Amelia

by Siobhán Parkinson

‘But you used to be friends, Mama.’ Amelia felt strongly about friendship just now, and she couldn’t keep a sad note out of her voice.

  ‘No. We were never that, Amelia. I admired her. I still do. Her work in the women’s suffrage movement was wonderful in the old days. She has high ideals and she really cares. But she has some wild and dangerous ideas too, and I can’t go along with her when it comes to guns and armies. We were comrades once, not friends. And my understanding of comradeship doesn’t stretch to the military meaning of the word.’

  ‘Mama, do you think someone like Mary Ann might join an organisation like that comin’ thing you were talking about?’

  ‘Mary Ann? I doubt it.’ Mama didn’t sound very interested. She suddenly looked very tired and worried, and she sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and asked: ‘Is there any tea in that pot, or is it stewed to gravy?’

  Amelia had been half-hoping Mama might have met Mary Ann at the meeting, if it was one for women interested in the Nationalist cause. She knew Mary Ann held Nationalist views, but it had only been an off-chance that Mama might have spotted her there.

  How was she ever going to trace Mary Ann without asking Mama directly? And she didn’t think she could do that. Look how Mama had brushed off her tentative enquiry. No. Mama didn’t want to encourage Amelia to seek out Mary Ann. That much was clear.

  The Telephone Call

  Amelia had had a brilliant idea. The Shackletons were a rich family, she knew, with a big business in town. And they had a car and a reputation for being modern. With a little bit of luck, they would have a telephone. Not many people had telephones in their private houses. But an important businessman might have one.

  Now, if they had a telephone, all Amelia had to do was find out the telephone number and ring them up and ask to speak to Mary Ann. What could be simpler? She gave herself a little hug when she thought of it.

  But how did you find out somebody’s telephone number? It wouldn’t be in Thom’s Directory in the library. That was only for street addresses, as far as she knew. Was there some sort of an equivalent directory for telephone numbers, Amelia wondered? She wished they’d had a telephone in Kenilworth Square when they’d been rich, so that she would be au fait with how they worked. But Grandmama said telephones were instruments of the devil, invented to encourage idle chatter, and that if anyone needed to get a message to them in a hurry, they could send a telegram, as civilised people did. Besides, telegrams kept telegraph boys in employment, Grandmama reasoned. You mark her words, but if ever these telephone machines caught on good and proper there’d be no more work for those lads.

  That was all very well, but the upshot of it was that Amelia hadn’t the least idea how to use a telephone, or even how to find out a telephone number. Never mind, she would go to the General Post Office and someone there would be sure to be able to help her.

  So one afternoon after school, instead of going home directly, she caught a tram at Portobello Bridge and made a little expedition into town. The tram followed the same route it had on that day she had gone to town with Mama for the silk for her party dress, the day Mama had given her her lucky sixpence. She had put the little silver coin away carefully that evening, thinking that since it was a special sixpence she had come by completely unexpectedly, she mustn’t spend it on peggy’s legs or toffee or aniseed balls or any of the usual things she spent her pennies on, but she must keep it for some day in the future, when she might have a particular use for it. As soon as Amelia thought of the plan of telephoning Mary Ann, she realised the day had come to spend her lucky sixpence. She wouldn’t have had the tram-fare otherwise, and she hadn’t time to walk all the way.

  Amelia stepped down from the tram at the Pillar and tripped across the road to the GPO. It was a great imposing building, with pillars that went up and up, and revolving doors like glass capsules that trapped you inside, forced you around and spat you out the other side. Inside, it was all marble and mahogany and brass, and a hollow, echoing sound of people talking and cash boxes snapping shut. She joined a short queue at a grille that was manned by a youngish, friendly fellow, who looked as if he wouldn’t mind explaining about telephoning to a nervous girl. While she waited, Amelia admired the gleaming brass rods that separated the clerks from the public. Funny – a few weeks ago she would probably not even have seen the brass; but now she knew just how much Brasso and elbow grease it took to keep brass bright and yellow like that, and suddenly she appreciated it.

