banished my usual awkwardness. When my parents left us alone, John’s large hand, very warm, slipped under the table and took hold of mine. Then he kissed me, very tenderly and moist, on the lips. He held my face in his big-knuckled hands and something passed between us; something so powerful that my girlish hopes burst into life. I was like a scrawny chick comprehending its marvellous change into a dove. I was young and giddy with pleasure, struck with wonder that this was how my life would be.
Instead I woke to a muzzy July dawn. My feet poked out from the end of my childhood bed. I idled for a while, picking those strips around my nails that they call ‘mother’s blessings’, rehearsing my dream to extend its pitiful life. Then, as the Brabantists do, I asked myself what portents it contained. Food was generally deemed to be God’s bounty, unless it was a monarch’s banquet, when it signified the sin of gluttony. Was that slow kiss the Devil’s work? I could not believe wickedness could feel so thrilling.
I got up, for my nail began to bleed from an ugly wound. Perhaps the dream was only a cruel figment sent to torture me? Above me hung John’s portrait; all I had left of him since he’d sailed away. And I remembered events as they truly had been, my father lying drunken on the ground, and John Francis looking at me in a sort of agony. After that, any lad who even smiled at me got short shrift from my father. Then Father made his decision. ‘You must bide with me now, Grace,’ he said. ‘I’ll not take a servant, for no free soul should slave for another. But as my daughter it’s your duty to keep house for me, now your mother has gone.’
And it had not escaped my notice that I did not even cost a servant’s wages.
The thump made my bedroom door shake. ‘Grace! Fetch my breakfast, you lazybones.’
‘Father, please! A moment.’ I scrabbled about, bundling on my clothes as he hammered again. I feared the lock might break from its housing – I worried, too, that anyone passing might hear him. But when I finally unlocked my door and swung it open, the landing was empty. I found him downstairs in the parlour, lying twisted on the ground, drunk and helpless. I held my hand out to him, but he stared at it suspiciously, as if he didn’t know me, his only daughter.
‘Away, you useless creature. Look at yourself, you scarecrow!’ It shamed me to see him like that, with the spittle on his lips and his breath foul from liquor. At some time in the night, after staggering home drunk, he had thrown last night’s supper against the wall. The remnants of my pease pudding had grown a brown crust and the bacon looked like rusty leather. It was no feast, but still, a morning’s labour had been spent to turn a few pennyworth of stony peas into a palatable dish. That’s how much you care for me, I thought.
‘Come along, Father,’ I said gently. ‘Let me help you up.’
He let me hoist him upright, his bulk pressing heavy on my shoulders, till he staggered on his own two feet. Then, with no warning, he swung out with his fist and hit me hard on the side of my head. I cried out and recoiled, dizzy from the blow. With lips pressed tightly, so he might not hear me whimper, I stumbled back upstairs to my chamber. There, a wet cloth against my thumping head, I surrendered to self-pity. I turned to my dear mother’s portrait, recollecting that happy season when she had sat for me each afternoon.
No sooner had I wiped my face dry than a smart knock rapped at the front door. Passing downstairs to the parlour, I was grateful that Father had at least hauled himself up into a chair, from which he eyed me fiercely, as if I were to blame for all his troubles.
‘Mr Croxon,’ I said, dismayed to see our landlord on the doorstep. ‘I hope all is in order?’
Mr Croxon hesitated, then gave me a tight nod. He too had high-coloured cheeks; I wondered if he had come directly from the Quince and Salver.
‘All could
Instead I woke to a muzzy July dawn. My feet poked out from the end of my childhood bed. I idled for a while, picking those strips around my nails that they call ‘mother’s blessings’, rehearsing my dream to extend its pitiful life. Then, as the Brabantists do, I asked myself what portents it contained. Food was generally deemed to be God’s bounty, unless it was a monarch’s banquet, when it signified the sin of gluttony. Was that slow kiss the Devil’s work? I could not believe wickedness could feel so thrilling.
I got up, for my nail began to bleed from an ugly wound. Perhaps the dream was only a cruel figment sent to torture me? Above me hung John’s portrait; all I had left of him since he’d sailed away. And I remembered events as they truly had been, my father lying drunken on the ground, and John Francis looking at me in a sort of agony. After that, any lad who even smiled at me got short shrift from my father. Then Father made his decision. ‘You must bide with me now, Grace,’ he said. ‘I’ll not take a servant, for no free soul should slave for another. But as my daughter it’s your duty to keep house for me, now your mother has gone.’
And it had not escaped my notice that I did not even cost a servant’s wages.
The thump made my bedroom door shake. ‘Grace! Fetch my breakfast, you lazybones.’
‘Father, please! A moment.’ I scrabbled about, bundling on my clothes as he hammered again. I feared the lock might break from its housing – I worried, too, that anyone passing might hear him. But when I finally unlocked my door and swung it open, the landing was empty. I found him downstairs in the parlour, lying twisted on the ground, drunk and helpless. I held my hand out to him, but he stared at it suspiciously, as if he didn’t know me, his only daughter.
‘Away, you useless creature. Look at yourself, you scarecrow!’ It shamed me to see him like that, with the spittle on his lips and his breath foul from liquor. At some time in the night, after staggering home drunk, he had thrown last night’s supper against the wall. The remnants of my pease pudding had grown a brown crust and the bacon looked like rusty leather. It was no feast, but still, a morning’s labour had been spent to turn a few pennyworth of stony peas into a palatable dish. That’s how much you care for me, I thought.
‘Come along, Father,’ I said gently. ‘Let me help you up.’
He let me hoist him upright, his bulk pressing heavy on my shoulders, till he staggered on his own two feet. Then, with no warning, he swung out with his fist and hit me hard on the side of my head. I cried out and recoiled, dizzy from the blow. With lips pressed tightly, so he might not hear me whimper, I stumbled back upstairs to my chamber. There, a wet cloth against my thumping head, I surrendered to self-pity. I turned to my dear mother’s portrait, recollecting that happy season when she had sat for me each afternoon.
No sooner had I wiped my face dry than a smart knock rapped at the front door. Passing downstairs to the parlour, I was grateful that Father had at least hauled himself up into a chair, from which he eyed me fiercely, as if I were to blame for all his troubles.
‘Mr Croxon,’ I said, dismayed to see our landlord on the doorstep. ‘I hope all is in order?’
Mr Croxon hesitated, then gave me a tight nod. He too had high-coloured cheeks; I wondered if he had come directly from the Quince and Salver.
‘All could
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