Abdication: A Novel

by Juliet Nicolson

  “And now it’s your turn,” Sir Philip said, puffing ineffectively at his lifeless cigar.

  May described how she had come to live in England with her cousins after leaving behind her working life in Barbados. She explained how she was not only the daughter of the plantation owner but also had been his employee. At the age of seventeen, her father had taught her to drive the plantation car and she had discovered an unrivalled pleasure when the driver’s door was closed, the engine was cranked and the motor responded to her touch. She had spent long hours alone in the car, collecting the weekly account books from the office before driving to Speightstown to post letters at the post office, cash the workers’ wages cheque at the bank as well as being responsible for the maintenance of the old Rolls-Royce.

  From the authority as well as the passion with which she spoke, Sir Philip could tell she knew more about automobiles than a male mechanic twice her age. He needed no more convincing that the right person for the job was sitting in front of him, twiddling her hair unselfconsciously as she told him how she had heard that the older models of the Rolls were so much more reliable than the later versions. He had heard of a special two-day practical course for advanced drivers that perhaps she might be interested in joining “if things work out.” May nodded enthusiastically at the prospect.

  The second part of the position involved some secretarial work within the house.

  “I have helped my father with the bookkeeping at the plantation since I was twelve,” she told him confidently. “We could not afford a proper secretary but I can type sixty words a minute, and before I left home I was getting even faster.”

  Sir Philip looked impressed.

  “There are four main qualities I require in my staff. The first three are flexibility, willingness, and sobriety,” he said.

  May nodded at each of the conditions.

  “And the fourth,” Sir Philip continued, “is probably the most important of the lot, and that is discretion. In my job I am entrusted with a lot of confidences, some of which I am compelled to share with my secretary, and some of which will by default become apparent to my chauffeur. Since you are applying to fill both of these roles I think you will understand why I labour the point a little?” He smiled at her. “And you are single, I hope? Not that I don’t approve of romance, you understand, but it tends to interfere with the working schedule.”

  This time May shook her head, and then, in order to dispel the idea that she might have been disagreeing with him, she changed the shake to another nod. Despite her age, Sir Philip found something beguiling about the eagerness of this young woman with her flopping hair. She had no references for him to follow up and he had only her word. But his instincts led him to a quick decision. Stubbing out his still unlit cigar Sir Philip’s voice became persuasive.

  “Well, Miss Thomas, it has been a pleasure to speak to you. I know it is rather short notice but do you think you could start the job at once? We have had a bit of trouble with the previous incumbent in the job, and he had to be asked to leave rather smart-ish,” he explained, “which is why we are in a bit of a pickle. We’ve even run out of matches, as you see! Anyway, perhaps you would like to telephone to your family. Do they have a telephone?”

  Telephones are part of the British way of life, May thought to herself, realising how readily they and so many other things that she had not been used to at home were becoming part of her new existence. She hoped that Nat would still be in the workshop and that she might catch him if she hurried. Sir Philip had already mentioned making arrangements for her uniform. His tailor could make her something in a twinkling of an eye. Trousers or skirt? Any preference? Yes, yes, Sir Philip had agreed, trousers: far more practical. He certainly thought of everything.

  The high-pitched hissing of the switchboard, announcing that her time was up, sounded in the earpiece before May could fully explain to Nat what had happened during the preceding hour but Nat had heard enough to shout to Sarah who was in the workshop that day.

  “May’s landed the job! They didn’t even ask for references!” and May heard a distant but exultant “Hurrah for May!” before the operator told her that her time allowance had expired and she must replace the receiver.

  Very early the following morning, before it was even light, May woke up in the tiny bedroom in Sussex that she was now entitled to call hers. She shook smooth the dark red and green paisley eiderdown, and pulled it up over her. The eiderdown had slithered off her bed during the night and landed in a heap on the floor, leaving behind just a thin sheet for covering and a blanket that was more holes than darning. The seams of the eiderdown were weak with age and curled up feathers had floated out all over the carpet. May could see from her raised position in bed that a few of them had attached themselves to the dark velvet of Aunt Gladys’s hat, which was lying on top of the chest of drawers.

  The room appeared not to have been used for a while as a musty smell floated up from the dark carpet. May wished sometimes that her nose were not so sensitive. The clove-studded oranges in Sir Philip’s study had been delicious, the cigar smoke in Sir Philip’s study a little headache-inducing, but dampness smelt depressing. The floor-length soap-scented cotton nightdress, lent to her last night by Mrs. Cage, was covered in tiny pink roses and must have shrunk in the wash judging by the way it clung to her slim hips. May longed for a cup of sweet tea but did not dare go downstairs until it was light enough for her to see to get dressed in her day clothes. Mrs. Cage had promised her that the new trousers and jacket of her uniform would be ready in a day or two but meanwhile she would have to make do with the interview suit and a pair of stockings borrowed from Mrs. Cage. May had reluctantly accepted Mrs. Cage’s offer of a pair of old step-ins but the elastic had given way on the housekeeper’s intimate second-hand garments and were far too loose to stay in place round May’s slim waist. May hoped that her own underwear would have dried on the fender where she had laid it after a thorough rinsing the night before.

