earnings for a trip to the Holy Land. Ivy left school two years ago, and has done nothing much since, although she reads a great deal, writes poetry, has corresponded with Vita Sackville-West, and published radical verses about colliery disasters in the local paper. She would like to have gone to university, but nobody even thought of it. She intends to make something of her life, does Ivy, but when? How long, O Lord, how long?
Joe Barron is the baby of the family, the youngest of them all, and it is Joe who is now watching out for Ada and Bessie as they approach the gateposts and high walls of Laburnum House and make their way up its short drive. The walls are surmounted with a nasty boy-proof ridge of sharp-angled black crozzle, a waste by-product of the mining industry: this is decorated with dangerous splinters of broken glass, another product of which there is no shortage. This double defence is intended to prevent boys from breaking into the small orchard and raiding the apple trees and soft-fruit plot. But the house, behind its wall, is not hostile. Its porch is full of scarlet geraniums, and its doors stand open.
There Joe greeted his guests. He was past the blushing stage, and was now quite the young man, in his white shirt and grey flannel trousers. Quite the ‘Anyone for tennis?’ young man—and he was indeed good at tennis, which he played at the club with Ada’s brother Richard, his brother Phil, and Ernie Nicholson from Sprotbrough. But tennis was far from his mind as he ushered the girls into the large drawing room, into the presence of his mother and Ivy. Joe was thought to be sweet on Bessie Bawtry, and Bessie was thought to return his admiration. Nothing serious, of course—they were too young for that. They were just practising.
Mrs Barron presided over her second-best teapot with nervous affability. Flora Barron was only in her fifties, though she thought of herself as an old woman, and looked and dressed like an old woman. Unlike Bessie’s mother Ellen, she was thin, not stout: she was a bony, upright figure, and she sat forward on the edge of the chair, her back stiff to attention. She was dressed in a dark patterned maroon artificial silk which reached nearly to her ankles, for she had not even thought of adopting the shorter skirts of the younger generation. Her chest was flat, and seemed to sink and recede from her prominent collarbones. Her hair was grey and abundant: she wore it scraped back into a large bun, secured by a heavy imitationtortoiseshell clasp and pin. This ornament was, in fact, made of celluloid, as many hair ornaments of the period were. The new plastic technology pierced Mrs Barron’s bun, but despite Bennett’s enthusiasm it had not penetrated many other corners of that predominantly Edwardian drawing room.
Mrs Barron poured tea for Ada and Bessie, for Rowena and Ivy, for herself and Joe. Bessie politely admired the teacups—botanical Spode, with an ornate pink patterning of twining foliage and stylized carnations and roses. Each cup had within its bowl, opposite the sipping lips of the drinker, a passionflower, though Bessie did not recognize it as a specimen of a species she had never seen. Passionflowers were not much cultivated in South Yorkshire. Bessie admired the Spode very much, and thought it in better taste than the Bawtry best, which consisted of a bright and vulgar Crown Derby with too much purple and gold and a lot of random spots. It must be said that Bessie also had a contempt for the Cotterhall-crafted Barron fancy glassware, which she thought horribly common. She was relieved not to find it on the Barron table.
(Where
did
Bessie get these notions? Who
did
she think she was?)
It appeared that Rowena was indeed planning to take herself off to sea on a luxury cruise. This year, next year, sometime. She was off to the Holy Land, though not for any very holy reasons, and would proceed thence through the Suez Canal and back round the Cape. Rowena went to
Joe Barron is the baby of the family, the youngest of them all, and it is Joe who is now watching out for Ada and Bessie as they approach the gateposts and high walls of Laburnum House and make their way up its short drive. The walls are surmounted with a nasty boy-proof ridge of sharp-angled black crozzle, a waste by-product of the mining industry: this is decorated with dangerous splinters of broken glass, another product of which there is no shortage. This double defence is intended to prevent boys from breaking into the small orchard and raiding the apple trees and soft-fruit plot. But the house, behind its wall, is not hostile. Its porch is full of scarlet geraniums, and its doors stand open.
There Joe greeted his guests. He was past the blushing stage, and was now quite the young man, in his white shirt and grey flannel trousers. Quite the ‘Anyone for tennis?’ young man—and he was indeed good at tennis, which he played at the club with Ada’s brother Richard, his brother Phil, and Ernie Nicholson from Sprotbrough. But tennis was far from his mind as he ushered the girls into the large drawing room, into the presence of his mother and Ivy. Joe was thought to be sweet on Bessie Bawtry, and Bessie was thought to return his admiration. Nothing serious, of course—they were too young for that. They were just practising.
Mrs Barron presided over her second-best teapot with nervous affability. Flora Barron was only in her fifties, though she thought of herself as an old woman, and looked and dressed like an old woman. Unlike Bessie’s mother Ellen, she was thin, not stout: she was a bony, upright figure, and she sat forward on the edge of the chair, her back stiff to attention. She was dressed in a dark patterned maroon artificial silk which reached nearly to her ankles, for she had not even thought of adopting the shorter skirts of the younger generation. Her chest was flat, and seemed to sink and recede from her prominent collarbones. Her hair was grey and abundant: she wore it scraped back into a large bun, secured by a heavy imitationtortoiseshell clasp and pin. This ornament was, in fact, made of celluloid, as many hair ornaments of the period were. The new plastic technology pierced Mrs Barron’s bun, but despite Bennett’s enthusiasm it had not penetrated many other corners of that predominantly Edwardian drawing room.
Mrs Barron poured tea for Ada and Bessie, for Rowena and Ivy, for herself and Joe. Bessie politely admired the teacups—botanical Spode, with an ornate pink patterning of twining foliage and stylized carnations and roses. Each cup had within its bowl, opposite the sipping lips of the drinker, a passionflower, though Bessie did not recognize it as a specimen of a species she had never seen. Passionflowers were not much cultivated in South Yorkshire. Bessie admired the Spode very much, and thought it in better taste than the Bawtry best, which consisted of a bright and vulgar Crown Derby with too much purple and gold and a lot of random spots. It must be said that Bessie also had a contempt for the Cotterhall-crafted Barron fancy glassware, which she thought horribly common. She was relieved not to find it on the Barron table.
(Where
did
Bessie get these notions? Who
did
she think she was?)
It appeared that Rowena was indeed planning to take herself off to sea on a luxury cruise. This year, next year, sometime. She was off to the Holy Land, though not for any very holy reasons, and would proceed thence through the Suez Canal and back round the Cape. Rowena went to
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