Quietly does it.

As you might well imagine, I meet a lot of people, one way and another. It must be accepted that many of them are, to some extent, boisterous. When they are present, parties go with a swing, dance floors are rarely empty, and the level of the punch bowl drops rapidly enough to give a naïve hostess palpitations.

But there are others, less extrovert, who I also come across. I have, for example, worked with the Ladies’ Circle.

This is a fascinating group of ladies, who rarely met as a group. I would get a letter for Madame Harvin. It would be an invitation for me to perform for the circle over several weeks. I would check my calendar and write back, agreeing some dates and suggesting alternatives or those I could not make. We normally got our timetable agreed after a couple of letters. We also agreed a theme for my work.

Then on the first date agreed I would arrive at Madame Harvin’s house an hour before noon. Exactly. I would be ushered through to the withdrawing room where I would meet Madam Harvin and Madam Hardboggle. I would read my work prepared for the occasion. Then over an entirely adequate luncheon of cold meats and pickles we would discuss what I had written.

Sometime later I would attend the second meeting. This time it might be Lady Bunhanger and Mistress Ranwick. Again I would read my work, but this time I might add something that had occurred to me after the first meeting. Then, again over luncheon, we would discuss the work and the additions.

The third meeting would be with Madam Tarfool and Mistress Leanwill. Matters would proceed as previously, with the work and additions being discussed over lunch.

A few days later would be the next meeting. This time it might be Madame Harvin, but accompanied by Mistress Leanwill. Madame Harvin would display the painting that my work had inspired, whilst Mistress Leanwill would play her new composition on the spinet, inspired by all that had been discussed.

Next I might meet Mistress Ranwick (an accomplished poet in her own right) and Madame Hardboggle, the latter being another artist, but in oils rather than the water colours Madam Harvin preferred. The final meeting would be with Lady Bunhanger (who wrote short stories, remarkable for their insight), and Madam Tarfool who would produce a piece of exquisite embroidery somehow inspired by the work.

Finally there would be a grand meeting. I was summoned, and all six ladies would gather. We would dine together and the ladies, all obviously good friends would chat a little. Then I would slip out into the next room and arrange the results of their collaboration.  This done, the ladies would join me and we would together admire (often in contemplative silence) the work produced. After a couple of pleasant hours, the ladies would make comments about how tiring crowds are, would disperse.

I was always impressed by one interesting fact which connected all these meetings. The houses would be quiet. Spouses, children, aged relatives, had somehow been banished, if only for that brief period. The sole presence, other than us, was the maid who silently served our meal. I found the meetings a healing oasis of calm and quiet.

I was also taken by the room we would meet in. One lady would entertain us in an artist’s studio. In another home we would meet in a library. Indeed in the case of one lady, the room was lined with shelves stacked high with pieces of fabric, balls of wool, racks of buttons (apparently most had been salvaged from garments destined to be broken down and added to the various collections of fabric) roll after roll of spools of embroidery silks, and more lace edging than I have ever seen all together in one place in my entire life. Indeed Madam Tarfool confessed that it was not unknown for ladies who owned dress shops to call in to see her, hoping she might just have a matching piece of fabric in her collection which would enable them to salvage a much treasured dress for a customer. Apparently it was almost embarrassing how often she did.

Now it did strike me that these ladies were producing some truly excellent work. It seemed sad that it wasn’t more widely known. So at the end of one of the pleasant evening meetings I did, diffidently, suggest that it warranted an exhibition. They were initially wary, but when I assured them they wouldn’t have to meet anybody or speak to anybody they agreed to it. I suppose we all have that streak of vanity.

It was comparatively easy to organise. Garven Ditherspool has a gallery. The ground floor is where he hangs the works he has for sale. During opening hours anybody can wander through and browse. But upstairs he has a series of rooms which he uses for private exhibitions.

These latter exhibitions have something of a dubious reputation. Some of the city’s finest collections of erotica have been garnered from these exhibitions. But the private exhibitions are also for specialist events where you are exhibiting more than paintings. Thus the exhibition I was planning, those visiting would pass through a series of rooms. In some a lady would read verses, in the next room one might see paintings. Yet another room would have verses, written large, exhibited on the walls whilst a lady played the spinet.
Once the ladies realised that I was talking about Garven’s gallery they were quite won over. The fact that the establishment had a rather salacious reputation merely amused them. Obviously none of them wished to perform, but instead they suggested young ladies accomplished on the spinet or at giving readings.

The evening before the exhibition we descended upon Garven’s and arranged the rooms to their satisfaction. During the next morning I rehearsed the performers suggested. Here I wasn’t rigorous, I was hoping for them to retain a degree of spontaneity, I merely wanted to make sure they knew exactly what they were doing.

Rather to my surprise the exhibition was a great success. Whilst I knew the work was good, I hadn’t taken into account the anonymity the artists demanded. Frankly most artists cannot do enough to ensure you remember their name. I can understand this. It’s a very unstable profession. So complete anonymity is rare enough to be a sensation in and of itself.

There was an issue with selling the works. The ladies insisted the money went to various bodies who supported street children. So Garven was left to organise that side of things. But obviously the items couldn’t really be taken away until after the exhibition had closed. So purchasers were given a date on which to collect their purchases.

The problem came when the ladies decided that they wanted to see the exhibition. Whilst they’d seen it being set up, they’d not passed through the rooms with the poetry being read or the spinet being played. So Garven arranged for them to have a private viewing on the penultimate evening.

And somehow word got out that the artists were present. Within minutes the street was thronged with people, and the main exhibition room downstairs was packed solid. Garven was only letting people in if they were customers, so in the course of an hour he cleared his downstairs rooms, twice.

Well the ladies were mortified. They were absolute in their refusal to get caught up in the crowds. Given their nature I could understand this, but how to escape. Finally I had to lower them all out of the window using a length of rope made from the ornamental cords used to secure the curtains. Even when this part of the plan had worked, the ladies were still trapped in the back gardens. Luckily by this time it was dark and we managed to make our escape by climbing a series of back garden walls and hedges. I confess I had little difficulty, but then I wasn’t wearing a fitted dress which reached down to my ankles. At one point I did wonder whether our escape would be thwarted, as there was a commotion and a crowd must have burst into the upper rooms. All I could see, when glancing back, was a solid mass of people pressed against the windows. Luckily by this point I’d helped the last lady out of the final garden. At a remarkably brisk jog we made our way to Ropewalk where we found enough sedan chairs to get the ladies safely home.

I did wonder what the repercussions of the evening would be. I was almost resigned to losing their meetings. After all they didn’t really pay me, but I was always well fed, with ‘a little something for Shena’ pressed on me as I left.

But a week later I got a letter from Madam Harvin. It was her usual letter, suggesting days for our next series of meetings. It wasn’t until the very end of the letter that she referred to the exhibition. She merely thanked me for the work I’d put in and finished with the comment that perhaps next time I could arrange for a ladder.

♥♥♥♥

Should you wish to know more about the world of Tallis Steelyard

As a reviewer commented, “Another great set of stories as told by jobbing poet Tallis Steelyard. Fights abound and artists and poets are not the least amongst the fighters. I love these stories and sometimes think if someone were to drop me anywhere in Port Naain I could find my way, well, not home, but at least to Tallis and Shena’s barge. Jim Webster always gives us humour, wit and a wisdom he wears lightly. People like him should be running the country.”