  A thousand things were running through her mind and she wanted to get them all down in the blue diary as soon as it was light and before recent events crowded out the earlier ones from her mind. Pushing her long dark hair back from her forehead, she wondered if Bertha was missing her. She wondered if she would ever be warm. Was anyone looking after the car? And then she was unable to prevent the bigger questions from tumbling right into the forefront of her mind. Was her mother lonely? Had May made a terrible mistake by leaving her? For a moment a sense of panic overwhelmed her. Sitting bolt upright, by now painfully awake, she wondered if, in all the excitement of this new life, she was forgetting what it felt like to be a daughter?

  She shifted back down in the bed and checked the catch of the bracelet of silver forget-me-nots that encircled her wrist to make sure it was secure. Another puffball of feathery curls escaped from the gap in the lining and floated into the air. She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep but at once she found herself thinking about Julian. She had been taken aback by the speed and the familiar ease with which he had teased her about her hat. Had he been flirting with her? She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. How did that sort of kiss work? Would he remove his glasses or would she have to duck beneath them to reach his mouth? Her lips puckered at the thought and she felt a flutter of curiosity. That experience, mouth-to-mouth kissing, that she had read about so often in books, seen so often in movies and watched so often when courting sugarcane workers who were unaware they were being observed, remained for May frustratingly mysterious.

  A year ago her mother had spoken to her about the nature of happiness. One evening Edith had suggested that they sit on the terrace together and have what she called “a coming-of-age talk.” The conversation had assumed an air of finality about it as if Edith was making the most of a last chance to tell her daughter everything she held to be wise and precious.

  “The first thing I want to say, my darling,” Edith began, taking her daughter’s delicate hands in hers, as she had done e
ver since May could remember, “is that there is no man on this earth who can fulfil all the requirements of a wife. A sense of humour and a passion for books are strong bonuses, I would suggest. There will always be a few tolerable minuses: snoring, or a lack of interest in flowers, for example.”

  May smiled. She had lost count of the times she had heard her mother complain to her unresponsive husband about the roseintolerant earth of the West Indies. The whole family had grown used to Edith’s yearning for the sweet-smelling bushes that she had coaxed into growth against the odds in the small garden of her Scottish childhood home.

  “But if one is lucky,” her mother had continued “one will find enveloping love, even if it is only for a short time. And if one is luckier still, one will find someone to cherish and be cherished by for a lifetime. Oh yes, and it is important to marry someone who listens, and of course you must listen too, not just hear. There is a big difference between the two. I want you to learn to listen so that you make choices about the way you lead your life rather than falling for any opportunity that presents itself.”

  A knock at the door interrupted May’s thoughts. A child of about ten years old was standing in front of her using both unsteady hands to balance a cup and saucer from which steam was rising. A good part of the liquid had already slopped over the edge.

  “Mum heard the floorboards creak and said you might like a cup of tea,” the freckled-nosed girl said, and continued without giving May a second to say anything. “So I said I would like to take it to the new lady driver. I am Florence and I wanted to have a look at you. Do you mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” May said, reaching out to take the wobbling liquid. “And a cup of tea is what I would like more than anything else in the world.”

  Florence looked pleased.

  “Have you been in the sun?”

  “Yes, I certainly have,” replied May, a little surprised.

  “I thought so,” said Florence. “You look browner than everyone else. I’m not allowed to go in the sun. Well, actually, there isn’t any at the moment but if there were I wouldn’t be allowed in it. I have to wear a hat even though I am nearly ten. My mother says my freckles are bad enough already and the sun would make me have even more.”

  May was intrigued.

  “Perhaps you could tell my mother the sun won’t hurt me? I’m always being made to do things I don’t want to do and,” and here Florence allowed her voice to become very low and quiet and ominous, “keep secrets that I’m not meant to tell.”

  May tried to conceal her smile.

  “I think your freckles are lovely.”

  “No one else thinks so, except Mr. Hooch. Do you like Mr. Hooch? He comes to our school sometimes to tell us about the tigers and elephants he used to see when he was growing up in India. And he reads us stories by Mr. Kipling.”

  Florence flipped her reddish gold plaits behind her so they hung down her back, stretching well below her shoulders. Two green ribbons, half-untied, trailed off the bottom of each plait.

  “That sounds wonderful,” May replied, beginning to enjoy herself. “Mr. Kipling is one of my favourite storytellers too,” she said.

  “I like Mr. Hooch much more than Vera.”

  “Who is Vera?”

  “Vera’s the gardener. She is called Vera Borchby and she wears dungarees all the time, never skirts or dresses, and she never lets me eat the raspberries from the cage in the summer. It’s really unfair because I really like raspberries. She says they have to be saved for the Big House.”

  Florence looked downcast for a moment as her forehead wrinkled and her top row of teeth bit firmly onto her bottom lip before the round little face brightened as if a curtain had been suddenly drawn back and let in the daylight.

  “Would you like to meet Mrs. Jenkins who runs the post office?” she asked. “I could introduce you. She sometimes smells of cheese. I don’t know why. Sometimes she tells the truth by accident. She doesn’t know she’s doing it. Mum says it’s a sort of illness. Anyway, I like her because not everyone tells the truth. And sometimes she swears by mistake too.”

