Amelia (4 page)

It wasn’t until she was snuggled up in bed that night and just drifting off to sleep that Amelia was struck by the
illogicality
of something Papa had said that morning. Only right-angled triangles had hypotenuses anyway! What could Papa have been thinking of? Had he deliberately been
provoking
her, because he knew she needed a good weep? Good old Papa! thought Amelia, smiling sleepily. And good old Mama! Amelia Pim really was a very lucky girl.

A
melia was on her way downstairs the next day when she met a huge pile of freshly washed and ironed linen lurching up. ‘Is that you, Mary Ann?' she said to the pile of linen.

‘Yeff, miff,' came a muffled voice that might have been Mary Ann's and might not have been, from behind the pile of sheets.

Amelia climbed back up to the return landing. ‘Gangway, Mary Ann,' she called. ‘You can come on up now.'

And the pile of bedlinen swayed unsteadily up. Gradually, Mary Ann's skirt and then her black-stockinged ankles and shoes came into view under the pile of washing, and Mary Ann arrived with a sigh of relief on the half-landing.

‘Here, let me help,' said Amelia, taking the top third off the bundle, to reveal Mary Ann's face, red with exertion, and her cap knocked to one side.

‘Hello,' said Mary Ann with a grin, passing Amelia and continuing on around the corner and up to the main landing. Amelia followed her to the hot-press, with her smaller
bundle
of sheets. They were fragrant with soap and sunshine and the hot, toasty smell of the iron.

Mary Ann laid the linen lovingly on the shelves, spreading lavender bags between the layers, and then turned to take
Amelia's pile. ‘Thanks, Miss,' she said. ‘We keep meeting on the stairs.'

‘Amelia, for heaven's sake,' said Amelia. ‘How's your mother, Mary Ann?'

‘Much better, Miss. Amelia, I mean. Thanks to your ma.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, you see, the medicine wasn't doing her any good. Your ma said that was because she wasn't getting enough nourishment. She said giving medicine to a person who's not eating properly is like pouring it down the drain. So she started sending broth to my mother. And within a week, you could see the difference. She's got a bit of colour back, and I really think the medicine is doing her some good now.'

‘Oh,' said Amelia. ‘I didn't know.'

‘She's a living saint, your ma is,' said Mary Ann.

Amelia thought this a strange thing to say. Of course, Amelia didn't go to church, but she had seen inside one or two on a few occasions, and the statues of saints she had seen were mostly very dreary-looking people with long faces who would trip up if they were alive, because their eyes were always cast heavenwards. Mama wasn't the least bit like any of them.

‘And if it wasn't for her,' Mary Ann was saying, ‘my ma'd be a dead saint, like all the other saints.' And she gave a laugh at her macabre little joke.

‘How can you laugh about that, Mary Ann?' said Amelia in a shocked voice.

‘Ah, Miss, you have to learn to laugh. It's the only thing that keeps you going, sometimes, don't you find?'

‘No,' said Amelia. ‘At least, I never thought about it.'

‘Well, I've thought about it. And I can tell you it's the truth. A good laugh sees you through many a worrisome moment.'

‘And what about your brother Patrick, Mary Ann?' Amelia asked.

‘What about him?' said Mary Ann stiffly.

‘Well, I mean, is he still … is he still, you know, in prison?'

‘Yes, he is, I'm proud to say,' said Mary Ann.

‘Proud!' Amelia was stunned. How could anyone possibly be proud to have a prisoner in the family?

‘Yes, Miss. I'm proud to be the sister of a patriot.'

‘What's that?' asked Amelia. She had a vague idea it was something out of the Old Testament, but that didn't seem very appropriate.

‘It means someone who puts his country before his king,' said Mary Ann staunchly.

‘But the king
is
the country, isn't he? In a manner of
speaking
.'

‘We don't see it that way. We serve neither king nor kaiser, but Ireland.'

‘Gosh!' breathed Amelia, not too sure what Mary Ann was on about, but impressed by the sound of it. ‘Are you a Nationalist, Mary Ann?'

‘And a Socialist,' nodded Mary Ann.

‘Oh dear!'

‘Don't sound so disapproving, Miss Amelia. Your ma and da are Socialists too, or the next thing to it.'

‘Oh no. We're Quakers.'

‘That's what I mean. Friends of prisoners and champions of the poor, that's what the Quakers are, I've been told. You people are pacificists, of course, but I don't hold that against you.'

‘Thank you. I'm glad.'

‘You're very welcome.'

