The Salvesen Sisters

THE SALVESEN SISTERS - ORIGINAL VERSION

CHAPTER 1 - 1981

My eyes focus on the faded black and white photo.  I struggle to sit up and, with a shaking hand, reach for the picture.  My gnarled hand claws thin air and frustrated I try again.  I am rewarded by the feel of the cold solid silver frame.  I pull it towards me, the edge scraping along the surface of my bedside table, like fingernails down a blackboard.  Three sepia faces stare back at me.  If I look closely I can see that the right-hand side of the picture is tattered where it has been cut and, along this jagged line, the wispy remains of a fourth person can just be seen, like a shadow or ghost.  The women are beautiful, but that was a long time ago

I lean back on the pillows and gaze around the anonymous room, one of twelve identical boxes strung out along a featureless corridor.  My beloved Japanese Tansu chest, and the secrets that lurk within, presides over the room.  An institutional chair, set at an angle to the chest, sits by the window.  A narrow wardrobe stands in the corner, its white plywood doors chipped and stained; it had come with the room.  Through the doorway there is a functional bathroom, from where I can hear the steady drip of a tap. 

“How many times have I mentioned it to that woman,” I think.  “If only my legs would work I would go and turn it off myself.”   The incessant drip seems to mock me and my feeble state.

I study the photo again, remembering the day it was taken at Clarence Studios in Croydon.  Papa had escorted us.  I can’t recall if Mama had been present.  That morning, we had taken a great deal of time over our appearance.  We wore identical square necked white cotton blouses, gathered in pin-tucks at the shoulders.  Our thick long unruly dark hair had been professionally piled on top of our heads.  As we stood posing for the photographer, Papa had placed a silver locket around each of our necks. 

‘A present for my beautiful daughters,’ he had said.

Papa liked beautiful things.  He could afford them.  Papa, who was Norwegian, owned a fleet of ships.  He was a self-made man and was fond of telling us how, at fourteen, he had lied about his age to get his first job on board a ship coming to London.  In an age where young women were supposed to be seen and not heard and urged to get married, Papa flouted convention and encouraged us all in our education and independence.  I adored him.    

That day, in Clarence Studios, was the first time I became aware of Florrie’s blossoming beauty and the effect it had on those around her.  The photographer, a young nervous individual, had blushed to his roots when she had asked him casually,

‘Why do you stare at me so intently?  Do I have a stain on my blouse or maybe a hair out of place?’

I brush the dust from the glass.  In the middle Ick stares shyly at the camera, the baby of the family at seventeen.   Constance stands on the left.  Although she is smiling, the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.  I knew she was feeling anxious about her forth-coming wedding.  After she married she never smiled again, until the baby arrived.  And there I am, standing on the right, my gaze looking distant as if I had already gone away.

Ah, I remember now.  Mama wasn’t there as this was to be a surprise gift from Papa before Connie got married and I left for Asia and of course, before Florrie had gone. 

My thoughts are interrupted by a knock and the door opening.

‘Morning Aggie, time for your cup of tea.  And I’ve got some lovely Rich Tea biscuits for you too.’  Dora’s jolly face appears around the door. 

I see her hair has changed from auburn to coal-black since yesterday and her ample bosom is squeezed into a fuchsia pink top.  She places the tea on my bedside cabinet and liquid sloshes into the saucer.  “Why can’t they be more careful?”  I think. 

‘What have you got there then?’ she says peering at the photo.  ‘Reminiscing about the old days are you?’ 

I ignore the remark.

‘Would you mind putting my tea over there and helping me out of bed.  I feel inclined to sit in my chair for a bit.’ 

‘Of course love.  I tell you what, why don’t I wheel you into the day room?  A bit of company will do you good.’

‘No, thank you I’d rather stay here.  Besides, I’m expecting a visitor later and I’ve got some sorting out to do before she arrives.’ 

Dora helps me out of bed and I’m half carried, half frogmarched to the chair.  My posterior hovers for a few seconds and then I’m falling backwards.  The plastic cover crackles as I sink into it.  Dora wheels the bedside table over and stands the photo on top of it.  I notice her magenta nail polish is chipped.

‘See you later love.’  Dora calls as she closes the door behind her.

Five minutes after Dora is gone I can still smell her; an unpleasant cocktail of cheap perfume mingled with stale nicotine.  Then, I remember the dripping tap.  I will ask her next time.  Old age is like that.  The memories in your distant past that you want to forget return without warning, as if they only happened yesterday.  The things that happened a few hours ago are a distant fuzzy blur refusing to materialise. 

