His father was sprawled in the chintz armchair, a drink in his hand, a bleary smile on his face.
Elinor dashed forward. In one movement, she swept the hat from Edward’s head and grabbed his tumbler. She sniffed it: creme de menthe.
Edward gave his mother a slack, happy smile. He swayed and nearly fell from the table.
Elinor caught him. Her son’s body was cold. She tried to control her voice.
“Time for bed, Edward.”
A silly smile spread over Billy’s face.
“It’s a father’s job to teach a chap to drink,” he said.
White-faced, Elinor snapped, “How dare you!” She dressed the swaying Edward, then went to the kitchen. From her best teapot, she took the two bank notes that she kept hidden for emergencies. Without saying a word, she took Edward and left the apartment.
On the following day, Buzz visited some friends, two doors down, who were looking for a lodger. For an extra ten shillings a week, they were persuaded to take both mother and son.
On Monday, at midday, when Elinor knew that Billy would be at work, she returned to Earls Court Square to pack.
As she entered the dark entrance hall, a woman looked out of the ground-floor flat.
“I thought it was you, Mrs. O’Dare,” she said lugubriously.
“I knew someone would have told you about the accident. The police want to see you, dear.” Forty-five minutes later, Elinor was sitting beside Billy’s hospital bed. His bandaged leg was raised in traction, and one arm was in a plaster cast. His head was also bandaged, and the left side of his face was badly’ grazed
“I ran after you.” Billy sounded sheepish.
“But the kerb seemed to move, and a lorry got me from behind, Bloody stupid thing to do.”
“Poor, poor Billy!” Elinor said as she tenderly kissed him.
“Don’t you worry about a thing, darling.” For only a fleeting moment, she feared the wrath of Buzz.
But it was Edward who objected. Still suffering from a hangover, he looked at his mother and said in a voice of hopeless misery, “I didn’t think you’d make me go back. Oh, why can’t you leave him, Mummy?” .
“Things are going to be different,” Elinor promised, but as she saw disbelief in Edward’s face, she suddenly wondered how she could have stubbornly held on to that belief for so long. She remembered hoping that things would change when her baby was born. As long ago as that! Then she hoped that things would change when the baby stopped crying, then when the baby stopped teething. She had always managed to find an excuse for Billy’s bad behaviour; she had always managed to produce an apparently rational reason however tortured her rationalization for his hurtful words and actions.
“Darling,” Elinor said sadly, “what would Daddy do without me? And what would everyone say?” “It won’t matter what people say we won’t be there to hear them. And what happens to Daddy will be his problem, not ours.” Edward grasped her hands and pleaded.
“You know as well as I do that Daddy’s a drunk and a bully and a rotter. Please let’s not go back.”
“Oh Edward, you don’t understand,” Elinor said miserably.
“You see, I love him.” Elinor could not explain because she did not herself understand her love for Billy. She simply knew in her heart that Billy was her man, and she would love him to distraction and destruction until death parted them. Elinor longed for and believed in hope and in love, with the firm confidence of one who never dared to doubt it for a moment.
Edward said, “Mummy, you don’t understand how different you are when Daddy isn’t around. When you’re with Daddy, you let him kick you around. I hate to see it.” Elinor remembered that Buzz had accused her of being a doormat. Sadly she said, “I can’t help it, Edward. That’s the way I was brought up. We’re going home now.”
FRIDAY, 7 AUGUST 1936
Every month or so, Billy took his family to Larkwood, which continued to crumble into decay. His parents were
I
now quite frail and seemed to spend their time huddled like sparrows in bad weather on either side of the drawing room fire. Elinor occasionally wondered why she had been frightened of them.
Elinor spent her visits to Larkwood either going for long vigorous walks in the park or reading in the library’a dark room that smelled sourly of old books and ghostly cigar smoke; it contained no books of value but the complete works of many popular nineteenth-century novelists, outdated atlases, musty reference books, and many boxes of family papers.
One threatening afternoon in early August, when the sky was slate purple and the air ominously still, Elinor opened a dusty box of old household books: the earliest account book was dated 1712. The weekly household accounts had been analysed in thirteen columns, and so had annual general expenditure. The menu books written in careful copperplate showed exactly what had been ordered from the cook on each day. The wages book recorded amounts paid long ago to staff, under the headings “House’, “Laundry, “Stables’, “Kennels’, “Gamekeepers’, and “Gardeners’. The cellar book noted what wines had been bought and when they were drunk. Fascinated, Elinor started to read.
