Amelia Page 5

  ‘The orangery? Oh that conservatory place. Why, no. I don’t think anyone’s even been into it for years.’

  ‘Why’s that, Mama?’

  ‘Well, I don’t really know. It was your grandfather’s special project, I remember. After he died, nobody bothered much with it. The roof leaked, and the furniture, which was just that light bamboo stuff, got ruined by the rain, I think. So you couldn’t sit in it after that.’

  ‘Mama, would it be a very expensive job to fix the roof?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Were you thinking we might use it again? That’s rather a nice idea. I often think myself that it’s a shame it’s fallen into disuse. It would be pleasant to sit in at this time of year. We wouldn’t have to replace all the furniture at once. We could use a few of the old things that are there already, and gradually we might get something more suitable.’

  ‘I was just thinking of the roof, Mama,’ said Amelia, thrilled that her plan was working out so nicely. ‘If we just got the roof fixed and the glass cleaned and the floor polished, and the old furniture cleared out, of course, then, Mama, wouldn’t it be a lovely place for my party? We could dance in it!’

  ‘Well …’ said Mama, hesitating.

  ‘We couldn’t dance in the drawing room, Mama, not without taking up the rug. And the dining room would have the food in it. And the morning room’s too small. But the orangery would be perfect. We could serve the food in the dining room, and leave the doors to the orangery open, and people could drift in and out. Oh, Mama, say yes, do, do!’

  ‘Yes, Amelia, you’ve convinced me. I don’t see why we couldn’t do as you suggest. It’s wasteful to have a lovely room like that and not to use it. A room so full of light. When I think about those people living in those dark little cottages with their tiny windows, hardly ever getting to see God’s good sunshine at all, it makes me ashamed to be letting the orangery run to wrack and ruin.’

  ‘Oh, Mama, thank you!’ Amelia breathed, hardly able to believe it. Her very own special room for her own special party!

  ‘We’ll have a word with Mick Moriarty tomorrow and see what he can do with the roof. And … I’ve just had a splendid idea, Amelia.’ Amelia’s mother gripped her daughter by the wrists and swung her around in a little dance on the pavement. ‘We’ll sell the old furniture to the rag-and-bone man when he calls on Thursday, and we’ll give the proceeds to Mary Ann, to buy something for her family. She’ll certainly earn it with all the extra work this party is going to make for her and Cook. Now, in addition to that, we’ll need more help in the kitchen for the party. We’ll get Mrs Kelly in! And that’ll mean a little extra for her family. I’ll go right back and ask her now!’

  Amelia’s mother’s eyes were shining almost as much as Amelia’s. It was just like her to turn a perfectly good idea for a party into a social campaign. Amelia hoped she wouldn’t want to send out suffragette propaganda with the party invitations! But really she didn’t mind turning back to Harold’s Cross Cottages one little bit, even though her feet were tired and she was ready for her tea.

  Oranges and Lemons

  Amelia often went with Mama to Findlater’s shop to get the groceries. The shop was large and cool and it had a special fruity, sugary smell that Amelia loved. The manager always came out from his office behind the shop, if he heard that the Pims were there, to pay his respects. He would lean over the counter, to where the biscuit tins were ranged with their glass lids slanted outwards so that the customer could see the tempting biscuits inside, nestling on their greaseproof-paper beds, and, flipping a lid, he would take out a biscuit and hold it up ceremoniously to Amelia. He was a large plump grey-haired man with old-fashioned sideburns and a large pocket watch that Amelia used to play with when she was little. Mama and Amelia both took wicker baskets, to carry home the things they needed immediately. The rest would be delivered later in the day by cart. They didn’t need to carry a purse, as they had an account at the shop, which Papa settled every month.

  This day, however, Mr O’Connell didn’t make an appearance when Amelia and Mama came into the shop. He must be out, thought Amelia, or else he didn’t realise they were there. But the new young shopboy was very attentive. He lifted up the flap of the counter and opened the little half-door and came out to the customer’s side of the counter to get a chair for Mama to sit on. Then he went back to his own side of the counter and took a pencil from behind his ear, which he licked, so that he could take down Mama’s list.

