ead an I didnt no wot to do, all thawts of EF an that, an when i went to bed i listend a bit an then i eard kate snorin cos she is a snorer, an then i thawt well this is a pryvit alone time, and i put my and down tween my legs like EF said an i tutchd myself.

At first nothin append but then after a wile oh my goodness i felt like this big wave like rollin thru me like i was on fire but it was good, like i wos bein kissd all over inside me, an it dint last long but then anuther one an anuther one and they got bigger eech time an i ad to stick my nighty in my mouth so as not to wake kate cos i was ardly able to keep mum it was so good, it was so good. It was better than ice creem on a ot day. I never new my body cud do that.

EF was not lyin at all, my fingers is my friend.

Well kate is my friend but i cudnt ask kate to do that for me. Shed probly think i was avin a larf.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

3 June 1905

I am quite bewildered with the quantity of technical literature I have absorbed over the past two days, but we have at last decided on the equipment that we require, and have ordered it, and one of Mr Squire's friends in Parliament has assured me that he can keep us supplied with the requisite quantities of chlorine, which it turns out is highly toxic and requires special protective equipment to handle.

Mr Squire falls over himself with gratitude at all my efforts. I think it has been distracting him from pushing forward with his memoirs, which he seems curiously reluctant to go on with.

There is a dressing room next to the unfinished baths room which will serve to house the pool machinery, and on observing the site in the company of Mr Squire's favourite architect, Mr Rowlands, we have found that the room is already plumbed into the mains and waste systems for the house, and everything only needs to be connected up, once the pool has been constructed. This is an immense relief, as it will mean the house itself will not have to have a lot of tearing up of old floorboards, &c.

Mr Hitchin's firm has been engaged to do the building work, and he came down to inspect the site, bringing with him Mr Page, who greeted me politely. This pleases me.

I have written to Ida but have had no reply. I shall write to her again.

*

Edith Fawcett to Ida Plank

5 June 1905

My dear Ida,

How are you? I hope you are well, and that you received my letter of the 22nd May, in which I told you that I would be in London this week. I travel up with Mr Squire on Friday, and will be free on Sunday afternoon to meet you, if you would like to.

I confess I was a little surprised to not get a reply to my earlier letter, but I understand that you work very hard and it perhaps slipped your mind. If you would like to meet me, do please let me know. I would like so much to see you once again, and pursue our friendship.

Yours very warmly,

Edith Fawcett.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

6 June 1905

I finishd the Tennyson book an its good but its very short. I was cleanin the libery an i found a book of Tennysons poems an it ad lots more. So i been readin em while cleanin.

Well blow me turns out this mister Tennyson rote lots more Idylls. An lots of other things too.

I feel like miss Fawset and mister Squiar opend up a ole new world. I do ope she rites to me. I want to see er agen an talk to er and be near er. I still cant beleev she showd me her ole self like that and let me touch her. It was the appiest day of my life.

Evry day i wait to see if she rites but so far not.

Well im sure shes very bizzy.

*

Edith Fawcett to Ida Plank

9 June 1905

Dear Ida,

I am again a tiny bit surprised that you have not replied to my earlier letters. I was under the impression that the intimacy of our first meeting had made as much of an impression on you as it had on me. But, again, I understand if you are very busy.

If you would still like to meet me, I travel up to London tonight and will be free on Sunday. You can write to me at 14 Vesey Gardens. I enclose a penny stamp so that you do not have to have the expense.

Do please let me know if you wish to continue our friendship. I am very keen to see you again and I hope you will continue to view me, as I do you,

With very warm affection,

Edith Fawcett.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

11 June 1905

O Edith were are you? You sed youd rite to me an i am sat ere waitin an thair is nothin.

Edith if you love me as in former years

And do not practise on me come with morn

(This is just me takin Tennyson and chaynjin it around a bit)

Wos she just lyin

She cant ave been lyin

She is too good for that

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

13 June 1905

I have written three letters to Ida Plank and she has replied to none of them.

I am somewhat put out, as I was so entertained, and not a little excited, by our meeting, and I honestly thought that she held me in affection.

But perhaps I simply imposed myself upon her and frightened her.

Yet she did tell me that she liked women.

I shall throw myself into my duties. That is the best cure for disappointment.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

14 June 1905

I do like the tennyson book but it is not easy to follow whats goin on. But i think it is makin me more clever.

The langwidge is so grand an that. An i am getting better at spelllin. An the peepul in it so grand. Arthur an Guinevere an Merlin an that. Like they got all of england in their ands and wot they do will change things.

But it is still a bit ard.

I shud like to reed other riters to see wot they are like or are they all like this.

I am sad that EF has not rote to me. I miss her. She wos so lovly and so kind and so genruss.

But praps its becos i am only a maid after all not a fine lady like her. I gess it is that.

I know i shud not be cross with er. She is important an i am not.

But i am still a bit cross.

15 June 1905

Mr and Mrs F are in a rotten mood always crittisizin us. We ear them talkin about money and they fight but more than that we cant tell cos the doors are so heavy.

Master edwin is loafin about here not at collidge. Miss isabella dont do nothin xcept read speechs from plays in er room. Still of all of em shes the leest annoyin. Sez thank you when you bring er somethin.

I sez to kate, dyou think there short of money.

Kate sez, I dunno if there short of it but theyve always been tight with it.

I sez, yes they live very high an she dont earn nothin. And master edwin dont earn nothin and miss angelina dont. An the bills pilin up.

Kate sez, cud be somethin in that.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

22 June 1905

Today at lunchtime, I went down once more to view the rebuilding of the south-west wing.

