the sparkling glass in front of her. ‘Of courrrse.’
6
I could tell it was late as soon as I opened my eyes. There was mid-morning sunshine streaming in through the window, and Florence was in the doorway, only her skirt and ankles visible under that big pile of laundry I’d left yesterday.
‘Ten o’clock, Miss E.,’ she said. Then, kindly, ‘Thought you should sleep through.’
I sat up guiltily. ‘How’s Mother today?’ I asked.
‘Got a visitor.’
By the time I’d dressed and run a comb through my hair and got to Mother’s room, Aunt Mildred was getting wheezily to her feet, ready to go.
She eyed me with disfavour. ‘Up late, I see,’ was all she said. Mother, sitting up against her pillows, sighed.
‘Let me see you out, Aunt Mildred,’ I said hastily, eager to make amends. I leaned over and kissed Mother’s cheek, miserably aware of her faint movement away from me.
Aunt Mildred sailed down the corridor in her summer grey, ominous as a battleship. I hastened after her, bobbing in her wake. We were at the door, and I was fussing around finding the parasol she said she’d come in with but which neither of us could see, before she cleared her throat andsaid, ‘I’m assuming you do know that your mother has been feeling unwell?’
I straightened up and stepped out of the closet, full of sudden dread. ‘Yes,’ I said, and I could hear my voice sounded thin.
She shook her head. ‘Well, I think she would have appreciated just a little concern and care,’ she said grimly.
‘But …’ I stammered with a last flicker of self-defence, ‘I have …’
My proof: hadn’t she and Mother been sitting together in the healing rose fragrance that my white flowers, so lustrously fresh and perfect, were sending out into the room?
‘She’s hardly seen you, she says.’
I hung my head. The rest of what she said washed over me: the ‘children can be so unthinking’s, and the ‘of course their own lives seem so much more interesting’s.
‘It doesn’t do a girl’s reputation any good, you know,’ Aunt Mildred added, more severely still, and the force of whatever else she and Mother had also been discussing made it sound as though every word she said were capitalized, ‘What You’ve Been Doing.’
Whatever That Is, I told myself with inner defiance, though ‘going out till all hours drinking cocktails’, ‘keeping company with disreputable young men’ and ‘letting communists disturb the neighbourhood’ possibly had something to do with it.
‘My parasol is there,’ she added in a different voice.
Wordlessly, I passed it out.
She gave me a challenging stare. ‘I don’t need to say any more, do I?’ she finished.
I shook my head.
‘I can only say it’s a good thing you’re all coming to the island from tomorrow,’ she added, opening the door herself. ‘We’ll have some good behaviour
there
, at least.’
The door clicked shut.
In my room, where the bright sunshine through the windows now seemed to be mocking me, I looked at the books still in the bottom of my trunk. They didn’t seem to be in quite the same places I remembered. I couldn’t see the French poetry book with the bundle of extra bits of paper, including the torn-out ad for Plevitskaya, the so-called Nightingale, whom I’d met last night, and the photo of Grandmother, folded inside the cover. I turned the whole box out. It wasn’t anywhere.
I went to the kitchen. There were noises from the washroom behind.
‘Are we really going to the island tomorrow?’ I asked Florence.
Florence, half-submerged in a sudsy tub, looked up at me sympathetically.
‘That’s why I’m washing everything today,’ she said carefully. ‘Though how all this will ever get dry in time God only knows.’
Then she scrunched up her face in that sympathetic, I-know-more-than-I’m-admitting way she had, and added, ‘Nothing for it but to say yes, Miss E. Just like I do.’
‘But for how long?’ I asked, ignoring her
6
I could tell it was late as soon as I opened my eyes. There was mid-morning sunshine streaming in through the window, and Florence was in the doorway, only her skirt and ankles visible under that big pile of laundry I’d left yesterday.
‘Ten o’clock, Miss E.,’ she said. Then, kindly, ‘Thought you should sleep through.’
I sat up guiltily. ‘How’s Mother today?’ I asked.
‘Got a visitor.’
By the time I’d dressed and run a comb through my hair and got to Mother’s room, Aunt Mildred was getting wheezily to her feet, ready to go.
She eyed me with disfavour. ‘Up late, I see,’ was all she said. Mother, sitting up against her pillows, sighed.
‘Let me see you out, Aunt Mildred,’ I said hastily, eager to make amends. I leaned over and kissed Mother’s cheek, miserably aware of her faint movement away from me.
Aunt Mildred sailed down the corridor in her summer grey, ominous as a battleship. I hastened after her, bobbing in her wake. We were at the door, and I was fussing around finding the parasol she said she’d come in with but which neither of us could see, before she cleared her throat andsaid, ‘I’m assuming you do know that your mother has been feeling unwell?’
I straightened up and stepped out of the closet, full of sudden dread. ‘Yes,’ I said, and I could hear my voice sounded thin.
She shook her head. ‘Well, I think she would have appreciated just a little concern and care,’ she said grimly.
‘But …’ I stammered with a last flicker of self-defence, ‘I have …’
My proof: hadn’t she and Mother been sitting together in the healing rose fragrance that my white flowers, so lustrously fresh and perfect, were sending out into the room?
‘She’s hardly seen you, she says.’
I hung my head. The rest of what she said washed over me: the ‘children can be so unthinking’s, and the ‘of course their own lives seem so much more interesting’s.
‘It doesn’t do a girl’s reputation any good, you know,’ Aunt Mildred added, more severely still, and the force of whatever else she and Mother had also been discussing made it sound as though every word she said were capitalized, ‘What You’ve Been Doing.’
Whatever That Is, I told myself with inner defiance, though ‘going out till all hours drinking cocktails’, ‘keeping company with disreputable young men’ and ‘letting communists disturb the neighbourhood’ possibly had something to do with it.
‘My parasol is there,’ she added in a different voice.
Wordlessly, I passed it out.
She gave me a challenging stare. ‘I don’t need to say any more, do I?’ she finished.
I shook my head.
‘I can only say it’s a good thing you’re all coming to the island from tomorrow,’ she added, opening the door herself. ‘We’ll have some good behaviour
there
, at least.’
The door clicked shut.
In my room, where the bright sunshine through the windows now seemed to be mocking me, I looked at the books still in the bottom of my trunk. They didn’t seem to be in quite the same places I remembered. I couldn’t see the French poetry book with the bundle of extra bits of paper, including the torn-out ad for Plevitskaya, the so-called Nightingale, whom I’d met last night, and the photo of Grandmother, folded inside the cover. I turned the whole box out. It wasn’t anywhere.
I went to the kitchen. There were noises from the washroom behind.
‘Are we really going to the island tomorrow?’ I asked Florence.
Florence, half-submerged in a sudsy tub, looked up at me sympathetically.
‘That’s why I’m washing everything today,’ she said carefully. ‘Though how all this will ever get dry in time God only knows.’
Then she scrunched up her face in that sympathetic, I-know-more-than-I’m-admitting way she had, and added, ‘Nothing for it but to say yes, Miss E. Just like I do.’
‘But for how long?’ I asked, ignoring her
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