and princesses for nearly two years.’ She was now holding the trousers the right way up and persuading her right foot into the leg. The twanking music box melody was starting over, slowing, each notesounding with more
twwwww-
than -
aaank
, as the mechanism wound down.
‘You’d find it easier sitting down,’ Sara ventured, realising that Joyce was in danger of falling over. Suddenly it crossed her mind that Joyce had probably never worn trousers in her life, not so much as pyjama bottoms. She was a skirt and nightdress person, a lady, and had probably thought at one time, assuming she didn’t now, that women in trousers proclaimed the coming of the Antichrist. But Joyce had them on now, and was busy tucking her petticoat into the waistband, which was loose enough to allow it.
‘It’s a beautiful box,’ Sara said. ‘What was the Queen like? Did she speak English?’
‘The Queen? Oh, well.’ Joyce was still tucking herself in. ‘The Queen? Well, it was a while ago.’ There was a pause during which Joyce opened her mouth and then folded her lips, and decided not to lie. ‘Well now, I seem to remember now, yes, that’s right. I got the box from a lady-in-waiting. The Queen couldn’t be there herself. Affairs of state and so on, I suppose.’ Her voice trailed off, the shining, imagined memory of the grateful queen entreating her to accept her gift growing dim in the dismal light of the fact that she had received the standard leaving present for minor servants via a secretary, and had only once in nearly two years met the Queen, in a room containing at least thirty others. It was not how she liked to look back on it and, for fifty years, had not.
‘Well. But Cairo—that must have been fascinating. Here, don’t forget your tea.’
Joyce sat down on the edge of the bed and took the cup as the melody stopped. ‘Och well now, it was awfullydusty. I remember that, hot and dusty. Not a clean city at all. I never saw the slums, of course.’ She blew delicately on her tea. ‘Filthy. There was some sort of epidemic, when I was there, I remember that. People died. Mass hysteria. Though that was in the countryside, not the city, come to think of it. Anyway, all gone now,’ Joyce said, with a dangerous wave of the free arm, stirring the silent air into which the last notes of the music box tune had lately vanished. ‘All gone.’ She sucked up some tea in her lips which, after sleep, were so loose they looked almost frilly. ‘Tone deaf too, the wee tykes,’ she added, after she had swallowed.
There was a silence save for Joyce’s slurps. Sara sat down in the chair by the dressing table, feeling the full extent of her entrapment. Joyce would be up and about again in a few minutes, haunting every step she took. How long was she going to stay? And where would she go? Joyce obviously had some sort of income, although Sara had been so far too squeamish to get out of her exactly how much. She had said she had no relatives or friends, which Sara guessed meant none whom she had not, in the course of her descent, estranged beyond any possibility of reconciliation. Was Joyce quietly banking on not quite ever getting round to arranging things so that she could move out again? Sara knew that she could never, ever actually throw her out. She also knew that she could never, ever tolerate her as a permanent fixture.
And there was Andrew to consider, although when she did, Sara felt only a quiet panic that he did not want to live with her in Medlar Cottage, closely followed by dismay because she could, when she was being honest with herself, see his point about territory. Would Andrew evenagree to come back as long as Joyce was here? And with Joyce as a sort of resident, half-malevolent, droopy-eyed house troll his reluctance was more than understandable; it was utterly reasonable.
‘Joyce, what happened? What happened to you that made you give everything up? Why did you start drinking?’
Joyce looked at her accusingly,
twwwww-
than -
aaank
, as the mechanism wound down.
‘You’d find it easier sitting down,’ Sara ventured, realising that Joyce was in danger of falling over. Suddenly it crossed her mind that Joyce had probably never worn trousers in her life, not so much as pyjama bottoms. She was a skirt and nightdress person, a lady, and had probably thought at one time, assuming she didn’t now, that women in trousers proclaimed the coming of the Antichrist. But Joyce had them on now, and was busy tucking her petticoat into the waistband, which was loose enough to allow it.
‘It’s a beautiful box,’ Sara said. ‘What was the Queen like? Did she speak English?’
‘The Queen? Oh, well.’ Joyce was still tucking herself in. ‘The Queen? Well, it was a while ago.’ There was a pause during which Joyce opened her mouth and then folded her lips, and decided not to lie. ‘Well now, I seem to remember now, yes, that’s right. I got the box from a lady-in-waiting. The Queen couldn’t be there herself. Affairs of state and so on, I suppose.’ Her voice trailed off, the shining, imagined memory of the grateful queen entreating her to accept her gift growing dim in the dismal light of the fact that she had received the standard leaving present for minor servants via a secretary, and had only once in nearly two years met the Queen, in a room containing at least thirty others. It was not how she liked to look back on it and, for fifty years, had not.
‘Well. But Cairo—that must have been fascinating. Here, don’t forget your tea.’
Joyce sat down on the edge of the bed and took the cup as the melody stopped. ‘Och well now, it was awfullydusty. I remember that, hot and dusty. Not a clean city at all. I never saw the slums, of course.’ She blew delicately on her tea. ‘Filthy. There was some sort of epidemic, when I was there, I remember that. People died. Mass hysteria. Though that was in the countryside, not the city, come to think of it. Anyway, all gone now,’ Joyce said, with a dangerous wave of the free arm, stirring the silent air into which the last notes of the music box tune had lately vanished. ‘All gone.’ She sucked up some tea in her lips which, after sleep, were so loose they looked almost frilly. ‘Tone deaf too, the wee tykes,’ she added, after she had swallowed.
There was a silence save for Joyce’s slurps. Sara sat down in the chair by the dressing table, feeling the full extent of her entrapment. Joyce would be up and about again in a few minutes, haunting every step she took. How long was she going to stay? And where would she go? Joyce obviously had some sort of income, although Sara had been so far too squeamish to get out of her exactly how much. She had said she had no relatives or friends, which Sara guessed meant none whom she had not, in the course of her descent, estranged beyond any possibility of reconciliation. Was Joyce quietly banking on not quite ever getting round to arranging things so that she could move out again? Sara knew that she could never, ever actually throw her out. She also knew that she could never, ever tolerate her as a permanent fixture.
And there was Andrew to consider, although when she did, Sara felt only a quiet panic that he did not want to live with her in Medlar Cottage, closely followed by dismay because she could, when she was being honest with herself, see his point about territory. Would Andrew evenagree to come back as long as Joyce was here? And with Joyce as a sort of resident, half-malevolent, droopy-eyed house troll his reluctance was more than understandable; it was utterly reasonable.
‘Joyce, what happened? What happened to you that made you give everything up? Why did you start drinking?’
Joyce looked at her accusingly,
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