nip my ear, or blow on my face, and beneath the table his thigh always pressed against mine, and I could not evade these attentions without breaking the circle. I tried not to let it trouble me too much. We were having so much fun; I was never bored with Edwin, and I didn’t want to spoil it.
Worst of all were the days I spent alone. I’d get so bored I could scream. Bobo would be napping, I couldn’t abide Mrs. Briggs, my friendly overtures only made the servants colder, no book or fancywork could hold my attention, and I would just sit there feeling sorry for myself. So I’d dress myself up in a fine frock and feathered hat, intending just to go for a walk, and find myself drawn like iron filings to a magnet straight to Woollright’s Department Store.
It was the grandest store in Liverpool, a great big glossy new department store crammed with every conceivable luxury. I’d buy ready-made dresses, or fine fabrics I’d send straight to Mrs. Osborne, my dressmaker, furs, shoes, handbags, hats, fans, gloves, and jewelry, corsets and other undergarments, silk stockings, robes and nightgowns, parasols, perfumes, scented soaps, pretty little knickknacks like china pug dogs and soapstone Chinese dragons, vases, books, candy, pastries, sheet music, furniture, curtains, carpets, lamps, picture frames, fine china, crystal, newfangled gadgets for the kitchen to bewilder the cook, and clothes and toys for Bobo, even when he was far too young for them. I would find myself buying him marbles when I knew perfectly well that a baby that age would surely swallow them, and hoops to run after when he was barely walking, hobbyhorses he couldn’t yet straddle, and plaid knickerbocker, Zouave, and velvet suits à la Little Lord Fauntleroy, and wide-brimmed straw hats with grosgrain streamers to set off the long curls I planned to cultivate like prize-winning roses on his dear little head when he was still in the cradle. And, if that doesn’t beat all, one day I even bought a fully equipped dollhouse and not one but three gilt-edged porcelain tea sets painted with cabbage roses—the toy department had it with the roses done in pink, blue, or yellow and I just couldn’t decide which—for a daughter I didn’t even have and, as far as I knew then, might never have. I bought silk and velvet neckties and dressing gowns for Jim and Edwin, and even Michael in my never-ending quest to make him like me. Once I even bought him an elephant foot umbrella stand and a stuffed aardvark (I was trying to make him smile).
I’d end up spending the best part of the day shopping, so I’d have to rush to get home in time to welcome Jim. When I unpacked all my parcels my bedroom was awash with so much tissue paper and boxes you could hardly see the carpet.
Deep in my heart, it worried me. Shopping was becoming like a drug I reached for at the least little twinge of boredom or loneliness. I was as dependent on it as Jim was on his arsenic. It filled and gave me something to show for all the empty hours. The smiling faces of the salesclerks were such a welcome change from all the disapproving frowns of the people who filled my life now. I often sat, chin in hands, on the side of my bed, staring down at my purchases spread out on the floor before me. Sometimes I’d feel so disgusted with myself I’d vow that tomorrow I would take them all back and never do this again. I had my books, and my embroidery, to occupy me, and I might even take up china painting again, or maybe I could find some sort of ladies charitable society that would truly welcome my help. But somehow, no matter how good my intentions were, my resolve always crumpled and I managed to talk myself out of it. I always found a reason to keep everything I bought; I never returned a single thing.
Every month the bills got higher and I’d find myself a nervous wreck, prostrate with worry, sick headaches, and a sour stomach, worrying what Jim would say, but he never said a word about any of it
Worst of all were the days I spent alone. I’d get so bored I could scream. Bobo would be napping, I couldn’t abide Mrs. Briggs, my friendly overtures only made the servants colder, no book or fancywork could hold my attention, and I would just sit there feeling sorry for myself. So I’d dress myself up in a fine frock and feathered hat, intending just to go for a walk, and find myself drawn like iron filings to a magnet straight to Woollright’s Department Store.
It was the grandest store in Liverpool, a great big glossy new department store crammed with every conceivable luxury. I’d buy ready-made dresses, or fine fabrics I’d send straight to Mrs. Osborne, my dressmaker, furs, shoes, handbags, hats, fans, gloves, and jewelry, corsets and other undergarments, silk stockings, robes and nightgowns, parasols, perfumes, scented soaps, pretty little knickknacks like china pug dogs and soapstone Chinese dragons, vases, books, candy, pastries, sheet music, furniture, curtains, carpets, lamps, picture frames, fine china, crystal, newfangled gadgets for the kitchen to bewilder the cook, and clothes and toys for Bobo, even when he was far too young for them. I would find myself buying him marbles when I knew perfectly well that a baby that age would surely swallow them, and hoops to run after when he was barely walking, hobbyhorses he couldn’t yet straddle, and plaid knickerbocker, Zouave, and velvet suits à la Little Lord Fauntleroy, and wide-brimmed straw hats with grosgrain streamers to set off the long curls I planned to cultivate like prize-winning roses on his dear little head when he was still in the cradle. And, if that doesn’t beat all, one day I even bought a fully equipped dollhouse and not one but three gilt-edged porcelain tea sets painted with cabbage roses—the toy department had it with the roses done in pink, blue, or yellow and I just couldn’t decide which—for a daughter I didn’t even have and, as far as I knew then, might never have. I bought silk and velvet neckties and dressing gowns for Jim and Edwin, and even Michael in my never-ending quest to make him like me. Once I even bought him an elephant foot umbrella stand and a stuffed aardvark (I was trying to make him smile).
I’d end up spending the best part of the day shopping, so I’d have to rush to get home in time to welcome Jim. When I unpacked all my parcels my bedroom was awash with so much tissue paper and boxes you could hardly see the carpet.
Deep in my heart, it worried me. Shopping was becoming like a drug I reached for at the least little twinge of boredom or loneliness. I was as dependent on it as Jim was on his arsenic. It filled and gave me something to show for all the empty hours. The smiling faces of the salesclerks were such a welcome change from all the disapproving frowns of the people who filled my life now. I often sat, chin in hands, on the side of my bed, staring down at my purchases spread out on the floor before me. Sometimes I’d feel so disgusted with myself I’d vow that tomorrow I would take them all back and never do this again. I had my books, and my embroidery, to occupy me, and I might even take up china painting again, or maybe I could find some sort of ladies charitable society that would truly welcome my help. But somehow, no matter how good my intentions were, my resolve always crumpled and I managed to talk myself out of it. I always found a reason to keep everything I bought; I never returned a single thing.
Every month the bills got higher and I’d find myself a nervous wreck, prostrate with worry, sick headaches, and a sour stomach, worrying what Jim would say, but he never said a word about any of it
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