Campari for Breakfast

by Sara Crowe

  ‘We are all affected by your fiscal position, Aunt Coral, even Mrs Bunion, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. I’m sure she’ll understand, you just need to talk to her about it.’

  ‘I can’t talk to Pat, she’s the cleaner,’ said Aunt Coral.

  ‘But you just said that you’ve known her for years!’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, implying she had just won the argument by reacting as if I was agreeing with her. A clever trick of hers.

  ‘Just tell her that you have to cut back for the restoration of the East Wing. You don’t have to tell her about your shoes.’

  There are going to have to be big changes at Green Place if we are going to make ends meet, but Aunt Coral seems to be in complete denial and preoccupied with other things.

  ‘They didn’t need to lie to me you know, I wouldn’t have told anyone about Laine,’ she said, revealing her hidden inner dialogue in an involuntary change of subject. (It seems a person can be talking about one thing and thinking about quite another.)

  ‘Maybe they thought I couldn’t be trusted not to run off and get pregnant myself. But the thing that hurts the most is that Cameo didn’t tell me. I can at least understand that Mother and Father, however painfully, were trying to do their best, but Cameo had no reason on earth not to tell me the truth.’

  ‘Weren’t you very close?’ I said.

  ‘We were terribly close, always,’ she said. ‘She was a wonderful sister.’

  And then as so often happens, the Admiral pulled up a chair, and Aunt Coral turned her attention to the come hither of her de collage. He himself had changed into a gaye cravat to come down to the pool side. It is difficult at times for us to talk at all, living in a public house.

  Coral’s Commonplace: Volume 2

  Cuttings from the Willow Lodge School Reports, Autumn Term 1935:

  Sue

  Tuesday 19 May

  TODAY I INADVERTENTLY discovered the way to get Icarus’s attention. The morning was breathtaking, one of those mornings when everyone is singing, and with Loudolle back at college I’d been reinstated on the toaster. Anyway, I had an accident with the frother which was turned the wrong way up and milk spurted out on my top. I had to borrow one of Michael’s from her gym bag, which was a sort of a bra-cum-vest. I put a clean apron over the top of it but much of my cleeverage showed. Icarus couldn’t keep away from me, helping me with the buttering and worrying about the toast. Delia says Icarus’s what’s known in the classics as a tit man, which I always thought meant some sort of idiot.

  With the extra money from Loudolle’s Easter time, Mrs Fry has decided to start opening the Toastie at luncheons as a jacket potato bar, and she’s invested in some new ovens. She also wants to branch into Bistro for the evenings. This has given me the perfect opportunity to become a full time girl, and help carry the can at Green Place.

  All the full time girls are called ‘Potato Maids’ and she has had it professionally sewn on our pinnys. I like to think that looking back years from now my grandchildren will say that Nana Sue had to support herself before she was published, and had many jobs including canteen apprentice and potato maid.

  I am finding Joe somewhat irksome because he’s always following me around at work or writing soppy poems at Group, which make Aunt Coral and Delia behave badly. The more he tries to make love to me, the more I feel attracted to Icarus. It’s the strange occasional quirk of love that the more someone loves you, the more you go off them. I wonder whether I should try to pretend I don’t love Icarus and see if that would help.

  At least I have managed to bond with Michael. She reminds me so much of Aileen. Like Aileen, Michael’s mother is her father’s second wife, and like Aileen, Michael’s got scattered siblings.

  Aileen and I were like sisters to each other when we were growing up in Titford. But of course we weren’t sisters and it was hard to say goodbye at the end of a top notch day’s play. So we made our own telephones out of old tin cans, with a hole drilled in the end for string to be poked through like phone wire, and we hung out of our respective windows, two houses apart and pretended to be on the phone. It did make my mum laugh.

  There have been so many times when I have wished for those days again. Whoever said ‘be careful what you wish for cos you’ll get it’ was a liar.

  Coral’s Commonplace: Volume 2

  Green Place, Nov 6 1935

  (Age 13)

  Home news

  It was bitterly cold today, especially inside. I woke very early to sunrays spread on the horizon like a fan; these are known as corpuscular rays, such as the ones that shine through the trees at sunset.

