Amelia (8 page)

After clearing away the breakfast there’d be more chores. On Mondays, Mama put the big tin hip-bath on the range and half-filled it with water, using buckets. She put it on before she started her breakfast, and it would take ages to boil up. Then she’d get Amelia to help her to lift it down onto a
makeshift
stand she made with two kitchen chairs, a hot and dangerous job. Then she’d add some bucketfuls of cold water, until the water was hand-hot – which meant
unbearably
hot, but not hot enough actually to bring your skin out in blisters – get the washboard out from under the sink and set to washing the family laundry. That was a long, arduous job, soaping and scrubbing and soaping and rubbing.

She rinsed everything in cold running water under the tap in the big white china sink and then took the dripping heaps of clothes out to the yard, where she fed them through the rollers of the wringer. It was hard work, turning the big cranking handle, and keeping your feet out of the way so they didn’t get wet when the water came gushing out as the cloth went squeezing through. After that she had to hang
them all out on the washing line and prop it up so the clothes hung high in the air where they could get a good flap.

Though he was six now and really old enough to be at school, Mama kept Edmund at home, because she thought him too delicate for the long walk there and back. That meant he was under Mama’s feet all day. She tried to
encourage
him to stay indoors with Grandmama, but it wasn’t much fun for a small boy playing quietly under the supervision of an old lady. He preferred to run under the washing line on windy days, trying to avoid the sheets that were heavy and cold with water. He laughed out loud if he got slapped by a great sopping sail of cloth, but Mama cried out crossly to him, worried on the one hand that his clothes would get damp, and on the other that contact with her son’s grubby
little
body would streak and smudge the clean white expanses of linen and all her hard work be set at nought.

Then Mama, yelling warnings to Edmund to stand back, would pour all the filthy grey water down the drain, rinse out the bath, and begin all over again, this time boiling up Papa’s shirts and the smalls. The kitchen would reek of soap and steam all day, and there’d be a slithery, soapy film on all the cold surfaces – the window-panes, the tap, the sink, even the water pipes.

‘It’s all
slimy
!’ Edmund would squawk, turning up his nose in disgust when he came into the damp kitchen.

‘You shouldn’t be in here, Edmund,’ Mama would retort. ‘And you shouldn’t be out in the back yard either. You should stay in the parlour with Grandmama, where it’s warm and dry. How often do I have to tell you to keep out of my way when I’m washing?’

Edmund’s nose would wrinkle up again, this time in
dismay
at being spoken to like this by his darling mama. Then Mama would bend down to him and scoop him up for a kiss and murmur soft apologies in his ear. She didn’t know
whether she was more irritated by Edmund’s trailing under her feet in the tiny kitchen and yard, or worried about his chest and his persistent cough.

The next day, with a bit of luck, the clothes would all be ready for ironing. That was another day’s work. First, Mama put the heavy triangular iron on to the stove to heat. Then she spread a thick, scorch-marked woollen blanket, folded over two or three times to make a heat-proof pad, on the kitchen table. When the iron smelt ready, Mama picked it up and spat on it; if the spit hissed, it was hot enough. This bit always made Edmund giggle, because he knew it was naughty to spit, and Mama would smile when he showed his shocked delight, forgiving him for having been a nuisance on wash-day.

Then it was iron, iron, as fast as she could, while the iron was hot; then put it back on the stove and wait, wait till it was hot enough to start again. She always started with a freshly heated iron on one of Papa’s shirts, for these were the most important things to have perfectly smooth and with creases in the right places.

And that was only Monday’s and Tuesday’s work. Then there was shopping and baking – Mama was a terrible baker, and they all tried very hard to persuade her to buy
shop-bread
, but she would persist – and dusting and sweeping and polishing and cleaning. At least she didn’t have to do the mending. Grandmama did that, and a very neat job she made of it too.

In the evenings, Mama would flop into a chair with a sigh and Amelia would make her a cup of tea and rub her
shoulders
, which were stiff and sore from work. All in all, poor Mama was looking the worse for wear. In the old days, she spent so much time on her projects and campaigns that she hardly had time to pay any attention to what she looked like, but nowadays she looked even worse, with her hands and
wrists reddened and chapped from being constantly plunged in water, her nails cut short, her fingers nicked and scarred from sharp kitchen knives and vegetable peelers, and her hair dry and brittle from exposure to steam and kitchen dankness. Amelia was torn between guilty feelings that she ought to be helping Mama more about the house and concern for her own creamy skin and dainty hands.

