Amelia

by Siobhán Parkinson

  Mama explained that that was a not very kind expression to mean a woman who had been got into trouble by a man, especially an unmarried woman who had a baby.

  ‘Oh,’ said Amelia. ‘I thought it meant somebody who worked in a laundry.’

  ‘Amelia!’ Mama said with a gasp that turned into a giggle. ‘Oh yes, I see now.’ And she explained that sometimes poor girls in trouble got taken in by the nuns who ran the laundries, and were given jobs to do to earn their keep.

  ‘Often these girls stay on and work in the laundries for the rest of their lives,’ Mama continued, ‘long after their babies have grown up. It’s a sad business. But why do you ask, Amelia? Who’s been talking to you about “fallen women”?’

  ‘It was Lucinda Goodbody, Mama. She keeps calling Mary Ann by that ugly name, and saying she is going to have a baby.’

  ‘What a nasty little mind she must have, to be sure. Where could she have got the idea that our Mary Ann was in the family way?’ Mama wondered aloud.

  ‘Oh, Mama!’ cried Amelia. ‘Is that what being in the family way means? I thought it just meant having a family, you know, being part of a family, like you and Papa and Edmund and Grandmama are my family. Oh Mama, I must have given Lucinda the wrong idea about Mary Ann!’ And Amelia clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Mama smiled at this, but Amelia was too embarrassed at her dreadful mistake to see the humorous side of it.

  ‘Never mind, Amelia,’ said Mama. ‘I’m sure Mary Ann won’t ever get to hear of it. I don’t suppose she is ever likely to meet Lucinda Goodbody socially. I wonder how Mary Ann is getting on in her new position,’ she added.

  Amelia had been wondering whether to come clean about the telephone call and the meeting at the Metropole and the visit to Mary Ann’s family home. She was a bit worried that Mama might not approve of what she had done. But she did want to pass on Mary Ann’s message. So now she told the story of the meeting and how Mary Ann had said they couldn’t go on meeting just now because Mary Ann had so many family responsibilities. Finally she told her about Mary Ann’s mother.

  ‘Poor old Mary Ann!’ said Mama. ‘And poor Amelia, too!’ she added before Amelia got a chance to pout. ‘I didn’t realise you had been missing Mary Ann so much. And now you’re missing her again!’

  ‘It’s not so bad now that I know where she is and we can send each other letters,’ said Amelia. ‘Hers are very scrawly because she has to write when she’s tired, but you can hear her laughing when you read them.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Mama. She had that gleam in her eye that she got when she saw an opportunity to do good works. ‘I’ll tell you what, Amelia, we must find out which home Mrs Maloney is in. I’ll write to Mary Ann in the morning and find out. I’m sure she would be pleased if we paid her mother a visit, and brought her some fruit or cake. And you can tell her you’ve been talking to Mary Ann recently, and that she is well. That’s the friendliest thing you could possibly do for Mary Ann, because she can’t go and visit her mother herself.’

  Amelia didn’t know if she wanted to go on an errand of mercy to see a strange, dying woman, but she knew Mama wouldn’t be deflected, and she knew also that Mama was right – that was the best possible thing she could do for Mary Ann.

  ‘Why are some families so very poor, Mama?’ she asked, ‘when others are so rich?’

  ‘It’s not very fair, is it?’ said Mama.

  ‘Could it be, Mama, that poor people don’t try hard enough and don’t look after their money well and save it? Like Mrs Kelly.’

  ‘Who is Mrs Kelly, Amelia?’

  ‘The woman who was to come and help in the kitchen on the day of my birthday party, Mama. She didn’t bother to turn up. How can she expect to get money if she doesn’t come and earn it when it is offered to her?’

  ‘Ah, Amelia,’ said Mama with a sigh. ‘It wasn’t that Mrs Kelly didn’t turn up. It was I who had to cancel the arrangement. Things had got very bad in Papa’s firm by then, and I simply didn’t have the spare cash to pay her. We had great difficulty in getting enough money together to finance the party food, not to mind paying extra staff. That’s why Mrs Kelly didn’t arrive. It had nothing to do with the fecklessness of the poor.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Amelia, ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘So you see, Amelia,’ Mama went on, ‘you can’t say the poor are to blame for being poor. Any more than you can argue that women are to blame for not having the vote.’