  Mama had a long list of requirements, and the counter was soon quite covered with food and household goods for the Pim family and servants: currants and raisins and prunes and dried apricots, sugar and salt and flour, semolina and rice and macaroni and cornflour and breadsoda, rashers of bacon and plump, damp strings of sausages, a score of eggs, washing soda and cakes of soap and a little bag of blue for whitening linen, sugar soap and borax powder for cleaning, half-a-dozen lemons, half-a-dozen oranges and a pound of bananas, cabbages, cauliflowers, onions, carrots and parsnips from the greengrocery department, and two thin white paper bags of biscuits, plain and fancy, which the shopboy weighed out carefully, adding an extra biscuit in the end, for good measure.

  ‘Can I tempt you to a half-pound of Barry’s tea, all the way from Cork?’ asked the shopboy helpfully, not liking actually to suggest that Mama had forgotten something.

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find it’s come from much further afield than Cork,’ said Mama waggishly. ‘But no, thank you, we are Pims, the wine and tea merchants. We have our own sources of tea.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am.’ The shopboy blushed deeply. His blush clashed with his bright orange hair, so that he looked quite unattractive. Amelia felt sorry for him. She smiled at him, but he didn’t notice.

  ‘That’s all right. How could you be expected to know?’ said Mama kindly.

  ‘No, it’s not that, Ma’am,’ said the boy. Then he leant over the counter and said something to Mama that Amelia couldn’t hear.

  ‘Oh, not at all, not at all,’ said Mama brightly. ‘I’m sure it’s some mistake. I’ll send my husband in to talk to Mr O’Connell as soon as he gets home and it’ll all be settled up in no time. Now don’t you feel bad about it at all. I quite understand.’

  And Mama turned to leave the shop, taking Amelia by the elbow.

  ‘But, Mama,’ said Amelia, digging her heels in, ‘we haven’t taken the things we’ll be needing immediately.’

  ‘There’s nothing that we need immediately,’ said Mama firmly.

  ‘But, Mama, the biscuits. You said we could have lemon puffs for tea. You promised, Mama.’ Amelia thought she was going to cry, and she knew Edmund certainly would when he found out.

  ‘Nonsense, Amelia,’ said Mama, steering her daughter out of the shop. ‘Lemon cake, I said. Cook’s made a lemon cake. I’m sure she said she had.’

  Amelia was suspicious. She swung her empty basket as she walked home. If Mama hadn’t intended to bring some of the goods home, why had they brought their baskets, she asked herself. But she didn’t say anything, just swung her basket pointedly and walked with fierce little steps.

  Amelia was right. There was no lemon cake for tea that day, just bread and butter and jam – not even lemon curd. But Mama didn’t offer any explanations for her fib, and Amelia knew better than to challenge her.

  In any case, Amelia soon forgot all about the episode in Findlaters and the lemon puffs. She had more important things to think about. She and Mama interviewed Mick Moriarty in the back garden on the subject of the orangery roof.

  Mick Moriarty took his cap off, using both hands and then replaced it on his head, even further back from his forehead than normal. This was a sign that he was thinking hard. Amelia held her breath.

  ‘Aye,’ he said at last, took the cap off again and replaced it in its normal position over his brow.

  Amelia sighed with relief. That meant he thought he could fix it.

  It only took him a day – that and a ladder, a football-sized lump
of putty, and a few choice curses which Mama pretended not to hear. In between fixing panes in place he would throw the ball of putty down to Amelia, and she would keep it warm and pliable by pulling and rolling it in her hands, while Mick Moriarty did a bit of knife work. The putty was lovely stuff to manipulate, like elastic dough, and it smelt almost good enough to eat.

  They left it for a day to harden, and then Amelia and Mary Ann went at the glass with newspapers soaked in methylated spirit. They cleaned every bit of glass as high as they could reach, and Mick Moriarty got his ladder and cleaned the roof for them.

  After they had finished, Amelia and Mary Ann stood in the middle of the orangery, from which all the dusty old furniture had been cleared away, in an ankle-deep wash of medicinal-smelling newspapers and admired their sparkling glass-work. The sun obligingly came out and shone with special brilliance through the glass and onto the two girls, making their hair glint and gleam, as if to approve their work.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, Amelia helped Mary Ann to pile the black and sodden newspapers into buckets and carry them through the house to the kitchen, where they poked them into the range. The fire shot up voraciously to eat the spirituous newsprint, and the girls laughed as they fed it more and more papers. Cook caught them at it and threw her hands up in despair, telling them the chimney would catch fire if they didn’t look out, but they just laughed at her and stuffed the last few scrunches of newspaper into the range’s black mouth.

