Dancing the Charleston, page 18
‘Well done, Aunty! But listen—’
‘He wants me to make older girls’ garments too. He’ll give me a couple of Harrods’ own seamstresses to do all the basics – seams and hems and whatnots – while I design each dress and do all the smocking and embroidery and fancy work myself. And, best of all, he’ll add a pound to my wages, Mona. A whole pound! It’ll make such a difference. I’ll be able to afford all sorts of treats for us. Who’s got a clever old aunty then?’
‘I have! And who’s got a clever little niece?’ I said as we went downstairs to the kitchen.
‘I have too,’ said Aunty, opening the oven to light it. ‘I bought a Harrods mutton pie for my tea – half price to staff because it’s been around for a few days, though it’s still perfectly good to eat and a really good size. I’ll warm it up and we’ll share it.’
‘Aunty, do listen! I might be going to the girls’ high school in Hailbury after the summer!’
She banged the oven door shut and whipped round to look at me. ‘What was that?’
‘The high school! We had a new school inspector today – Mr White – and he’s ever so lovely, not a bit fierce. He set us older ones an essay, and he said mine was an imaginative masterpiece!’
‘He never!’
‘He did – he said all sorts of nice things, and thinks I’m very avant garde,’ I boasted.
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Ever so modern. It’s like Mr Benjamin’s art and furniture. I think it’s French,’ I said airily.
Aunty looked at me as if I was actually talking French. ‘Well I never,’ she said weakly.
‘So he says I should take the scholarship examination – tomorrow, in Hailbury.’
‘But you’ve not been entered for it, have you?’ Aunty asked.
‘He says he’ll make sure that my name is on the list. I have to be there at ten o’clock.’
‘Oh Lord! I can’t think straight! How many others are going to sit it?’
‘I’m the only one from our school.’
‘The only one! I knew you were bright, but I didn’t think your school work was that good! I thought you were near the bottom in arithmetic,’ said Aunty.
‘Yes, but Mr White does different sorts of lessons from Miss Nelson. Modern stuff,’ I explained.
‘Avant-whatsits?’ said Aunty. ‘Well, Mona, I’m very proud of you.’
‘So can I go on the bus tomorrow? I’ve just got to take a pen and a pencil with me— Oh, and my birth certificate.’
Aunty stared. ‘Birth certificate?’ she said. ‘What do they want that for?’
‘Oh, to check I’m really me and I’m ten. What’s the matter, Aunty? I have got a birth certificate, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, of course you have, somewhere or other. But hold on – let’s think this through. It’s all very well this Mr White saying you’re the bees’ knees, but he doesn’t really know you, does he? I don’t want you getting over-excited about going to the high school and then not passing. That wouldn’t do at all, would it? Maybe you’re better off not bothering with this examination. I don’t want you upset.’
I blinked at Aunty. Why had she suddenly changed her tune?
‘I won’t be upset,’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘I’d just like to have a go, that’s all. Mr White thinks I’ll pass with flying colours.’
‘Well, this Mr White isn’t God Almighty, is he? And, anyway, even if you do pass, I’m not sure the high school is the right place for you, Mona. Do you really want to take the bus all the way there and all the way back every single day? You’ll get exhausted. And what would we do about the fancy uniform? That’ll cost a pretty penny. How are we going to afford it?’
‘But you’ve just told me you’ll be earning more at Harrods! And I could run errands for folk on Saturdays. And we could use Lady Somerset’s money!’ I finished triumphantly.
‘You’re not touching that, not till you’re grown up. You’ll need it then, you mark my words. Life’s very hard for young women nowadays. I’m not having you starving in a garret,’ said Aunty.
‘But if I go to the high school and pass matriculation, I’ll be able to get all kinds of jobs. I could have a proper career, Aunty! I wouldn’t have to work for other people all the time like you.’ The words came flying out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Aunty’s head jerked as if I’d slapped her.
‘I didn’t mean it like that! I mean, you do wonderful work, you’re the best dressmaker ever – it’s just—’
‘That’s enough, Mona. I can see this Mr White has turned your head already. Well, you’re not sitting this examination and that’s that. Now set the table for tea. There’s a lovely crust on the mutton pie, better than I could ever manage.’