She did try to do her bit now and again, and one thing she’d found she was quite good at was cooking. This was a great discovery, as Mama, though a hard worker, was a dreadful cook. Amelia said that was because she had no
feeling
for food. Mama would argue that of course she hadn’t. How could anyone have a feeling for food – it was just, well, food, wasn’t it? This wasn’t how Amelia saw it at all, and the rest of the family, whether they had a feeling for food or not, agreed that, however poor the fare might be, Amelia was
certainly
the better cook. Papa and Edmund would ask anxiously who’d cooked a dish before they ventured to eat it.

‘Amelia did,’ Mama would always say, with a wink to Amelia, even if she’d cooked it herself, hoping they’d believe her and say the food was delicious.

‘Amelia never cooked stew like this!’ Papa would say, to Amelia’s secret delight, pushing his plate away, and
Grandmama
would purse her lips, because she didn’t approve of untruths, and she didn’t approve of people who didn’t eat their dinners either.

A
fter the fiasco the birthday party had turned into, all
Amelia’s
friends were full of curiosity about what could have befallen the Pim family so that they neglected their party guests and had the maid send them all packing. Amelia
concocted
a complicated lie the next day, about Papa having been taken ill, and not being able to drive any more because of it. That was how she explained the loss of the car.

When they moved house very shortly afterwards, she tried to tell her friends that it was because Papa wanted to live nearer to his business. But these stories didn’t hold water for very long. Many of the girls at school came from Quaker families, and although gossiping was frowned on, it was
impossible
for such a big piece of news as the Pim family’s
financial
collapse to remain a secret for long. When it emerged that Amelia Pim’s father now worked for Mary Webb’s father, Amelia’s disgrace was complete. Everyone knew what an
important
businessman Charles Pim had been; it was
unthinkable
that he should take a paid position in someone else’s firm unless something had gone seriously wrong – unless, in short, there was some truth in the rumours the young ladies of the Grosvenor Academy were imbibing with their
breakfast
tea.

‘’Melia Pim’s papa stole a lot of money and was only saved
from gaol by Mary Webb’s father vouching for him,’ they said.

‘’Melia Pim’s papa has taken to the drink, because he can’t pay his debts and his creditors are out to get him,’ they hissed.

‘Miss Prim-Pim, with her silk dress and her gold watch – who says that gold watch got lost? Probably pawned it to pay for the party food,’ they sniggered.

‘Those Pims with their motor-car and their airs and graces! They live in a hovel off the South Circular Road and have gruel and skim milk for every meal.’

‘The Pim shouldn’t be here at all. The Monthly Meeting pays her school fees. That’s our money, you realise. Good money after bad, I call that.’

‘Pim the Poorie!’

Bewildered, Amelia turned to Lucinda for comfort – funny, pretty, lively Lucinda, who would be sure to take Amelia’s side and make little of her tormentors.

But Lucinda didn’t see things in quite this way. Lucinda was a fun-loving creature, with a sunny nature and quick to laugh, but she reserved her quicksilver dimples and her
sideways
smile for those she considered worthy of them. Amelia had never noticed before how carefully Lucinda chose her place every day in class. Most people had a favourite desk, near the stove or the hot pipes in winter, near the window in summer, which they made a dive for when the bell rang. But Lucinda slipped in and out of places like a goldfish – a
shimmer
and a slither and she had gone, a gleam and a glide and she was somewhere else, bestowing her favours where she saw fit, turning her open gaze on whoever seemed most interesting, most well placed, most useful, perhaps.

This didn’t all dawn on Amelia in a single day, of course. She made several attempts to corner Lucinda for a chat, so she could pour her heart out to her, but every time she
approached her old friend, Lucinda managed, oh so
charmingly
, to slip away – a music lesson here, an important engagement there, an errand to run for a teacher somewhere else. At last, Amelia got the message. Lucinda didn’t want to know her any more. She, Amelia Pim, was no longer worth knowing. She had lost not only a home, wealth and security, but she had lost position in the little society of the Grosvenor Academy.