  “Yes, please. I would certainly like to meet Mrs. Jenkins,” May said. “Perhaps we could go and see her on a bike ride together?”

  May was keen to get a bicycle as soon as possible. Back home, when she wasn’t driving the car, she had bicycled everywhere.

  Florence was looking worried again.

  “Haven’t you got a bike?” May asked her.

  “No I haven’t because, well, because I don’t know how to ride one. Mum says she would love to teach me but she hasn’t got the time at the moment. You won’t tell anyone from school, will you? I have to keep it a secret or my friends will tease me.”

  “I will teach you, if you like? Perhaps Mr. Hooch has a couple of old rusties in his shed and we could find a time to practise?”

  Florence’s eyes shone as she jumped on the bed, kissed May on the cheek and was out of the room before May had time to say another word.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  May had been working for the Blunts for two weeks when news of the king’s illness prompted the cancellation of their weekend guests and May was given the next few days off. It seemed very strange to May that after only two weeks in a new job, and barely a month in a new country, a decision about her own working hours had depended on the health of the king. As she left Polegate and once again watched the country stations pass by her window, she reflected for a moment on how well the train served her as the connection between her two contrasting lives. And then she remembered how much she was looking forward to taking up Sarah’s offer of a haircut.

  All along the length of Oak Street the customary preparations for the weekend were under way as women in floral aprons crouched on their knees, a pail of soapy water beside them as they scrubbed a half-moon of cleanliness into the pavement outside their front doors. Despite the king’s illness nothing was going to interrupt number 52 Oak Street’s weekly observance of the Sabbath, when for twenty-four hours, from sundown to sundown, the family would gather together to say prayers, eat well and remove themselves from all the small anxieties of life.

  Before the Sabbath feast, May and Sarah joined the crowds taking their weekly walk before sundown along the Whitechapel Road. Children were out in the streets, swinging from lamp-posts and eating hot chestnuts from twists of newspapers bought from the temporary braziers on every street corner. Butchers had laid out their displays of kosher meat in the front of their shops, and no one seemed to mind that flies crawled all over the jointed chicken and slabs full of tripe. The atmosphere in Petticoat Lane Market resembled a carnival. Contortionists wriggled their way out of straitjackets, china salesmen threw entire dinner services into the air, catching them just before they smashed on the ground, women stood with their arms folded behind stalls packed with bagels, kippers, salted herring and salt beef. An Indian man with a turquoise turbaned headdress and a barrowful of tiger nuts and liquorice root was attracting a healthy custom. A blacksmith was clamping red-hot shoes onto the sole of a horse. A boy balancing on one leg leant on a battered crutch muttering “Thanks, ma’am” every time a well-dressed woman put a coin in the small cap that lay at his feet. After five minutes May saw the child reach behind himself as if fiddling with a knot. As his second leg dropped to the ground the boy carefully picked up his cap so as not to spill the morning’s takings and ran off into the crowd.

  Rachel prepared the Sabbath dinner each Friday afternoon, and May knew from her mother that for gentiles such as herself and Sam it was an honour to be included. The Greenfelds did not follow the strict Orthodox rules of some Jewish families that forbad all modern intrusions, not even so much as a lightbulb was turned on, let alone a wireless. But for the Greenfelds the Sabbath nonetheless remained a sacred day.

  May watched the elaborate preparations wide-eyed. Sarah’s hairdressing tools had been temporarily removed and the long table had been covered in a delicately embroidered cloth. The best plates had b
een taken out of the glass-fronted cabinet in the front room and been dusted off, the double candlestick had been lit and a new loaf of challah, the sweet eggy bread, lay under a piece of linen as white as an old rabbi’s newly washed beard. Plates of pickled herring, chopped liver and thinly sliced smoked salmon were brought to the table by Sarah as soon as the prayers were over. The buttery smell of a chicken cooking had been filling the whole house for the past hour or two and Simon’s hand was making little circular motions of hunger round and round his large stomach. Simon was rarely hungry. His wife made sure of that. But on the Sabbath the cooking smells got the better of him.

  “Have you made any matzo balls for our guests?” Simon asked as he moved round the table, filling the glasses. “Better watch out for Rachel’s matzo balls, Sam,” he cautioned. “They’re what you’d call a dumpling. Stop you up for a week they will!”

  May watched the wax drip and pool in a small hardening mass at the base of the candlestick as at the conclusion of the meal, Sarah brought the noodle-based lokshen pudding to the table. The sweet vanilla taste was pronounced by Simon to be more splendid even than Rachel’s splendid orange-flavoured lokshen of the week before and a sense of pleasure received by a group of people comfortable in each other’s company filled the room. Rachel dominated the proceedings, ever busy with the ceaseless open-handed gesticulations that illustrated her speech.

  “Be careful when you go out in the street, won’t you, May? You need to hang on to your purse, May, and keep that driver’s cap firmly on your head. Gives you an air of knowing what you are about. Otherwise some fool will have the whites of your eyes if you aren’t careful.”