I lean forward and run my hands over the surface of my Tansu chest, feeling the indentations and knots of the cedar wood.  The black metal handles stand cold and stark, sentinels to the different drawers and compartments.  I clasp the middle handle and pull the drawer.  I rummage around inside until I feel the soft downy velvet of my oblong jewellery box.  Placing it on my lap I flip open the lid and there cushioned in the purple satin folds lies my silver locket, the lustre tarnished.  I clasp it in my hand and feel the delicate chain slip through my fingers, like rosary beads, as I remember how the whole fateful sequence of events started.

The year was 1913.  Emily Davison had thrown herself under the King’s horse at the Derby only a few weeks earlier.  Feisty women fascinated Papa and we would often discuss the Suffragette Movement.  Connie had just got married so she wasn’t there to say goodbye.  She was honeymooning in the South of France.  Instead, Ick and Florrie had helped me pack my trunk. The house had seemed odd without Connie and now I was leaving too.  We had left Purley by the noon train.  Mama and Florrie had accompanied me.  I don’t recall why Ick hadn’t come too.  Papa met us from his offices at Charing Cross, and bought us some fruit to take in the train, and I took the precaution of running over to Lyon’s and buying some sandwiches, which we were glad of later on.  If Papa had looked tense I hadn’t noticed, although the problems with his business must have already started.

The passage across the Channel was rather rough, but, nevertheless, we withstood it well.  On reaching Ostend, Mama treated us to oysters.  I can still remember them slipping down my throat.  After the first two or three I began to like them.  Florrie and I shared a room in the hotel.  I can’t remember the name of the place, only that it overlooked the sea.  That evening, as we prepared for bed, Florrie turned from the dressing table.

‘I do envy you, off on a big adventure while I’m going to be stuck at home with Mama and Papa,’ she said.

‘I am excited, but I’ll miss you all.  Anyway, you know Papa said you may visit next year, if you are up to it.’ I smiled.

‘Of course I will be “up to it.”  I wish they wouldn’t fuss so.  I wonder how Connie’s getting on?  Douglas is rather handsome don’t you think?

‘To be honest I’ve not really thought about it.’

‘Oh come on.  I think beneath that aloof exterior there lurks a passionate man.  He has the most intriguing eyes, like deep pools of blue.’

‘Florrie, what do you know of passion?  You shock me so with your language.  You’ve been reading too many romantic novels.’

‘And what about your Mr Grimm.  I wonder what he will be like.  I hope he isn’t as his name suggests.’  Florrie laughed.

‘He is not “my Mr Grimm.”  Besides, I will be far too busy in my new role to even think about romance.  Now come on, we’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’  I said shooing her into bed.

Our stay in Ostend had coincided with the World Exhibition in Ghent and Papa had managed to get us tickets.  I was interested in seeing the section that dealt with tropical diseases, but Florrie wasn’t.  She wanted to see the display of the latest ladies’ fashions and, as usual, we indulged her and a good deal of the afternoon was spent in admiring some, and laughing at the exaggerations of others.  When we left the Exhibition the place was crowded, and the traffic was so badly regulated that it seemed dangerous to cross the road.  We couldn’t get a cab, so tried to get on to a crowded tram.  Mama just managed to get on and was pushed off again while the tram was in motion.  It was a miracle that she landed on her feet. 

We had all but given up when a cab drew to a standstill and a fair haired gentleman jumped out.

“Ladies, please let me help you.  I believe we are staying at the same hotel?  Here please join me.  I am going to the station.  Sorry I’m forgetting my manners.  Clive Owens.’ He gushed, putting out his hand to Mama.

‘That’s awfully kind of you.  I’m Emily Salvesen and these are my daughters, Agnes and Florence.’

As the cab crawled along Mr Owens told us he had been commissioned by a magazine to write an article on the Exhibition.  He smiled politely as Mama told him of my forthcoming trip to Japan.  I noticed his gaze lingering from time to time on Florrie.

The next morning, and the day of my departure from Ostend, I woke early and stood at the window, watching the sunlight dance on the surface of the sea.  I longed to take a farewell dip, but there were no batching machines out.  It was hard to believe that in just under fifteen days I would arrive in Yokohama where I would meet Mr Grimm and his staff.  Mr Grimm was the editor of the Japan Herald.  It was the first British newspaper to be published in Japan and I was to be the first female administrative clerk.  I know Papa’s influence had helped me gain the position.  I felt content to be embarking on a career.  Marriage wasn’t for me, or so I thought.  It wasn’t that I was against marriage it was just that all the young men I met seemed so dull. 

‘A penny for them.’

I turned from the window and found Florrie propped up on one elbow smiling, while her free hand idly twirled a lock of her hair.  It was a habit of hers that irritated me.

