Amelia (15 page)

‘Ah, Amelia,’ said Mama with a sigh. ‘It wasn’t that Mrs Kelly didn’t turn up. It was I who had to cancel the
arrangement
. Things had got very bad in Papa’s firm by then, and I simply didn’t have the spare cash to pay her. We had great difficulty in getting enough money together to finance the party food, not to mind paying extra staff. That’s why Mrs Kelly didn’t arrive. It had nothing to do with the fecklessness of the poor.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Amelia, ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘So you see, Amelia,’ Mama went on, ‘you can’t say the poor are to blame for being poor. Any more than you can argue that women are to blame for not having the vote.’

‘Oh, Mama, you are incorrigible!’ laughed Amelia. ‘I will
not
hear a lecture on women’s suffrage at this hour of the night.’

‘Am I terribly boring about it, Amelia?’

‘No, Mama.
It’s
a bit boring, I suppose, but
you’re
not. You’re rather splendid, Mama, going to gaol for your
principles
and all.’

‘And leaving my poor daughter to keep the family going and to nurse a sick child? I don’t call that very principled.’

‘I didn’t mind, Mama, really I didn’t. I mean, it was
frightening
when Edmund was so ill, and I missed you dreadfully and I worried about you. But it was nice to be so … well, to feel so important, Mama.’

‘Well, I think you’ve been splendid too, Amelia,’ said Mama. ‘And now it’s time for bed.’

Amelia stood up. ‘Anyway, it’s getting less boring,’ she said. ‘Your votes for women stuff, I mean.’

‘You mean you’re beginning to find it interesting,’ said Mama.

‘Same thing, Mama.’

‘Oh no, Amelia,’ said Mama, kissing a small secret smile into her daughter’s hair. ‘Not the same thing at all.’

O
ne morning Amelia received a letter. It was in a thick white square envelope addressed in a strong hand. It sat by Amelia’s plate when she came down to breakfast. She didn’t often get letters, and she certainly didn’t ever get letters from grown-ups. This was sure to be from a grown-up, as the handwriting was so strong and fluent.

She took her knife, which she hadn’t yet got butter on, and slit the envelope. Out slid a thick piece of white writing paper, to which was attached, as she saw when she unfolded it, an onion-skin-flimsy smaller square of paper. The flimsy square of paper was printed in copper-plate script, with some parts filled in by hand:

And it was signed with an indecipherable squiggle.

Amelia lifted the flimsy sheet aside and read the handwritten letter:

Amelia could feel her heart beating faster and her face glowing pinkly as she read this letter. When she looked up, all her family’s eyes were on her.

‘Well?’ asked Mama.

‘Oh, it’s just a letter,’ said Amelia.

‘Who is it from, Amelia?’ pursued Mama.

‘A friend,’ said Amelia nonchalantly, stuffing it carelessly into her pocket and reaching for a slice of toast.

‘Amelia,’ said Mama in a firm voice. ‘You are too young to receive secret letters. Either you tell me who the letter is
from, or you hand it over.’

‘Oh Mama!’ whined Amelia, but she knew it was to no avail. Sullenly she fished the letter out of her pocket and handed it over, without looking at Mama. Mama read the
letter
in silence, and passed it to Papa.

‘What is the meaning of this, Amelia?’ asked Papa as he read it. ‘Please find enclosed … in respect of professional attendance … no further payment …’ And he flicked the flimsy square of paper over and examined it. ‘This is a receipt, Roberta,’ he said in astonishment.

Both her parents fixed their gaze on Amelia.

‘I paid the bill. That’s all.’ She looked over the top of her teacup at them.

‘Yes, that much is clear, dear, but where did you get the money?’

There was nothing for it but to tell the story of pawning the dress. Amelia looked steadily at her plate and mumbled her story. ‘I got twelve-and-six for it,’ she finished, ‘so I sent Dr Mitchell twelve shillings and I used the sixpence for the stamp and to get some sweets for me and Edmund.’

‘Amelia!’ said Papa in a shocked voice.

‘Well,’ said Amelia defensively, ‘it was a long time since we had had sweets.’

But it wasn’t the sweets Papa was concerned about. ‘You mean to say,’ he went on, ‘you went into a pawnshop, and you pawned the lovely dress your mama got you for your birthday!’

‘Yes, Papa,’ Amelia muttered.

‘Roberta!’ Papa turned to Mama in an appeal for support. He wasn’t angry, exactly, but he was very taken aback. ‘We can’t have our children pawning the clothes off their backs.’

