Amelia

by Siobhán Parkinson

  ‘Oh, not that sort of friends, I didn’t mean that. I meant it’s against our religion.’

  Now it was Mary Ann’s turn to wonder if Amelia wasn’t a bit soft in the head. Blathering on about Russia, saying they were friends and in the next breath seeming to change her mind about it, and now it seemed that something was against this girl’s religion. Mary Ann was blowed if she knew what exactly it was that was supposed to be against her religion, but she thought it best just to go along with her. Other people’s religion could be a touchy subject.

  ‘Whatever you say, Miss.’ Mary Ann adjusted the cosy around the teapot again and handed it back to Amelia. ‘Mind your step now, Miss. It’s getting dusk. Three steps up, remember. And don’t bother with the door. I’ll close it after you.’

  And Mary Ann shook her head at Amelia’s retreating back. She was beginning to wonder if this service lark was such a good idea. She had very nearly landed a nice little job in Mr Murphy’s grocer’s shop not half-a-mile from her own front door, and she might have been there now at this very minute among the jars and the tins and the sacks of meal and flour, weighing out sugar into nice neat bags and learning to twist a brown-paper poke for a ha’porth of boiled sweets and living at home with her Ma and her Da and the little ones and not having to sleep in an iron bed all by herself and talk to rich folks and polish their silver and scrub their saucepans.

  But then Mr Murphy had got a boy who wanted to be apprenticed to the trade, and who could blame the elderly grocer for preferring a strong lad willing to serve his time to a slip of a girl who didn’t know a pennyweight from a bushel of oats and might be off getting married and having babies before she could write a receipt?

  In bed that night Amelia once more took her plan out of the drawer she had put it in at the back of her mind at teatime and shook it out to think about it some more. She liked to do that, unfolding it carefully and turning it this way and that and admiring it as various thoughts and ideas fell on it and lit it from this angle or that. But she couldn’t settle to thinking about her plan properly. Every time she tried to picture the dress, for example – cherry red silk, with a big sash and a flounce at the hem – other things kept floating into her head and pushing it aside. It had been rather an eventful afternoon after all.

  Papa had come home to tea, which was unusual for him, bursting in out of the rain just as Amelia was coming back from the kitchen with the teapot and wondering if maybe Mary Ann was suffering from delusions – there was such a thing, you know.

  Unlike Mama, Papa shook his umbrella out in the porch and then stood it in the drip tray in the umbrella stand and took off his greatcoat in the hall and hung it up carefully on its peg on the hallstand. The Pims didn’t have a manservant to open the door and look after the coats. They considered this ‘excessive’. The grown-ups in Amelia’s family considered a lot of things excessive, to Amelia’s mortification.

  ‘My princess!’ cried Papa, and Amelia knew that if she hadn’t been carrying a nuisance of a hot teapot he would have swung her off her feet in a big bear-hug. Instead, he took the teapot from her, kissed her on the forehead and swung open the door to the drawing room. Both of Amelia’s parents made a great deal of coming into a room. You certainly knew when they were around.

  Amelia adored her papa. He was tall, and fair-haired like her, only that, unlike hers, his hair curled magnificently, and his face was big and brown and his eyes sharp and blue and his voice deep and cheerful, and he told jokes. He dressed elegantly and carefully, and he never lost his gloves. And he had a big fair moustache that he fingered when he was thinking.

  Amelia’s papa was an importer and merchant. He dealt mostly in fine wines and tea, and he did some business also in spices and foreign produce. He had a depot at the docks where the goods he had bought from Ceylon and Brazil and Madagascar and France and Siam were stashed in tea-chests and wooden trunks and metal boxes. The depot smelt warm and fruity and spicy – it smelt of Christmas even in June. And he had warehouses and stores and cellars in several places in town where the tea was blended and the wines were stacked and aged. He had an office in town too, where he did long complicated sums in enormous ledgers and he thought out plans and strategies and hired workers and commissioned ships and barges and made telephone calls to distant places and where, no doubt, he kept large piles of money – maybe even gold – in strongboxes and safes.

