Read Online 22 Britannia Road by Amanda Hodgkinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Hodgkinson
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British housewife,’ says Silvana, smoothing her hands over her apron front, trying to ignore the way Aurek is pulling on her sleeve. ‘Can you help me?’
‘Show you how to be a housewife?’ says Doris with a look of surprise, as if Silvana has asked her the daftest question she has ever heard. ‘Come on in, dear. Bring the little lad in too. I’ve got some toys he can play with.’
Doris is hard to follow. She bustles around, filling the coal scuttles, beating rugs, washing curtains, counting her housekeeping money. She scrubs her kitchen floor on all fours, bare-armed, sweating with exertion, tendrils of red hair sticking to her forehead. When it’s finished, she grabs a basket of wet clothes by the back door and strides into the garden, where she hangs the washing out with deft precision, shaking Gilbert’s overalls into shape, slapping the creases from wet sheets, already talking about peeling potatoes for the evening meal. Keeping up with her is like trying to run after a departing train.
According to Doris, a good housewife should keep her home clean, do her washing on Tuesdays, her ironing on Fridays, make sure there’s bread and jam on the table at weekends and bake Victoria sponges on high days and holidays. Surely Silvana can do these things.
In her own home, Silvana spends hours wandering through the rooms in a daze. She forgets to fill the coal scuttles and doesn’t find the need to sweep or dust. When she makes the beds she often lies down and falls asleep on them.
Janusz doesn’t give her housekeeping money. He says he is waiting until she understands pounds, shillings and pence. The money is strange, the notes bigger than Polish currency, the coins thicker. And she’ll never get used to ration books, no matter how often Janusz explains them to her.
Janusz is a good husband. More than she deserves. He takes her shopping and teaches her the names of household goods: corned beef, flour, Pear’s soap, Bovril. He patiently writes her shopping lists in English and stands next to her when she reads them to the man behind the counter at the greengrocer’s, correcting her when she makes mistakes.
‘I want to buy flower seeds,’ Janusz says in Woolworths. They are looking at rows of brightly coloured seed packets. Silvana can recognize some of the flower illustrations, but the English names mean nothing to her.
Janusz hands her a packet with a brightly coloured picture of an orange flower on it.
‘Coreopsis. A few years ago, I saw a garden in Devon filled with them. And look at these hollyhocks – what a lovely red colour. Do you like them? Lady’s mantle grows well in this country. The English use it for ground cover. What do you think? Is there anything you would like to plant?’
Silvana studies the packets, their rich designs, the showy flowers they promise.
‘Herbs,’ she says. ‘I’d like to plant herbs.’
She searches the bright packets, looking for an illustration of a delicate white flower.
‘Do they have czosnek? ’
Janusz frowns. ‘Garlic? No, I don’t think so. The English don’t like strong flavours. But how about mint? Or parsley? That grows well here.’
Silvana is distracted by Aurek, who has picked up a brown paper packet of beans and is rattling it against his ear. He begins to hum and dance, twirling around, tapping a rhythm on the wooden floors, grinning at the sound the dry seeds make. People are beginning to stare.
‘Come on,’ says Silvana, taking the packet from him gently. ‘Stop making all that noise.’
‘Do you want to choose some flower seeds?’ Janusz asks him. ‘You can help in the garden too.’
Aurek shakes his head. He waves his arms slowly and sways. ‘Trees,’ he croons. ‘I want trees.’
Silvana can see Janusz is confused by the boy’s behaviour, so she leads Aurek outside and waits in the street while Janusz pays for the seeds. By the time Janusz joins them, he has a smile on his face again and the earlier red flush of
‘Show you how to be a housewife?’ says Doris with a look of surprise, as if Silvana has asked her the daftest question she has ever heard. ‘Come on in, dear. Bring the little lad in too. I’ve got some toys he can play with.’
Doris is hard to follow. She bustles around, filling the coal scuttles, beating rugs, washing curtains, counting her housekeeping money. She scrubs her kitchen floor on all fours, bare-armed, sweating with exertion, tendrils of red hair sticking to her forehead. When it’s finished, she grabs a basket of wet clothes by the back door and strides into the garden, where she hangs the washing out with deft precision, shaking Gilbert’s overalls into shape, slapping the creases from wet sheets, already talking about peeling potatoes for the evening meal. Keeping up with her is like trying to run after a departing train.
According to Doris, a good housewife should keep her home clean, do her washing on Tuesdays, her ironing on Fridays, make sure there’s bread and jam on the table at weekends and bake Victoria sponges on high days and holidays. Surely Silvana can do these things.
In her own home, Silvana spends hours wandering through the rooms in a daze. She forgets to fill the coal scuttles and doesn’t find the need to sweep or dust. When she makes the beds she often lies down and falls asleep on them.
Janusz doesn’t give her housekeeping money. He says he is waiting until she understands pounds, shillings and pence. The money is strange, the notes bigger than Polish currency, the coins thicker. And she’ll never get used to ration books, no matter how often Janusz explains them to her.
Janusz is a good husband. More than she deserves. He takes her shopping and teaches her the names of household goods: corned beef, flour, Pear’s soap, Bovril. He patiently writes her shopping lists in English and stands next to her when she reads them to the man behind the counter at the greengrocer’s, correcting her when she makes mistakes.
‘I want to buy flower seeds,’ Janusz says in Woolworths. They are looking at rows of brightly coloured seed packets. Silvana can recognize some of the flower illustrations, but the English names mean nothing to her.
Janusz hands her a packet with a brightly coloured picture of an orange flower on it.
‘Coreopsis. A few years ago, I saw a garden in Devon filled with them. And look at these hollyhocks – what a lovely red colour. Do you like them? Lady’s mantle grows well in this country. The English use it for ground cover. What do you think? Is there anything you would like to plant?’
Silvana studies the packets, their rich designs, the showy flowers they promise.
‘Herbs,’ she says. ‘I’d like to plant herbs.’
She searches the bright packets, looking for an illustration of a delicate white flower.
‘Do they have czosnek? ’
Janusz frowns. ‘Garlic? No, I don’t think so. The English don’t like strong flavours. But how about mint? Or parsley? That grows well here.’
Silvana is distracted by Aurek, who has picked up a brown paper packet of beans and is rattling it against his ear. He begins to hum and dance, twirling around, tapping a rhythm on the wooden floors, grinning at the sound the dry seeds make. People are beginning to stare.
‘Come on,’ says Silvana, taking the packet from him gently. ‘Stop making all that noise.’
‘Do you want to choose some flower seeds?’ Janusz asks him. ‘You can help in the garden too.’
Aurek shakes his head. He waves his arms slowly and sways. ‘Trees,’ he croons. ‘I want trees.’
Silvana can see Janusz is confused by the boy’s behaviour, so she leads Aurek outside and waits in the street while Janusz pays for the seeds. By the time Janusz joins them, he has a smile on his face again and the earlier red flush of
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