  Cameo had cut the arms off my ball gown while I was asleep, so we went out to Crimson and Hopper this afternoon to buy me another. Cameo said she did it because she was feeling unhinged, and was eaten up with worry over a rare infection believed to be spread by paperclips. Mother was not calm. It took twenty-five minutes for us to talk Cameo past the paperclip pot in the hall on the way out. Mrs Morris was doing the polishing, and found it so entertaining that she polished the same figurine for the whole time. We shouldn’t indulge Cameo’s attempts to be arty, it takes us so long to go out.

  I know I have no need of a ball gown quite yet, but confess I did enjoy wearing it round the house.

  Emotional news

  I want to have six children, in three sets of boy-and-girl twins, Robin and Robina being my first name choices. Cameo wants to be a pilot, like Amelia Earhart, or a racing driver, like Helene Delangle, who has a hundred boyfriends and is a nude dancer part time. ‘There are two things I want to be when I grow up,’ she said to me. ‘One is a great adventurer, the other is taller than Dad.’

  We have started ballroom dancing together in the woods on days when the weather permits. I am much smaller as Cameo’s such a colt, so she has to be the man, which is very nice for me. It is wonderfully private doing it outside where Mother and Father can’t see us. We foxtrot and waltz and tango, and Cameo likes a smooch. I have to be the man for this one so she can practise her ‘things’ on me.

  Last night she crawled into my bed, as she often does and said, ‘What shall we talk about? Boys?’

  ‘Let’s talk about going to sleep.’

  ‘Why can’t we talk about boys?’

  ‘Because you’re 8,’ I said.

  School news

  We have a new class entitled ‘Good Grooming’. The first lecture was taken up mainly with telling us not to pick at our spots. I resent the insinuation that I have any, and Cameo is the number one pin-up, in spite of her glass eye. They also talked about the importance of the frequency of washing the weevils from your hairbrush and the necessity of sleep as a beauty aid. What would they turn us into? Mrs Pankhurst would turn in her grave. If we followed their advice we might never know the ecstasy of intense moments spent on a blackhead, of a sleepless night following a pillow fight, or a rarely washed hairbrush kept in a secret drawer, and anyway, a Green Place girl’s hair is self-brushing.

  This is a two-minute puzzler by Cameo that she wanted me to add:

  Can you spot the odd one out?

  SUN

  MOON

  STARS

  SOCKS

  Sue

  Wednesday May 27th

  ADVERT FROM THE post office window:

  The income from the West Wing lodgers has solved our immediate cash flow problems, but when the winter comes round again it is likely the three of us in the Arctic Wing might perish. I am hoping that the auction of Aunt Coral’s shoes will generate enough money to restore and let out some other rooms, but there is a lot that we need to achieve fiscally before that could happen. The squirrels have chewed their way through a lot of the wiring and we’ll need to pay for electricians, plumbers, plasterers, painters, to mention a few.

  The bank won’t go near Aunt Coral and she won’t go near the bank, having previously exhausted every possibility of each other. So I made enquiries into every lodger’s skills and it transpires th
at Delia has a secret she had not revealed because of laziness. The secret is that she can sew. I have encouraged her to take orders from the wealthy Egham ladies by advertising in the post office and she has been able to get a couple of commissions. The choosing and sourcing of fabrics, the shapes, textures and colours etc., have really made her thrive. She also employs the labour of Georgette, Print and Taffeta, who are fashion freaks too. They sit out by the pool because Nanas love to be out in the open, and they gossip, eat sandwiches and sew. It is a cracking cottage industry and our best shot at serious money. The first gown they made was sold to a Mrs Fury of Virginia Water and netted a whopping £198. It was an aqua silk-satin dinner gown designed and cut by Delia, with sequin specks by Georgette, appliqué godets by Print, and matching beading by Taffeta. Job done. Mrs Fury was a head turner.

  Delia has also sold her engagement ring, which she said she’d been dying to do, but the silly girls went to Harrods and blew most of the money, leaving only peanuts for Green Place. I was beside myself when I saw them coming home from Knightsbridge loaded with green and gold bags. Aunt Coral bought herself a new handbag costing £295 because she said it was her birthday in a few months’ time. (Controversially, she has just had a birthday!) Her spending seems to go up as a direct result of her feeling down, and she is feeling down about her debts. It is a vicious circle. Spending has been her friend when she was lonely, but I’m determined that she won’t be any more.