  Amelia was proud of her papa. He made lots of money, she knew, for there was always enough and nobody ever worried about it. He was a bit like Grandpapa, she thought, who had built the orangery, and whom Amelia could remember only dimly. He didn’t read as many books as Mama, and he only went to Meeting occasionally, to Grandmama’s chagrin, but he was a fine papa and he always said Amelia was his favourite daughter. He had only one daughter, of course, but he didn’t ever say Edmund was his favourite son, so Amelia knew he really meant that she was his favourite child, although he couldn’t say so outright for fear of offending Edmund.

  ‘Mama!’ cried Papa as he strode into the drawing room with the teapot, as if he were terribly surprised to see her. He meant Grandmama, of course, who was his mama. And he put the teapot down and bent to kiss the old lady. She said nothing, but went on stitching her sampler. ‘Roberta,’ he said to Mama in a soft voice, as she handed him a cup of tea.

  ‘Do have a scone, Papa,’ insisted Amelia. ‘They’re deliciously fresh, and they won’t be half so good tomorrow and the jam’s strawberry, your favourite kind.’

  ‘What brings you home so early, Charles?’ asked Mama.

  ‘Petrol power!’ answered Papa with a beam.

  ‘Charles! You haven’t! We agreed we wouldn’t! Oh, is it very beautiful? Oh Charles, you shouldn’t. It’s excessive. We don’t need it. There’s the tram, and we have the landau. Oh, Charles!’ Mama was standing up and sitting down again and smiling and looking cross at the same time.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Amelia. ‘What’s excessive?’

  ‘It’s not excessive at all,’ said Papa. ‘It’s perfectly sensible. Lots of people have motor-cars now. It’s much quicker. It’s the modern way to travel, Roberta. And we haven’t really got the landau. One or other of those horses is always lame. They’re old – beyond it. It was either this or buy a pair of horses. This was much the cheaper option, when you consider the price of feeding a pair of horses.’

  Clip and Clop, the aged horses, would probably be sold now. But no-one stopped to think of such unpleasantness, not this afternoon amid such excitement.

  ‘Oh, Papa, Papa!’ the children cried together. ‘A motor-car! Where is it? Can we see? Can we have a ride?’

  ‘It’s out on the road, of course. You didn’t expect me to drive it up the garden path and into the house, did you?’

  So they all scrambled into their outdoor things, tea and scones and strawberry jam completely forgotten, and put up their umbrellas and tumbled down the front steps and through the garden into the road to look at the new car.

  It was magnificent! It gleamed and shone, even in the rain, and its lights were like two great eyes out in front. The hood was up because of the rain, but you could see the leather upholstery inside and the bodywork was a shining dark green. Papa wouldn’t agree to take anyone for a spin this afternoon, because, he said, the filthy weather made it difficult to drive, but he promised them all a go as soon as the rain cleared up.

  Only Grandmama didn’t beg to go for a drive. She stood at the hall-door and shook her head. Amelia could just hear what she said: ‘Vainglory!’

  And that was the reason that Amelia couldn’t concentrate properly on her own thoughts that night. Her head was full of Papa and the magnificent new motor-car. At last she had something to boast of to her friends. They all had more finery and more extensive wardrobes, more servants and bigger houses, more outings and more holidays than Amelia’s family, and their mamas had people to tea and gave garden parties in the summer and weren’t eternally rushing around forming leagues for this and
committees against that. Most of them had finer carriages than the Pims, and some already had motor-cars, but none, Amelia was convinced, had a car as handsome and as sleek and as dashing as her papa’s.

  Before she knew it, Amelia was drifting into a dream where Grandpapa, in his old-fashioned high collar and dark suit was driving the motor-car through the orangery, with Mama waving a single sodden glove at him and Mary Ann shouting over the din, ‘Make way for the Queen of Sheba!’

  Women and Ladies

  Amelia often helped her mother with her circulars, especially if there was nothing better to do. Edmund wanted to help too. ‘What are circulars, Mama?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, just papers, darling. I don’t think you’d be a bit interested.’

  ‘Oh, Mama, Mama, I would, I would! Please, Mama!’ Edmund had a very whiney voice that irritated Amelia. Mama said his voice was thin and piping because he was still very small, and that Amelia shouldn’t let it irritate her, but Amelia knew that he put on that special whine expressly to annoy her.