‘Oh I was thinking how nice it would be to take a dip.  The sea is like a mill-pond and it’s such a beautiful day, but there are no bathing machines out.’

‘Go on then, I dare you.’

‘It would be improper to take a swim, you know that.  Besides, we said we would meet Mama for breakfast in an hour, so come on lazy bones.’  I said playfully throwing a cushion at her.

At breakfast I found it impossible to follow Florrie’s incessant chatter.  My thoughts kept drifting to the journey ahead.  I think Mama could sense my nervousness as she squeezed my hand.    

 ‘I do hope your return crossing will be smooth.  I feel I should be there to tuck you up in your deck chairs.  I know how inclined you are to feel sea-sick.’  I said to Mama as we sat in the hotel lobby.   

‘Don’t worry, we will be fine, won’t we Mama?’  Florrie laughed.  ‘And besides, Mr Owens is on the same crossing and has promised to look after us.’  With this, she gave a little wave and I looked up to see Mr Owens staring at us. 

We were interrupted by the doorman.

‘Madam, your cab is here.’

Ostend station was a hive of activity.  As the Nord Express pulled away I leant out of the window.  Mama and Florrie looked so vulnerable standing on the platform amidst all the chaos and commotion.  I waved and waved until, with a hiss of steam, the smog swallowed them up.  I felt glad they had been able to come all the way to Ostend as saying goodbye from a train didn’t seem nearly so hard as when one leaves on a big liner.    

My chin drops on my chest and rouses me from my reminiscing.  The sunlight is warming my arthritic limbs, but I’m uncomfortable in my knitted bed jacket.  My legs, encased in the brushed-nylon night-dress, are sticking to the chair’s plastic cover.  “All I need is something to put under me,” I think.   I spot my dressing gown lying across the bed.  I lean forward, but I can’t reach it.  I don’t want to call Dora.   I push my table to one side and slowly ease myself up holding onto the arm of the chair.  My spindly legs feel as if they might snap at any moment.  I stagger forward. “So far so good.”  The next moment I am lurching as if drunk.  Falling forward I hit the floor with a thud.  The carpet burns my face as it slides along the rough synthetic surface.  I lie there, my face pressed into the powder blue ridges.  Cautiously I move my arms and legs.  Luckily I’m not a heavy person and there are no bones broken.  I try to raise myself onto my arms and knees to crawl, but my energy has gone.  I notice there is thick dust and fluff lying under my bed, long forgotten.  I make a mental note to mention it to Dora, along with the dripping tap.  I know it won’t be long before I am discovered.  Then, the doctor will be called to examine me and I will have the usual battle as I refuse to take his prescribed medication.  “Damn,” I shout and thump the floor with my puny fist.  It is then that I notice I’m still clasping the locket.  I close my eyes and see Florrie’s face, and then I remember my visitor.  “Damn,” I whisper again. 

THE END OF CHAPTER 1 

___________________________________________________________________

VERSION TWO

THE SALVESEN SISTERS - UPDATED VERSION

CHAPTER 1

The old woman struggles to sit up and, with a shaking hand, she reaches for the picture.  Her gnarled hand claws thin air and frustrated she tries again.  She pulls the solid silver frame towards her, the edge scraping along the surface of the bedside table, like fingernails down a blackboard.  Three sepia faces stared back at her.  The right-hand side of the picture is tattered where it has been cut and, along this jagged line, the wispy remains of a fourth person can just be seen, like a shadow or ghost.  The women are beautiful, but that was a long time ago.

The year was 1913.  Emily Davison had thrown herself under the King’s horse at the Derby only a few weeks earlier.  Feisty women fascinated Papa and the family would often discuss the Suffragette Movement.  Connie had just got married so she wasn’t there to say goodbye.  She was honeymooning in the South of France.  Instead, Ick and Florrie had helped Agnes pack her trunk. The house had seemed odd without Connie and now she was leaving too. 

Agnes stared around her bedroom.  The sunlight shone on the frame of a photograph.  She scooped it up and placed the photo on the top of her trunk.  The smiling faces of her sisters stared back.  The photo had been taken at Clarence Studios in Croydon a couple of months ago.  It was a surprise present for Mama.  Papa had escorted them.  That morning, they had taken a great deal of time over their appearance.  They wore identical square necked white cotton blouses, gathered in pin-tucks at the shoulders.  Their thick long unruly dark hair had been professionally piled on top of their heads.  As they stood posing for the photographer, Papa had placed a silver locket around each of their necks. 

‘A present for my beautiful daughters,’ he had said.

Papa liked beautiful things.  He could afford them.  Papa, who was Norwegian, owned a fleet of ships.  He was a self-made man and was fond of telling anyone who cared to listen, how, at fourteen, he had lied about his age to get his first job on board a ship coming to London.  In an age where young women were supposed to be seen and not heard and urged to get married, Papa flouted convention and encouraged his daughters in their education and independence.  They adored him.   

