Amelia

by Siobhán Parkinson

  Amelia wasn’t sure if he was poking fun at her, but she thought it better to reply graciously. Just as she was about to open her mouth, she heard a muffled giggle behind her, and she knew Mary Ann must be there. She had been handling the situation nicely until she realised she was being observed, but now she could feel herself blushing. ‘Hello,’ she said, unceremoniously, and didn’t offer to shake hands. ‘Come in.’ And then she immediately started to chatter nervously to Lucinda, and to fuss with the coats, ignoring Frederick, who stood gallantly by and examined Papa’s hunting prints in the hallway.

  Then the doorbell rang again. It was Dorothea Jacob, with her older sister and her cousin Richard. Dorothea looked a bit strange. Her face was pale, but her eyes were pink and there were two bright red spots on her cheekbones. Amelia couldn’t remember inviting Elizabeth, Dorothea’s sister, but she took her cape just the same and smiled at her. And before Amelia could hang up the coats, there was another ring at the door. Amelia whooshed the first guests into the dining room and turned to admit the next group, and before five minutes had passed, the party had started to happen, all by itself, without Amelia having to give it another thought.

  She was a hostess.

  How the Party Ended

  What about this famous motor-car of your papa’s, Amelia?’ asked Mary Webb. ‘You promised us all a spin. It was going to be the star attraction of the party.’ Mary’s tone wasn’t entirely friendly, though she tried to pretend otherwise by giving a large, moony smile as she spoke.

  Everyone was puffed and pink by now, having danced to Papa’s friend’s gramophone for a good half-hour in a fairly confined space, which meant a certain amount of giggle-some jostling and a good deal of body heat, so that the air was over-warm and unhealthy with the scent of talcum and cheap cologne and the inside panes of the orangery were clouded. The food had all been scoffed long ago, and there was nothing left but little blobs of jelly, a few streaks of grease on the sausage plates, a quantity of crumbs and half the birthday cake, which Amelia had insisted on saving for Papa and for Edmund, who had been sent to a friend’s house to keep him out of harm’s way.

  ‘Yes, Amelia,’ said Lucinda, fanning herself with a napkin. ‘What time do you expect your father home?’

  Everyone was growing tired and restless, and they were all looking for some new diversion.

  Amelia hadn’t given Papa and the car a thought all afternoon. She’d been far too busy arranging to be in the right place every time Mama changed the record on the gramophone, so that Frederick Goodbody would have every chance of asking her to dance, which he did, several times.

  Now she turned an anxious face to Mama. ‘Is Papa late?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you not wearing your watch, Amelia, or is it just that you haven’t got used to having it yet?’ asked Mama.

  Dorothea Jacob, who had been looking remarkably glum and pale all afternoon, even when she was dancing with Frederick, chose this moment to keel over in a faint, right in the middle of the floor. Everyone crowded around her, asking what was the matter, except Dorothea’s elder sister, Elizabeth, who looked gravely the other way, as if she had never heard of Dorothea.

  ‘Now then, now then,’ said Amelia’s mama, gently elbowing her way through the twittering crowd, ‘stand back and let her get some air. She’s probably just a bit over-excited. I have to say I did think you were all a little young for this sort of party.’ And she quickly loosened the top buttons of Dorothea’s blouse and pressed a glass of water to her lips.

  Amelia thought she would use the diversion created by Dorothea to go and see if there was any sign of Papa.

  She slipped into the drawing room, where the fire was burning brightly, talking to itself in a cheerful tone of voice, and she peered through the front window, from which she had a good view of their side of the square. It was growing dusk, so it must be time Papa came home. At this time of year he was always back well before dark. A couple of old ladies in black were taking their evening walk, tottering slowly under the overhanging trees of the square, a boy was bowling a hoop along the pavement, and a stout gentleman in a top hat trotted by on a bay mare. But there was no sign of a motor-car, and no matter how Amelia strained her ears, she could hear nothing but the rhythmic trip-trap of the stout man’s mare and the whoops of the boy as he pursued his hoop.