  The clerk looked up the telephone number for her. ‘Shackleton, Charles; Shackleton, Jonathan; Shackleton, William,’ he rattled off.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Amelia. ‘I don’t know which one it is.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know who it is you want to ring up?’ asked the clerk in surprise.

  ‘Not really,’ admitted Amelia.

  This seemed to amuse the clerk.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the father’s name you don’t know,’ he said waggishly. ‘Maybe it’s young Master Shackleton you’re interested in, is that right?’

  ‘Oh, is there a young Master Shackleton?’ said Amelia.

  ‘My, but you’re a cool one,’ said the clerk. ‘Look, give us a clue.’

  Amelia was standing first on one foot and then on the other, as she did when she was agitated. She thought the clerk was trying to play some sort of little game with her, but she didn’t know the rules. She wished she did know, so she could make the right move next and get the information she needed.

  ‘What sort of a clue?’

  ‘Well, is it the Kingstown Shackletons you want, or the Rathfarnham Shackletons, or the Glasnevin Shackletons?’

  ‘Glasnevin! That’s it. Oh, thank you!’ Amelia beamed at the clerk.

  He thought she was a funny sort of an elf to be out on her own looking for a telephone number, but he wrote it down for her, in pencil on a torn-off piece of newspaper.

  ‘What do I do now?’ she asked.

  ‘You ring them up,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Yes, but how?’

  She really was a rum one, he thought. ‘Look, you take the number to that lady over there. She’ll tell you what to do. Next!’ The last word was directed loudly and firmly over Amelia’s shoulder to the person behind her, who had been shuffling and sighing for some time.

  Amelia stumbled across the great hall to the lady the clerk had pointed out.

  ‘I’d like to telephone this number, please,’ she said, handing over the scrap of paper.

  ‘Booth 5!’ said the lady telephonist loudly, to no-one in particular.

  Amelia looked around her. There was nobody there but herself.

  ‘Booth 5?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Amelia had no idea what she meant. She looked enquiringly at the telephonist, who pointed to a row of upright wooden coffins with windows, against a wall.

  ‘One of those?’ Amelia asked, her mouth dry.

  ‘Booth 5. You know, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.’ The telephonist counted out the numbers on her fingers, as if Amelia were a foreigner or an idiot.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, and drifted off to booth 5.

  She creaked the door open and went in. It was dark and stuffy inside and she couldn’t see a thing. Just then the door clicked shut behind her and an electric light came on, right above her head. Amelia gave a little scream. She had never seen an electric light bulb up close before – they’d had gas in the main rooms in Kenilworth Square, and they only had oil-lamps in Lombard Street – and she had no idea that an electric light switch could be wired up to a door, so it seemed to her as if the light had come on by supernatural means.

  Luckily nobody heard her scream. It was only a little scream, and the door was stout, so she was insulated from the world outside. She peered out through the glass panels and looked at the people going about their business, quite unaware that Amelia Pim was having a trying afternoon. This must be what it was like to be a goldfish, able to see the outside world, but able to hear it only in a muffled way. Just then there was a
shrill ringing sound. Amelia almost jumped out of her skin. The high-pitched ring came again. She reached out for the telephone with a trembling hand. She thought she was going to ring them, so how was it that they were ringing her? Just as she was about to pick up the ear-piece the telephone gave another piercing squeal, as if it was impatient with her. She snatched the ear-piece from the hook and tried to reach the mouthpiece, but it was too high for her. She had to stand on tiptoe and shout into it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your call is through now, caller. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Amelia loudly into the mouthpiece.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ came a man’s voice. ‘This is the Shackleton residence. May I help you?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Amelia. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Could I speak to Mary Ann, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid you must have a wrong connection. I’m so sorry. This is the Shackleton residence.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Amelia. ‘Does Mary Ann Maloney not work there?’

  ‘Maloney? The under-housemaid! Good heavens, we don’t take telephone calls for the servants!’

