Really it was a study in parcels. Some were so beautifully done up that one marvelled at the dexterity of amateur hands which tied the string; others were disgracefully bundled together; and in one or two cases labels arrived saying they had been found without any parcels attached.
Many people had carefully sorted the things into bundles and written outside, “Complete outfit for a man,” “Complete outfit for a woman,” “For a peasant child,” or “For a well-born little girl.”
Several people in different parts of England offered to get up working-parties, and asked for suggestions for making suitable garments.
A Manchester manufacturer of flannel said he was willing to give all that was required, and his workpeople would give the time if I let them know what to make, but as his letter did not arrive until twenty-five thousand things had gone, I did not feel able to begin over again. Dressmakers and shops sent contributions. Several sent parcels in great haste. Poor dears, they imagined there would be one crate—my “one box on Friday” became a veritable joke. A lady sent a sack containing clothes, and kindly requested that I would let her have the sack back. I did return several portmanteaux, suit-cases, washing-baskets, and even hold-alls, but when it came to a sack——
The crowd which collected in the street was both pathetic and humorous. I remember two shabby little urchins of eight and ten looking with longing eyes at the warm clothing, and the younger one remarked: “I say, Bob, what a pity we wasn’t blowd up in that earthquake!”
A friend noticed a couple of unusual parcels being handed in at the door and quietly put into one of the cases. On rushing to investigate, she found that one contained my best drawing-room curtains returned from the cleaners, and the other a cake for afternoon tea.
Warned not to leave her wraps about, one of my helpers put her muff and stole on the staircase. An hour later she only rescued them in the nick of time from a crate where a kindly man was packing them up, thinking they “would be so comfortable for the poor people in Sicily.”
Many of these crates stood four feet from the ground. It was therefore impossible, even with the aid of friendly walking-sticks, to pack the bottom, consequently a kitchen chair was fetched, and by its aid various girls got inside and gradually packed the clothing and themselves upwards.
My rooms on the ground floor were full of parcels, letters, cheques, postal orders, keys waiting to be returned with portmanteaux, labels likewise to be affixed to returned empties, bills of lading, telegrams, cards, accounts for clothing, etc. Personally, I never sat down for one minute that somebody did not come to ask for a shilling, or sixpence, or half-crown, to pay for some package delivered unpaid at the door.
To complicate matters, reporters and photographers seemed to arrive from everywhere. They snapshotted us as we worked, they gleaned bits of information from any and every one, and one of them insisted on penetrating my private den, where he found me busily writing. A friend, hearing a crash and seeing a mysterious light, thought there was a sudden earthquake in York Terrace. She rushed to the hall to ask what had happened. “Oh, it is nothing, only Mrs. Tweedie being snapshotted.”