  Just as she was about to turn away, Amelia caught sight of a bent figure rounding the corner. She peered again, narrowing her eyes to be sure. Yes, it was Papa. But where was the car? Had it broken down? Often it took a lot of wheezing and effort and cranking with the starting handle to get it going in the mornings, but it had never actually broken down before.

  If the car had broken down, surely Papa would have taken a cab? He wouldn’t have waited for the tram, as he would be in a hurry to get home because of the party. Unless, of course, the car had broken down when he was almost home, and it wasn’t worth his while to hail a cab. That must be it.

  Amelia’s heart lifted when she saw Papa, as it always did, even though she was disappointed that the car had broken down and she wouldn’t be able to show it off to her friends. Papa must be disappointed too. He loved that car like a baby. He was for ever polishing it. Poor Papa, he did look downcast, Amelia thought. She ran from the room, through the hall, out the front door and down the steps, to meet him.

  Papa didn’t look up. He didn’t hear her coming, though she was flying along the pavement and her feet were making a pit-pattering sound as she ran. ‘Papa!’ she called as she came close to him, for he was in danger of walking right past her. ‘Papa!’ She was almost within touching distance of him now. At last he raised his head, and Amelia saw that there were tears streaming down his cheeks.

  She had never seen him weep before, not even when Clip and Clop were sold and everyone else in the family had been in mourning for days and had gone around the house with their handkerchiefs constantly at the ready, scrunched up in their hands.

  Amelia stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh, Papa!’ she said. She didn’t ask what was wrong. It couldn’t be simply that the car had broken down. Perhaps Papa’d had an accident. Perhaps the car was badly damaged. Perhaps he’d knocked someone down. Oh dear! Dreadful thoughts flew around Amelia’s head so fast they seemed to bump into each other and trip each other up.

  Papa didn’t look surprised to see Amelia standing in front of him. In fact he looked almost as if he had expected her to come and greet him, as if he had relied on her to be the one to comfort him. At exactly the same moment, father and daughter opened their arms, then they each took a step forward, and in a wink they were hugging hard on the pavement. Amelia could feel Papa’s soundless sobs as he hugged her, and a tear trickled down the back of her neck. Neither of them noticed the two old ladies in black looking archly at each other as they went by on the opposite pavement. It wasn’t quite the thing for papas to hug their daughters on the street, not unless it was at a railway station.

  When they drew apart, Amelia slipped her hand into his and slowly they walked back to the house, hand in hand, as they used to do when Amelia was a little girl. Papa’s tears had stopped now, and he managed a watery smile. ‘You look lovely, princess,’ he whispered. Amelia looked down at herself, in her party dress. She’d forgotten all about it.

  ‘Oh, Papa, I lost my watch!’ Amelia blurted out. Papa sighed, but he didn’t scold her. Instead he said gently, ‘Your watch. Good heavens, Amelia, it’s nothing to lose a watch. Anyone could lose a watch. People do it all the time. I, on the other hand, have lost a fortune.’

  Amelia bit her lower lip, concentrating on trying not to cry. She didn’t want to make Papa feel worse. Then she said, ‘You mean you’ve lost the car, Papa?’ She knew cars were expensive. She’d heard someone say they cost a fortune. But she couldn’t really imagine how anyone could lose one. Surely even if you forgot where you’d left it, you’d remember eventually.

  ‘Not just the car, Amelia. Everything.’

  Amelia didn’t know what he meant. She co
uld see his pocket watch on its chain, for example. That wasn’t lost anyway. How could anyone lose everything? It didn’t make sense. But she didn’t ask any more questions. She knew Papa was too upset to explain.

  Mama was standing in the doorway, with her most worried look on, and her hair coming down and hanging in untidy hanks around her face. Normally it irritated Amelia immensely the way Mama pinned up her hair so carelessly that it fell down at the slightest provocation, and today it was even more untidy than normal, because Mama had been exerting herself all afternoon, pinning up the paper chains and then winding up the gramophone. But on this occasion, Amelia was oddly touched by Mama’s very dishevelment. It made her want to take care of Mama.