  ‘Please, don’t hang up.’ Amelia thought fast. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but you see I’m afraid it’s an emergency.’

  ‘Emergency? What sort of emergency can there possibly be that requires the tweeny to come to the telephone?’

  ‘It’s her mother,’ said Amelia quickly. ‘She’s very ill. She may not last the night. Please let me talk to her.’

  ‘Very well. You may have three minutes.’

  It must be the butler, Amelia thought. Nobody else would be so pompous. A real gentleman would never refer to his own house as his ‘residence’.

  ‘Hello?’ Mary Ann’s voice sounded very tiny and wobbly.

  ‘It’s all right, Mary Ann. There’s nothing wrong with your mother. It’s me, Amelia.’

  ‘Amelia!’ Mary Ann’s voice still sounded wobbly.

  ‘Is that horrid butler listening?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary Ann.

  ‘Botheration! Now listen, I’ll do the talking in that case. You just say Yes and No. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I told him your mother was ill. Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry. She’s not. I just had to make that up to get him to let you come to the telephone. Oh, Mary Ann! I need to see you. I miss you. How are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary Ann.

  Amelia started to giggle. ‘Have you got time off on Sunday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even on Sundays!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary Ann.

  This was getting very confusing.

  Amelia had a brainwave. ‘You mean you have time off on some Sundays?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not this Sunday coming?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The one after that then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the afternoon?’ This was hard work!

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you meet me somewhere?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bother and double-bother! How was Amelia ever going to make a complicated arrangement like this with someone who could only answer Yes or No?

  ‘He’s gone!’ Mary Ann’s voice came suddenly rapidly and more loudly. ‘Sunday week, two o’clock, outside the Metropole hotel. Goodbye.’

  ‘Mary Ann, where are … oh!’ There was only a buzzing sound from the instrument. Mary Ann had gone.

  Amelia stood there for a moment, overcome by the excitement of it all. Then she hung the telephone receiver up on its little hook again, and pushed her way out of the telephone booth.

  Well, that hadn’t been so bad. Now all she needed to do was to make sure she was at the hotel on Sunday week. She was sure she could manage that. She’d managed to make a telephone call all by herself, hadn’t she? She felt quite satisfied with herself as she crossed the marble floor again towards the revolving door.

  ‘Miss! Hey you! Miss!’

  Amelia stopped in her tracks. Could they mean her? What had she done? She looked back to see the telephonist waving angrily at her.

  ‘You there! You didn’t pay for your telephone call!’

  Amelia was mortified. People would think she was trying to cheat. She ran back to the counter, wishing the woman would stop shouting. Everyone was looking at her. That’s Amelia Pim, they were thinking. Trying to pull a fast one. I wouldn’t trust those Pims. They don’t pay their debts.

  She was almost in tears when she reached the telephonist. ‘I’m so sorry! I’m most terribly sorry! I didn’t know.’

  ‘I suppose you thought telephone calls were free, gratis and for nothing? Courtesy of His Majesty’s Government?’

  ‘No. I just didn’t think.’

  ‘Didn’t think is no excuse. Think the next time, young missy. That’ll be a penny ha’penny, please.’

  Amelia poked the coins out of her purse and fled from the GPO, swirling through the revolving doors and out with a clunk onto the pavement. She ran all the way to College Green, fleeing from the feeling of being watched and pointed at. At last she stopped to catch her breath. The streets were busy: men were shouting at horses and women were calling to children, hurrying them along, and trams were clanging by at a great rate. It was the end of the working day, and everyone was scurrying home to their tea. Nobody had time to stop and wonder about Amelia Pim. She slowed down to a walk. She might as well walk the rest of the way, as she had come so far, and save the rest of her money for another day.

  What an adventure it had all been! But it had been worth it. She’d got to talk to Mary Ann. And now she had a meeting with her friend to look forward to.

  Shocking News

  Amelia was getting more enterprising as she became more experienced in the kitchen, and one particular evening she was experimenting with potato cakes, and making excellent progress too. She heard Mama’s key in the door and she looked up, ready to smile at her and tell her all about the potato-cake recipe.