I stared at Aunty. She was trampling on all my hopes and dreams and talking about the wretched pie-crust as if it was of equal importance!
‘I can’t believe you could be so mean! What’s the matter with you? I could understand Maggie being nasty. She’s just jealous. Surely you’re not jealous too, because you didn’t have the chance to go to high school when you were young!’ I shouted.
Aunty went white. ‘How dare you speak to me like that! Go to your room this instant. And you’re not getting any supper until you apologize.’
‘I don’t want any of your horrid mutton pie, so see if I care,’ I yelled, and stamped off to my room.
I threw myself on the bed and had a good cry. After a while I fell asleep, fully dressed. I didn’t wake up until Aunty came in much later, on her way to bed.
‘Mona?’ Her voice sounded thick, as if she’d been crying too.
I buried my head in the pillow.
‘Mona, you’re crumpling your dress, you silly girl,’ said Aunty. ‘Get undressed properly. Are you ready to say sorry now?’
‘I’m not the slightest bit sorry,’ I mumbled into the pillow.
Aunty sighed miserably and went out again.
I pulled off my clothes, put on my nightgown and got under the sheets. I wasn’t at all sleepy now. I tossed and turned, still raging at Aunty and fretting about the examination tomorrow. Then I dozed a little, dreaming about Mr White. He was shaking his head sorrowfully and turning away from me.
I woke up very early, still burning with indignation. Then I suddenly jumped out of bed. I didn’t care what Aunty said. I’d go to Hailbury by myself – if I could only find the bus fare …
I pulled on yesterday’s dress, creased as it was, because I didn’t want to risk waking Aunty by clinking coat hangers on my clothes rail. I knew my socks were grubby, but it couldn’t be helped. I silently brushed and plaited my hair, wishing I had a quick and easy bob like Desiree. Then I clutched my pencil case and crept downstairs, carefully avoiding the steps that creaked.
Sixpence was curled up in her basket in the kitchen, but she leaped up when she saw me, clearly hoping it was morning already. I gave her a little milk, and then nursed her on my knee until she started dozing.
The mutton pie was untouched, its pie crust pristine. I felt a little twinge of guilt – Aunty had been looking forward to it so much. She’d been so happy about her wages. Still, she shouldn’t have dashed all my chances of happiness.
I gently popped Sixpence back in her bed and looked at Aunty’s purse, which was lying on the table beside the pie. It was half open, almost invitingly. I took a handful of coins and dropped them into my pocket quickly, as if they were red hot. I felt bad enough for yelling at Aunty. It was even worse to steal her money. But I couldn’t help it. I’d never have this chance again.
Now I just had to find this birth certificate. I didn’t even know if I would recognize it, but I knew where to look. Aunty had a large cash box hidden behind the good embroidered tablecloth in the sideboard. She didn’t keep cash in it, because we had none going spare. It was where she kept all our precious things.
I drew it out carefully, set it on the table beside the pie and turned the little gold key in the lock. I’d already peeped inside when I was on my own in the cottage, and knew what to expect. I found my baby teeth in a little pink sachet, and a lock of fine baby hair, black as a crow’s feather even then. There was a gold locket: the first time I came across it I hoped it might have a portrait of Mother inside. I prised it open again, just in case, but there was no picture at all. There was a pair of enamelled cuff links, which might have belonged to my father. I picked them up now, trying to imagine them attached to white cuffs, with masculine hands below. A soldier’s hands, with the nails cut short, not carefully shaped and buffed to a shine like Mr Benjamin’s.
I wondered what sort of father he would have been. Would he have been stern and strict – or would he have made a fuss of me and swept me up in his arms when he came home from work? There were no photos of him either.
I sifted through the documents at the bottom, which had never interested me before. There were receipts for our few sticks of furniture, old bills ticked and paid long ago, including doctor’s bills for my bouts of measles and whooping cough, and dentist’s bills for extracting one of my teeth and half a dozen of Aunty’s. There were my report cards from school, with lukewarm comments from Miss Nelson this year: Mona is a diligent pupil; Mona knows her times tables but struggles with arithmetic; Mona is quite good at English; Mona speaks nicely but sometimes talks out of turn. Judging from these reports, I certainly wouldn’t be considered high school material.
