puffs for tea. You promised, Mama.’ Amelia thought she was going to cry, and she knew Edmund certainly would when he found out.
‘Nonsense, Amelia,’ said Mama, steering her daughter out of the shop. ‘Lemon cake, I said. Cook’s made a lemon cake. I’m sure she said she had.’
Amelia was suspicious. She swung her empty basket as she walked home. If Mama hadn’t intended to bring some of the goods home, why had they brought their baskets, she asked herself. But she didn’t say anything, just swung her basket pointedly and walked with fierce little steps.
Amelia was right. There was no lemon cake for tea that day, just bread and butter and jam – not even lemon curd. But Mama didn’t offer any explanations for her fib, and Amelia knew better than to challenge her.
In any case, Amelia soon forgot all about the episode in Findlaters and the lemon puffs. She had more important things to think about. She and Mama interviewed Mick Moriarty in the back garden on the subject of the orangery roof.
Mick Moriarty took his cap off, using both hands and then replaced it on his head, even further back from his forehead than normal. This was a sign that he was thinking hard. Amelia held her breath.
‘Aye,’ he said at last, took the cap off again and replaced it in its normal position over his brow.
Amelia sighed with relief. That meant he thought he could fix it.
It only took him a day – that and a ladder, a football-sized lump of putty, and a few choice curses which Mama pretended not to hear. In between fixing panes in place he would throw the ball of putty down to Amelia, and she would keep it warm and pliable by pulling and rolling it in her hands, while Mick Moriarty did a bit of knife work. The putty was lovely stuff to manipulate, like elastic dough, and it smelt almost good enough to eat.
They left it for a day to harden, and then Amelia and Mary Ann went at the glass with newspapers soaked in methylated spirit. They cleaned every bit of glass as high as they could reach, and Mick Moriarty got his ladder and cleaned the roof for them.
After they had finished, Amelia and Mary Ann stood in the middle of the orangery, from which all the dusty old furniture had been cleared away, in an ankle-deep wash of medicinal-smelling newspapers and admired their sparkling glass-work. The sun obligingly came out and shone with special brilliance through the glass and onto the two girls, making their hair glint and gleam, as if to approve their work.
With a sigh of satisfaction, Amelia helped Mary Ann to pile the black and sodden newspapers into buckets and carry them through the house to the kitchen, where they poked them into the range. The fire shot up voraciously to eat the spirituous newsprint, and the girls laughed as they fed it more and more papers. Cook caught them at it and threw her hands up in despair, telling them the chimney would catch fire if they didn’t look out, but they just laughed at her and stuffed the last few scrunches of newspaper into the range’s black mouth.
Then they scrubbed their filthy hands at the scullery sink, and Mary Ann made tea. She used the earthenware kitchen teapot, not the silver one Amelia was used to, and the tea was hot and sweet and strong. They ate bread and dripping with it, which was the normal kitchen teatime fare. Amelia thought it was heaven to sit at the sturdy deal table and eat thick cuts of bread with Mary Ann and Cook, and not have to listen to Edmund breathing in that irritating way of his, or watch Grandmama at her eternal needlepoint and eat daintily in the drawing-room way.
‘Isn’t this fun, Mary Ann?’ she said, even though her mouth was half-full and she should have waited till it was empty.
To Amelia it was like a picnic, but of course to Mary Ann it was nothing special, except that Amelia was there. Even so, Mary Ann said, ‘Yes, Amelia.’ There, she’d done it! She’d called her Amelia, without even flinching.
Amelia noticed. She didn’t say
‘Nonsense, Amelia,’ said Mama, steering her daughter out of the shop. ‘Lemon cake, I said. Cook’s made a lemon cake. I’m sure she said she had.’
Amelia was suspicious. She swung her empty basket as she walked home. If Mama hadn’t intended to bring some of the goods home, why had they brought their baskets, she asked herself. But she didn’t say anything, just swung her basket pointedly and walked with fierce little steps.
Amelia was right. There was no lemon cake for tea that day, just bread and butter and jam – not even lemon curd. But Mama didn’t offer any explanations for her fib, and Amelia knew better than to challenge her.
In any case, Amelia soon forgot all about the episode in Findlaters and the lemon puffs. She had more important things to think about. She and Mama interviewed Mick Moriarty in the back garden on the subject of the orangery roof.
Mick Moriarty took his cap off, using both hands and then replaced it on his head, even further back from his forehead than normal. This was a sign that he was thinking hard. Amelia held her breath.
‘Aye,’ he said at last, took the cap off again and replaced it in its normal position over his brow.
Amelia sighed with relief. That meant he thought he could fix it.
It only took him a day – that and a ladder, a football-sized lump of putty, and a few choice curses which Mama pretended not to hear. In between fixing panes in place he would throw the ball of putty down to Amelia, and she would keep it warm and pliable by pulling and rolling it in her hands, while Mick Moriarty did a bit of knife work. The putty was lovely stuff to manipulate, like elastic dough, and it smelt almost good enough to eat.
They left it for a day to harden, and then Amelia and Mary Ann went at the glass with newspapers soaked in methylated spirit. They cleaned every bit of glass as high as they could reach, and Mick Moriarty got his ladder and cleaned the roof for them.
After they had finished, Amelia and Mary Ann stood in the middle of the orangery, from which all the dusty old furniture had been cleared away, in an ankle-deep wash of medicinal-smelling newspapers and admired their sparkling glass-work. The sun obligingly came out and shone with special brilliance through the glass and onto the two girls, making their hair glint and gleam, as if to approve their work.
With a sigh of satisfaction, Amelia helped Mary Ann to pile the black and sodden newspapers into buckets and carry them through the house to the kitchen, where they poked them into the range. The fire shot up voraciously to eat the spirituous newsprint, and the girls laughed as they fed it more and more papers. Cook caught them at it and threw her hands up in despair, telling them the chimney would catch fire if they didn’t look out, but they just laughed at her and stuffed the last few scrunches of newspaper into the range’s black mouth.
Then they scrubbed their filthy hands at the scullery sink, and Mary Ann made tea. She used the earthenware kitchen teapot, not the silver one Amelia was used to, and the tea was hot and sweet and strong. They ate bread and dripping with it, which was the normal kitchen teatime fare. Amelia thought it was heaven to sit at the sturdy deal table and eat thick cuts of bread with Mary Ann and Cook, and not have to listen to Edmund breathing in that irritating way of his, or watch Grandmama at her eternal needlepoint and eat daintily in the drawing-room way.
‘Isn’t this fun, Mary Ann?’ she said, even though her mouth was half-full and she should have waited till it was empty.
To Amelia it was like a picnic, but of course to Mary Ann it was nothing special, except that Amelia was there. Even so, Mary Ann said, ‘Yes, Amelia.’ There, she’d done it! She’d called her Amelia, without even flinching.
Amelia noticed. She didn’t say
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