Later, she looked up as her mother-in-law entered the library.
“Look what I’ve found!” Elinor held up a small chunky book bound in green leather so dark it was almost black, except on the corners, which had worn away.
“Oh, that’s Rachel O’Dare’s diary. One of our family treasures. She lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. There are some interesting recipes in it you purchased one recipe at a time in those days, and they were expensive. I seem to remember that Rachel paid a guinea for a dish of peas with bacon and chopped onion. Of course, she also had her own family recipe book: they were copied out by a clerk for each daughter, upon her marriage.” Elinor leafed through the thin, brittle pages.
“Here’s a recipe for candied flowers!”
“We still use that for crystallizing violets, primroses, and rose petals. Rachel also had some pretty ideas for using flowers in salads.” Elinor said, “I think I’d like to try some of these. Could I take the book to my room and copy some of the recip esT “By all means.” More than three hundred years after they happened, Elinor shared Lady Rachel’s adventures. In the blue bedroom, as Elinor carefully turned the pages, she learned about Rachel’s life. In her diary, Rachel had recorded every detail of her country day, every domestic squabble and reconciliation, every wager her husband lost, every gown he bought her, every game she played with her children, every problem she had with her servants, every time she felt depressed and was lo ste yn melencholy’. Rachel noted in detail what happened at the local fairs, on the holy days, on Christmas and other feast days. Once, she was presented to the Queen when Her Majesty paid a visit to a neighbour, the cost of which nearly bankrupted him.
Before dressing for dinner, Elinor started to decipher the crabbed hand and odd spelling of Rachel O’Dare’s candied flower recipe.
“Thinking of starting a sweetshop, Elinor?” Billy was looking over her shoulder.
“No. I’m copying a recipe from an old diary.” Billy’s arm reached around and slowly turned the pages of the worn green book.
Busy scribbling, Elinor murmured, “She has such a wry sense of humour. I feel I know her. In fact, that diary seems like reading a letter from an old friend. I know all Rachel’s friends. I know she didn’t like her father-in-law.”
“He wasn’t a very likeable man.” Billy yawned.
“He had -to get out of the west of Ireland pretty quickly, after
leaking information to the English. He was a sort of collaborator a fearful swine, by all accounts.” Again he peered over Elinor’s shoulder at the little diary.
“It’s damned difficult to read, isn’t it! Spidery handwriting and crazy spelling.”
“You need patience.” Elinor slowly read: ““Today I walked the orchard with Parson, and we did talk upon Joanna’s wedding, which now grows near. As we did turn beneath green leaves, Parson did eye the fat, black cherries, until I promise him a basket. He spoke then of the feasting here. Again I see his eye right hungry, when I do prorraise ‘twill be mighty.
“What manner of dish esT asks he.
“Five spits of roasting meat are set up in the kitchen,” say I.
“We also shall feast on roasted swan, boiled fowls, and many little birds. Also much pike and salmon, with mighty, hot meat pies, and a cold one with live larks to set the ladies skipping and shrieking.”” Billy said, “Don’t stop.” He was listening carefully.
“I’m glad you like it too. I’ll go on with the greedy parson.” Elinor read, absorbed: ““And sweetmeat sT asked Parson.
“Such as never have here been tasted,” promised I, “following my mother’s receipt book for creams and syllabubs, jellies and puddings. Also my own spiced fruit cake.”
“And drink?” asks Parson, so I poured for him from my mouth a stream of claret wines from France, with sack, mead, cordials, and liquors, such as is meet for this marriage feast. Then doth he lick his lips, whether at the sound of this banquet or thinking upon the swiving that would follow, I know not.””
“What does “swiving” meanT Billy asked.
“Making love, I guess.”
“Don’t say “I guess”.”
“Sorry, Billy,” Elinor responded mechanically. Although she didn’t attempt to alter her midwest em accent, she tried not to use American expressions, because Billy didn’t like her to and the British didn’t understand them.
“Better stop that and dress for dinner. You know how testy Mother gets if we aren’t down before the gong stops ringing.”
