against the unknown.
She bowed her head and, with her mother and a group of elderly females, rolled bandages and knitted socks and Balaclava helmets for the troops. Her mother did a lot of organising of sales of work and big balls at the Adelphi Hotel to raise money for the Red Cross, which, for Celia, meant endless writing of letters and running hither and yon on small errands for her mother. She became accustomed to the invisible walls of her prison and to being her mother’s obedient shadow.
Now, however, the sudden crumbling of the relative safety of her imprisoning walls had frightened her so much that panic had set in again; that open gates might lead to greater freedom for her to do something for herself did not occur to her; long-term prisoners do not always try to escape when the opportunity offers – and Celia was no exception.
‘“… and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”’
The muttering ceased, and she lay still. If she remained very quiet, she comforted herself, God would give her strength. He had to, because there was nobody but herself to look after Mother until Paul and Edna arrived to help her.
Chapter Six
Soon after six o’clock the next morning, young Ethel, sleepy and irritable, clumped into the breakfast room. She swung a heavy coal scuttle into the hearth and followed it with a clanking empty bucket in which to carry downstairs yesterday’s cold ashes from the fireplace. The room was dark, except for a faint glimmer of dawn through a crack between the heavy window curtains.
Suddenly awakened, a bewildered Celia sat up on the chaise longue.
At the sight of her, Ethel screamed and clutched her breast dramatically. ‘Oh, Miss! You give me a proper fright! Haven’t you been to bed?’
Celia swallowed, and pushed back her long tangled fair hair, from which all the hairpins seemed to be missing. She laughed weakly as she swung her feet to the floor. ‘No,’ she told the little fifteen-year-old. ‘I was so tired that I fell asleep here on the sofa.’
Rubbing her hands on her sackcloth apron, Ethel came over to stare at her. She thanked goodness that it was only Miss Celia there, not the Missus. She had not bothered to put on her morning mobcap to cover her own untidy locks, and the Missus would have been furious to see her without a cap.
‘Are you all right, Miss?’
‘Yes, thank you, Ethel. Would you light one of the gaslights? I think it will still be too dark to draw back the curtains.’
‘I were just about to do it, Miss, when I seen you.’ Ethel drew a box of matches out of her pocket, and went to the fireplace. After striking a match, she stood on tiptoe to turn on one of the gaslights above the mahogany mantelpiece.
There was a plop as the gas ignited and the room was flooded with clear white light. Dead match in hand, Ethel turned, for a moment, to stare at her young mistress, before beginning to clear out the ashes. In her opinion, Miss Celia was taking her father’s death proper hard and looked real ill with it.
She began to hurry her cleaning, so that she could return to the kitchen to gossip with Dorothy about it.
Celia sat on the edge of the chaise longue, absently poking around the cushions in search of some of her hairpins, while her eyes adjusted to the bright light.
As she rose unsteadily to her feet, she noticed the silver card plate from the hall lying on the table in the centre of the room. It held a number of visiting cards. Dorothy must have brought it in the previous evening, and it had lain neglected because of Louise’s collapse. Now Celia quickly sifted through the cards.
They indicated that the vicar’s wife and two of Louise’s women friends had called. In addition, there was a card left by her own friend, Phyllis Woodcock, who had been too far advanced in her fourth pregnancy to come to the funeral. She had scribbled a note to Celia on the back of her card to say that she would try to visit again tomorrow, after the midwife had
She bowed her head and, with her mother and a group of elderly females, rolled bandages and knitted socks and Balaclava helmets for the troops. Her mother did a lot of organising of sales of work and big balls at the Adelphi Hotel to raise money for the Red Cross, which, for Celia, meant endless writing of letters and running hither and yon on small errands for her mother. She became accustomed to the invisible walls of her prison and to being her mother’s obedient shadow.
Now, however, the sudden crumbling of the relative safety of her imprisoning walls had frightened her so much that panic had set in again; that open gates might lead to greater freedom for her to do something for herself did not occur to her; long-term prisoners do not always try to escape when the opportunity offers – and Celia was no exception.
‘“… and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”’
The muttering ceased, and she lay still. If she remained very quiet, she comforted herself, God would give her strength. He had to, because there was nobody but herself to look after Mother until Paul and Edna arrived to help her.
Chapter Six
Soon after six o’clock the next morning, young Ethel, sleepy and irritable, clumped into the breakfast room. She swung a heavy coal scuttle into the hearth and followed it with a clanking empty bucket in which to carry downstairs yesterday’s cold ashes from the fireplace. The room was dark, except for a faint glimmer of dawn through a crack between the heavy window curtains.
Suddenly awakened, a bewildered Celia sat up on the chaise longue.
At the sight of her, Ethel screamed and clutched her breast dramatically. ‘Oh, Miss! You give me a proper fright! Haven’t you been to bed?’
Celia swallowed, and pushed back her long tangled fair hair, from which all the hairpins seemed to be missing. She laughed weakly as she swung her feet to the floor. ‘No,’ she told the little fifteen-year-old. ‘I was so tired that I fell asleep here on the sofa.’
Rubbing her hands on her sackcloth apron, Ethel came over to stare at her. She thanked goodness that it was only Miss Celia there, not the Missus. She had not bothered to put on her morning mobcap to cover her own untidy locks, and the Missus would have been furious to see her without a cap.
‘Are you all right, Miss?’
‘Yes, thank you, Ethel. Would you light one of the gaslights? I think it will still be too dark to draw back the curtains.’
‘I were just about to do it, Miss, when I seen you.’ Ethel drew a box of matches out of her pocket, and went to the fireplace. After striking a match, she stood on tiptoe to turn on one of the gaslights above the mahogany mantelpiece.
There was a plop as the gas ignited and the room was flooded with clear white light. Dead match in hand, Ethel turned, for a moment, to stare at her young mistress, before beginning to clear out the ashes. In her opinion, Miss Celia was taking her father’s death proper hard and looked real ill with it.
She began to hurry her cleaning, so that she could return to the kitchen to gossip with Dorothy about it.
Celia sat on the edge of the chaise longue, absently poking around the cushions in search of some of her hairpins, while her eyes adjusted to the bright light.
As she rose unsteadily to her feet, she noticed the silver card plate from the hall lying on the table in the centre of the room. It held a number of visiting cards. Dorothy must have brought it in the previous evening, and it had lain neglected because of Louise’s collapse. Now Celia quickly sifted through the cards.
They indicated that the vicar’s wife and two of Louise’s women friends had called. In addition, there was a card left by her own friend, Phyllis Woodcock, who had been too far advanced in her fourth pregnancy to come to the funeral. She had scribbled a note to Celia on the back of her card to say that she would try to visit again tomorrow, after the midwife had
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