‘No, Charles, we can’t,’ said Mama quietly. ‘But a party frock is not exactly the clothes off anyone’s back. It is a
luxury
item. And I don’t think we should be remonstrating with
our daughter about this, my dear. I think she has made a very brave sacrifice, and I think we should be congratulating her. Do you realise, Charles, how much that dress meant to her?’ And Mama turned a pair of shining eyes on Amelia. Amelia felt shy and pleased and confused all at the same time.

But Papa laid his head right down on the kitchen table and gave a long, low moan.

After a moment he looked up and said: ‘I’m sorry, Amelia. I didn’t mean to appear to criticise you. It is myself I blame, that it should come to this. But I solemnly promise you all that it will never happen again. If I have to kill myself with work, there will be money in this house to pay the bills.’ And he stood up as if he could make a little extra by getting to work earlier, and strode out of the room.

After a little while, Amelia said to Mama: ‘He didn’t even read the important bit.’

‘I know,’ said Mama with a small smile. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well. He’s feeling a bit touchy just now, and he might think Dr Mitchell was offering charity that he couldn’t take. I think we won’t mention it just for the moment, Amelia, if you don’t mind. And I’m very, very pleased to hear that you are
considering
becoming a doctor. I have to say that I agree with Dr Mitchell that you would make a very fine one. But not unless you pass all your examinations, and that starts with getting to school on time. Off you trot now!’

Amelia snatched up her satchel and trotted off, just as Mama had ordered, and all the way, she imagined herself in a white coat – a very elegantly cut white coat, of course – sweeping around the wards of a big hospital, glancing at people and pronouncing them well. If she had the least doubt about their being well, she would stop by their
bedside
and enquire as to their regularity, while holding their wrist aloft in one hand and peering all the while at her gold watch and giving a knowing little sigh as they described their
symptoms. Then she would give the nurses a long and
complicated
list of instructions and the patient some sound advice as to their diet.

A
fter luncheon on the following Sunday, Papa
announced
that they were all going on a little jaunt. He told Amelia and Edmund to get their outdoor things on smartly. He refused to say where they were going, just that they would have tea out. Amelia was rather concerned to hear this. Sometimes there was hardly enough money for tea
in
. She hoped Papa wasn’t becoming extravagant, as he used to be in the old days. She threw a little worried glance in Mama’s direction, but Mama was busy doing up Edmund’s buttons, and she couldn’t catch her eye. She looked at Grandmama, who disapproved of excess, and who
disapproved
even more of entertainment on a Sunday afternoon, but even Grandmama looked unconcerned, and was fussing with her drab little parasol again.

It seemed as if Papa was looking for ways in which to squander money, for not only were they to indulge in the extravagance of tea out, but, as soon as the little party of Pims reached the main road, Papa hailed a passing cab and bundled them all into it, taking no notice of Amelia’s squawking protests. When they were settled in the cab, the ladies and children on the inside, and Papa out of earshot on the seat up beside the cabby, Amelia tried once again to catch Mama’s eye.

‘Mama,’ she said in a fierce whisper. ‘This must be costing a small fortune!’

But Mama just gave a secretive half-smile and looked out of the window at the Sunday afternoon families out on walks, children whooping along in front, adults coming sedately behind. Still Grandmama fussed, this time with the buttons of her gloves.

‘I always said,’ she announced plaintively, to no-one in particular, ‘that buttons were an unnecessary nonsense on gloves, and now look, this one’s just about to fall off. Should I pull it off completely and put it in my pocket, or do you think it will hold the afternoon?’

Amelia gathered that this last question was directed to her.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Goodness me, Grandmama, what did you say?’

But Grandmama just grumbled softly to herself and didn’t ask Amelia’s opinion again.

They all jostled and rolled as the cab bumped over the cobbled streets, and Amelia was just beginning to get into the rhythm of the horse’s stride when they pulled up.

‘Botanical Gardens!’ shouted the cabby.

‘Botanical Gardens!’ repeated Papa, opening the door of the cab with a flourish and handing the ladies down.

‘What on earth …?’ said Amelia.

‘Finest botanical gardens in Europe,’ said Papa, herding them all in at the gate, and no-one could contradict him, for they had no idea what botanical gardens were.

But it appeared that Papa was correct, for certainly the gardens were pleasant to walk in, and it was a good time of year. The flowers of early summer were in colourful
profusion
, and the trees stood gracefully about, nodding in a companionable way in the mild breeze, and the grasses swayed hushingly by the artificial lake, and children flew rather languid kites, and small knots of adults greeted each
other and bowed and stopped to exchange pleasantries in the summer sunshine.

But Amelia’s favourite part was the Palm House. It was an enormous and very beautiful glasshouse, glinting like a
crystal
palace in the sunlight.

‘Oh Papa!’ she said when she saw it. ‘How beautiful!’