  It’s struck me that in an age where romance is declining, a product we might sell is chivalry, and I have been wondering whether the Admirals might host chivalry workshops, inviting all the Egham romantics. They are real gents and certainly know how to treat the ladies. I have never once had to close a car door, or put my own napkin on my knee if one of the Admirals is around to do it for me. During dinner, they help us in and out of our chairs, stand up if one of us leaves the table to go to the toilet and are experts in the art of complementing.

  With only a small outlay, (such as the £295 from the refund of Aunt Coral’s handbag), we could host catered weekend events employing the resources of Mrs Bunion, the grounds, and the Admirals. There are a hundred ways to make money if you have the space and good ideas.

  Brackencliffe

  By Sue Bowl

  But Brackencliffe life tweren’t no picnic, with twenty-five below stairs to be fed. If Cara was late to the fireside a-nights it meant she would have to sleep cold. Lest we forget, it was the seventeenth century and the only central heating was roaring log fires.

  At the third night on the trot of sleeping too far from the hearth, Cara became sick and had to go up to the San, (the hospital wing for staff). There she recovered under care of Spinster Nurse Chopin, with Keeper in watch at her side. But while Cara lay sleeping a-bedde, Pretafer stole in to peep, and in a sudden girlish frenzy seized a locket from about Cara’s swan neck. But Keeper darted from under the bed to his mistress’s aid, shaking his prey till she dropped the locket, and plucking it in his jaws took flight.

  ‘Find him,’ whispered Cara to Fiona, who rushed to her bedside table.

  ‘Silence!’ said Pretafer as she turned away, ignoring the shredded garments adorning her tiny calfs.

  Egham Hirsute Group

  On Cliff-hangers

  At Group this evening our efforts tied in nicely with our fiscal endeavours because there is the chance of prize money for the short story competition. I had just read out my latest instalment (above) and now Aunt Coral asked the Admiral to read out a taster of his. But he was gazing out at the empty swimming pool sewn with magnolia petals. He offered his little extract slowly, with a tired little voice.

  The Socialites

  By Ad miral Avery Little

  She awoke, the blue bikini peeping from its box. Yawning, she put it on, before checking herself in the mirror. The arms of a gazelle, two legs, a cascade of fragrant curls, and a sheen on her skin that would rival the freshest cherry. If this pretty socialite wasn’t next year’s model, there was no justice under heaven.

  Society photographer, Danny De Zooter was set to shoot her at dusk, but till then she needed to swim, gliding through the water in dreams.

  ‘Excellent Avery, really excellent, well done,’ said Aunt Coral, forcing herself not to show any information about how his extract made her feel, underplaying the way she said ‘Avery’, as if it were just the name of some idiot student and not the man she loved.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘I haven’t done much yet,’ said Joe, but he stood up.

  Roger Mead

  By Josef Fry

  She awoke, and Hawley knew she was not thinking of him. Perhaps it was because he had seen the way she looked at Roger Mead. But there was still time. If he waited, it would happen. She didn’t know the truth about Roger yet, and when it came out, as sure as the sun rose, Hawley would catch her.

  ‘Excellent Joe, really excellent, well done, I’m dying to know what happens next,’ said Aunt Coral.

  Joe looked everywhere but at me, and I wasn’t going to show any information on my face about the fact that I’d noticed him not looking at me. I pretended to make pencil notes as he was reading, so I’d have a reason to look elsewhere. The atmosphere was loaded. Aunt Coral was trying not to look at the Admiral, the Admiral was trying not to look at Aunt Coral, Joe was trying not to look at me, and I was trying not to look at Joe. The only person with someone not to look at was Delia and I’m sure she felt the lack.

  ‘Delia?’ said Aunt Coral.

  Delia arose and held her handbag for support.

  Don’t Wait

  By Delia Shoot

  She awoke and wished she hadn’t, wished she’d never been born. Never been born to such pain and regret. Another day to repeat the efforts of the day before, and the day before that, falling behind her, lost to possibility. But today might be different.

