Read Online Abdication: A Novel by Juliet Nicolson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Juliet Nicolson
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king or queen. There was Edward VII and his queen, Alexandra, on their coronation day, his son George V and Queen Mary on theirs, and the same regal couple again on the occasion of their silver jubilee only last year.
“Only one more room to show you,” Nat said as he moved a ladder into position and began to climb.
Stacked along one side of the attic from ceiling to floor were dozens of bolts of material, the overflow from Simon’s workshop, Nat explained. But on the other side was a child’s brass bed with gleaming copper knobs at each corner. A coal fire was already lit in the corner grate but May’s attention went at once to the skylight. By standing on the bed and craning her neck a little she had a terrific view right up the adjoining Cyprus Street towards the war memorial.
“Auntie Edith always said you were trim,” Nat said, clearly delighted by May’s pleasure at the room. “So we hoped you would be able tosqueeze in here. At least you will have it to yourself. I am afraid that Sam will have to stretch out on the sofa downstairs.”
A room of her own, whatever size, with a ladder leading nowhere except to a door of her own was something May had always longed for. At home in Barbados, despite the comfortable size of the house, she had always slept in her old childhood room, which led through a connecting door to her parents’ bedroom on one side and down to the stairway on the other. She had never liked the sense of being within earshot of her parents and their ineffectively muffled arguments, but out of habit, she had never thought of asking to move.
The house in Barbados had once been a splendid dwelling with its elegant Jacobean proportions, curved staircase, British-designed cornices and beautifully carved wooden doors. But the West Indian sugar export business was no longer thriving as it had in her grandparents’ day. Financial strain following the Great Depression in Britain and competition from other sugar-growing countries had eroded the demand and May had been conscious of the necessary economies her parents had been forced to make. In the past few years the number of household staff had dwindled from a dozen servants down to a couple of maids who came in to clean and dust and to help Bertha, the rotund and cheerful cook. Bertha prepared all the meals for the family as well as lunch for the plantation workers. Her pillow of a shoulder was famously available for any member of the community to lean on or weep on whenever they wished. Bertha’s husband, Tom, completed the complement of staff, a man whose strength lay in his head for figures as he organised the weekly accounts with impressive precision. The ancient plantation chauffeur had died two years ago and it had been Duncan’s idea to replace him with his own, unpaid daughter. Even the Rolls-Royce, for so long the pride and joy of May’s grandfather and father, had begun to show irreversible signs of age, no matter how much time May gave to the polishing of its green paintwork.
May followed Nat back down the creaking Oak Street ladder thinking how happy her mother and Bertha would be to know of the extent of Nat’s welcome and of the excellent character of Gladys’s only boy. May had heard all Edith’s stories about her adored sister, a passionate campaigner for the vote for women who had been locked up in Holloway Prison before the war for hurling bricks through government office windows. Edith had stayed in touch by letter with their son Nathanial after Gladys’ death, and when the news of Nat’s marriage to a beautiful Jewish girl reached Edith she felt happier than she had for years.
To her knowledge, May had never met a Jewish person and she and Sam had been fascinated by the written accounts of Sarah and his new family that Nat sent out to Edith in Barbados. His great-grandparents-in-law had moved from Russia to live and work in London’s East End in the middle of the last century where they raised half a dozen children.
“Only one more room to show you,” Nat said as he moved a ladder into position and began to climb.
Stacked along one side of the attic from ceiling to floor were dozens of bolts of material, the overflow from Simon’s workshop, Nat explained. But on the other side was a child’s brass bed with gleaming copper knobs at each corner. A coal fire was already lit in the corner grate but May’s attention went at once to the skylight. By standing on the bed and craning her neck a little she had a terrific view right up the adjoining Cyprus Street towards the war memorial.
“Auntie Edith always said you were trim,” Nat said, clearly delighted by May’s pleasure at the room. “So we hoped you would be able tosqueeze in here. At least you will have it to yourself. I am afraid that Sam will have to stretch out on the sofa downstairs.”
A room of her own, whatever size, with a ladder leading nowhere except to a door of her own was something May had always longed for. At home in Barbados, despite the comfortable size of the house, she had always slept in her old childhood room, which led through a connecting door to her parents’ bedroom on one side and down to the stairway on the other. She had never liked the sense of being within earshot of her parents and their ineffectively muffled arguments, but out of habit, she had never thought of asking to move.
The house in Barbados had once been a splendid dwelling with its elegant Jacobean proportions, curved staircase, British-designed cornices and beautifully carved wooden doors. But the West Indian sugar export business was no longer thriving as it had in her grandparents’ day. Financial strain following the Great Depression in Britain and competition from other sugar-growing countries had eroded the demand and May had been conscious of the necessary economies her parents had been forced to make. In the past few years the number of household staff had dwindled from a dozen servants down to a couple of maids who came in to clean and dust and to help Bertha, the rotund and cheerful cook. Bertha prepared all the meals for the family as well as lunch for the plantation workers. Her pillow of a shoulder was famously available for any member of the community to lean on or weep on whenever they wished. Bertha’s husband, Tom, completed the complement of staff, a man whose strength lay in his head for figures as he organised the weekly accounts with impressive precision. The ancient plantation chauffeur had died two years ago and it had been Duncan’s idea to replace him with his own, unpaid daughter. Even the Rolls-Royce, for so long the pride and joy of May’s grandfather and father, had begun to show irreversible signs of age, no matter how much time May gave to the polishing of its green paintwork.
May followed Nat back down the creaking Oak Street ladder thinking how happy her mother and Bertha would be to know of the extent of Nat’s welcome and of the excellent character of Gladys’s only boy. May had heard all Edith’s stories about her adored sister, a passionate campaigner for the vote for women who had been locked up in Holloway Prison before the war for hurling bricks through government office windows. Edith had stayed in touch by letter with their son Nathanial after Gladys’ death, and when the news of Nat’s marriage to a beautiful Jewish girl reached Edith she felt happier than she had for years.
To her knowledge, May had never met a Jewish person and she and Sam had been fascinated by the written accounts of Sarah and his new family that Nat sent out to Edith in Barbados. His great-grandparents-in-law had moved from Russia to live and work in London’s East End in the middle of the last century where they raised half a dozen children.
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