  ‘Oh, Mama, you are incorrigible!’ laughed Amelia. ‘I will not hear a lecture on women’s suffrage at this hour of the night.’

  ‘Am I terribly boring about it, Amelia?’

  ‘No, Mama. It’s a bit boring, I suppose, but you’re not. You’re rather splendid, Mama, going to gaol for your principles and all.’

  ‘And leaving my poor daughter to keep the family going and to nurse a sick child? I don’t call that very principled.’

  ‘I didn’t mind, Mama, really I didn’t. I mean, it was frightening when Edmund was so ill, and I missed you dreadfully and I worried about you. But it was nice to be so … well, to feel so important, Mama.’

  ‘Well, I think you’ve been splendid too, Amelia,’ said Mama. ‘And now it’s time for bed.’

  Amelia stood up. ‘Anyway, it’s getting less boring,’ she said. ‘Your votes for women stuff, I mean.’

  ‘You mean you’re beginning to find it interesting,’ said Mama.

  ‘Same thing, Mama.’

  ‘Oh no, Amelia,’ said Mama, kissing a small secret smile into her daughter’s hair. ‘Not the same thing at all.’

  The Letter

  One morning Amelia received a letter. It was in a thick white square envelope addressed in a strong hand. It sat by Amelia’s plate when she came down to breakfast. She didn’t often get letters, and she certainly didn’t ever get letters from grown-ups. This was sure to be from a grown-up, as the handwriting was so strong and fluent.

  She took her knife, which she hadn’t yet got butter on, and slit the envelope. Out slid a thick piece of white writing paper, to which was attached, as she saw when she unfolded it, an onion-skin-flimsy smaller square of paper. The flimsy square of paper was printed in copper-plate script, with some parts filled in by hand:

  Rec’d from … Miss Amelia Pim

  The sum of … 0.12s.0d.

  With thanks

  And it was signed with an indecipherable squiggle.

  Amelia lifted the flimsy sheet aside and read the handwritten letter:

  Dear Miss Pim,

  Please find enclosed a receipt for monies received in respect of professional attendance on Master Edmund Pim. Your prompt settlement of this account is gratefully acknowledged, and I beg to inform you that no further payment is due in respect of this account.

  With regard to your ambitions for a career in medicine, I have given the matter more consideration, and I wish to advise you that on reflection I have revised my view as expressed on a previous occasion. I am of the opinion that you are already a very fine nurse, and given your determination, intelligence and strength of character, I see no reason why you shouldn’t some day make a very fine doctor.

  If your ambitions are still in the medical line when you reach university age, perhaps you would care to consider a proposition I may be in a position to make with regard to assisting you in the pursuit of your studies.

  I remain, my dear Miss Pim, with renewed thanks for your prompt settlement of the above-mentioned account,

  Your very humble servant,

  Hubert Mitchell

  Amelia could feel her heart beating faster and her face glowing pinkly as she read this letter. When she looked up, all her family’s eyes were on her.

  ‘Well?’ asked Mama.

  ‘Oh, it’s just a letter,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Who is it from, Amelia?’ pursued Mama.

  ‘A friend,’ said Amelia nonchalantly, stuffing it carelessly into her pocket and reaching for a slice of toast.

  ‘Ame
lia,’ said Mama in a firm voice. ‘You are too young to receive secret letters. Either you tell me who the letter is from, or you hand it over.’

  ‘Oh Mama!’ whined Amelia, but she knew it was to no avail. Sullenly she fished the letter out of her pocket and handed it over, without looking at Mama. Mama read the letter in silence, and passed it to Papa.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Amelia?’ asked Papa as he read it. ‘Please find enclosed … in respect of professional attendance … no further payment …’ And he flicked the flimsy square of paper over and examined it. ‘This is a receipt, Roberta,’ he said in astonishment.

  Both her parents fixed their gaze on Amelia.

  ‘I paid the bill. That’s all.’ She looked over the top of her teacup at them.

  ‘Yes, that much is clear, dear, but where did you get the money?’

