the
Daily Telegraph
Births. “What copy cats!” She looked over the top of the newspaper and made a humorous-seeming grimace at Amy, who knew that she was not really amused. Her own name was not Maggie, of course, but Margaret, and even, though few people knew, Margaret Rose at that. “We thought of Emma for Dora, if you remember. Scarcely escaped it, really.”
They were sitting over breakfast in the basement kitchen. James had gone off to work at Sothebys, and Dora to the Lycée Francais to vie with Amabels and Sebastians, not to mention the Armands and Francoises. She was a docile child. Isobel, left at home withher mother and grandmother, was not. In her
Railway Children
clothes, her black stockings and winged pinafore she set up very hell. Already, at nine o’clock in the morning, Amy’s head was aching; for Isobel had to be, at that instant, doing her sewing. She would not wait for anything. First, the needle was threaded by her despairing mother, and then had to be rethreaded, and the cotton knotted by her disapproving grandmother. Dots of blood on the handkerchief she was hemming drew such shrieks as made passers-by pause and look down into the area, wondering if they should do something.
Amy got up and began to clear the table, and at once Isobel wanted to make pastry.
“I’m going to mix some later to make a pie. You shall have some then,” Maggie promised.
“I want to mix it myself. Now.”
“Why don’t you help me dry up?” Amy suggested.
But that gave Isobel another idea – that she would wash up. So she stood at the sink on a stool, with an apron tied over her pinafore and slowly took smeared plates, and forks with eggy tines out of the water and handed them to Amy to dry. All the morning, every thing had to be done twice over and the second time in secret. Silver was caked with powder, beds made, then unmade and made again, apples were wasted because she could not manage to peel them, and, later, grey pieces of pastry were graciously handed round. Maggie ate hers, or what she could not palm, and Amy considered her cowardly. “Even if the Queen of England herself had made it, I could not,” she said firmly.
And so the day wore on. In the afternoon, Amysaid she would go for a walk on her own – a great disappointment to Maggie who had hoped to do that very thing herself or, at the very worst, have someone to share a walk with Isobel.
At about half-past six, when Amy, Maggie and Dora were trying to get Isobel out of the bath, James returned from Sotheby’s. Maggie had already put on a long dress, for friends were expected – to take Amy’s mind off things, James had thought. Keeping away from the bathroom, he began to uncork bottles of red wine and stand them about on the kitchen table, where there were already plates laid out, cutlery and candle-sticks,
taramasalata
and rough bread. A crock of
boeuf Strogonov
from the freezer was thawing on the Aga.
Maggie, looking battered, came down to the sitting-room and tried to dry her dress before a radiator. Soon, Amy was able to join her. She had flicked through a Beatrix Potter, thankful – and not for the first time in her life – for the brief pages; but wearing other people out all day had at last worn Isobel out. Her eyelids had wavered, drooped, her thumb found its way into her mouth. With a look of great serenity and innocence, she had succumbed. Dora, who preferred to read to herself, still sat bolt upright in her bed, her lips moving, her head going slowly from side to side as her eyes followed the print.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Amy asked for the dozenth time, as she came into the sitting-room. But it was all done – most of it weeks ago. Maggie gave her a drink, and then went back to steam faintly before the radiator. James came up from the kitchen and joined them, and Amy wished that therest of the evening could be the same –just peacefully recuperating from Isobel.
The guests were all youngish married London
Daily Telegraph
Births. “What copy cats!” She looked over the top of the newspaper and made a humorous-seeming grimace at Amy, who knew that she was not really amused. Her own name was not Maggie, of course, but Margaret, and even, though few people knew, Margaret Rose at that. “We thought of Emma for Dora, if you remember. Scarcely escaped it, really.”
They were sitting over breakfast in the basement kitchen. James had gone off to work at Sothebys, and Dora to the Lycée Francais to vie with Amabels and Sebastians, not to mention the Armands and Francoises. She was a docile child. Isobel, left at home withher mother and grandmother, was not. In her
Railway Children
clothes, her black stockings and winged pinafore she set up very hell. Already, at nine o’clock in the morning, Amy’s head was aching; for Isobel had to be, at that instant, doing her sewing. She would not wait for anything. First, the needle was threaded by her despairing mother, and then had to be rethreaded, and the cotton knotted by her disapproving grandmother. Dots of blood on the handkerchief she was hemming drew such shrieks as made passers-by pause and look down into the area, wondering if they should do something.
Amy got up and began to clear the table, and at once Isobel wanted to make pastry.
“I’m going to mix some later to make a pie. You shall have some then,” Maggie promised.
“I want to mix it myself. Now.”
“Why don’t you help me dry up?” Amy suggested.
But that gave Isobel another idea – that she would wash up. So she stood at the sink on a stool, with an apron tied over her pinafore and slowly took smeared plates, and forks with eggy tines out of the water and handed them to Amy to dry. All the morning, every thing had to be done twice over and the second time in secret. Silver was caked with powder, beds made, then unmade and made again, apples were wasted because she could not manage to peel them, and, later, grey pieces of pastry were graciously handed round. Maggie ate hers, or what she could not palm, and Amy considered her cowardly. “Even if the Queen of England herself had made it, I could not,” she said firmly.
And so the day wore on. In the afternoon, Amysaid she would go for a walk on her own – a great disappointment to Maggie who had hoped to do that very thing herself or, at the very worst, have someone to share a walk with Isobel.
At about half-past six, when Amy, Maggie and Dora were trying to get Isobel out of the bath, James returned from Sotheby’s. Maggie had already put on a long dress, for friends were expected – to take Amy’s mind off things, James had thought. Keeping away from the bathroom, he began to uncork bottles of red wine and stand them about on the kitchen table, where there were already plates laid out, cutlery and candle-sticks,
taramasalata
and rough bread. A crock of
boeuf Strogonov
from the freezer was thawing on the Aga.
Maggie, looking battered, came down to the sitting-room and tried to dry her dress before a radiator. Soon, Amy was able to join her. She had flicked through a Beatrix Potter, thankful – and not for the first time in her life – for the brief pages; but wearing other people out all day had at last worn Isobel out. Her eyelids had wavered, drooped, her thumb found its way into her mouth. With a look of great serenity and innocence, she had succumbed. Dora, who preferred to read to herself, still sat bolt upright in her bed, her lips moving, her head going slowly from side to side as her eyes followed the print.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Amy asked for the dozenth time, as she came into the sitting-room. But it was all done – most of it weeks ago. Maggie gave her a drink, and then went back to steam faintly before the radiator. James came up from the kitchen and joined them, and Amy wished that therest of the evening could be the same –just peacefully recuperating from Isobel.
The guests were all youngish married London
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