They went inside, and it was very hot – almost, but not quite, too hot to be pleasant. Great exotic plants reared their luscious heads way over the heads of the people, and
created
little dappled areas of tepid green shade. The earth smelt warm and rich and there was a tinkle of falling water from a tiny streamlet, over which the water-loving ferns formed a miniature green arch.

‘Oh!’ said Amelia again, looking up through curtainfalls of greenery, draped from over-arching branches, at the wrought-ironwork high above, held together, as it appeared, by shimmering sheets of glass. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

Edmund didn’t appear to think it beautiful. He had his nose pressed to a glass panel and was looking out at some boys playing in the gardens. Grandmama didn’t appear to think it beautiful. She was tugging at her wretched
glove-button
again. Mama didn’t appear to think it beautiful. She had met some friends and was engaged in a trivial exchange of Sunday chit-chat. But Papa was watching Amelia’s delight, and he smiled broadly at her astonishment.

‘I thought you would enjoy it, princess,’ he said. ‘We may never again have a fine house with an orangery, but I thought this might do instead.’

‘Oh, Papa,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s much more splendid than a little house-orangery.’

‘Am I forgiven, Amelia?’ asked Papa quietly.

‘What for, Papa?’

‘For disgracing you, for losing our family fortune, for
moving
you from your lovely house and your precious orangery,
for letting you all down and being a poor provider and a bad father.’

‘Oh, Papa!’ was all Amelia could say. She hoped she had not given Papa the impression that she thought him a bad father. She had to admit that she couldn’t regard him as a good provider, but she had never thought him a bad father, not really, not even when he said things she found hurtful, or spent time in the public house. He’d stopped doing that, now she came to think of it, since Edmund’s illness. That was an improvement, certainly. Still, she had to admit that she didn’t think as well of him as she used to, and he was bound to have noticed.

She stepped a little closer to him, and leant her head briefly and regretfully on his shoulder. He stroked her yellow-gold hair and patted her shoulder regretfully in turn. They didn’t say any more, just stood still for a moment.

‘Teatime!’ said Papa suddenly, yanking Edmund away from the glass wall of the Palm House, which he was in
danger
of pressing right through, and taking Mama on one arm and Grandmama on the other. Edmund skipped in front of the adults and Amelia brought up the rear, and together the little family negotiated the narrow, mossy path out of the glasshouse.

At the door of the glasshouse, they ran almost straight up against the Goodbody family, the parents in front and Lucinda and Frederick coming behind. In fact Edmund did run right into Lucinda’s mama, his face coming smack up against her parasol, which she had lowered in order to enter the doorway.

‘Ouch!’ said Edmund, rubbing his nose and looking up at Lucinda’s mother.

Amelia could just glimpse the Goodbodys between the shapes of the adults in front of her. Oh no! she thought, instantly running her eyes over her second-best dress, which
left a good deal to be desired in the way of smartness,
elegance
, fashion and even fit.

‘Eleanora Goodbody!’ said Mama, smiling at Lucinda’s mama and putting out her hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’ And she launched into some more Sunday afternoon chit-chat, while Papa and Lucinda’s father made loud friendly
conversation
and Grandmama smiled her sweetest Sunday smile. Meanwhile Lucinda and Frederick were hopping up and down to see over their parents’ shoulders who it was they were greeting.

People began pressing on the Pims’ heels from inside the Palm House, wanting to get out, and presumably on the Goodbodys’ heels from outside the Palm House wanting to get in, and gradually, without actually saying anything, the two families dissolved the knot they made in the doorway, the Goodbodys stepping back a little and the Pims moving out. Other parties jostled by them, and muttered and cast irritated looks, but the two sets of parents hardly noticed that they had caused a traffic blockage.

It was only when they had moved aside from the doorway that the Goodbody children could see Amelia. Lucinda’s eyes shot up and down Amelia’s second-best dress, and a disdainful look kindled in them. But Frederick didn’t seem to notice Amelia’s dress, or to be at all surprised that the girl he had last seen dressed like a silken princess now stood before him in a rather shabby and rather tight-fitting plain dress, even though it was Sunday. He looked only into her face, right into her eyes, and, without taking his eyes from hers, he reached up and removed his Sunday hat.

‘Amelia Pim, as I live and breathe!’ he said gallantly. The sunlight made his red-brown hair glint and his eyes were caramel-coloured in his creamy-brown face.

‘Frederick Goodbody,’ Amelia replied prettily, saying not a word to Lucinda.

‘My!’ said Lucinda with a toss of her auburn bubbles. ‘I
declare
, Frederick, you amaze me, remembering Amelia like that. Why, I’d have thought you met so many girls – pretty ones too – every day of the week, you’d never remember someone like Amelia Pim.’