The two girls smiled at one another. Just then, Amelia's mother's voice came calling up the stairs: ‘Amelia! Do get a move on! We're supposed to be there ten minutes ago.'

‘Oops!' said Amelia. ‘Mary Ann, I have to run. I'm being
fitted
for a gorgeous new dress. You'll love it!'

‘Goodbye, Miss. Amelia, I mean,' said Mary Ann, but she was talking to the air, for Amelia had flown down the stairs with a clatter of feet and a whoop of laughter. Mary Ann could hear excited chattering in the hall as Amelia and her mother got their coats on. Presently the front door banged and the chattering subsided.

Mary Ann smiled to herself as she smoothed the linen down. Young Amelia had a few things to learn. Life wasn't all tram-rides to Clery's and appointments with the dressmaker. But no doubt she would find that out soon enough.

The dressmaker congratulated Amelia on her choice of fabric and she took approving notes about the style Amelia wanted and added a few suggestions of her own. Amelia and the dressmaker agreed that Amelia's birthday frock was going to be perfectly beautiful.

‘Don't you think it's going to be lovely, Mama?' asked Amelia, standing on a little stool with her arms stretched out so that the dressmaker could measure her.

‘Quite,' said Mama vaguely, peering out of the
dressmaker's
front window into the street. ‘Dear, dear,' she went on, though Amelia couldn't be sure whether she was talking to herself or not, ‘I do hate to see those children looking so ragged and hungry.'

‘Are those Kelly children playing outside my house again?' said the dressmaker impatiently. ‘I've told Mrs Kelly over and over again to keep her brats – I beg your pardon, her young'uns – out of the way of my ladies. “Ladies don't like to be troubled by your br… your childer, Mrs Kelly,” I tell her. “It puts them off. It's bad for trade.” Honest to God, they're no better than tinkers, those Kellys.'

‘It looks to me,' said Amelia's mother, ‘as if they don't get enough to eat. Is their father working?'

‘No, Ma'am. Not since the lock-out. A lot of the men from these cottages worked on the trams. Most of them went back to work, of course, but not Kelly. He was too proud to sign Mr Martin Murphy's anti-union papers, so he never got taken on again. I blame that Mr Larkin and his communist ideas! Coming over here from England and stirring up trouble, it's a holy disgrace, so it is. Himself and that Countess Markievicz should be tied together and thrown off a cliff, if you ask me. We don't need their foreign ideas here, so we don't.'

Amelia looked at Mama. She didn't really understand all about the lock-out, but she knew that men had wanted to join the unions under James Larkin, and that their employers had locked them out of their work because of it. And that a lot of poor families went hungry as a result. But what Amelia was most concerned about was Mama's reaction to what the dressmaker had said about Countess Markievicz. Everyone knew about the Countess and her political activities. She was always making speeches about women's rights and about Nationalism. The Countess and Mama were not exactly friends, but they did serve on some of the same committees.

‘And what about the mother?' asked Amelia's mother, not mentioning her connections with the Countess.

‘A brazen hussy!'

‘No, I mean, has she work?'

‘She used to be in service, before she was married. Now she helps out sometimes in the house where she was employed, when they have guests in and need someone extra in the kitchen.'

‘And otherwise?'

‘That's all.'

‘So, how do they live?'

The dressmaker had finished measuring Amelia and now she was making little marks with a piece of french chalk on the material. She shrugged in answer to Mama's question.

Mama shook her head sadly.

‘How many children has Mrs Kelly?' asked Amelia, remembering what Lucinda had said about poor people.

‘Five, and one on the way. Her last baby died. Just as well, otherwise there'd be seven of them soon, not counting the parents.'

‘Six children!' said Amelia. ‘That's too many!'

‘What ever do you mean, Amelia?' asked Mama, her cheeks pink with sudden anger. ‘There's no such thing as too many children. There's only not enough food to feed them.'

‘But it's the same thing, Mama. If you have more children than you can feed, then you have too many.'

‘No, it's
not
the same thing,' said Mama hotly. ‘If you have more children than you can feed, then you are poor, that's all. Lots of our friends and relations have five or six children, and each one is precious. Do you think these people's
children
are any less precious to them?'

‘No, Mama,' said Amelia, feeling a little ashamed of what she had said, but also feeling that there was something
illogical
about Mama's argument.

‘Mama?' said Amelia when they had left the dressmaker's cottage and had turned onto the Harold's Cross Road, back towards home.

‘Yes?'

‘Nobody uses the orangery much any more, do they?'

‘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.

A
melia 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-f 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.