put the suitcase down. The lines on her forehead set themselves into a nasty frown.
“Cora!” she said. “I thought I told you to stay in the Chase if I wasn’t back — near the cottages, I said!”
“Blimey, I forgot —”
“I will not be disobeyed! While you’re here, you’ll do what I say! I won’t have this, Cora! I won’t!”
“Sorry, Auntie.”
Mrs. Eastfield wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Then she took off her scarf and, fanning herself with it, looked Pete and me over. I felt hollow around my knees. Pete’s eyes had grown into tennis balls.
“And who are you?” she said.
“Roger and Peter Jotman,” I blurted out. Crikey! I’d actually talked to Mrs. Eastfield.
“Jotman? Two of the Jotman boys? Does your mother know you’re here?”
“Um, pardon?”
“You heard me. Does she know you are here?”
“Er —”
“Obviously not! You know full well she would be furious if she knew you had come down to Guerdon Hall.”
I heard Pete gulp at the same time as me.
“Better go. Bye, Mrs. Eastfield. Thank you, Mrs. Eastfield,” I said.
Pete and me shot off like lightning bolts. Halfway down the Chase, we stopped to get our breath.
“Cor, narrow escape, there,” panted Pete, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
“Yeah, but what was in that great big suitcase?”
“Most probably stuff for spells,” said Pete. “New supplies.”
Auntie Ida wouldn’t open the suitcase until she’d had a cup of tea. Mimi and me stood quietly on the sunken floorboards by the kitchen door while she made it. I knew the case had to be something to do with us or Auntie wouldn’t have kept us waiting there. When she finished her tea, she put the cup and saucer in the big stone sink. Then, with a grunt, she lifted the suitcase up onto the kitchen table, undid the strap buckles, and threw the lid back. As the case burst open, I caught a wave of light-coloured material and a lovely fresh smell on the air, but Mimi and I stayed where we were, not daring to move until Auntie called us over.
The case was full of lovely clean clothes — perfect, no holes or patches or darning: gingham dresses for me, one blue and one mauve with a white collar; skirts; green trousers with yellow stitching on the pockets; a white cardigan with pink roses in two lines next to the buttons; flowery pyjamas; and (I couldn’t believe it) a pair of red slip-on shoes without any straps or buckles. Amazingly, they fit pretty well. There were dresses for Mimi, too — one pink with coloured smocking, another in white — pairs of knickers with rows of lacy frills, socks, little black shiny shoes, and pyjamas with yellow ducks on. At the bottom of the case, wrapped in brown paper, were some wellingtons.
Everything was much nicer by a million miles than anything we had in London. Clothes went round in Limehouse, all used before, the elbows worn out by some other child, the patches sewn on by someone else’s mum. The only things I ever had new were the jumpers Nan knitted, striped in odd colours from old scraps of leftover wool. When I grew out of them, Nan unravelled them, washed the yarn to get the kinks out, then knitted bigger ones, the stripes always in different places to where they’d been before.
It was wonderful of Auntie Ida to go to all this trouble for us, to buy all those lovely things, but I didn’t say anything other than a quiet “Thank you, Auntie Ida,” because it wasn’t good manners to draw attention to the fact that money had been spent. Dad always said there was quite a lot of it — money, that is — on that side of the family, Mum’s side. He even said that they were actually toffs, but that my Grandma Agnes, Mum’s mother and Auntie Ida’s sister, had been a black sheep. I know that that sort of black sheep has got nothing to do with the nursery rhyme. It means somebody in your family who has done a bad thing and can’t ever be forgiven for it.
Pete and I walked back up the
“Cora!” she said. “I thought I told you to stay in the Chase if I wasn’t back — near the cottages, I said!”
“Blimey, I forgot —”
“I will not be disobeyed! While you’re here, you’ll do what I say! I won’t have this, Cora! I won’t!”
“Sorry, Auntie.”
Mrs. Eastfield wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Then she took off her scarf and, fanning herself with it, looked Pete and me over. I felt hollow around my knees. Pete’s eyes had grown into tennis balls.
“And who are you?” she said.
“Roger and Peter Jotman,” I blurted out. Crikey! I’d actually talked to Mrs. Eastfield.
“Jotman? Two of the Jotman boys? Does your mother know you’re here?”
“Um, pardon?”
“You heard me. Does she know you are here?”
“Er —”
“Obviously not! You know full well she would be furious if she knew you had come down to Guerdon Hall.”
I heard Pete gulp at the same time as me.
“Better go. Bye, Mrs. Eastfield. Thank you, Mrs. Eastfield,” I said.
Pete and me shot off like lightning bolts. Halfway down the Chase, we stopped to get our breath.
“Cor, narrow escape, there,” panted Pete, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
“Yeah, but what was in that great big suitcase?”
“Most probably stuff for spells,” said Pete. “New supplies.”
Auntie Ida wouldn’t open the suitcase until she’d had a cup of tea. Mimi and me stood quietly on the sunken floorboards by the kitchen door while she made it. I knew the case had to be something to do with us or Auntie wouldn’t have kept us waiting there. When she finished her tea, she put the cup and saucer in the big stone sink. Then, with a grunt, she lifted the suitcase up onto the kitchen table, undid the strap buckles, and threw the lid back. As the case burst open, I caught a wave of light-coloured material and a lovely fresh smell on the air, but Mimi and I stayed where we were, not daring to move until Auntie called us over.
The case was full of lovely clean clothes — perfect, no holes or patches or darning: gingham dresses for me, one blue and one mauve with a white collar; skirts; green trousers with yellow stitching on the pockets; a white cardigan with pink roses in two lines next to the buttons; flowery pyjamas; and (I couldn’t believe it) a pair of red slip-on shoes without any straps or buckles. Amazingly, they fit pretty well. There were dresses for Mimi, too — one pink with coloured smocking, another in white — pairs of knickers with rows of lacy frills, socks, little black shiny shoes, and pyjamas with yellow ducks on. At the bottom of the case, wrapped in brown paper, were some wellingtons.
Everything was much nicer by a million miles than anything we had in London. Clothes went round in Limehouse, all used before, the elbows worn out by some other child, the patches sewn on by someone else’s mum. The only things I ever had new were the jumpers Nan knitted, striped in odd colours from old scraps of leftover wool. When I grew out of them, Nan unravelled them, washed the yarn to get the kinks out, then knitted bigger ones, the stripes always in different places to where they’d been before.
It was wonderful of Auntie Ida to go to all this trouble for us, to buy all those lovely things, but I didn’t say anything other than a quiet “Thank you, Auntie Ida,” because it wasn’t good manners to draw attention to the fact that money had been spent. Dad always said there was quite a lot of it — money, that is — on that side of the family, Mum’s side. He even said that they were actually toffs, but that my Grandma Agnes, Mum’s mother and Auntie Ida’s sister, had been a black sheep. I know that that sort of black sheep has got nothing to do with the nursery rhyme. It means somebody in your family who has done a bad thing and can’t ever be forgiven for it.
Pete and I walked back up the
Similar Books