I found Aunty’s school leaving certificate too, which was surprisingly glowing: Florence has been a joy to teach. She has an excellent grasp of all subjects, as her examination results bear out. Her needlework is outstanding. We wish her well in the future.
Why didn’t Aunty want to go to a high school and continue excellently grasping all subjects? If she’d been considered bright but hadn’t been able to carry on studying, why didn’t she want me to have the chance?
I wished I had Mother’s school reports. I was certain she’d been even cleverer than Aunty. She’d want me to go to the high school. All I had to do now was find the wretched birth certificate.
I flicked through all the documents, and then found a folded piece of paper at the bottom. I undid it and saw the words Birth Certificate in fancy italic writing. At last! But I couldn’t see my name. This certificate recorded the birth of Florence Gertrude Watson, daughter of Ivy Enid Watson, market stallholder, and Albert Watson, docker. So this was Aunty’s birth certificate, and Ivy and Albert were my grandparents.
Aunty had told me that they were long dead – but she had also said they’d had their own draper’s store. I’d imagined them being as prim and proper as Aunty, my grandma in a long black frock and spotless apron, my grandpa in a black suit with a high white collar. I couldn’t imagine this genteel couple calling out to prospective buyers in a market or clambering on and off boats in a dockyard.
So where was my birth certificate? I went through all the documents again, taking each one out and double checking. It wasn’t there. I wondered about taking Aunty’s, in the vain hope that the examiner might just give it a casual glance. If they queried it, I could pretend there had been a mix-up and I’d simply brought the wrong one. But I couldn’t convince myself that I’d get away with it. I thought of the humiliation of being turned away, all the other girls staring at me. I needed my certificate and it wasn’t there.
I put the cash box back and searched elsewhere. I rifled through the rest of the sideboard, the cutlery drawer, inside the Queen Victoria tea caddy. I opened Aunty’s recipe book and her ladies dressmaking book and her old fashion books, flicking through every page, and found the odd shopping list or bus ticket, but no birth certificate.
The only other place I could think of was Aunty’s wardrobe, but I couldn’t search it while she was asleep. So I gave up and for waited an hour or so, feeling more and more desperate. Then I made a cup of tea and took it up to Aunty. Sixpence followed, having recently learned to climb the stairs.
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you,’ said Aunty, her voice muffled because her teeth were in the glass on the bedside table. She covered her face with her hand and popped them into place as daintily as she could. She gave me an apologetic smile, then put on her glasses and settled back on her pillows, looking relieved that I’d stopped sulking.
‘You’re up early, dear,’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’ve been looking for my birth certificate,’ I said.
She sighed. ‘Oh, Mona. Don’t start all that again, please. Just forget about it.’
‘I can’t forget. I have to take the examination. All right, I might not pass, but I have to try – can’t you understand? But I need the birth certificate. Where have you hidden it? It’s not in the cash box.’
‘Have you been going through it then? Mona, you know you mustn’t poke your nose where it doesn’t belong. I won’t have it!’ Aunty’s hands were trembling and she spilled her tea.
‘Then give me my certificate!’ I shouted. ‘Where is it? Is it in here?’ I went to her wardrobe and started flicking through her clothes.
‘Mona Smith, how dare you!’ Aunty leaped out of bed and tried to pull me away. ‘Look, you can search for ever but you’ll never find it – it was lost long ago.’
‘What? How can it be lost?’
‘It was lost when we moved here. Things often get lost when you move,’ said Aunty.
‘You’re lying, I know you are!’
‘How can you be so wicked as to call me a liar?’
‘Because you are a liar! You said my grandparents had a draper’s shop, but my grandma worked in a market and my grandpa was a docker – it’s written on your birth certificate.’
‘You mustn’t go snooping around like this! You deserve a good whipping!’ Aunty shouted.
There was a sudden frenetic barking outside the cottage, then eager thumps as something hurled itself against our front door. The old latch gave way and the something bounded inside and up our stairs.