  Then they scrubbed their filthy hands at the scullery sink, and Mary Ann made tea. She used the earthenware kitchen teapot, not the silver one Amelia was used to, and the tea was hot and sweet and strong. They ate bread and dripping with it, which was the normal kitchen teatime fare. Amelia thought it was heaven to sit at the sturdy deal table and eat thick cuts of bread with Mary Ann and Cook, and not have to listen to Edmund breathing in that irritating way of his, or watch Grandmama at her eternal needlepoint and eat daintily in the drawing-room way.

  ‘Isn’t this fun, Mary Ann?’ she said, even though her mouth was half-full and she should have waited till it was empty.

  To Amelia it was like a picnic, but of course to Mary Ann it was nothing special, except that Amelia was there. Even so, Mary Ann said, ‘Yes, Amelia.’ There, she’d done it! She’d called her Amelia, without even flinching.

  Amelia noticed. She didn’t say anything, but she gave Mary Ann an extra-specially warmsmile. And Mary Ann grinned back.

  And that was how the orangery came to be a crystal dome once more, full of nothing but clear, sparkling air. By now the emerald silk dress was almost ready, Papa had secured the promise of a gramophone, and plans for the food and decorations were well under way. Amelia had a lurching feeling in her insides every time she thought about the party, but she took a deep breath and reminded Mama that it was time to write the invitations.

  So they sat down one evening with Papa’s best fountain pen and a pile of smooth square white cards edged with gold and wrote notes to all Amelia’s classmates and her cousins Louise and Beatrice. ‘And Joshua, Mama,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Joshua? Oh, I’m sure your cousin Joshua won’t want to come to a girls’ party.’

  ‘But, Mama, we’ll need some boys. For the dancing.’

  ‘Ah, for the dancing,’ said Mama with a knowing nod. ‘I see. I knew there must be some point to boys. Goodness knows, they’re pretty useless otherwise.’

  Amelia was too distracted even to notice that Mama was making a little joke. She chewed Papa’s fountain pen and looked out of the window.

  ‘And what other young men did you have in mind, Amelia? I don’t suppose poor Josh is expected to do all the honours.’

  ‘Mary Webb has a brother,’ said Amelia without enthusiasm. ‘And Dorothea Jacob has a cousin, a boy-cousin, I mean. Lucinda’s brother is almost sixteen. Do you think that’s too old, Mama?’

  ‘I expect he’s almost ready to draw a pension,’ said her mother, ‘but we could ask him anyway, and if he can still walk without a stick, perhaps he might be prevailed upon to come.’

  ‘I can’t think of any more,’ wailed Amelia. ‘Oh, Mama, have any of your suffragettes got sons?’

  ‘Are you sure that is the sort of boy you want to mix with, Amelia?’ asked her mother wickedly.

  ‘Why, Mama! You’re a suffragette.’

  ‘And I’m all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mama. Of course you are.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Mama. ‘Sometimes, Amelia, I think you are so disapproving of everything I do, that I almost feel guilty.’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’ said Amelia. ‘It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove of what you do.’ But she knew, deep down inside, what her mother meant.

  ‘No, of course it isn’t. But still, one doesn’t like to feel one’s own daughter thinks one is crackers.’

  ‘Mama, I don’t think you’re crackers. I think perhaps you’re a little … well, perhaps a little quick to get involved in things. But not crackers.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Mama. But she didn’t finish the sentence.

  Just then Papa came into the room, smoking his curly pipe and scenting the air with it. He was in his carpet slippers and had on his comfortable at-home look.

  ‘What are the ladies up to?’ he asked in his gallant way.

  ‘Writing invitations, Papa,’ said Amelia. ‘For the birthday party.’

  ‘Ah, next week!’ said Papa, ruffling Amelia’s hair.

  ‘Oh, and Papa, can the guests have a ride in the motor-car? I promised.’

