Some Old Lover's Ghost by Judith Lennox Read Free Book Online

dull. It would have taken imagination and flair to make shorthand interesting, and imagination and flair had long ago passed Miss Clare by. In lessons, Tilda’s mind wandered. Her daydreams were frequently interrupted by Miss Clare’s studiedly refined tones, or knocked off course by Miss Clare’s disconcerting habit of emphasizing the wrong word in a sentence. ‘Miss Greenlees, how will you succeed in your future career if you have not acquired the habit of giving your employer your complete attention?’
    Emily invited Tilda to tea one day. After class, they walked through Ely. It was pleasantly sunny, and Tilda had stuffed her coat into her bicycle basket.
    ‘Do you want to be a typist, Em?’
    Emily shrugged. ‘Lots of girls are typists, aren’t they? And I can’t think of anything else to do.’
    ‘You could be an artist.’
    ‘An artist?’ Emily was scornful. ‘My parents would never let me. Besides’ – she took an apple from her pocket and bit it – ‘I intend to work for a wonderful man. Tall and dark and handsome and terribly rich. He’ll fall madly in love with me and take me away from boring old Ely. Bite, Tilda?’
    Tilda took the apple and bit. They walked past a row of shops and a pub.
    Emily whispered suddenly, ‘I’ve just seen an absolute dreamboat … don’t look round yet, Tilda, please . Now. Over there.’
    Tilda glanced at the young man outside the Fox and Hounds. He was leaning against the wall of the pub, smoking, his dark, slightly curling hair uncovered in the spring sunshine.
    ‘Don’t stare,’ whispered Emily furiously. ‘He’s looking at us! Oh, my goodness! Divine . Utterly divine!’ They both began to giggle as they turned the corner that led to the Potters’ house.
    Aunt Sarah was in the kitchen, making bread, when Tilda came home. Sarah Greenlees wore a long blue skirt and a white high-necked blouse, covered by a stiff brown apron.
    ‘Your supper’s in the stove, Tilda.’
    Tilda sat at a corner of the kitchen table to eat her shepherd’s pie. The Greenlees didn’t have a separate dining room like the Potters, but ate in the kitchen. Over the six months since they had come to Southam, Long Cottage had acquired for Tilda a pleasant familiarity. She had never before lived for so long in the same place. Nothing at Long Cottage was new; the kitchen curtains were a patchwork of dresses that Tilda had worn as a child, the cushions on the settle were made of jumble sale finds and segments of one of Aunt Sarah’s vast petticoats. Tilda recalled the Potters’ bathroom. Fluffy pink towels and matching soap and talc. The scent of the soap still lingered on Tilda’s hands: she sniffed them surreptitiously. She and Aunt Sarah washed using cold water from the jug on their washstands, and bathed in a tin bath in the kitchen.
    Tilda poked the shepherd’s pie around her plate with her fork, and wriggled in her seat.
    ‘Eat up, child. Waste not, want not.’ Sarah Greenlees kneaded the dough.
    ‘Waste not, want not’ was Aunt Sarah’s favourite saying. Her second favourite was ‘Look after the pennies, and the poundswill take care of themselves.’ Tilda scraped up the remains of the shepherd’s pie, wolfed it down, and rinsed the plate under the tap. Then she ran outside.
    She fed the hens and collected the eggs to sell to the shop the following morning. She was allowed to keep half the egg money. Then she weeded between the rows of vegetables, singing to herself as she worked. By the time she had finished, dark, twilit fingers had begun to creep across the sky. Tilda flung off her apron, and ran out of the garden, through the village, along the path by the church that led to the dike. On the bank, she lay on her back in the grass, staring up at the sky. The pink and gold clouds, patterned like a fish’s scales, were doubled in the waters of the dike. Tilda closed her eyes, and let herself slowly roll down the bank to the field, gathering speed as she tumbled. Dizzy,