  But Mama looked right over Amelia’s head and into Papa’s eyes. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she whispered when she saw his face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Roberta, I’m so sorry.’

  Amelia looked from one to the other and wondered what was going on. At last she said to Mama: ‘Is Dorothea all right?’

  ‘Dorothea?’ Mama asked wonderingly, as if Amelia had enquired as to the welfare of someone on another planet.

  ‘The red-haired girl who fainted,’ explained Amelia.

  ‘Red-haired,’ repeated Mama. ‘Fainted,’ she said in a far-away voice.

  Now Papa was patting the back of Mama’s hand and steering her towards the drawing room. They had evidently forgotten not only all about Dorothea, but about the birthday party, and even, apparently, about Amelia.

  Amelia felt dreadful. She was worried and upset about Papa and whatever it was that was wrong with him, but she was exasperated that Mama had suddenly withdrawn her attention from the party and from herself, and she felt left all alone, with the responsibility for all twenty guests on her shoulders. How was she going to go back into the dining room and explain to them all that there were to be no jaunts in the new car, that, as far as she could ascertain, there was no new car? No. She couldn’t do it, she thought, as she watched the drawing-room door close on her parents. She sank onto the bottom step of the staircase and buried her head in her knees, not crying, but simply looking at the dark and wishing everyone would go away and this dreadful birthday would end.

  And there Mary Ann found her a few moments later. Mary Ann looked down at Amelia’s curved back, the emerald silk dress stretched across the shoulder blades, and she remembered herself sitting in just that position some weeks ago. She remembered that Amelia had comforted her, and she thought that though she was only a serving girl, perhaps she could offer some comfort now in her turn.

  ‘What’s the matter, pet?’ she said, using the term of affection she always used with her younger brothers and sisters.

  Amelia looked up, dazed, and registered the form of the maid-of-all-work, gawky and tall above her in her black-and-white uniform and her cap tilting off to the side. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘But I think it’s pretty dreadful.’

  ‘Shove up a bit,’ said Mary Ann, and nestled herself in between Amelia and the newel post. ‘Now, what can be so dreadful? Your friend is grand. She’s down in the kitchen with Cook, having a cup of nice strong tea with lots of sugar, for the shock. And your party has been a great success.’

  ‘Oh no, it hasn’t,’ said Amelia, ‘not an unmixed success at any rate. Papa has lost the car.’

  ‘Lost the car?’ said Mary Ann, who evidently thought this was as odd a thing as Amelia had thought it. ‘Ah sure, it’ll turn up.’

  This reminded Amelia of what Lucinda had said about the lost gold watch, and suddenly that loss, which only hours before had seemed dreadfully distressing, now seemed distant and irrelevant, like some childish incident of long ago. To her surprise, Amelia found herself wishing that Grandmama was at home. Grandmama was severe and exacting, but she was also kind and comfortable, and Amelia wanted her to be there.

  ‘But you see, the thing is,’ Amelia went on, ‘the girls were all expecting Papa to take them for a spin in the car. They have all been admiring it, because it’s such a beautiful car, and they’ve been looking forward to getting a go in it, and they’ve been asking me when he was coming home. I just don’t want to go in and explain.’ And though she was determined not to cry, Amelia’s mouth was turning down dangerously far at the corners and there was a tremble in her voice.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Amelia,’ said Mary Ann. ‘You slip upstairs to your room, and I’ll go in and tell them all that you’re unwell, and that your daddy has been delayed, and that the party is over.’

  ‘Oh, would you, Mary Ann?’ said Amelia, her heart flooding with gratitude. She had begun to feel so weary but now she felt she had at least enough energy to climb the stairs and get into bed and put the covers over her head.

  ‘Indeed and I will. I’ll clear the place in five minutes, wait till you see, and I’ll be up to you with a nice cup of tea as soon as I’ve got rid of them all.’

  So Amelia plodded back up the stairs she had so recently floated down, patting her new dress and feeling like a fairy-tale princess. Now she felt like a very ordinary and very young thirteen-year-old in a dress that was about two years too old for her.

