the
exact
opposite of what she said. He was
terrible
company and the
less
he came to visit the better. I wanted to laugh out loud and embrace her, it was like a happy secret that we had together, her and me the both of us. But that would not have been right so instead I just says, “Yes marm, it is an awful pity,” and made her another curtsey and went out, smirking.
As for the little book, that soon wiped the smile off my face. Dear gob the cornuptions I went through with it to start with I do not care to recall (though I look at it now with some fondness as it lies here beside me on the table).The trouble was I knew how to spell words but joining them together to make correct sentences had me all in a pucker. Or perhaps it was not so much correct sentences that eluded me but sentences that I thought worthy for the missus to read. I may well have shed a tear or two over those first entries, for I can see the ink is blurred in places and also the pages are covered in blots since I had the pen constantly hovering over them, willing the words to come out. At the end of an hour, a single paltry line was all I had, however in my opinion that was plenty and I was glad to get back downstairs and throw myself into the simple task of making supper.
That evening missus elected to sit in the kitchen and read her
Bathgate Monthly Visitor
except she barely glanced at it, she seemed more interested in watching me clear away. I was beginning to think she had forgot about the little book altogether when she put down her
Monthly Visitor
and tellt me to bring her what I had wrote. I did so with heavy heart and even now am ashamed to copy down my first desperate effort.
thursday
got up done a few light chores for missus nothing else strange or startling
The missus glanced at it then looked up at me. “Why did you stop there?” she says and I says to her I didn’t know for sure but perhaps it was because my hand had got tired. “After a single line?” she says and I told her that it was because I did not have the habit of writing a journal.
“Well, Bessy,” she says to me, “a journal should be more specific. You must write down what the various chores are and say something else to give colour to the account. For instance, this morning what happened?”
I looked at her. My mind was a blank.
“The first thing that happened this morning?” she says.
I shrugged. “I got up late?” I says.
“Well—yes,” she says. “That is not what I was thinking of but it will do. Why not. Now, try again.” And she made me sit down at the kitchen table and have another go. What a shambles, I think it must have took about an hour to write.
thursday
got up late porridge for breakfast burnt roof of mouth on it collected eggs emptied poe for missus sheeps head broth for dinner went for scones served tea to missus and reverend other than that nothing strange or startling
“Well,” says the missus when she looked at it. “That is better. But it still wants further elaboration and detail.”
So I says in jest Oh should I have elaborated what was in the pisspot, marm? (And then I could have kicked myself, for dear sake it was not the kind of pleasantry fit for a lady.) The missus just gives me a look and says no, but this account doesn’t
speak
to me. I tellt her that I was truly sorry but I didn’t know what else to write about. And she sighed and tellt me that the next day it would please her greatly if when I wrote in the little book I wasn’t just to write what I
did,
the chores and all, I was to write down how I
felt
about what I did and what
thoughts
went through my head as I did it.
Jesus Murphy I thought to myself what
possible
interest could that be to any man jack and I may have said as much except not in those exact words and then the missus says if you do it I will give you another shilling so I thought well gob if it made her happy.
But I am being too pert. To tell the truth I did not care a ducks beak for the extra
exact
opposite of what she said. He was
terrible
company and the
less
he came to visit the better. I wanted to laugh out loud and embrace her, it was like a happy secret that we had together, her and me the both of us. But that would not have been right so instead I just says, “Yes marm, it is an awful pity,” and made her another curtsey and went out, smirking.
As for the little book, that soon wiped the smile off my face. Dear gob the cornuptions I went through with it to start with I do not care to recall (though I look at it now with some fondness as it lies here beside me on the table).The trouble was I knew how to spell words but joining them together to make correct sentences had me all in a pucker. Or perhaps it was not so much correct sentences that eluded me but sentences that I thought worthy for the missus to read. I may well have shed a tear or two over those first entries, for I can see the ink is blurred in places and also the pages are covered in blots since I had the pen constantly hovering over them, willing the words to come out. At the end of an hour, a single paltry line was all I had, however in my opinion that was plenty and I was glad to get back downstairs and throw myself into the simple task of making supper.
That evening missus elected to sit in the kitchen and read her
Bathgate Monthly Visitor
except she barely glanced at it, she seemed more interested in watching me clear away. I was beginning to think she had forgot about the little book altogether when she put down her
Monthly Visitor
and tellt me to bring her what I had wrote. I did so with heavy heart and even now am ashamed to copy down my first desperate effort.
thursday
got up done a few light chores for missus nothing else strange or startling
The missus glanced at it then looked up at me. “Why did you stop there?” she says and I says to her I didn’t know for sure but perhaps it was because my hand had got tired. “After a single line?” she says and I told her that it was because I did not have the habit of writing a journal.
“Well, Bessy,” she says to me, “a journal should be more specific. You must write down what the various chores are and say something else to give colour to the account. For instance, this morning what happened?”
I looked at her. My mind was a blank.
“The first thing that happened this morning?” she says.
I shrugged. “I got up late?” I says.
“Well—yes,” she says. “That is not what I was thinking of but it will do. Why not. Now, try again.” And she made me sit down at the kitchen table and have another go. What a shambles, I think it must have took about an hour to write.
thursday
got up late porridge for breakfast burnt roof of mouth on it collected eggs emptied poe for missus sheeps head broth for dinner went for scones served tea to missus and reverend other than that nothing strange or startling
“Well,” says the missus when she looked at it. “That is better. But it still wants further elaboration and detail.”
So I says in jest Oh should I have elaborated what was in the pisspot, marm? (And then I could have kicked myself, for dear sake it was not the kind of pleasantry fit for a lady.) The missus just gives me a look and says no, but this account doesn’t
speak
to me. I tellt her that I was truly sorry but I didn’t know what else to write about. And she sighed and tellt me that the next day it would please her greatly if when I wrote in the little book I wasn’t just to write what I
did,
the chores and all, I was to write down how I
felt
about what I did and what
thoughts
went through my head as I did it.
Jesus Murphy I thought to myself what
possible
interest could that be to any man jack and I may have said as much except not in those exact words and then the missus says if you do it I will give you another shilling so I thought well gob if it made her happy.
But I am being too pert. To tell the truth I did not care a ducks beak for the extra
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