‘Nigel! Come back! How dare you, sir!’ came from below.
‘Oh my Lord, it’s Mr Benjamin!’ said Aunty, grabbing her old dressing gown in a panic.
A cream puppy careered around her bedroom, charging at poor Sixpence. She yowled and climbed up the curtains for safety.
‘Don’t just stand there looking gormless, Mona! Grab the puppy!’ said Aunty. ‘Take it downstairs. Don’t let Mr Benjamin up here, for pity’s sake.’
I did as I was told, hanging onto the squirming little puppy as best I could.
‘That’s it. Take it downstairs. Make Mr Benjamin a cup of tea while I make myself decent.’
I held the puppy tight against my chest and hurtled downstairs.
‘You clever girl!’ said Mr Benjamin. ‘I’m desperately sorry. I was so keen to show off my new puppy that I lost all sense of time – and decorum. Your aunt must be horrified.’
‘She says I must make you a cup of tea. She’ll be down in a minute,’ I said, handing the puppy over and putting the kettle on.
‘I feel simply dreadful. Hang your little head in shame, Nigel,’ said Mr Benjamin. He beckoned me nearer. ‘Do excuse my mentioning it, Mona, but I couldn’t help hearing your aunt threatening you with a whipping.’
I hung my head.
‘I couldn’t believe it. You and your aunt always seem devoted to each other. Whatever’s up? I heard your aunt shouting, and I thought, I’m not having my little Mona whipped, no matter what she’s done.’
I felt thrilled that he’d acted like a knight in shining armour, and I was still furious with Aunty, but I couldn’t let him believe she would do that.
‘She wouldn’t really have whipped me,’ I said. ‘But she’s very, very cross with me.’
‘Why? What have you done?’ Mr Benjamin asked, all agog. He wrestled with Nigel, who had smelled the mutton pie and was drooling.
I told him everything, my words tumbling over each other as I hurried through the story, keeping my voice down so that Aunty couldn’t hear. Mr Benjamin was a wonderful audience, going, ‘Oh, my!’ every now and then. He mimed clapping when I told him that Mr White thought I could pass the high school examination, and shook his head sadly when I said that Aunty was against the whole idea. When I told him about the birth certificate he was suddenly serious, so absorbed that Nigel wriggled his head free and attempted to take a mouthful of pie.
‘No, Nigel! You bad, thieving pup! How dare you try to purloin the ladies’ lunch!’ said Mr Benjamin sternly.
‘He’s more than welcome to it,’ said Aunty, coming into the kitchen fully dressed, though she’d forgotten she still had a curler above each ear. ‘It comes from Harrods, so it will be very high quality.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of it, Miss Watson,’ said Mr Benjamin. ‘I am so very sorry that I came bursting in on you in such a thoughtless and ill-mannered way. I am not myself – it’s lack of sleep. I think Nigel is missing his mother. He has the cosiest dog basket in the world, but he wouldn’t settle and howled miserably most of the night. I ended up taking him into my own bed to comfort him, but then he wanted to play games, and there’s a limit to the number of times I wish to play tag at two o’clock in the morning. I seriously considered curling up in his dog basket myself, simply for a bit of peace.’
‘Naughty boy,’ I said, stroking Nigel.
‘And I believe Mona has been a naughty girl, Miss Watson …’ said Mr Benjamin.
Aunty glared at me. ‘I hope you haven’t been troubling Mr Benjamin with our private affairs, Mona!’
‘Oh, I prised it out of her, Miss Watson. I believe she wants to take the examination to get into Hailbury High School for Girls?’
‘And I have forbidden it,’ said Aunty, pinch-faced.
‘I quite understand. The high school is the stuffiest of institutions, intent on turning carefree little girls into earnest young bluestockings. And the uniform is a total fright! Those gymslips! A lady who makes such exquisite clothing could never clothe her precious niece in such a hideous garment.’
‘I know you’re being facetious, Mr Benjamin, but you’re not going to make me change my mind. I doubt Mona would pass the examination in any case, and then she’d be distraught. I don’t want her upset,’ said Aunty. She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth as if she had toothache. ‘I know you mean well, but you don’t understand.’
