When Home Décor was deadly - A Tale of Toxic Beauty + more short fiction
Alison Lloyd's newsletter #57
Because you dear readers liked the stories about apprentice Jack in Dickensian London, I’ve written you another one 😀 But first some salutary historical background.
Deadly Décor
For most of history, interior decoration was only for the rich. But the Industrial Revolution brought steam-powered printing presses, and brilliant new dyes. Put these two technologies together, in the nineteenth century, and you get wallpaper, at prices almost everyone could afford.
Victorian homes were full of it. Chippendale made wallpaper; so did Liberty, and William Morris. Designs were lavish and complex. Colours were rich.
(This newsletter is heavy on pictures - I found so many gorgeous wallpapers! The short story is coming, if you Scroll on down.)
But there was a hidden problem with these decorations. They were steeped in poison, basically. Particularly the green ones. Scheele’s Green, and Emerald Green were two of the new chemical colours — they were vivid and cheap. And they were made with arsenic. Emerald Green was also known as ‘Paris Green’ (Reputedly this is because it was used on rats in the Paris sewers. I didn’t find evidence for this claim, and I suspect the name might have come by association with the French art world.)
In 1857, toxicologist Alfred Swaine Taylor told a House of Lords Committee that he estimated there were at least 30 million square yards of green wallpaper in Britain.
By the mid Victorian era, doctors were investigating cases of suspected arsenic poisoning. In 1857, a Dr William Hinds reported abdominal cramps, light-headedness and nausea every time he relaxed in his green-papered study. When he had the paper removed, his symptoms disappeared. In 1862, four London children in the same family died of respiratory illness. At first their deaths were put down to diphtheria. But when the illness didn’t spread, the nursery wallpaper was analysed, and found to contain lethal amounts of arsenic.
Factory workers were also exposed to the dye toxins. If you’re interested in arts and crafts, this video shows how the well-known pattern of a more expensive wallpaper was made by hand:
Not everyone exposed got sick. Some people were more susceptible than others. Manufacturers therefore disputed the idea that their products were poisoning people. They did begin to advertise ‘arsenic-free’ wallpaper later in the century, but chemical tests cast doubt over these guarantees. Green was not clean. The brightest hues fell out of favour.
As dear old Kermit the frog says:
A Safety Tip for You
Scheele’s Green and other toxic pigments weren’t only used in wallpapers. Nineteenth century paintings and fabrics used them. And books too, in their covers and marbled end papers. What’s more, green was not the only toxic colour. Vermilion can contain a mercury compound. So the advice from professional conservationists: always wash your hands very well after handling old objects. (Thank you to the State Library of Victoria staff for this tip.)
This nearly brings me to the new story. After this…
Side-note: I Discover a Real Monopoly Property
Another historical side-note: the Angel Islington most likely sounds familiar. It’s one of the cheaper properties on the Monopoly board. When I was researching maps of London, I found the actual Angel hotel was not far from a major wallpaper factory and shop. The name has such a ring to it that I looked into its history. By the early Victorian era the Angel was past its glory days — just the place for this story.
My Latest Short Story for You
My last couple of posts introduced a jewellery apprentice, and his mother, Hetty. If you missed those stories, you can read ‘Luverly’ here, and ‘Jack-the-Beanstalk’ here. I’m delighted that ‘Jack-the-Beanstalk’ got recommended by Substack’s Top-in-Fiction last month.
This time, I’ve gone back a bit, to when young Jack’s father, also known as Jack Neave, was courting Hetty. He was keen and so was she. But on a factory worker’s wage, it’s a challenge to be romantic…
The Angel Islington
London, 1842
While St Mary’s minister intoned the Sunday service, in a back pew Jack Neave thought over the problem of his lodgings. They were an unsatisfactory piece of work. ‘The Angel Islington’ was anything but heavenly. Jack had been drawn to the lumbering pile by the stone ornamentation, a relic of better days. A sign offered: ‘Angel Inn Tavern and Hotel for Gentlemen and Families’. On closer inspection, the mortar was crumbling, eaten away by the yellow London fog. Or the Angel was crumbling under the weight of sins committed within its walls. Inside, the corridors reeked of tobacco and chamber pots. The wallpaper in the better rooms was blotched. ‘Gentleman and Families’ his arse.
Sitting in the pew beside him was Jack’s own living angel. Hetty worked on touch-ups in the factory. He could pinch himself that she was willing to wed him. She was so graceful, with a sway to her waist like a fleur-de-lys. No, a fleur-de-lys was too stiff. Hetty was more like a wreathed border, flowing and blossoming. He was looking forward to a taste of heaven with her, when they finally got somewhere private. His windowless cupboard didn’t cut it. He wanted better for Hetty.
The lesson was being read:
‘…and God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work…’
Hetty’s shoulder pressed into Jack’s upper arm. The trust of that touch made him want to be a good man. Someone who could be proud of his work. Like God, if it wasn’t blasphemy to think it.
Today was the third reading of the banns. Jack had wanted to skip the fuss. But Crofter, the foreman at the factory, had taken him aside for a word, man-to-man.
Jack was burning offcuts in the corner stove. The paper smoked and burned with lurid flames. Jack had to wait while the old fellow coughed his lungs into his handkerchief.
‘I’m not long for this,’ Crofter said.
