Read Online A Better World than This by Marie Joseph - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marie Joseph
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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clean. Send for a commode out of the Sunday paper, and repaint the basket chair for visitors to sit on when they came to call.
But she knew exactly what her mother would do and say if she did just that.
‘Stop being dramatic,’ Martha would say. ‘Who do you think you are? Barbara Stanwyck?’
So Daisy left the room, taking the square landing at the top of the stairs in one stride before going into her bedroom to peel off her wet things.
Missing entirely the sight of her mother, holding a hand to her chest where the pain had raged and left her drained. Peering over the top of the dark green taffeta billowing eiderdown, like a terrified animal staring panic-stricken from its cage.
Chapter Three
‘YOU LOOK,’ SAID Florence, ‘a bit like Anna May Wong with your fringe uncurled like that.’
Daisy didn’t mind the personal remark. She was used to her friend Florence Livesey being critical. Perhaps one day she would flash out and ask her friend why she always wore
her
hair scragged back and up into a French pleat, making her look at least ten years older than her twenty-five years. And why she wore net gloves when anyone knew they were common, and why she crooked her little finger when she drank a cup of tea. But she knew she wouldn’t. Florence’s good opinion of herself mattered a lot. Daisy knew that instinctively. The woman her father was living with was two years younger than Florence herself, and it was said he drank more than was good for him, so Florence had plenty of crosses to bear.
It was the week coming up to Christmas, and they had been as usual to Sunday School at the chapel set back behind railings not five minutes’ walk away from the shop. They had sat with the Ladies’ Class and sung ‘We Three Kings from Orient are’ before going out of the big hall into the side vestry for a talk by the Superintendent, a man with thin grey hair and an Adam’s apple that moved up and down out of his white starched collar like a yo-yo.
Now they were sitting drinking tea in Daisy’s living room because their Sunday walk had been sacrificed so that Martha wouldn’t be left too long on her own.
‘How is she?’ Florence jerked her neat head in the direction of the stairs. ‘Does she always have as long as this for her lie-down?’
Daisy nodded. ‘It worries me. One time she couldn’t sit still; now she sleeps all the time. It can’t be natural.’
‘Nature’s remedy,’ said Florence who was very well versed in all things medical. ‘Her body is healing itself.’ She passed over her cup for a refill. ‘Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,’ she said. ‘Shakespeare.’
‘I wish you could have come to work in the shop.’ Daisy fingered her hair. ‘I don’t have time to put me curlers in,’ she explained, not wishing to look like Anna May Wong. ‘I’m that tired when I go to bed. Mother insisted on Auntie Edna taking her place in the shop, but she does more gossiping than serving, then she goes home, leaving me with all the clearing up to do. I’m whacked by the time I get me mother her tea, then see her back to bed. And with Christmas coming there’s all the extra. Last night I was icing cakes till midnight.’
‘Sometimes I think I’ll do away with myself. Throw myself into Potter’s Pond,’ Florence said, startling Daisy so much she almost dropped her cup and saucer. ‘We don’t speak now, that … that woman and me. And the noise they make in bed. It makes me feel sick.’
Daisy felt the blush spread up from her throat. She wouldn’t have believed her friend could have said a thing like that. Not right out on a Sunday afternoon, sitting sipping tea with her little finger crooked.
‘You must get away,’ she said through the blush. ‘I don’t suppose they want you there if the truth were told.’
‘The truth
is
told!’ Florence put her cup down on the tiled hearth, took a clean folded handkerchief from her handbag and began to weep tidily into it. ‘I
But she knew exactly what her mother would do and say if she did just that.
‘Stop being dramatic,’ Martha would say. ‘Who do you think you are? Barbara Stanwyck?’
So Daisy left the room, taking the square landing at the top of the stairs in one stride before going into her bedroom to peel off her wet things.
Missing entirely the sight of her mother, holding a hand to her chest where the pain had raged and left her drained. Peering over the top of the dark green taffeta billowing eiderdown, like a terrified animal staring panic-stricken from its cage.
Chapter Three
‘YOU LOOK,’ SAID Florence, ‘a bit like Anna May Wong with your fringe uncurled like that.’
Daisy didn’t mind the personal remark. She was used to her friend Florence Livesey being critical. Perhaps one day she would flash out and ask her friend why she always wore
her
hair scragged back and up into a French pleat, making her look at least ten years older than her twenty-five years. And why she wore net gloves when anyone knew they were common, and why she crooked her little finger when she drank a cup of tea. But she knew she wouldn’t. Florence’s good opinion of herself mattered a lot. Daisy knew that instinctively. The woman her father was living with was two years younger than Florence herself, and it was said he drank more than was good for him, so Florence had plenty of crosses to bear.
It was the week coming up to Christmas, and they had been as usual to Sunday School at the chapel set back behind railings not five minutes’ walk away from the shop. They had sat with the Ladies’ Class and sung ‘We Three Kings from Orient are’ before going out of the big hall into the side vestry for a talk by the Superintendent, a man with thin grey hair and an Adam’s apple that moved up and down out of his white starched collar like a yo-yo.
Now they were sitting drinking tea in Daisy’s living room because their Sunday walk had been sacrificed so that Martha wouldn’t be left too long on her own.
‘How is she?’ Florence jerked her neat head in the direction of the stairs. ‘Does she always have as long as this for her lie-down?’
Daisy nodded. ‘It worries me. One time she couldn’t sit still; now she sleeps all the time. It can’t be natural.’
‘Nature’s remedy,’ said Florence who was very well versed in all things medical. ‘Her body is healing itself.’ She passed over her cup for a refill. ‘Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,’ she said. ‘Shakespeare.’
‘I wish you could have come to work in the shop.’ Daisy fingered her hair. ‘I don’t have time to put me curlers in,’ she explained, not wishing to look like Anna May Wong. ‘I’m that tired when I go to bed. Mother insisted on Auntie Edna taking her place in the shop, but she does more gossiping than serving, then she goes home, leaving me with all the clearing up to do. I’m whacked by the time I get me mother her tea, then see her back to bed. And with Christmas coming there’s all the extra. Last night I was icing cakes till midnight.’
‘Sometimes I think I’ll do away with myself. Throw myself into Potter’s Pond,’ Florence said, startling Daisy so much she almost dropped her cup and saucer. ‘We don’t speak now, that … that woman and me. And the noise they make in bed. It makes me feel sick.’
Daisy felt the blush spread up from her throat. She wouldn’t have believed her friend could have said a thing like that. Not right out on a Sunday afternoon, sitting sipping tea with her little finger crooked.
‘You must get away,’ she said through the blush. ‘I don’t suppose they want you there if the truth were told.’
‘The truth
is
told!’ Florence put her cup down on the tiled hearth, took a clean folded handkerchief from her handbag and began to weep tidily into it. ‘I
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