teased her about her excitement, worried about her getting too tired, but became caught up in her starry happiness nonetheless.
Twice a week, though, the happiness faded, was replaced by guilt. The Miller house had no tree, no presents, and the street was dull and dark, apart from one tree in the window of the house at the end. Ted had promised to go and hack a branch of yew down from the park one night nearer Christmas; they could decorate that, he said, with a few sweets and chains of coloured paper, and they could set the two big candles he had been promised from the factory in the window. There wouldn’t be much in the way of presents exactly, Sylvia explained to Celia.
‘But Ted’s doing overtime and we should be able to afford a ham on the bone, by way of a Christmas dinner. And some oranges and nuts. And Ted’s mum, she said she’d be over with some sweets for the children.’
Celia hadn’t realised Ted had a mother; she’d assumed all four parents must be dead, or they would surely be helping their beleaguered children. It turned out that Sylvia’s parents had both died, and so had Ted’s father, but his mother lived with her only daughter in Catford.
‘But they don’t get on, her and Ted. She says he could do better in life. I’d like to know how. Anyway, we agreed years ago, it’s better she stays away. Comes for Christmas Eve or thereabouts and that’s enough.’
Celia had actually prepared a Christmas box for the Millers: little toys for all the children, a tin of pressed tongue, a small box of crackers, and some dried fruit. And a couple of warm shawls for the new baby. She had to be careful, if there was too much, the other families who were being observed might get to hear of it; there would be jealousy and she’d get into terrible trouble.
She was worried about Sylvia; she had almost two months to go, and hardly seemed able to drag herself about, she was even paler than usual, and apart from her large stomach, was wraith-thin. That was hardly surprising: Ted had been ill for a couple of weeks, unable to work, there’d been a shortfall in the money, and when there was less money, the children and the wife went without. The man needed the food to work; that was a given, an accepted precept, nobody questioned it. Even a pregnant wife. Even allowing for such problems, Sylvia was not herself. Normally brave and cheerful, she was much given to fretting, obsessed that there was something wrong with the baby.
‘It’s so small,’ she said to Celia one cold, dark afternoon, ‘and it’s hardly kicking at all. I hope it’ll be all right.’
‘I’m sure it’s all right,’ said Celia soothingly, ‘it’s small because it’s another girl, I expect.’
‘Doesn’t follow. I was huge with Marjorie. We’ve been lucky so far, not lost any. Most people have, out of six.’
Celia couldn’t imagine how anyone in Sylvia’s situation could regard themselves as lucky, but she smiled at her encouragingly.
‘Well there you are. You’re obviously a good, healthy mother, have good, healthy babies.’
‘It’s terrible when they die,’ Sylvia said, her eyes gazing into space as she squeezed out the washing, ‘really terrible.’
‘Yes, of course it must be. Here, let me do that.’
‘No, no you mustn’t, Lady Celia. Not my washing.’
‘Why not? I don’t have to do my own,’ said Celia simply, ‘go and sit down, Sylvia, please. Give Barty a cuddle, she’s been so good.’
She stood at the table, squeezing out the endless clothes. None of them looked very clean.
‘What I mean is,’ said Sylvia, stroking Barty’s soft cheek, ‘what I mean is, if the baby dies, there’s a funeral to pay for. Over two pounds that can cost, and we only have insurance for thirty shillings.’
At least one shilling a week from a working class family budget went on burial insurance.
‘Don’t, Sylvia,’ said Celia, distressed at this talk of babies’ funerals, ‘don’t even think about
Twice a week, though, the happiness faded, was replaced by guilt. The Miller house had no tree, no presents, and the street was dull and dark, apart from one tree in the window of the house at the end. Ted had promised to go and hack a branch of yew down from the park one night nearer Christmas; they could decorate that, he said, with a few sweets and chains of coloured paper, and they could set the two big candles he had been promised from the factory in the window. There wouldn’t be much in the way of presents exactly, Sylvia explained to Celia.
‘But Ted’s doing overtime and we should be able to afford a ham on the bone, by way of a Christmas dinner. And some oranges and nuts. And Ted’s mum, she said she’d be over with some sweets for the children.’
Celia hadn’t realised Ted had a mother; she’d assumed all four parents must be dead, or they would surely be helping their beleaguered children. It turned out that Sylvia’s parents had both died, and so had Ted’s father, but his mother lived with her only daughter in Catford.
‘But they don’t get on, her and Ted. She says he could do better in life. I’d like to know how. Anyway, we agreed years ago, it’s better she stays away. Comes for Christmas Eve or thereabouts and that’s enough.’
Celia had actually prepared a Christmas box for the Millers: little toys for all the children, a tin of pressed tongue, a small box of crackers, and some dried fruit. And a couple of warm shawls for the new baby. She had to be careful, if there was too much, the other families who were being observed might get to hear of it; there would be jealousy and she’d get into terrible trouble.
She was worried about Sylvia; she had almost two months to go, and hardly seemed able to drag herself about, she was even paler than usual, and apart from her large stomach, was wraith-thin. That was hardly surprising: Ted had been ill for a couple of weeks, unable to work, there’d been a shortfall in the money, and when there was less money, the children and the wife went without. The man needed the food to work; that was a given, an accepted precept, nobody questioned it. Even a pregnant wife. Even allowing for such problems, Sylvia was not herself. Normally brave and cheerful, she was much given to fretting, obsessed that there was something wrong with the baby.
‘It’s so small,’ she said to Celia one cold, dark afternoon, ‘and it’s hardly kicking at all. I hope it’ll be all right.’
‘I’m sure it’s all right,’ said Celia soothingly, ‘it’s small because it’s another girl, I expect.’
‘Doesn’t follow. I was huge with Marjorie. We’ve been lucky so far, not lost any. Most people have, out of six.’
Celia couldn’t imagine how anyone in Sylvia’s situation could regard themselves as lucky, but she smiled at her encouragingly.
‘Well there you are. You’re obviously a good, healthy mother, have good, healthy babies.’
‘It’s terrible when they die,’ Sylvia said, her eyes gazing into space as she squeezed out the washing, ‘really terrible.’
‘Yes, of course it must be. Here, let me do that.’
‘No, no you mustn’t, Lady Celia. Not my washing.’
‘Why not? I don’t have to do my own,’ said Celia simply, ‘go and sit down, Sylvia, please. Give Barty a cuddle, she’s been so good.’
She stood at the table, squeezing out the endless clothes. None of them looked very clean.
‘What I mean is,’ said Sylvia, stroking Barty’s soft cheek, ‘what I mean is, if the baby dies, there’s a funeral to pay for. Over two pounds that can cost, and we only have insurance for thirty shillings.’
At least one shilling a week from a working class family budget went on burial insurance.
‘Don’t, Sylvia,’ said Celia, distressed at this talk of babies’ funerals, ‘don’t even think about
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