At first Amelia felt very miserable about this. She cried a lot at night, very quietly, after Grandmama had gone to sleep. One night, as Amelia was sobbing quietly into her
pillow
, she heard a low voice in the dark. ‘I think you’ve cried enough now, Amelia,’ Grandmama said calmly.

Amelia sat up like a shot in bed and tried to peer through the gloom to Grandmama’s bed. Had she imagined it? Or had Grandmama really spoken?

At last she raised a squeaky enquiry: ‘Grandmama? Are you awake?’

‘Well, of course I’m awake. I don’t talk in my sleep,
Amelia
. That’s a bad habit and I don’t approve of it.’

‘Oh, Grandmama!’ said Amelia with a soft giggle. ‘Talking in their sleep isn’t something a person can help!’

‘Is that so?’ said Grandmama.

Amelia could almost hear her smile in the darkness and realised that Grandmama had only said that to make Amelia laugh. At that moment, Amelia realised she hadn’t laughed for quite a long time. This thought made her suddenly sadder than ever, and she had to make a big effort to swallow another sob.

Grandmama heard the strangled sound though, and knew that Amelia was struggling not to cry. ‘That’s a good girl,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Don’t let ‘em make you miserable.’

‘But Grandmama,’ said Amelia, mystified, ‘how did you know people were making me miserable? I could have been
crying about anything at all.’

‘Oh no, Amelia,’ came the wise old voice. ‘You are a
sensible
girl, and sensible girls only cry about things that are worth crying about. And it’s not worth crying about losing a fine house or a car or a lot of money. Those things are good, but they are not important. What’s worth crying about is when you lose a friend. So I conclude that you must have lost a friend, Amelia. Or maybe more than one friend.’

‘Yes, Grandmama,’ whispered Amelia, feeling very strange to be sitting up in her nightgown talking to someone she couldn’t see. She didn’t agree that it wasn’t worth crying over losing their lovely home in Kenilworth Square and the shining motor car and pots of money, but she knew
Grandmama’s
views too well to argue.

‘And was it a good, kind friend you lost, Amelia?’

Amelia thought for a moment. ‘No, Grandmama,’ she said slowly.

‘So maybe it’s not as great a loss as you imagine?’

‘Maybe not, Grandmama,’ said Amelia, beginning to grin a little, as she could see that Grandmama was going to
reason
her out of her misery. What a very peculiar way to comfort a person! But it was working. Already Amelia was beginning to feel lighter and brighter and altogether less despairing.

‘Well, then,’ said Grandmama, in a satisfied sort of tone, sounding for all the world like a barrister addressing a jury.

Amelia waited for her to say some more, but she didn’t utter another sound. That was just like Grandmama. She wasn’t one to chatter inconsequentially, but she knew to speak when she had something worth saying and to remain silent when she hadn’t. It must have come of all those years of Quakerly silence at Meeting, Amelia thought. It was the first time she had ever seen the point of sitting still and silent. Yes, of course, it made sense all of a sudden. If you only spoke when there really was something to say, people
would naturally take you more seriously when you did speak. Am I turning into a proper Quaker at last? Amelia wondered, turning her pillow over to the dry side and
beating
it into shape for sleeping on.

After that, Amelia made a decision not to mind the jibes and jeers of her schoolmates. It was hard, at times, but she soon found that the best way to cope with teasing was to ignore it. Ignoring it meant not only not answering, but appearing not even to hear the insults and rude remarks they made to her or about her. When she met a girl in the corridor or sat beside one in class, she threw her a sweet, wide smile, as if they were old friends, and hurried on or buried herself in her work as if, in spite of being glad to see whoever it was, she had more important business to attend to and couldn’t stop for a chat. And sure enough, after a while, they started to leave her alone.

‘Grandmama?’ Amelia ventured one afternoon, bringing the old lady a cup of tea in the parlour, where she sat sewing most of the day.

‘Yes, Amelia,’ said Grandmama, not looking up from her work, but moving some spools of thread aside to make roon for the teacup with one hand.

‘Grandmama,’ said Amelia again. But then she didn’t quite know what she wanted to say next.

