Read Online Abdication: A Novel by Juliet Nicolson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Juliet Nicolson
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look peaky? Come over here by the fire and warm yourself, my boy. You don’t look so bad, May. Got a bit of colour on you, I’m glad to say. Still, come over here near the heat. Now, is that kettle on, Simon?”
As Rachel continued to interrogate them, May noticed Sarah smoothing down the neat waistline of her dress. For as long as she could remember, May had watched the young women in the plantation fields, their pregnancies advancing gradually to a size that made it uncomfortable for them to bend their distended bodies over the sugarcane without splaying their legs. The absence of even the hint of a swell convinced May that Sarah was still dreaming of the day when she might have a child of her own.
The Greenfeld and Castor’s house was the showcase of the street. Number 52 had been one of the first to be connected to electricity, and the chrome plate warmer was displayed on the sideboard with as much fanfare as a cup awarded to the comeliest cow at a countryshow. The house was fit to burst with possessions accumulated over many years but it was neat, aromatic and well ordered, like a baker’s tray of buns. The front door opened directly onto the front room where an ironwork basket on the hearth of a blue-and-white tiled fireplace was filled with a hillock of coal, shining black-red with heat. Rachel had returned to her position on the hearth and May could see the lace edge of her petticoat peeping out from beneath her skirt. Arranged around the fireplace was a mottled leather three-piece suite and on either side were a couple of lumpy armchairs covered in a brown matte material speckled with pink flowers. A large chestnut wood wireless sat prominently on a low table between the chairs and on the wall hung two shelves full of books.
“Come and see the rest of the house while we wait for the kettle to boil,” Nat said, leading May and Sam next door.
A schoolroom table, covered with a dark green velvet cloth with thick fringed edges, was laid for tea at one end while neatly arranged at the other were the tools of Sarah’s trade. Several pairs of polished scissors, a collection of pink hedgehog-spiked rollers, a variety of different size hairbrushes, a silvery tin marked “bleach” in handwritten letters and a couple of razors were all laid out in precise lines. Along the back of one shelf was a display of beautifully coiffured wigs, waiting for their owners to come and reclaim them from their wooden stands. A small mirror fixed at eye level to the wall opposite a comfortable-looking chair with armrests completed Sarah’s salon. The whole effect smacked of efficiency. The source of Rachel’s elegant hairstyle was obvious.
Nat took May and Sam through the tiny passageway to the back of the house where an unplumbed bath sitting on decorated metal feet had been squeezed into one corner. A cake of pink Lifebuoy soap in a saucer balanced on the edge. Outside they were shown a tiny yard with a meat safe, the shed that housed the privy, and an earth-filled woodenbox in which some bedraggled sprouts clung to life. Ducking under the line of washing May could just make out a door leading into the back alley.
There were two bedrooms upstairs, one for Nat and Sarah, light and sunny and dominated by a pretty bed piled with cushions and brightly coloured shawls from beneath which something lacy and feminine peeped. Nat paused at the second door.
“This is Rachel’s boudoir,” he said, laughing at his use of the fancy word for the only room in which clutter had got the better of orderliness. A large dresser took up most of the opposite wall, its shelves crammed with Russian icons and gilt candlesticks, the wax of the half-melted candles arrested mid-drip. Beside the dresser was a full-length mirror with faded photographs and postcards stuck all around the frame. A small bookcase hung just inside the door, supporting, instead of books, a row of flower and coronet embellished mugs, each one bearing the portrait of a British
As Rachel continued to interrogate them, May noticed Sarah smoothing down the neat waistline of her dress. For as long as she could remember, May had watched the young women in the plantation fields, their pregnancies advancing gradually to a size that made it uncomfortable for them to bend their distended bodies over the sugarcane without splaying their legs. The absence of even the hint of a swell convinced May that Sarah was still dreaming of the day when she might have a child of her own.
The Greenfeld and Castor’s house was the showcase of the street. Number 52 had been one of the first to be connected to electricity, and the chrome plate warmer was displayed on the sideboard with as much fanfare as a cup awarded to the comeliest cow at a countryshow. The house was fit to burst with possessions accumulated over many years but it was neat, aromatic and well ordered, like a baker’s tray of buns. The front door opened directly onto the front room where an ironwork basket on the hearth of a blue-and-white tiled fireplace was filled with a hillock of coal, shining black-red with heat. Rachel had returned to her position on the hearth and May could see the lace edge of her petticoat peeping out from beneath her skirt. Arranged around the fireplace was a mottled leather three-piece suite and on either side were a couple of lumpy armchairs covered in a brown matte material speckled with pink flowers. A large chestnut wood wireless sat prominently on a low table between the chairs and on the wall hung two shelves full of books.
“Come and see the rest of the house while we wait for the kettle to boil,” Nat said, leading May and Sam next door.
A schoolroom table, covered with a dark green velvet cloth with thick fringed edges, was laid for tea at one end while neatly arranged at the other were the tools of Sarah’s trade. Several pairs of polished scissors, a collection of pink hedgehog-spiked rollers, a variety of different size hairbrushes, a silvery tin marked “bleach” in handwritten letters and a couple of razors were all laid out in precise lines. Along the back of one shelf was a display of beautifully coiffured wigs, waiting for their owners to come and reclaim them from their wooden stands. A small mirror fixed at eye level to the wall opposite a comfortable-looking chair with armrests completed Sarah’s salon. The whole effect smacked of efficiency. The source of Rachel’s elegant hairstyle was obvious.
Nat took May and Sam through the tiny passageway to the back of the house where an unplumbed bath sitting on decorated metal feet had been squeezed into one corner. A cake of pink Lifebuoy soap in a saucer balanced on the edge. Outside they were shown a tiny yard with a meat safe, the shed that housed the privy, and an earth-filled woodenbox in which some bedraggled sprouts clung to life. Ducking under the line of washing May could just make out a door leading into the back alley.
There were two bedrooms upstairs, one for Nat and Sarah, light and sunny and dominated by a pretty bed piled with cushions and brightly coloured shawls from beneath which something lacy and feminine peeped. Nat paused at the second door.
“This is Rachel’s boudoir,” he said, laughing at his use of the fancy word for the only room in which clutter had got the better of orderliness. A large dresser took up most of the opposite wall, its shelves crammed with Russian icons and gilt candlesticks, the wax of the half-melted candles arrested mid-drip. Beside the dresser was a full-length mirror with faded photographs and postcards stuck all around the frame. A small bookcase hung just inside the door, supporting, instead of books, a row of flower and coronet embellished mugs, each one bearing the portrait of a British
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