‘Ready?’

Agnes looked up to find Florrie standing in the doorway. 

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.  I’ll miss this place and of course you,’ Agnes sighed.

‘I wish I was coming with you, but at least we’re able to see you on our way and Papa has managed to get us tickets to the Great Exhibition.  I’m so excited.’

They left Purley by the noon train.  Papa had met them from his offices at Charing Cross, and given them some fruit to take in the train, and Agnes had taken the precaution of running over to Lyon’s and buying some sandwiches, which they were glad of later on.  If Papa had looked tense when he waved them goodbye she hadn’t noticed, although the problems with his business must have already started.

The passage across the Channel was rather rough, the water a murky grey.  Poor Mama had looked pale, but Agnes and Florrie had withstood it well.  On reaching Ostend, Mama treated them to oysters.  Agnes had grimaced at the feel of them slipping down her throat.  Florrie and Agnes shared a room in the hotel.  That evening, as they prepared for bed, Florrie turned from the dressing table.

‘I do envy you, off on a big adventure while I’m going to be stuck at home with Mama and Papa,’ she said.

‘I am excited, but I’ll miss you all.  Anyway, you know Papa said you may visit next year, if you are up to it.’

‘Of course I will be “up to it.”  I wish they wouldn’t fuss so.  I wonder how Connie’s getting on?  Douglas is rather handsome don’t you think?

‘I’ve not really thought about it.’

‘Oh come on.  I think beneath that aloof exterior there lurks a passionate man.  He has the most intriguing eyes, like deep pools of blue.’

‘Florrie, what do you know of passion?  You’ve been reading too many romantic novels.’

‘And what about your Mr Grimm.  I wonder what he will be like.  I hope he isn’t as his name suggests,’  Florrie laughed.

‘He is not “my Mr Grimm.”  Besides, I will be far too busy in my new role to even think about romance.  Now come on, we’ve got a busy day tomorrow,’ Agnes said shooing her into bed.

Their stay in Ostend had coincided with the World Exhibition in Ghent and Papa had managed to get them tickets.  Agnes was interested in seeing the section that dealt with tropical diseases, but Florrie wasn’t.  She wanted to see the display of the latest ladies’ fashions and, as usual, they indulged her and a good deal of the afternoon was spent in admiring some, and laughing at the exaggerations of others.  When they left the Exhibition the place was crowded, and the traffic was so badly regulated that it seemed dangerous to cross the road with motorcars swerving all over the place.   They couldn’t get a cab, so tried to get on to a crowded tram.  Mama just managed to get on and was pushed off again while the tram was in motion.  It was a miracle that she landed on her feet. 

They had all but given up when a cab drew to a standstill and a fair haired gentleman jumped out.

“Ladies, please let me help you.  I believe we are staying at the same hotel?  Here please join me.  I am going to the station.  Sorry I’m forgetting my manners.  Clive Owens.’ He gushed, putting out his hand to Mama.

‘That’s awfully kind of you.  I’m Emily Salvesen and these are my daughters, Agnes and Florence.’

As the cab crawled along Mr Owens told us he had been commissioned by a magazine to write an article on the Exhibition.  He smiled politely as Mama told him of Agnes’ forthcoming trip to Japan.  Agnes noticed his gaze lingering from time to time on Florrie.

Agnes woke early the next morning, the morning of her departure.  She stood at the window, watching the sunlight dance on the surface of the sea.  She longed to take a farewell dip, but there were no batching machines out.  It was hard to believe that in just under fifteen days she would arrive in Yokohama where she would meet Mr Grimm and his staff.  Mr Grimm was the editor of the Japan Herald.  It was the first British newspaper to be published in Japan and she was to be the first female administrative clerk.  She knew Papa’s influence had helped her gain the position. 

‘A penny for them.’

Agnes turned from the window and found Florrie propped up on one elbow smiling, while her free hand idly twirled a lock of her hair.  It was a habit of hers that annoyed Agnes.   

‘Oh I was thinking how nice it would be to take a dip.  The sea is like a mill-pond and it’s such a beautiful day, but there are no bathing machines out.’

‘Go on then, I dare you.’

‘It would be improper to take a swim, you know that.  Besides, we said we would meet Mama for breakfast in an hour, so come on lazy bones.’  She said playfully throwing a cushion at her.

At breakfast Agnes found it impossible to follow Florrie’s incessant chatter.  Her thoughts kept drifting to the journey ahead.  Mama could sense her nervousness as, from time to time she gave her hand a squeeze.      

etc, etc.