This blog is dedicated affectionately to John McKew (1857-1923),
Fishmonger of Holborn, London and great-grandfather to the typist,
whose example has been an inspiration and whom I hope would receive what follows with approval and some amusement,
and to Aunt Hazel, who encouraged my fascination with my forebears and the world they lived in,
and has been a constant support in my endeavours, whatever form they might have taken.
Mr Whybrow said that since I'm getting known in society, I should put something here about myself. For some reason I’ve yet to identify, he thinks my story’s worth telling. I can’t see why, I’m just me, but here goes…… *absent-mindedly dips her quill in Mr Whybrow's coffee.............*
Before I delve back into my past, and explain how I came to represent the public face of Sparkle of Sound, I must first make clear that I couldn't be happier with my lot, whatever impressions one may have formed of me. I meet a broad cross-section of humanity (and a few that are less human), I have all the jewellery a girl could wish for, and a wardrobe that knocks Mr Whybrow's own into a cocked hat. In fact, his would probably fit into a cocked hat.
And again, despite outward appearances, Mr Whybrow has proved a model employer, putting up with all my little accidents and embarrassments (by the way, Sir, the airship towing your trousers did appear in my Lost and Found - after twenty minutes and another crash) and although we sometimes disagree (much in the way that Tom and Jerry did), we stand united against the world as The Establishment. I must confess that I tend to make my point with some force, that's a habit I picked up in the workhouse. But Mr Whybrow is happy to live with that, as he'd sooner trust his shop to a girl who can stop a runaway locomotive with a dirty look, rather than some simpering maid who'd faint and fold up in tears at the first sign of trouble.
No, he's quite content with my service; the customers find me easy to deal with as I can serve them in ways a man can't. Indeed, most of the customers are female, and many of those expect a female assistant to serve them. We generally strike up an easy rapport, usually to side against Mr Whybrow in his own shop.
Outside the shop, I do all the chores, as one would expect. Sweeping the floors, polishing the brass, shovelling out the stable, etc etc although oddly, he's never asked me to cook - which suits me fine, even if it does cost him in fish and chips every night. Neither am I allowed to sing, unless he wants an old chimney stack knocked down. For that reason, I'm spared having to attend church on Sundays since the Church Commissioners have made it clear that my presence on holy ground would invalidate any building insurance policies. The domestic travails might appear onerous, but they’re a small price to pay for having my own roof over my head, a position in society, and Respect (Mr Whybrow knows that if he upsets me, I'll be sending his coffee up in the Lamson tube).
For my part, I'm happy to live with his little eccentricities - his "Old Mailbags Navy Cut" pipe tobacco, his fondness for wax cylinder recordings (can you imagine the Manfred symphony on a wax cylinder twelve feet long?) not to mention pipe organs with unfeasibly low registers ("Tectonic Subduction", for God's sake!). And then there's his coffee, which you could tar a man o' war with. "If it's good enough for Brahms, it's good enough for me," he insists.
On a personal level, there’s no denying that he can appear as crusty as a workhouse pie, but that's only until you get to know him. Like the aforementioned pie, he's seasoned oak on the outside and squishy soft on the inside, and you don't know what's in there until you've chiselled through the crust. I think he's glad to have some female company about the place. Lord knows, he needs someone to remind him to eat/keep appointments/change his socks etc. He appreciates my efforts in his own way; not with the usual girly things like flowers but in stilted, formal compliments, the occasional few prims of my own to do things with, a professional wardrobe fit for a princess........... and let’s face it, how many shopgirls have a park named after them? On top of that, he lets me make free with his tools and build, as you’ll see when I can get around to putting it to paper. In private, we speak almost as equals. After the workhouse subservience, that's a reward beyond price. I'm careful never to cross the line; he's always "Mister Whybrow, sir," but we've found in each other that necessary sounding board we all need to guide us through life.
He's never bought me perfume, though. Apart from the fact that he's
People often wonder if there's anything romantic between us. I suppose they will, human nature being what it is - which, all right, is a diplomatic way of saying that people can't mind their own business. No, take it from me, ladies; getting romance out of Mr Whybrow would be harder than getting manure from a rocking horse and infinitely less rewarding. That doesn’t mean he’s unrealistic; he’s quite used to the inevitable association that society makes, but should I mention that people are talking, he usually just chuckles and insists that the only romance he's interested in, is the slow movement of Grieg's C minor Violin sonata. And that's another thing I love about my position. An employer who doesn't "lose his fobwatch" down one's cleavage.
So that’s me as things stand. All in all, not bad for a workhouse girl whose parents both went by the name of "Unknown." Just please excuse me if, from time to time, I forget the grooming that Mr Whybrow's taught me, and my origin slips through. As Mr Whybrow says, "You can take the shopgirl out of the workhouse, but you can't take the workhouse out of the shopgirl."
Oh, and I'm not really that bad in the kitchen. I just like fish and chips every night. So would you, if you'd been brought up on workhouse gruel. But you won't tell him that, will you?
Now, let’s go back to the beginning. Once upon a time…………….
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