Jack didn’t argue. A wallpaper factory wasn’t the same gnashing beast as, say, an iron foundry, but the air got to some.
‘I’ve told the boss you’re the man to keep the floor working,’ the foreman said, his breath hissing as he tried to whisper. ‘You’ve got an eye for detail. You know the ropes.’
Jack thought he did. He’d been at Jeffrey & Co, since he was a nipper. He knew wet print from dry, Scheele’s Green from Apple Green. He could spot an imperfection at nine yards.
‘You’d like that?’
Jack nodded, trying not to let on just how much he liked it. He wished Crofter well, but if Jack were promoted to foreman… He could support a family tidily on that wage.
‘Thing is,’ Crofter hissed like a boiler. ‘The company’s on the up. Them new colours and designs is bringing good custom. Very respectable custom. So the boss wants a respectable foreman. Get my drift?’
Jack didn’t. He had no blots on his copybook.
Crofter clapped him on the shoulder, then coughed. ‘A family man,’ he said eventually. ‘With a shiny ring on his finger, that’s the mark. Righto?’
‘Righto.’
Nothing for it then, but a proper marriage to Hetty. Rings and banns.
So Jack took his savings to the boss, and asked to change all his shillings for a gold sovereign. He had to admit he’d felt proud as Punch, handing over his hard-earned. He’d slipped the gold sovereign inside his waistcoat. He felt the small disc there as he worked, pressing against his chest, imprinting Her Majesty’s fair head over his heart. He pretended it was Hetty, his own queen-to-be. After knock-off, he handed the coin to a jeweller in Clerkenwell, who melted it into two rings. The pair of them were now snug in his waistcoat, pressed together, ready for the big day.
But first he had to sit through this third morning service at St Mary’s. He’d complained, the first time. He needed his sleep on a Sunday and hadn’t been to church in years. But he saw Hetty glow, the first time their names were read out together. There were better things than sleep.
The bloody trouble was — Jack looked apologetically at the stained glass angel in St Mary’s nave. His trouble was, the wedding rings had taken almost all his bread and honey. He couldn’t afford a house, far less a palace, for his lady.
He was reluctant to pray. He felt like an apprentice who didn’t want to draw the master’s attention. He also felt that it was weak. It showed up a lack in him – he’d failed to fix his own problem. But he was getting desperate. The best he’d found was the third floor room offered to him by the Angel manager. The room faced south, but the extra light only showed up the foulness of the walls.
The manager refused to pay for paint.
‘What’s yer problem?’ he said. ‘Don’t you work for a paperer?’ He tapped the side of his veinous nose. ‘Couldn’t you take a roll or two for a walk out the back door, ay?’
And get himself sent to the colonies? Not Jack’s kind of lark. How would Hetty feel about that? He looked sideways at her. No, she would rather the pig’s trough of the Angel’s third floor than marry a thief. She deserved better.
‘… in the day that the Lord God made the earth and the heavens…’
A beam of spring sun spilled into the church. St Mary’s wasn’t a rich parish, and most of the windows were clear diamond-patterned glass. The light frisked along Hetty’s hair, curled for church. Jack wanted to touch the lock – twist the ends of it around his finger, consider the colour. It wasn’t 107 Hair Brown. Despite the name, 107 was the shade of mouse fur. Hetty’s hair was more 102 – Umber Brown. With streaks of Gallstone Yellow in the light. Bad name for a rich colour. When she dropped her head for the prayers he got a peek under her bonnet at the nape of her neck. The strands were silky Chocolate Red, on Skimmed Milk skin. He was going to lift that veil of hair, and kiss that tender, hidden hairline… When he had the chance. Soon. Very soon.
‘…and every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew…’
Even plants had their place. Except here in the city, where the ground was paved and there wasn’t room. Not for him neither.
Privately, and awkwardly, he petitioned the Almighty for help. Erm, excuse me, but can you help me find somewhere nice to bring Hetty when we’ve tied the knot?
The angel in the nave looked down on him kindly. That’s Scheele’s in the background, Jack thought. It struck him that green wasn’t the most common colour in windows – must be hard to manufacture in glass.
The Bible reading continued, almost in answer.
‘And the Lord God took the man and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it…’
That’d be nice, Jack thought. A place like that. The world had gone downhill since then, for all its science and industry.
‘…made he a woman, and brought her unto the man…’
Yes, but where? Jack had no garden.
Then it came to him – the offcuts. He’d ask Crofter for them. Crofter would let him take the cuts, when Jack explained what he meant to do. Back at the Angel, Jack would sort them, and stick them on the brown stained walls. Make a garden for Hetty. Of Emerald green, Mountain green, Verdigris, Pistachio and every green there was. With rambling roses and posies of violets and fleur-de-lys — a patchwork of wallpaper.
Their own Eden.
The reading had finished. As if she knew his thoughts, Hetty reached for Jack’s hand. A colour he couldn’t name fired in her eyes, as the curate cleared his throat:
‘I publish the Banns of Marriage between James Neave of this parish, St Mary’s Islington, and Hetty Fitch also of this parish. If any of you know cause, or just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the third time of asking.’
Third and final time. And finally, to Jack’s mind, there was no impediment.
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Your story had me absorbed and I learned so much! I can't believe wallpaper was so common when it was so labor-intensive to produce.
Oh dear! I hope hetty does not get poisened by wallpapers.