TUESDAY, I I AUGUST 1936
When they returned to Earls Court from Larkwood, Billy was in a bad temper. A visit to his family home always reminded him that his elder brother would inherit the estate in its entirety. Edward, now sixteen, disappeared to the bedroom they rented for him on the floor above their apartment.
Elinor opened the sitting-room window and leaned on the sill, looking down on the square. The soft summer breeze smelled of dust, roses, warm grass, and horses” droppings.
Billy poured himself half a tumbler of whisky, sat down in the sagging chintz armchair, and said wearily, “I suppose I’ll have to tell you sometime. I’ve been fired.” His nonchalant air did not disguise his pain.
Elinor turned from the window.
“Billy! Why7 “First thing a journalist must remember when he’s fired is that the reason probably hasn’t a bloody thing to do with his work. The Globe’s getting a new editor, and he wants to bring in his own gang.” Billy added casually, “I don’t think I’ll look for another newspaper job.” Elinor realized that he meant no other newspaper wanted to hire him.
The following morning at seven o’clock, Elinor carried a cup of tea to Billy. Sitting on the edge of his bed, she said, “Why don’t you see what other sort of work is available? Perhaps you could apply for this job?” She handed him the newspaper: she had ringed one entry in red pencil.
Reacting slowly and reluctantly, Billy read, ““Needed at once, for large manufacturing chemists, live-wire men qualified to call upon doctors and chemists. Splendid prospects for sound men.”” He looked up at Elinor. ““Sound men”. That means no war veterans need apply.”
“I know that your limp is painful, Billy, but a limp doesn’t make people feel uneasy like a missing arm or leg,” Elinor said persuasively.
“You needn’t think I’m going to turn into a commercial traveller,” Billy snarled.
“What are you going to turn into, Billy?” Her clear green eyes carefully studied him. Although he took little exercise, Billy’s body was still tall, lean, and firm. But today he had hangdog air and his shoulders sagged familiar signs of hangover. Elinor looked at the leathery pouches under his eyes and his grey cheeks covered by silver stubble.
She could not think why she loved him. Billy gave her a sly smile.
“It so happens I have a better idea for making money., He threw back the bedclothes and walked naked to the chest of drawers. He pulled open a top drawer, then turned to face her. In his hand he held a small -dark-green leather object.
“Why, that’s Rachel O’Dare’s diary! Does your mother know you have iff “No, she doesn’t. She’ll never notice it’s gone. Don’t worry, I’m not going to sell it. I’ve only borrowed it, and I’ll return it.”
“When are you going to return iff Elinor was shocked that he had so casually removed something valuable.
“When you’ve written a book called Diary of an Elizabethan Housewife,” Billy said triumphantly.
“I know just the right publisher for id” For a moment, Elinor wondered if he was still drunk after his bout of the previous evening. She studied Billy’s face: if he was drunk, his facial muscles slackened, giving him a vacant look. But that telltale sign wasn’t there this morning.
Quietly she said, “Billy, I’m not a professional writer. I love scribbling letters and I once won an essay prize in school, but I don’t know how to begin to write a book.”
“You’ve got the beginning here.” Billy waved the little green diary at her.
“Simply translate it into modern English. Add explanatory paragraphs, where necessary, to expand what Rachel is saying, or what’s going on in the rest of the sixteenth-century world print those bits in bold type instead of footnotes: you don’t want the thing to look scholarly.”
“Where would I find out what was going on in the rest of the sixteenth-century world?” “What’s the British Museum for? Ask the librarian to guide your research.”
“But I don’t know how to do research!”
“Ask Edward to show you.” Edward was studying history, hoping for a scholarship to Oxford. Billy added with airy truth, “Research just means finding out things.” Elinor and Billy planned the book together; he advised her to stick as closely as possible to the original text, as that would be the easiest way to operate. Billy drew up a list of work deadlines for each item so that he would know immediately if Elinor was falling behind schedule. Edward showed his mother how to handle her research in an orderly way: plywood orange boxes were piled against one wall of the living room, and at Christmas Billy gave Elinor a second-hand filing cabinet.
By the end of March 1937, Elinor had finished Diary of an Elizabethan Housewife. The book was to be published in November by Stansfield and Hart.