  Amelia had visions of Edmund getting sticky finger marks all over the papers and gumming the envelopes together and making a complete mess of everything, but she knew she mustn’t point this out to Mama, as that would only make Mama take Edmund’s side, as if she didn’t always anyway.

  But when Edmund saw just how dull doing the circulars was, he soon trotted off, trailing his wooden train engine, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, across the morning-room floor, bump, over the door saddle and into the hall, which was the best place for playing Edmund’s sort of games, because it was long and free of furniture. ‘I thought you meant circles,’ he complained, turning back to look at them from the doorway. ‘Making paper moons, I thought.’

  ‘Oh, the sweetie,’ whispered Mama with a foolish smile on her face as the door closed behind the little boy. ‘Did you hear, Amelia? He thought we were cutting paper shapes. Oh, remind me to tell Papa. The little darling.’

  Amelia didn’t answer. She went on doggedly folding the circulars and piling them up for Mama to stuff into the envelopes. ‘Votes for Women!’ it said in big black letters on the circulars. When they were all folded and in their envelopes, Mama would address them in her small, neat handwriting. Amelia never could understand why Mama’s handwriting was so neat, when everything else about her was so sloppy and disorganised. Then Amelia would stamp them all, lining up the king’s head with the corner of each envelope. She liked that bit. The king looked grave and handsome on the stamps.

  They did ever so many circulars, and Amelia got very tired and bored. ‘Why do you want votes for women, Mama?’ she asked, not because she really wanted to know, but just for something to say.

  ‘Why, Amelia, what a question!’ said Mama, pausing for a moment to look at her daughter, as if she was wondering where on earth she had got her from.

  ‘Well, why?’ asked Amelia again, this time more defiantly. She didn’t like it when Mama looked at her in that way, as if she didn’t know her.

  ‘Well, because it’s not fair that only men should be allowed to vote, Amelia. Surely you can see that? It’s against natural justice.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amelia doubtfully. ‘Yes, I see that it’s fairer if everyone can vote. But why do you actually want to vote? And why should you want to be the one to change things? What’s it got to do with us, Mama?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with us? But we’re women, Amelia.’

  What a peculiar thing to say! Nobody had ever called Amelia a woman before. She looked up at Mama. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Aren’t we ladies, Mama?’

  ‘Well, yes, we are, I suppose.’ Mama didn’t sound too happy to called a lady. ‘Yes, we are ladies by rank and social position, Amelia.’

  ‘And by behaviour, Mama,’ added Amelia virtuously.

  ‘Yes, I hope so, that too. But first and foremost we are women. That comes first.’

  ‘Is it better to be a woman or a lady, Mama?’

  ‘It isn’t a question of better. It is a very fine thing to be a woman, Amelia. It just happens that the way things are, some women are lucky enough to be ladies too.’

  ‘So we are lucky women, Mama.’

  ‘Yes, dear, very lucky.’

  ‘So why do we need the vote then?’

  ‘Amelia! I’ve just explained that it’s not fair. It’s a question of justice.’

  ‘But it’s not fair either that we’re ladies and some women aren’t, is it?’

  Just at that moment, Mary Ann arrived to clear out the grate. She was carrying a metal bucket and a shovel for the ashes. ‘Sorry, Ma’am,’ she said. ‘I thought the room was free.’ And she was just about to poke herself back out the door as quickly as she had bobbed in.

  ‘Oh no, Mary Ann,’ said Mama. ‘Don’t mind us. Come on in and get on with your work. We may be ages yet.’

  ‘Would you like to be a lady, Mary Ann?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘Amelia!’ hissed Mama.

  ‘It’s all right, Ma’am,’ said Mary Ann, cheerfully shovelling the ashes and cinders into the bucket. ‘She hasn’t a titter of wit, Miss Amelia hasn’t. But I don’t mind a bit. Can’t afford to, can I?’

  ‘Well said, Mary Ann,’ said Mama admiringly. ‘Spoken like a true-hearted woman.’

  But Amelia thought Mary Ann was cruel to say such things. She didn’t know her place, that girl. And now she was trying to turn Amelia’s mother against her. Amelia felt tears aching in her throat, but she swallowed and said gaily, ‘Would you like to have the vote, then, Mary Ann?’

