Twenties Girl
Page 55
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“Whatever.” I grab an armful of hangers and dump them on the bed. “So, tell me about your husband. What was he like?”
Sadie considers for a moment. “He wore a scarlet waistcoat at our wedding. Other than that, I remember very little about him.”
“That’s it? A waistcoat?”
“And he had a mustache,” she adds.
“I don’t get you.” I throw another armful of clothes onto the bed. “How could you marry someone you didn’t love?”
“Because it was my only way to escape,” says Sadie, as though it’s obvious. “I’d had the most terrible row with my parents. My father had stopped my allowance, the vicar called every second day, I was locked in my room every night-”
“What had you done?” I say, avid with curiosity. “Had you been arrested again?”
“It… doesn’t matter,” says Sadie after a slight pause. She turns away from my gaze and stares out of the window. “I had to leave. Marriage seemed as good a way as any. My parents had already found a suitable young man. And, believe me, they were hardly lining up in droves in those days.”
“Oh, well, I know about that,” I say, rolling my eyes in sympathy. “There are no single men in London. None. It’s a well-known fact.”
I look up to see Sadie gazing at me with a kind of blank incomprehension.
“We lost all ours in the war,” she says.
“Oh. Of course.” I swallow. “The war.”
World War I. I hadn’t quite put that together.
“The ones who survived weren’t the same boys they’d been. They were wounded. Broken to bits. Or full of guilt because they’d survived…” A shadow passes across her face. “My older brother was killed, you know. Edwin. He was nineteen. My parents never really got over it.”
I stare at her, appalled. I had a great-uncle Edwin who was killed in World War I? Why don’t I know this stuff?
“What was he like?” I ask timidly. “Edwin?”
“He was… funny.” Her mouth twists as though she wants to smile but can’t let herself. “He made me laugh. He made my parents more bearable. He made everything more bearable.”
The room is quiet, save for the tinny sound of the TV upstairs. Sadie’s face is immobile, transfixed with memories or thoughts. She almost seems in a trance.
“But even if there weren’t many men around,” I venture, “did you have to settle? Did you have to marry some random guy? What about waiting for the right guy? What about love?”
“‘What about love!’” she mimics me mockingly, snapping out of her reverie. “‘What about love!’ Goodness, you play a monotonous tune.” She surveys the mound of clothes on the bed. “Lay them out so I can see properly. I’ll choose your dress for this evening. And it won’t be a ghastly long skirt to the ground.”
Obviously the reminiscing is over.
“OK.” I start spreading my clothes out on the bed. “You choose.”
“And I’m in charge of your hairstyle and makeup,” Sadie adds firmly. “I’m in charge of everything.”
“Fine,” I say patiently.
As I head back to the bathroom, my head is full of Sadie’s stories. I’ve never been into family trees or history. But somehow this is all quite fascinating. Maybe I’ll get Dad to dig out a few photos of the old family house. He’ll love that.
I close the door and survey my pots of creams and cosmetics, all balanced on the counter around the basin. Hmm. Perhaps Josh had a point. Maybe I don’t need apricot scrub and oatmeal scrub and sea salt scrub. I mean, how scrubbed should skin be, anyway?
Half an hour later I’ve got everything organized into rows and have assembled a whole carrier bag of ancient, half-empty pots to chuck out. Already my action plan is under way! If Josh saw this bathroom, he’d be so impressed! I almost feel like taking a picture of it and sending him a text. Feeling delighted with myself, I duck my head back into my bedroom, but Sadie’s not there.
“Sadie?” I call, but there’s no reply. I hope she’s OK. It was obviously hard for her, remembering her brother. Maybe she needed a quiet moment alone.
I put the bag of pots next to the back door to deal with later and make myself a cup of tea. Next on my list is to find that photography book he was talking about. It must still be around here somewhere. Maybe under the sofa…
“I’ve found it!” Sadie’s excited voice springing out of nowhere nearly makes me knock my head on the coffee table.
