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.
C HAPTER S EVEN
M ay 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
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.
C HAPTER S EVEN
M ay 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
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