  ‘The vote!’ Mary Ann laughed. ‘What good would the vote be to the likes of me? Living in a country that’s ruled by a foreign king nobody voted for, who’s going to land us all in a war if we don’t look out, and me with a family of little brothers and sisters to worry about, with me da out of work and me ma in bad health and me only older brother in prison.’

  ‘Prison, Mary Ann!’ Mama was all concern.

  ‘Oh lawny, Ma’am!’ wailed Mary Ann. ‘I didn’t mean to let that out. Ma’am, don’t let on to the Master, will you, please, Ma’am? We’re not a bad family, we’re not. Honest, we’re not. He’s a political prisoner, Ma’am, I swear to God. He didn’t do anything wicked. He’s a good lad.’

  Amelia looked at Mama. Mary Ann had sworn! That was not allowed in a Quaker household, under any circumstances, even as a turn of phrase. But Mama didn’t reprimand Mary Ann at all.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mary Ann,’ she said. ‘I promise you it won’t make any difference at all to your employment here. We will be concerned about it certainly, but only because we don’t like to think of someone unjustly imprisoned. We don’t think any the less of you for it. Please believe that.’

  Well! Whatever Mama thought, Amelia wasn’t too impressed to hear that they had the sister of a prisoner under their roof. She wondered what Papa would think.

  But Amelia didn’t get a chance to break the news about Mary Ann’s brother to Papa, because Mama told him herself that evening when he came home from the office. Amelia had been saving it up to tell him, and looking forward to seeing his face when she announced it. Would he be surprised? Surely. Would he be angry? Perhaps. Would he denounce Mary Ann and throw her out of the house? That would be very thrilling, of course, but Amelia mustn’t allow herself to think that. Even if Mary Ann’s family was in disgrace, still, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of Papa to fling her down the porch steps and show her the garden gate. Perhaps he would just give her her notice quietly and pay her a week’s wages and ask her to pack her things and leave by the back door. Yes, that’s probably what he would do, Amelia thought. Then she allowed herself to think: Poor Mary Ann! She was a bit strange and she said ever such odd things, but even so, it wasn’t nice to be dismissed from your situation.

  As it happened, Amelia missed Papa’s return. Edmund had a cold and had to go to bed early, which meant that Amelia had to go upstairs to read him his bedtime story before Papa got home. Mama had made him some chamomile tea, with lemon peel a
nd honey. It smelt absolutely foul.

  How would I feel if Edmund were in gaol? Amelia found herself thinking. Relieved was the first word that came into her head. But then she saw how very small and wretched he looked, sitting up in his nightshirt with an extra quilt around his shoulders, with his eyes streaming and streaming and his nose quite pink from blowing, sipping that awful yellow stuff Mama had made, and for just a fleeting moment Amelia felt like hugging him. But Mama had had a fire lit in his room, because of his cold, which was a lovely treat, so Amelia was determined not to be carried away by sympathy.

  ‘You’ll have to learn to read for yourself soon,’ she warned him, as she did every night, though secretly she enjoyed the opportunity to re-read stories she remembered from when she was much younger.

  ‘Yes, ‘Melia,’ snuffled Edmund meekly.

  Edmund’s room was at the back of the house, so Amelia didn’t hear Papa’s motor-car drawing up outside. By the time she came down to tell Mama that Edmund was ready to be tucked in, Papa was warming himself at the drawing-room fire.

  ‘The poor lass,’ Papa was saying.

  For a moment, Amelia thought he meant her, having to read endless stories to an ungrateful little brother. But soon she realised he must mean Mary Ann, because Mama said, ‘I can’t get the full story out of her. I think he must be involved in the IRB, Charles. You know, we can’t condone that sort of thing. Not if they are advocating armed rebellion.’

  Good heavens! What was all this? Mama must have been talking to Mary Ann privately. And she hadn’t mentioned it to Amelia!

  ‘Of course not. But still, we must do everything we can for the family. It sounds as if the mother’s in a bad way. Do you think it’s …’

  Just then, the adults noticed that Amelia had joined them and was listening to every word they said, and in their tiresome way they immediately changed the subject. ‘How’s Edmund? Has he said his prayers?’