Grandmama went on sewing for a few moments, waiting for Amelia to say whatever it was she needed to say. Amelia stood there, twisting the handkerchief Mary Ann had embroidered for her birthday. After a bit, Grandmama said: ‘Are you still missing your friend, Amelia?’

For a moment, Amelia thought Grandmama meant Mary Ann. But then, Grandmama wasn’t looking at what Amelia was twisting in her hands, so she couldn’t realise that Amelia was thinking of the servant girl. No, Grandmama must mean Lucinda, who, as Grandmama had pointed out before, was
no great loss, not being a good, kind friend.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s not so much that I miss
her
exactly. It’s more that I just miss having a friend, Grandmama.’

‘It’s hard not to have a friend among your peers, Amelia.’

This sounded very grave, so Amelia responded gravely: ‘Yes, Grandmama.’

‘And are they still teasing you, Amelia?’

How did Grandmama know they’d been teasing her,
Amelia
wondered. She hadn’t mentioned that part of it.

‘Oh no, Grandmama, they’ve given up,’ she said.

‘Good. That means you must have been sticking it out bravely and seeming not to mind. Because that’s the only way to deal with bullying and meanness. If you seem not to care, they soon lose interest in teasing you. There is no
satisfaction
to be gained from teasing someone who appears not to mind. That’s a good strategy, Amelia.’

Amelia smiled a pleased smile to herself. That was a long speech, for Grandmama. It didn’t make it easier to hear that she was doing the right thing, but it helped to make her feel a little better.

In fact, not only had the girls stopped teasing her; some of them had actually begun to admire her. They didn’t go so far as to try to befriend her again – Lucinda wouldn’t tolerate that – but they sometimes returned her smiles of greeting, or at least had the grace to look sheepish.

Dorothea Jacob looked the most sheepish of all when she met Amelia in school. In fact, she looked not so much like a sheep as like a rabbit that’s had a scare, and she made an effort to scamper away every time she saw Amelia. Amelia sometimes wondered what it was about herself that seemed to unsettle Dorothea so, but she didn’t give it too much thought.

What was exercising her mind now was how to make
contact
with Mary Ann. This was the subject she had wanted to
raise with Grandmama, but she felt shy of asking. While the teasing and nastiness were going on at school, and as she smarted with the hurt of Lucinda’s rejection, Amelia’s thoughts turned more and more to Mary Ann. Mary Ann could always make her laugh when she was feeling low. She thought about the day she had comforted Mary Ann when her mother had been ill; she thought about the glorious day they had polished the orangery together; and she thought with special fondness and gratitude of the way Mary Ann had taken over when Amelia had gone to pieces at the birthday party; and she was filled with longing to see her friend.

But how was she going to arrange it? She’d been hoping and hoping for a letter. Every morning she got up early – she wasn’t sleeping well anyway in the new house, not being used to living practically on the street – and crept downstairs before the others were up, every morning expecting to find a letter from Mary Ann. But every morning there was no letter. Every morning that there was no letter increased the chances that there’d be one on the next morning, Amelia told herself. But as the weeks went by, with still no sound from her friend, Amelia had to face it: either Mary Ann didn’t know where Amelia lived now, or she just didn’t want to write. She couldn’t bear to think that Mary Ann didn’t want to keep in touch. She had promised, after all. It must be that she didn’t know the address. The only thing for it was for Amelia to find out Mary Ann’s address and to write to her or visit her instead.

She knew Mary Ann worked for a family called
Shackleton
, acquaintances of her parents, but she didn’t know exactly where they lived. The obvious thing would be to ask Mama if she could find out and arrange for Amelia to visit Mary Ann or for Mary Ann to visit them. But she was a little afraid of asking Mama. Mama mightn’t think it was such a good idea. Of course Mama had what were known as very
‘advanced’ views, which meant that she treated her servants like human beings and didn’t hold with old-fashioned notions of whom it was appropriate to mix with, but even so, she might think it would be unsettling for Mary Ann in her new situation to be approached by Amelia. And then, if
Amelia
did ask Mama, and Mama forbade her to contact Mary Ann, she’d be stumped. No, she wouldn’t say a word to Mama, just in case. She wouldn’t want to risk being told that she mustn’t. She would just have to think up some other way of tracking Mary Ann down.