“Don’t do that!” I sit up and reach for my cup of tea. “Listen, Sadie, I just want to say… are you OK? Do you want to talk? I know things can’t have been easy-”
Sadie considers for a moment. “He wore a scarlet waistcoat at our wedding. Other than that, I remember very little about him.”
“That’s it? A waistcoat?”
“And he had a mustache,” she adds.
“I don’t get you.” I throw another armful of clothes onto the bed. “How could you marry someone you didn’t love?”
“Because it was my only way to escape,” says Sadie, as though it’s obvious. “I’d had the most terrible row with my parents. My father had stopped my allowance, the vicar called every second day, I was locked in my room every night-”
“What had you done?” I say, avid with curiosity. “Had you been arrested again?”
“It… doesn’t matter,” says Sadie after a slight pause. She turns away from my gaze and stares out of the window. “I had to leave. Marriage seemed as good a way as any. My parents had already found a suitable young man. And, believe me, they were hardly lining up in droves in those days.”
“Oh, well, I know about that,” I say, rolling my eyes in sympathy. “There are no single men in London. None. It’s a well-known fact.”
I look up to see Sadie gazing at me with a kind of blank incomprehension.
“We lost all ours in the war,” she says.
“Oh. Of course.” I swallow. “The war.”
World War I. I hadn’t quite put that together.
“The ones who survived weren’t the same boys they’d been. They were wounded. Broken to bits. Or full of guilt because they’d survived…” A shadow passes across her face. “My older brother was killed, you know. Edwin. He was nineteen. My parents never really got over it.”
I stare at her, appalled. I had a great-uncle Edwin who was killed in World War I? Why don’t I know this stuff?
“What was he like?” I ask timidly. “Edwin?”
“He was… funny.” Her mouth twists as though she wants to smile but can’t let herself. “He made me laugh. He made my parents more bearable. He made everything more bearable.”
The room is quiet, save for the tinny sound of the TV upstairs. Sadie’s face is immobile, transfixed with memories or thoughts. She almost seems in a trance.
“But even if there weren’t many men around,” I venture, “did you have to settle? Did you have to marry some random guy? What about waiting for the right guy? What about love?”
“‘What about love!’” she mimics me mockingly, snapping out of her reverie. “‘What about love!’ Goodness, you play a monotonous tune.” She surveys the mound of clothes on the bed. “Lay them out so I can see properly. I’ll choose your dress for this evening. And it won’t be a ghastly long skirt to the ground.”
Obviously the reminiscing is over.
“OK.” I start spreading my clothes out on the bed. “You choose.”
“And I’m in charge of your hairstyle and makeup,” Sadie adds firmly. “I’m in charge of everything.”
“Fine,” I say patiently.
As I head back to the bathroom, my head is full of Sadie’s stories. I’ve never been into family trees or history. But somehow this is all quite fascinating. Maybe I’ll get Dad to dig out a few photos of the old family house. He’ll love that.
I close the door and survey my pots of creams and cosmetics, all balanced on the counter around the basin. Hmm. Perhaps Josh had a point. Maybe I don’t need apricot scrub and oatmeal scrub and sea salt scrub. I mean, how scrubbed should skin be, anyway?
Half an hour later I’ve got everything organized into rows and have assembled a whole carrier bag of ancient, half-empty pots to chuck out. Already my action plan is under way! If Josh saw this bathroom, he’d be so impressed! I almost feel like taking a picture of it and sending him a text. Feeling delighted with myself, I duck my head back into my bedroom, but Sadie’s not there.
“Sadie?” I call, but there’s no reply. I hope she’s OK. It was obviously hard for her, remembering her brother. Maybe she needed a quiet moment alone.
I put the bag of pots next to the back door to deal with later and make myself a cup of tea. Next on my list is to find that photography book he was talking about. It must still be around here somewhere. Maybe under the sofa…
“I’ve found it!” Sadie’s excited voice springing out of nowhere nearly makes me knock my head on the coffee table.
“Don’t do that!” I sit up and reach for my cup of tea. “Listen, Sadie, I just want to say… are you OK? Do you want to talk? I know things can’t have been easy-”