  There was nothing for it but to tell the story of pawning the dress. Amelia looked steadily at her plate and mumbled her story. ‘I got twelve-and-six for it,’ she finished, ‘so I sent Dr Mitchell twelve shillings and I used the sixpence for the stamp and to get some sweets for me and Edmund.’

  ‘Amelia!’ said Papa in a shocked voice.

  ‘Well,’ said Amelia defensively, ‘it was a long time since we had had sweets.’

  But it wasn’t the sweets Papa was concerned about. ‘You mean to say,’ he went on, ‘you went into a pawnshop, and you pawned the lovely dress your mama got you for your birthday!’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ Amelia muttered.

  ‘Roberta!’ Papa turned to Mama in an appeal for support. He wasn’t angry, exactly, but he was very taken aback. ‘We can’t have our children pawning the clothes off their backs.’

  ‘No, Charles, we can’t,’ said Mama quietly. ‘But a party frock is not exactly the clothes off anyone’s back. It is a luxury item. And I don’t think we should be remonstrating with our daughter about this, my dear. I think she has made a very brave sacrifice, and I think we should be congratulating her. Do you realise, Charles, how much that dress meant to her?’ And Mama turned a pair of shining eyes on Amelia. Amelia felt shy and pleased and confused all at the same time.

  But Papa laid his head right down on the kitchen table and gave a long, low moan.

  After a moment he looked up and said: ‘I’m sorry, Amelia. I didn’t mean to appear to criticise you. It is myself I blame, that it should come to this. But I solemnly promise you all that it will never happen again. If I have to kill myself with work, there will be money in this house to pay the bills.’ And he stood up as if he could make a little extra by getting to work earlier, and strode out of the room.

  After a little while, Amelia said to Mama: ‘He didn’t even read the important bit.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mama with a small smile. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well. He’s feeling a bit touchy just now, and he might think Dr Mitchell was offering charity that he couldn’t take. I think we won’t mention it just for the moment, Amelia, if you don’t mind. And I’m very, very pleased to hear that you are considering becoming a doctor. I have to say that I agree with Dr Mitchell that you would make a very fine one. But not unless you pass all your examinations, and that starts with getting to school on time. Off you trot now!’

  Amelia snatched up her satchel and trotted off, just as Mama had ordered, and all the way, she imagined herself in a white coat – a very elegantly cut white coat, of course – sweeping around the wards of a big hospital, glancing at people and pronouncing them well. If she had the least doubt about their being well, she would stop by their bedside and enquire as to their regularity, while holding their wrist aloft in one hand and peering all the while at her gold watch and giving a knowing little sigh as they described their symptoms. Then she would give the nurses a long and complicated list of instructions and the patient some sound advice as to their diet.

  Glad News

  After luncheon on the following Sunday, Papa announced that they were all going on a little jaunt. He told Amelia and Edmund to get their outdoor things on smartly. He refused to say where they were going, just that they would have tea out. Amelia was rather concerned to hear this. Sometimes there was hardly enough money for tea in. She hoped Papa wasn’t becoming extravagant, as he used to be in the old days. She threw a little worried glance in Mama’s direction, but Mama was busy doing up Edmund’s buttons, and she couldn’t catch her eye. She looked at Grandmama, who disapproved of excess, and who disapproved even more of entertainment on a Sunday afternoon, but even Grandmama looked unconcerned, and was fussing with her drab little parasol again.

  It seemed as if Papa was looking for ways in which to squander money, for not only were they to indulge in the extravagance of tea out, but, as soon as the little party of Pims reached the main road, Papa hailed a passing cab and bundled them all into it, taking no notice of Amelia’s squawking protests. When they were settled in the cab, the ladies and children on the inside, and Papa out of earshot on the seat up beside the cabby, Amelia tried once again to catch Mama’s eye.

  ‘Mama,’ she said in a fierce whisper. ‘This must be costing a small fortune!’

  But Mama just gave a secretive half-smile and looked out of the window at the Sunday afternoon families out on walks, children whooping along in front, adults coming sedately behind. Still Grandmama fussed, this time with the buttons of her gloves.