  She bathed and dressed, the fat woman in the mirror. Today she would do something about it. But by lunchtime the cold Pouilly-Fuissé had proven such a comfort from the lonely long day that she thought, ‘Well there’s always tomorrow.’

  ‘Excellent Delia, really excellent, well done,’ said Aunt Coral.

  Delia took a hanky from her handbag and blew her nose, sitting down again with careful control of herself.

  ‘Writing’s a very emotional business, very emotional indeed,’ Aunt Coral went on. ‘But that emotional business is vital to engage the reader. Now, thank you for sharing your extracts, let’s move on to a four-point plan: 1, the use of cliff-hangers, 2, the art of foreshadowing, 3, the creation of atmosphere and D, the transportation of the reader; that is, the art of sweeping the reader away on a journey, all for the price of two teas.’

  She flashed a twinkle at the Admiral, who missed it, for his mind was still in the swimming pool. I felt sorry for him that he’d missed it, it was a beautiful gaze and never to be repeated. My antennae are hot for that sort of thing at the moment because Icarus misses all mine. Joe doesn’t though. Even though they are not for him, he doesn’t miss one. It is like working beside a microscope.

  I typed ‘Sweeping the reader away’ on my notes, while trying to stop analysing group members’ gazes. For how I long to cliff-hang and sweep and transport. And how I would love to foreshadow.

  ‘The cliff-hanger,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘The cliff-hanger is a device or a tease for the reader, to bait them into continuing with the story. Can anyone spot any cliff-hangers in our extracts?’ she asked.

  We all put our hands up.

  ‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral.

  ‘What is the truth about Roger Mead, in Joe’s story,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent Sue, yes, we all want to know the truth about Roger Mead and we sense the author will tell us if we keep on reading. Anything else?’

  We all put our hands up.

  ‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral.

  ‘There’s always tomorrow in Delia’s story,’ I said.

  ‘Yes indeed, excellent Sue, “there’s always tomorrow” draws the read
er onwards, literally, to tomorrow. You’ve got the idea.’

  I couldn’t see much in the way of cliffhanging in the Admiral’s story. It was clearly just a fantasy about Loudolle.

  ‘Now, what is the question most people want to know about a story?’ said Aunt Coral.

  We all put our hands up.

  ‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral.

  ‘How does it end?’ I said.

  ‘Excellent Sue, yes, how does it end. Always remember, the reader wants to know the end – it’s what keeps them turning the pages. Now …’ She shuffled her papers and took a long swig of Sapphire which had become her group staple. ‘Now, moving on to the art of foreshadowing, can anyone think what this might mean?’

  We all put our hands up.

  ‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral.

  ‘Is it giving an impression of what might be going to happen later in the story?’

  ‘Excellent Sue, well done. Can you think of an example?’

  ‘The possibility that the pretty socialite in the Admiral’s story is going to end up as next year’s model?’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘And Joe?’

  ‘Well, in “Roger Mead” I’m giving the impression that if Hawley waits, the girl might fall for him,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent Joe, well done, you’re therefore somewhere between cliffhanging and foreshadowing, which is excellent. Now let’s go to point three on the plan, the creation of atmosphere, or the world of the story. Here is an example of what I mean.’

  Aunt Coral stood up in the conservatory window, her dear face swamped in apple blossom, and for the first time offered some of her own work as an example to the EHG. Her voice was clear and small, with only a slight vibrato to give away her hidden inner emotions.

  ‘Looking out of the window, at the road down to the gates,’ she said, ‘could for example be built into: “She gazed out of the window, stuck closed with paint from that job that turned out to be a false economy, and watched the rain roll down the tarmac to the wet gates.” And if we say something about how the rain fell it will further beef up the atmosphere. For example, “the rain fell like carpets”, or “the rain fell like stairlets”. Try to think of new ways to give the impression of what kind of rain it is, i.e. whether you want it to be teeming or spitting or cascading. But also and most importantly, you must remember to say how the woman is feeling when she looks out the window, to draw us into her emotional state, for example: “She gazed out of the window, stuck closed with paint from that job that was a false economy, and watched the rain roll down the tarmac like stairlets to the wet gates, behind which no one could hear her cries.”’