although she did have very nice clothes and arrived in a big chauffeur-driven car, she chatted away to her in the most normal manner about the children and Giles and her own pregnancy.
‘I’m a bit worried, I’m so big already, only four months, I think I must have a monster in there.’ She often sent the chauffeur off with the children for rides in the car, and although she was supposed to be meticulous about getting every detail right in her notes, saying it was important if the report was to be of any use, she sometimes would smile at Sylvia conspiratorially and tell her she could always make it up if Sylvia had forgotten whether she’d bought fourteen or fifteen loaves in a week, or spent a shilling or elevenpence on the boot club. She clearly found things like the boot club and the clothing club a bit difficult to understand at first.
‘Can’t you just keep the money aside, and buy things when you need them?’
Sylvia tried to explain that if the money was there it would get spent on food. ‘There’s always a call on it. Important to have it where it can’t be touched.’
After a bit Lady Celia stopped asking about such things.
She adored Barty, and spent ages playing with her, or singing nursery songs.
‘I’d love to bring you some toys Giles has grown out of, and even some clothes. His pinafores and so on would do wonderfully for her, they’re just like girls’ clothes, but Mrs Hargreaves and Mrs Pember Reeves both say it’s absolutely forbidden. This whole thing is not about charity, as I know you understand.’
Sylvia did know, and most of the time she wished it was; she would have loved a few outgrown toys for Barty who was bored most of the time now, being the ex-baby tied in her high chair for much of the day; half her delight at seeing Lady Celia came from being released, taken outside, shown books and played pat-a-cake with. Barty was so pretty too, Sylvia could see why Lady Celia liked her. It was true about her hair being the colour of a lion’s mane, and she had a very long, delicate neck; she was a clever little monkey, had learned to walk exceptionally early, which was a pity, given her position in the family: better if she’d been a pudding like Marjorie and Frank. As for clothes, Barty was dressed most of the time in what resembled rags; a few frilly pinafores from Lady Celia’s nurseries would be very welcome.
Still the time and the attention were very welcome; from dreading Lady Celia’s visits, she had come greatly to look forward to them. She wondered if Lady Celia enjoyed them as much. It really didn’t seem very likely.
CHAPTER 5
It was almost Christmas. The Lytton house was filled with it, every downstairs room and the nursery decorated with garlands made of evergreen and bunches of holly. A vast tree stood in the hall, studded with wax candles, which were to be lit on Christmas Eve, the pile of presents under it growing daily. Wonderful smells of baking rose up from the kitchen, carol singers arrived almost every night, and Giles would stand at the door in his nightgown listening to them. Celia had taken him to see the giant Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square and the special shop windows in Regent Street and Knightsbridge, and they had sent a letter up the big chimney in the drawing-room to Santa Claus, carefully dated December 1909 to avoid confusion. Every house in Cheyne Walk was brilliant with lights, and the trees along the row were all strung with twinkling, star-like garlands. Celia had a child-like love of Christmas; this year, being pregnant, it seemed to her especially poignant. She remembered the Christmas when she had cried so unexpectedly and so often and felt the guilt ease away. She had planned Christmas surprises, bought and wrapped presents, organised a big Christmas dinner party and a children’s party as well. Oliver, whose Christmases had been rather severe affairs, presided over by his overworked father, and without a mother to give them magic,
‘I’m a bit worried, I’m so big already, only four months, I think I must have a monster in there.’ She often sent the chauffeur off with the children for rides in the car, and although she was supposed to be meticulous about getting every detail right in her notes, saying it was important if the report was to be of any use, she sometimes would smile at Sylvia conspiratorially and tell her she could always make it up if Sylvia had forgotten whether she’d bought fourteen or fifteen loaves in a week, or spent a shilling or elevenpence on the boot club. She clearly found things like the boot club and the clothing club a bit difficult to understand at first.
‘Can’t you just keep the money aside, and buy things when you need them?’
Sylvia tried to explain that if the money was there it would get spent on food. ‘There’s always a call on it. Important to have it where it can’t be touched.’
After a bit Lady Celia stopped asking about such things.
She adored Barty, and spent ages playing with her, or singing nursery songs.
‘I’d love to bring you some toys Giles has grown out of, and even some clothes. His pinafores and so on would do wonderfully for her, they’re just like girls’ clothes, but Mrs Hargreaves and Mrs Pember Reeves both say it’s absolutely forbidden. This whole thing is not about charity, as I know you understand.’
Sylvia did know, and most of the time she wished it was; she would have loved a few outgrown toys for Barty who was bored most of the time now, being the ex-baby tied in her high chair for much of the day; half her delight at seeing Lady Celia came from being released, taken outside, shown books and played pat-a-cake with. Barty was so pretty too, Sylvia could see why Lady Celia liked her. It was true about her hair being the colour of a lion’s mane, and she had a very long, delicate neck; she was a clever little monkey, had learned to walk exceptionally early, which was a pity, given her position in the family: better if she’d been a pudding like Marjorie and Frank. As for clothes, Barty was dressed most of the time in what resembled rags; a few frilly pinafores from Lady Celia’s nurseries would be very welcome.
Still the time and the attention were very welcome; from dreading Lady Celia’s visits, she had come greatly to look forward to them. She wondered if Lady Celia enjoyed them as much. It really didn’t seem very likely.
CHAPTER 5
It was almost Christmas. The Lytton house was filled with it, every downstairs room and the nursery decorated with garlands made of evergreen and bunches of holly. A vast tree stood in the hall, studded with wax candles, which were to be lit on Christmas Eve, the pile of presents under it growing daily. Wonderful smells of baking rose up from the kitchen, carol singers arrived almost every night, and Giles would stand at the door in his nightgown listening to them. Celia had taken him to see the giant Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square and the special shop windows in Regent Street and Knightsbridge, and they had sent a letter up the big chimney in the drawing-room to Santa Claus, carefully dated December 1909 to avoid confusion. Every house in Cheyne Walk was brilliant with lights, and the trees along the row were all strung with twinkling, star-like garlands. Celia had a child-like love of Christmas; this year, being pregnant, it seemed to her especially poignant. She remembered the Christmas when she had cried so unexpectedly and so often and felt the guilt ease away. She had planned Christmas surprises, bought and wrapped presents, organised a big Christmas dinner party and a children’s party as well. Oliver, whose Christmases had been rather severe affairs, presided over by his overworked father, and without a mother to give them magic,
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