  ‘What?’ said Papa, in mock horror. ‘Do you think I’m running a motorised hackney-cab? Or a funfair ride?’

  ‘That’s right, Papa,’ said Amelia, laughing up at him. ‘They’re all so excited at the thought.’

  ‘Well, you tell all the young ladies to wear warm coats, and we’ll see if we can’t manage a spin around the square.’

  It was going to be such fun, Amelia knew it. Cook was already stacking goodies in the pantry, and Edmund had helped Amelia to make paper lanterns to hang up, and streamers from coloured paper, and the orangery was looking so splendid and now Papa was going to come home early from the office and take people on motor-car rides. Amelia wasn’t too sure herself how the dancing part would go, but she knew that was what the girls at school expected, so she just hoped they would know how to handle it. It was all going to be so wonderful. The best party ever.

  Amelia was so busy imagining it, and breathing slowly to calm the lurching excitement in her tummy, that she didn’t notice the anxious glance her mother exchanged with her father over her head.

  And even if she had, she would have assumed it had something to do with Edmund, whose cold hadn’t seemed to get any better. In fact, it had got worse. Amelia could hear him coughing and spluttering in the night, even though he still had a fire in his room every evening.

  The Birthday Present

  Amelia woke up earlier than usual, as she always did on birthdays. She lay in bed, pretending it was just an ordinary day and forcing herself to think about dreary things like homework and lacrosse practice. Then, just as she had almost convinced herself that it was any old Tuesday, the realisation that it was really and truly her thirteenth birthday and the day of her party would come flooding back into her mind, and the excitement would make her stomach turn right over so that she groaned into her pillow.

  When she heard Mary Ann rattling around downstairs, cleaning the grates, Amelia knew it was time to get up, so she slipped out of bed and washed hurriedly, pouring water from the big flower-patterned ewer into the basin and soaping herself quickly and then rinsing and patting herself dry. She brushed her teeth in the last of the water, struggled into her everyday school clothes and her heavy school boots and, pulling the hairbrush quickly through her smooth hair, she left the bedroom and flew downstairs.

  Breakfast was laid since the night before, and Amelia could hear Mary Ann’s footsteps coming from the kitchen, but none of the family had made an appearanc
e yet. She paced to the window and looked out onto the garden, which was fresh with a recent shower of spring rain and bright with daffodils. She didn’t know whether she wished the others would appear, or whether she wanted to eke out the anticipation a little longer.

  The door opened quietly, and in came Mary Ann, carrying a breakfast tray.

  ‘Happy birthday, Amelia,’ she said with a grin. She put the breakfast tray down, and came over to Amelia at the window. She pushed a small package into Amelia’s hand, and then scuttled out the door.

  Amelia certainly hadn’t expected Mary Ann to give her a birthday present. She opened the flat little package with shaking fingers. Inside was a plain white handkerchief, the kind you could buy very cheaply in any of the big shops in town. Amelia knew that Mary Ann couldn’t spare even a penny or two to be buying handkerchiefs for a girl like Amelia, who was so much better off.

  She shook the handkerchief out, and the fresh smell of new cotton rose up to meet her. Just then, Amelia noticed a little sprig of embroidery in the corner. It was the letters AP intertwined, with a circle of lily-of-the-valley around them, all done in tiny stitches in cream thread. The stitching was so neat and smooth and the colour so discreet that Amelia had almost missed it. This was Mary Ann’s real present – her own handiwork. Amelia was very touched, and she hadn’t even had a chance to say thank you.

  Edmund was the next to come bursting through the door. He had a package in his hand too. ‘Happy birthday, Mealy,’ he said, calling her by his baby-name for her. His present was a toy train carriage, gaily painted in royal blue with bright red and gold trimmings – just the sort of thing Edmund loved himself. Its very inappropriateness made Amelia smile, and she leant over and kissed her little brother and said ‘Thank you, Edmund’ in the sweetest voice she could manage.

  She led Edmund by the hand to the breakfast table, where Mary Ann had set tea and coffee and warm muffins and apricot jam. As she sat down, Amelia noticed yet another package, wrapped in blue tissue paper and done up with a narrow pink ribbon, by her plate.