  But it was Papa’s frame that filled the kitchen doorway, and Papa’s eyes she met when she looked up.

  ‘Hello, Papa.’ Amelia smiled up at him. ‘You’re early.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, not moving from the doorway.

  ‘Well, do come in and sit down, Papa,’ said Amelia pleasantly. ‘There’s tea in the pot if you’d like to help yourself.’

  Still, Papa didn’t move from the doorway.

  ‘Please, Papa, there’s a draught with the door open like that. Maybe you’re too tired to get your own tea. If you just sit at the table, I’ll pour you a cup in half a tick, as soon as I get this flour off my hands. It makes a dreadful mess, flour does, Papa. And the problem is that when you try to wash it off it all turns into paste on your hands, and it takes ages to get rid of it.’ Amelia was prattling away and scrubbing at her hands as she spoke. She had her back to Papa.

  ‘Now, then,’ she said, turning around with the kitchen towel in her hands and drying between her fingers. ‘Why, Papa! Why on earth don’t you come in and sit down? I told you, you’re making a draught, standing in the open doorway like that.’

  Something was wrong. It wasn’t quite like the afternoon of the bankruptcy, but there was something familiar about the way Papa’s eyes looked. He was standing stock still.

  Amelia went to him, caught him by the elbow and drew him into the kitchen, shutting the door as soon as she got an opportunity. She guided Papa to the table and pulled out a chair for him.

  ‘Now, tell me what the matter is, Papa,’ she said in a soft voice, as if she were speaking to Edmund when he was feeling unwell.

  Papa said nothing. He shook his head.

  ‘Is someone ill? Has someone had an accident?’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ said Amelia. ‘That’s the worst it could be, and it’s not that. Isn’t that so, Papa? Now, have you a problem at work? You hav
en’t been dismissed, Papa?’ Her voice was lower than ever now. Amelia was convinced it was something like that. Perhaps Papa had been up to his old tricks, spending money he really hadn’t got. Surely, surely he wouldn’t actually steal money?

  ‘No,’ said Papa at last.

  ‘And it’s nothing at all to do with work?’

  ‘No,’ he said again.

  ‘Or money, Papa? It hasn’t anything to do with money or debts or a bill you can’t pay, Papa?’

  He shook his head again.

  Amelia thought for a bit. Then she stood up and poured her father’s tea. A cup of tea might do him good, and anyway she found it comforting to do something normal like pouring tea. But every time she made a pot of tea now or even poured a cup, Amelia would blush inwardly, remembering the day Mama had announced so blithely to the shopboy in Findlater’s that they were Pims the tea merchants, when obviously the lad had been warned that the Pims weren’t to be extended credit any longer; there must have been a big unsettled account at that shop.

  She put the tea in front of Papa, and stirred two spoons of sugar into it for him.

  ‘Drink it, Papa,’ she said.

  He took the teacup in both hands and drank gratefully. Then he pushed it away from him and laid both arms on the table and sank his head onto them. He said nothing for a while, and Amelia sat and waited. Without sitting up, he started to pat the table blindly with one hand, as if looking for something. Amelia understood. She put her hand out, palm down, on the table, in reach of his patting hand. When he found it, he closed his big brown hand over her little one, and gave it a very gentle squeeze.

  They sat in silence for a bit longer, then Papa sighed and lifted his head.

  ‘Your mother has got herself arrested for a breach of the peace,’ he said quietly.

  Arrested! Amelia’s face flushed hot and her heart beat hard. Mama! Papa was the one Amelia had worried about getting into trouble with the law. Sometimes she had been afraid that the rumours she heard at school were true, and that Papa had not only made bad business decisions but had actually done something dishonest. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was a niggling little thought that sometimes bothered her. But Mama! The last thing she had ever expected of passionate, concerned, philanthropic, peace-loving Mama was that she would get arrested. Amelia felt as if her world, already shaken by recent events, had now turned completely upside down.