to lose it. At night I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, and in the day my mood swung between elation and tears. Aunt Mina noticed the changes too, which made itworse. She began to concern herself with my hair and clothes, asking Mrs. Beauchamp for advice about the new fashions.
I tried on my new outfits in front of the mirror – flounced muslin dresses in eau-de-nil, café-au-lait and dusky pink, chosen to complement my complexion and lip colour – putting my hair up this way and that, while talking to myself in my practice grown-up voice. Then I would resume my pinafore dress and my silence and go downstairs, wearing the sulky expression I knew would provoke Aunt Mina. At breakfast I pretended not to hear when she said, ‘Good morning,’ and slumped in my chair. One morning she gave me a lecture about being ‘sulky, superior and uppish’, and back in my room I whispered all the bad words I could remember in both English and Hindustani. I promised myself that as soon as I was old enough to earn a living I would leave Aunt Mina’s house and never see her again.
I started spending more time with Mrs. Beauchamp, who was encouraging me to think about a career; it was important for a woman to be independent, she said, to have her own work, rather than being a parasite. She would have liked to take me with her to suffragette meetings but she knew Aunt Mina wouldn’t like it. Instead she lent me books to read, books like The Story of an African Farm and The Yellow Wallpaper , both of which disturbed me, although I don’t think I understood either of them then.
The boys came back at the beginning of July and Mrs. Beauchamp sent the dogcart to collect me after lunch, as she always did when they were home. Aunt Mina stopped me as I ran down the stairs. I waited impatiently as she fussed. ‘Don’t forget your hat, Lilian. You really must start thinking about your complexion.’ I thought of Mother again: the only interest she had ever shown in me was to insist that Iwear a hat when I was outside. She never went into the sun herself.
‘And you’re a bit old to be playing with those boys,’ Aunt Mina went on. ‘It was all right when you were younger but you’re not children any more. It’s time you made friends with some girls your own age. There’s no one suitable in the village, and I’ve been thinking it’s time you went away to school. It might rub off some of those corners. But you’d better go now, as Mrs. Beauchamp has so kindly sent the dogcart.’
I was still having lessons in the mornings and doing my prep in the evenings but it was the holidays now. In previous years when the boys were home we had spent all day together, playing Seven Tiles on the Downs, crossing back and forth across the Dyke in the cable car, or taking the train into Brighton and spending long days at the beach, where we swam or walked along the promenade to Hove or Rottingdean. Sometimes we went out with a local fisherman to fish for mackerel, or picnicked in the gardens of the Royal Pavilion, which was closed up and no longer used; people said the Queen disliked it because of its association with the disgraceful behaviour of the Prince Regent.
But Aunt Mina was right: it was different that summer. The boys were taller and the light had gone out of their faces, replaced by a brooding heaviness. At seventeen, Jagjit was well over six feet tall and he towered over Simon. His chest had broadened and the down on his face had grown into a patchy moustache and beard. His voice had deepened too, while Simon’s was finally beginning to break, which I could tell embarrassed him. I was shy and self-conscious around them and began to feel in the way, fearing that they had outgrown wanting to play with the silly dumb girl but were too polite to say so. Simon was impatient and snappy, while Jagjit puthimself out to be nice. It wasn’t so bad when we were outside with something to occupy us, but on rainy afternoons we were trapped
I tried on my new outfits in front of the mirror – flounced muslin dresses in eau-de-nil, café-au-lait and dusky pink, chosen to complement my complexion and lip colour – putting my hair up this way and that, while talking to myself in my practice grown-up voice. Then I would resume my pinafore dress and my silence and go downstairs, wearing the sulky expression I knew would provoke Aunt Mina. At breakfast I pretended not to hear when she said, ‘Good morning,’ and slumped in my chair. One morning she gave me a lecture about being ‘sulky, superior and uppish’, and back in my room I whispered all the bad words I could remember in both English and Hindustani. I promised myself that as soon as I was old enough to earn a living I would leave Aunt Mina’s house and never see her again.
I started spending more time with Mrs. Beauchamp, who was encouraging me to think about a career; it was important for a woman to be independent, she said, to have her own work, rather than being a parasite. She would have liked to take me with her to suffragette meetings but she knew Aunt Mina wouldn’t like it. Instead she lent me books to read, books like The Story of an African Farm and The Yellow Wallpaper , both of which disturbed me, although I don’t think I understood either of them then.
The boys came back at the beginning of July and Mrs. Beauchamp sent the dogcart to collect me after lunch, as she always did when they were home. Aunt Mina stopped me as I ran down the stairs. I waited impatiently as she fussed. ‘Don’t forget your hat, Lilian. You really must start thinking about your complexion.’ I thought of Mother again: the only interest she had ever shown in me was to insist that Iwear a hat when I was outside. She never went into the sun herself.
‘And you’re a bit old to be playing with those boys,’ Aunt Mina went on. ‘It was all right when you were younger but you’re not children any more. It’s time you made friends with some girls your own age. There’s no one suitable in the village, and I’ve been thinking it’s time you went away to school. It might rub off some of those corners. But you’d better go now, as Mrs. Beauchamp has so kindly sent the dogcart.’
I was still having lessons in the mornings and doing my prep in the evenings but it was the holidays now. In previous years when the boys were home we had spent all day together, playing Seven Tiles on the Downs, crossing back and forth across the Dyke in the cable car, or taking the train into Brighton and spending long days at the beach, where we swam or walked along the promenade to Hove or Rottingdean. Sometimes we went out with a local fisherman to fish for mackerel, or picnicked in the gardens of the Royal Pavilion, which was closed up and no longer used; people said the Queen disliked it because of its association with the disgraceful behaviour of the Prince Regent.
But Aunt Mina was right: it was different that summer. The boys were taller and the light had gone out of their faces, replaced by a brooding heaviness. At seventeen, Jagjit was well over six feet tall and he towered over Simon. His chest had broadened and the down on his face had grown into a patchy moustache and beard. His voice had deepened too, while Simon’s was finally beginning to break, which I could tell embarrassed him. I was shy and self-conscious around them and began to feel in the way, fearing that they had outgrown wanting to play with the silly dumb girl but were too polite to say so. Simon was impatient and snappy, while Jagjit puthimself out to be nice. It wasn’t so bad when we were outside with something to occupy us, but on rainy afternoons we were trapped
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