Most of the workers had gone down to the village. Only Mr Page was left, sitting on a small pile of rubble, viewing the site and eating some kind of pie. He had a flask near him, from which he occasionally refreshed himself.

I approached, with my sandwich and bottle of lemonade, and we greeted one another.

'The work seems to be proceeding very well,' I said.

'It is that,' he said.

I find it impossible to render the peculiar Kent dialect using ordinary English spelling. With a Cockney such as Ida Plank it is easier, as certain conventions have developed. But with Mr Page, I can only reach for ways to convey his distinctive Kentish twang.

'I hope everyone is satisfied with the conditions,' I said.

'Them are all happy to go to the inn,' he said. 'I like to stay 'ere. Puts me in mind of what's to do next.'

'I see,' I said. 'Are you then the foreman?'

'No,' he said, 'Foreman's down the inn. I just like to keep on top o' the job. Fer myself, like.'

'Ah,' I said.

I ate some sandwich.

'Is your pie good?' I asked.

'Tain't bad.'

'Did your wife make it?'

'Ain't married. Bought it down the town.'

'Ah.'

We ate in silence for a moment.

'I do admire how efficiently you work,' I said.

'Thank 'ee,' he said placidly.

'It hardly compares to my work. I work sitting at a typewriter.'

'Seems to me there's all kinds of work,' he said. 'Brain work ain't worth less than 'ard labour.'

'But one can get terribly flabby,' I said, 'sitting on a chair and typing all day.'

'Don't reckon that's 'appened to you, miss,' he said.

I ate some more of my sandwich. I looked at him and realised that he had been quietly looking at me, for he abruptly looked away.

I finished my sandwich and went back to the house.

I was in a rather distracted mood and, after returning the empty lemonade bottle to the kitchen, I went upstairs to my room, closed the door, lay on my bed, hitched up my skirts, pulled down my bloomers and stimulated myself until I achieved climax.

This is highly unusual for me. Normally, when I stimulate myself, I prefer to do so in the bath, or in bed at night. Not in the middle of the day.

But I felt intense psychological pressure to relieve myself of the thoughts and feelings that came to me, unbidden, after my brief talk with Mr Page.

I can see that I may have to be more candid in this diary than I have been up until now.

This is somewhat embarrassing, as the thought that strangers may read my inmost thoughts about matters such as this makes me feel considerably exposed and unveiled to the eyes of posterity.

But, on the other hand, it is not likely that I will achieve such eminence that anyone will want to read my personal diary after my death. I have no plans to have children who may inherit it, and I lack the ambition to become a great writer such as Mr Squire. I aim only to be an honourable servant to greatness, not to achieve it myself.

So, I think that, after all, I may confide in this diary with total candour, since it is laughably unlikely that, over a hundred years from now, complete strangers will be reading it.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

22 June 1905

Kate and I was just going to bed and I was reedin bits in my Tennyson book.

She sez, ow com you never talk about love Ida.

I sez, cos i don't talk about everythin.

She sez, but ent you ever been in love.

I sez, yes i think i ave but it dont seem to make much difference cos people dont love me.

She sez, well you know you ave to let them know it. they cant reed minds.

I sez, i did tell someone i love er but she ent done nothin about it so.

She sez, wot you love women.

I thawt then abowt wot i said. there was nothin for it seemed to me but to be honnist.

Yes, i sez, i love women not men.

She sez, ows that even work.

I sez, i just don't like men that way. There all right but i dont want to kiss em.

She frowns an sez, dyou love me that way then.

I sez, no i dont, your a mate but i dont think abowt you like that.

Oh, she sez, and she says nothin, then she sez as if shes annoyd, wot there somethin wrong with me then.

I sez no, its just like ow you dont love Harold the boy what brings the coal.

She sez wot?

I sez, i mean hes nice lookin but you dont want to kiss im, and i know you dont cos you said.

Oh right, she sez. Spose that makes sense. So you think im nice lookin.

I sez, course you are. You're a bloomin catch.

She sez, thank you ida.

Then she sez nothin for a bit an i finished reedin and put the book down and was puttin my candle out when she sez, well i dont understand ow it works but i ope you do find someone who loves you ida, your a good sort.

I sez, thanks kate.

I do like kate. But not that way.

I wunder wot edith is doin.

And do she think of me.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

Friday 23 June 1905

Having made, in my last entry, the declaration that I should be candid from now on, I had better stick to it. I therefore recount the following, not without some embarrassment.

I went down to the site again this lunchtime, and again, found Mr Page alone sitting amid the works, eating this time some form of pasty. The other workers had again gone down to the town for lunch. He greeted me with his customary politeness.

'Is the work difficult?' I asked.

'The rebuildin' ain't,' he said, 'but we are 'avin' some chaps down from London to connect up the works to the plumbin'.'

'Ah.'

'That sort of thing's not in our ken,' he said. 'We could try an' do it ourselves, but be a bad job if we made a mistake an' cost the gentleman. That gear do look right tricky.'

'Oh, has it arrived?' I said.

'Yes, miss,' he said. 'It's in the machine room.'

He paused.

'Would tha like to see it?'

'Yes,' I said, 'very much. Since I have been in charge of ordering it, I should like to know what I ordered.'

'This way,' he said, and we rose and went in through the scaffolding and entered the former baths room, which has been fully stripped out and now has the definite imprint of a pool, although it is not yet ready for tiling.

We walked around the pool deck, and through a door into a small room, with only narrow high windows just below roof level.

Sitting in the centre of the room and taking up almost all the space were some large machines, which I recognised from the catalogues I had ordered them from.

'Ah,' I said, 'so this is the pump.'