For just a single moment, Frederick removed his gaze from Amelia’s face and turned a look of intense irritation on his
sister
. ‘Lucinda, why don’t you run away and play with young Edmund here? You’re acting just about his age.’

Edmund looked up wide-eyed at the sister and brother. ‘Have you ever been in a train?’ he asked Lucinda earnestly, taking Frederick at his word that he and Lucinda were to play together. ‘I know a good train game. You make the noises and I …’

‘Oh do be
quiet
, Edmund,’ said Lucinda haughtily, turning aside to examine a perfectly unremarkable lavender border as if it were an exotic specimen of great interest.

Edmund’s face fell, and Amelia stretched out her hand and grasped his sticky little hand in hers, in a comfortable sort of way, but she kept her eyes on Frederick.

‘Would you like to make up a party with us next Sunday?’ Frederick was saying.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Amelia sadly. ‘You see, I haven’t got a party dress. Not any more.’ She hoped Lucinda wouldn’t ask what had happened to it.

‘No, no, not that sort of a party,’ said Frederick
dismissively
, as if that sort of a party were the most boring thing in the world. ‘I mean a walking party. Some friends and I are making up a party next Sunday afternoon, to walk along the banks of the Dodder. Papa is going to lead us, and Mama is coming along to chaperone the young ladies. Please say you’ll come too.’

Amelia looked at Lucinda. Lucinda didn’t meet her eye,
but went on bending over the lavender and sniffing it
pointedly
.

‘Lucinda can’t come, unfortunately,’ said Frederick in a low voice, not sounding as if he really thought it at all
unfortunate
. ‘She has extra homework to do for three Sundays in a row, for bad behaviour. She’s only here today because there is no-one at home to supervise her. Next Sunday our older sister will be there to keep an eye on her, so she’ll be well and truly grounded.’

‘Oh!’ said Amelia. ‘Well, if Mama and Papa agree …’

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Frederick, and bowed as the adults began to move apart, the Goodbodys back towards the Palm House door and the Pims in the opposite direction, still calling goodbyes to each other.

In the tea-rooms, Papa ordered tea, sandwiches and cake. Amelia hugged her invitation to herself and almost forgot to worry about the family finances. ‘Cake!’ she squeaked, but it was a squeak that had no heart in it.

‘Cake!’ Papa confirmed.

The tea arrived quickly, brought by a thin, chirpy waitress, who reminded Amelia, with a pang, of Mary Ann.

‘Now!’ said Papa, as Mama filled the tea-cups and
Grandmama
passed around the little china plates. ‘I have an announcement to make.’

Everyone looked at Papa. What could it be?

‘As you all know, I work for one Richard J. Webb, in the capacity of office clerk, a profession of no great intellectual challenge, nor any great pecuniary reward.’

They continued to look at Papa.

‘Well,’ Papa went on. Then he paused.

‘Oh, Papa, do get on with it!’ said Amelia, breathless with anticipation.

‘Well,’ said Papa again. ‘Further to a recent meeting with said Richard J. Webb, and to his review of my modest
achievements in my capacity of office clerk over the past two months, and particularly in view of the fact that I have
managed
to introduce a modicum of order and reason into Richard J. Webb’s chaotic office procedures, said Richard J. Webb has offered me promotion to the position of office manager, on the retirement in one month’s time of the
present
incumbent of the post.’

This was wonderful news. It meant that Papa would have a much more respectable, responsible and demanding job to do, and it meant that he would command a much better
salary
. But it also meant that Papa’s employer trusted and respected him. Here was confirmation that Papa was an honourable man, and that there was no truth in the nasty rumours that he had acted dishonestly in his own business.

‘Oh, Papa!’ Amelia jumped up from the tea-table and reached over to kiss her father, but he was too far away and she only succeeded in upsetting the cream-jug.

Amelia scarcely noticed the accident she had caused, and since she couldn’t reach Papa for a kiss, she blew him several across the teapot and rattled her teaspoon on her saucer in celebration. Mama smiled quietly and Grandmama merely said: ‘Dear, dear, what a waste of cream!’

‘What is Papa saying, ‘Melia?’ piped up Edmund. ‘What’s he saying, Mama? I don’t understand Papa. He’s talking too grown-up. Please, somebody.’

No-one took any notice of the little boy. Not even Mama, who had scarcely been able to keep her eyes off him since she had come home. But he must have realised that
whatever
Papa was saying was good, as everyone was in such great good humour, because he joined Amelia in banging his teaspoon in his saucer. Even Mama took up the clinking,
silvery
chorus, and the Pim family, taking tea together around a table for the first time in weeks, made a glad sound.