  ‘I always said,’ she announced plaintively, to no-one in particular, ‘that buttons were an unnecessary nonsense on gloves, and now look, this one’s just about to fall off. Should I pull it off completely and put it in my pocket, or do you think it will hold the afternoon?’

  Amelia gathered that this last question was directed to her.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Goodness me, Grandmama, what did you say?’

  But Grandmama just grumbled softly to herself and didn’t ask Amelia’s opinion again.

  They all jostled and rolled as the cab bumped over the cobbled streets, and Amelia was just beginning to get into the rhythm of the horse’s stride when they pulled up.

  ‘Botanical Gardens!’ shouted the cabby.

  ‘Botanical Gardens!’ repeated Papa, opening the door of the cab with a flourish and handing the ladies down.

  ‘What on earth …?’ said Amelia.

  ‘Finest botanical gardens in Europe,’ said Papa, herding them all in at the gate, and no-one could contradict him, for they had no idea what botanical gardens were.

  But it appeared that Papa was correct, for certainly the gardens were pleasant to walk in, and it was a good time of year. The flowers of early summer were in colourful profusion, and the trees stood gracefully about, nodding in a companionable way in the mild breeze, and the grasses swayed hushingly by the artificial lake, and children flew rather languid kites, and small knots of adults greeted each other and bowed and stopped to exchange pleasantries in the summer sunshine.

  But Amelia’s favourite part was the Palm House. It was an enormous and very beautiful glasshouse, glinting like a crystal palace in the sunlight.

  ‘Oh Papa!’ she said when she saw it. ‘How beautiful!’

  They went inside, and it was very hot – almost, but not quite, too hot to be pleasant. Great exotic plants reared their luscious heads way over the heads of the people, and created little dappled areas of tepid green shade. The earth smelt warm and rich and there was a tinkle of falling water from a tiny streamlet, over which the water-loving ferns formed a miniature green arch.

  ‘Oh!’ said Amelia again, looking up through curtainfalls of greenery, draped from over-arching branches, at the wrought-ironwork high above, held together, as it appeared, by shimmering sheets of glass. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  Edmund didn’t appear to think it beautiful. He had his nose pressed to a glass panel and was looking out at some boys playing in the gardens. Grandmama didn’t appear to think it beautiful. She was tugging at her wretched glove-button again. Mama didn’t appear to think it beautiful. She had met some friends and was engaged in a trivial exchange of S
unday chit-chat. But Papa was watching Amelia’s delight, and he smiled broadly at her astonishment.

  ‘I thought you would enjoy it, princess,’ he said. ‘We may never again have a fine house with an orangery, but I thought this might do instead.’

  ‘Oh, Papa,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s much more splendid than a little house-orangery.’

  ‘Am I forgiven, Amelia?’ asked Papa quietly.

  ‘What for, Papa?’

  ‘For disgracing you, for losing our family fortune, for moving you from your lovely house and your precious orangery, for letting you all down and being a poor provider and a bad father.’

  ‘Oh, Papa!’ was all Amelia could say. She hoped she had not given Papa the impression that she thought him a bad father. She had to admit that she couldn’t regard him as a good provider, but she had never thought him a bad father, not really, not even when he said things she found hurtful, or spent time in the public house. He’d stopped doing that, now she came to think of it, since Edmund’s illness. That was an improvement, certainly. Still, she had to admit that she didn’t think as well of him as she used to, and he was bound to have noticed.

  She stepped a little closer to him, and leant her head briefly and regretfully on his shoulder. He stroked her yellow-gold hair and patted her shoulder regretfully in turn. They didn’t say any more, just stood still for a moment.

  ‘Teatime!’ said Papa suddenly, yanking Edmund away from the glass wall of the Palm House, which he was in danger of pressing right through, and taking Mama on one arm and Grandmama on the other. Edmund skipped in front of the adults and Amelia brought up the rear, and together the little family negotiated the narrow, mossy path out of the glasshouse.

  At the door of the glasshouse, they ran almost straight up against the Goodbody family, the parents in front and Lucinda and Frederick coming behind. In fact Edmund did run right into Lucinda’s mama, his face coming smack up against her parasol, which she had lowered in order to enter the doorway.