  When she reached her bedroom, she finally allowed the hot tears, of disappointment, anxiety and loneliness, to come coursing down her cheeks, and she never saw how bravely Mary Ann sailed into the buzzing maelstrom of the disintegrating remains of the party and dealt with the rude assault of questions and sharp retorts the assembled young people greeted her with. She never heard either the haughty remarks they threw at each other as they jostled for their coats in the hall, and the insulting things they said about her, her family and her party as they left. Which was just as well, as she was in no fit state to face them.

  BOOK II

  Coming Down in the World

  Amelia hated the new house. It was a mean little house, dark and poky, with no garden, only a yard with an outside WC, a coal bunker and a lean-to shed with no door that was useless even for storing things in because everything got wet when the wind came from the west, which it often did. And at the front there was no garden either: the hall-door opened directly onto the pavement. Amelia was mortified the way people could see right into your hall every time you came in or out your own front door, and she had perfected a method of squeezing through the tiniest opening between the door and the jamb so that the house didn’t have to be thrown open to the neighbours.

  Even Edmund, who was too young to bother much with his surroundings and lived most of the time in an imaginary train, noticed how mean and poky the house was. ‘Where’s the nursery?’ he asked in a puzzled voice. ‘There’s a nursery at home,’ he said, standing defiantly in the doorway of his tiny bedroom.

  ‘This is home now, Edmund dear,’ said Grandmama in a cheerful tone. At least, it sounded as if she meant it to be cheerful, but everyone knew she didn’t really feel cheerful at all.

  ‘No,’ said Edmund. ‘This isn’t home. Home has a garden and a nursery and lots of grown-up rooms and ‘Melia’s norngery. This place is nasty. Where’s ‘Melia’s norngery gone?’

  ‘Now, Edmund,’ Grandmama began, and this time her voice sounded firm and patient, not pretend-cheerful any more, ‘we can’t live in our old house any more. You know that. We live here now. And we’re very lucky to have a roof over our heads at all.’

  Of course it was true that they were luckier than some people. But they didn’t know any people who didn’t have a roof over their heads. They only knew people who lived in large houses and had lovely things, so it was hard to believe in this luck Grandmama spoke about.

  ‘Are we, Grandmama?’ asked Edmund, looking up at the old lady. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re poor now, Edmund.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Edmund, considering this idea. Then he asked again: ‘Why, Grandmama?’

  ‘Because …’ Grandmama was stumped.

  ‘Because …’ she tried again.

  ‘Because,’ she said with some conviction at last, ‘we’ve been unfortunate.’ She pronoun
ced the last word very slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Oh,’ said Edmund again. He shrugged his little shoulders and went into his room and shut the door. He didn’t really know what ‘unfortunate’ meant, but he knew when a grown-up had got the better of him. After a moment he opened his door and stuck his head out and called out: ‘I still want to go home!’

  But of course they couldn’t go home, not now, not after what had happened. The Elders of the Meeting had come to the house in Kenilworth Square the evening after Amelia’s birthday and there had been long, grave discussions in the drawing room from which Papa emerged at intervals looking very pale and with black smudges under his eyes. Mama sometimes sat in on the discussions, and sometimes she came out and sat with the children and Grandmama in the morning room.

  It transpired that Papa had been forced to declare himself bankrupt. That was what he meant when he said he had lost everything. In the old days, Mama explained, the Society of Friends took a very poor view of bankruptcy, and people who went bankrupt might even be disowned by the Society.

  ‘But it’s no disgrace to be bankrupt nowadays,’ Mama said firmly. ‘And it doesn’t mean that your father has done anything dishonest or wrong or illegal. It just means that things have gone badly in his business.’

  But Amelia knew it was a disgrace all the same. Being declared bankrupt was a very dreadful thing. It meant you had failed badly at your business, and let down all your employees and the people who had lent you money or given you credit.

  ‘In fact, we’re very lucky to be Quakers,’ Mama remarked. ‘The Friends are doing their best to help us.’