All The Days of My Life by Hilary Bailey Read Free Book Online Page B

Mary.
    â€œShoes,” said Mrs Gates.
    â€œOh,” said Mary excitedly. Shoes were a step up in the world.
    The next afternoon, with her hair newly trimmed, so that the blonde curls framed her face, wearing a pink striped dress, white socks and the new red sandals, Mary was taken into the drawing room to thank Lady Allaun. She felt as if she could skip, jump and fly as high as the ceiling. She tried to walk slowly and steadily into the room.
    â€œMary would like to thank you kindly for buying her the new clothes,” Mrs Gates explained.
    â€œTransformed,” said Lady Allaun, impressed by the beauty of the child. “Well done, Mrs. Gates.”
    â€œThank you very much, your ladyship,” said Mary.
    â€œWorth every penny,” said Isabel Allaun. “You look charming, Mary.” She picked up her book again. “You might try, Mrs Gates,” she said as an afterthought, “to do something about the child’s speech.It’s unpleasant to hear such an ugly voice coming from such a pretty face.”
    â€œDo you hear that, Mary?” said Mrs Gates. “You’re to try and speak more nicely.”
    â€œI can speak very nice,” said Mary, exactly imitating Isabel Allaun’s voice.
    Lady Allaun put the book in her lap. She stared at Mary.
    â€œSay that again,” she said.
    â€œI can speak very nice,” said Mary, just as before.
    Lady Allaun, fascinated but not pleased, said, “Quite a little parrot, I see. Well, Mary, that’s very good. I can see you’re a clever girl.”
    â€œThank you, my lady,” said Mary, in Mrs Gates’ voice.
    â€œMy God,” said Isabel Allaun as Mrs Gates led the little girl from the room.
    Back in the kitchen the housekeeper confronted Mary severely. “Don’t you go putting on them posh airs no more,” she said. “That’s for the gentry, not you.”
    Understanding that the posh airs must have something to do with her imitations of the voices, Mary said, in her sharp, cockney accent, “What’s the gentry, then?”
    â€œRich people. People what’s above you,” Mrs Gates told her.
    â€œAbove me?” wondered Mary.
    â€œYou’re in the kitchen, now,” said Mrs Gates, “and her ladyship’s in the drawing room. I work for her, cleaning and cooking, and for as long as you’re here you’re going to have to do it too – God knows, I need some help. That’s the difference – that’s all you need to know.”
    Mary pouted and said, “How am I supposed to talk then?”
    â€œNot like a guttersnipe, that’s for sure,” Mrs Gates said unreasonably. “‘’Ow am I s’posed ter talk’ indeed. In the meanwhile, put them dishes away. You know where they go.”
    Mary, in the new red sandals, trotted off to the dresser with the dishes, trying not to drop anything.
    A year later all the problems had been resolved. All the London children talked in the same slow burr as the village children, except when they formed sides – then the London children would drop back into cockney, to emphasize their solidarity.
    Mary had changed. She had gained weight. Her formerly pale face was rosy with health. The following summer she had insisted on having exactly the same sandals she had had the previous year. She stillfelt happy, every morning, as she did up the buckles carefully and went down the back stairs to breakfast in the kitchen. It was nearly always the same meal. There was porridge, made with the oatmeal which had stood cooking on the kitchen range overnight, and toast and honey and milk which Arthur Twining, illegally, left for them every morning in a churn on the back step.
    Meanwhile Mrs Gates carefully conveyed Isabel Allaun’s egg into its pan of boiling water. Mary, who had now found out about eggs from her brother Jack, still working on the Twining farm, made no remark. She ate her porridge,