ONE
I press my nose against the shop window. Behind the mist my breath makes on the glass, the colours of the dress blur together; pink and white silk and lace trimmings smearing like the paints in a watercolour.
‘Chrissy!’ Mama’s hand lands on my shoulder, pulling me away from the floating dream of the dress trapped behind the glass and back to reality. ‘Chrissy, don’t do that, it’s so unhygienic. Really, child, do I always have to remind you?’
‘But Mama, look, it’s so pretty.’ I touch the tips of my fingers to the white mist left on the glass. ‘Isn’t it the prettiest dress you’ve ever seen?’
‘No,’ Mama says, as I’d known she would.
I sigh.
‘The lace trim is very fetching, though,’ she says, and I look up at her in surprise. She pats my shoulder. ‘Maybe we’ll ask Papa about getting a new dress for your birthday.’
‘Really?’ It’s my birthday in a few weeks. I’ll be fourteen, and I’ve been longing for a proper dress, not the little-girl plaids and patched cottons I’ve been wearing since I was twelve. The dress in the window shines like water, almost changing colour when the weak December sunlight touches it, the only really bright thing under the grey sky.
Maybe, if we have enough money, Papa will say I can have a silk dress. Maybe. Maybe.
I’m almost glad when Mama taps my shoulder again. Mama never dreams of silk dresses and knowing that, I can look at the dress in the window and bid it farewell with dignity.
We’re meeting Gabriel at some gallery or other and Mama doesn’t want to keep him waiting, so we hurry on down Oxford Street. It’s busy, full of people shopping for Christmas, and I feel very small in the crowd. I’m bumped back and forth by elbows and umbrellas and brown paper-wrapped parcels, but Mama sails forward like a proud ship, calm and poised in her neat blue coat and bonnet. The wind is very cold in my nose and there’s a dry sharpness in the air that I hope means snow.
‘Come along Chrissy,’ Mama says. She holds out her hand as though she expects me to hold it when we cross the road. I pretend not to see it, but she’s insistent. ‘Chrissy, come on! Don’t dawdle, child.’
I bite my tongue and reluctantly take her gloved hand in mine. We cross the road and as soon as I’m on the pavement, I wriggle my fingers free and plunge them back into my muff.
‘Chrissy,’ Mama says reprovingly.
‘What?’
‘Chrissy.’
‘Sorry Mama. What, Mama?’’
‘Don’t scowl so. It’s not becoming.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
She sighs, and I struggle to form something like a smile. I glance up at her, but she’s looking ahead, scanning the crowd. I gnaw on my tongue and stare at the ground, but this means I’m looking at my shoes, and the faded spot on the right toe makes me think of the dress in the window, and I feel a hot rush of anger. I don’t know why I’m angry, or who I’m angry at, so I glare at Mama’s coat and think how unfair it is that she can have a nice coat and black gloves (they’re patched gloves) and I don’t have one really nice dress even though I’m practically fourteen, which is old enough to get married (no one would want to marry you, and anyway, you know thinking about that scares you) and it’s just not fair!
Now I feel like crying.
‘Look, there’s Gabriel,’ Mama says.
We’ve arrived at the gallery without my noticing, and Gabriel is outside, waiting by the steps. He comes to meet us, and at the sight of him I feel a little better.
‘Hello mother,’ he says, kissing Mama on the cheek. Then he turns me and grins. ‘Hello Chrissy.’
I grin back at him. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks down into my face. He smiles, and for a moment, I am the whole of Gabriel’s world.
‘Well, Gabriel, are we going to stand out here in this wind forever?’ Mama asks. She’s laughing, teasing, but Gabriel turns away from me and I feel a flare of jealousy. Gabriel takes her hand and offers his other arm to me, smiling, and I feel ashamed, so I smile back and tuck my hand under his elbow and we go into the gallery together.
Gabriel’s in his element here, standing in front of one painting for over five minutes, just staring and gazing at it, drinking in the colours and the lines and the symmetry.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ he says, wonderingly. ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Chrissy?’
Mama’s on the other side of the room, looking at an oil painting of dogs lying before a fireplace. I step closer to Gabriel. ‘Yes, very,’ I say, and it is. It’s a portrait of a girl, a young woman; she’s standing by an open window, one hand on the sill and the other holding a rose against her cheek as though smelling it isn’t enough but she must touch it to fully experience its beauty. The glow of the sunset lights on the bowl of cherries on the table and in her half-open eyes, and creates shiny diamonds in the glass window-panes.
‘See how there’s so many shadows,’ Gabriel says. ‘Shadows and light. If you look—can you see, Chrissy?—if you look at the light, you can tell where there must be a shadow. You’ve got to have both for the picture to be real.’
‘I love the light in her eyes,’ I say. ‘And the fruit. Doesn’t the fruit look real?’
‘Yes, it does.’ Gabriel smiles. ‘It’s because of the light.’
‘Oh?’ I ask innocently. ‘Is light important, then?’
Gabriel laughs. ‘I’d like to draw you again sometime soon. You don’t mind sitting for me, do you?’
‘Oh no!’ I assure him. ‘I love it.’
‘What do you love, Chrissy?’ Mama joins us. She looks hard at the portrait and frowns. ‘Does that girl have red hair?’
‘Oh no,’ Gabriel says easily, and it occurs to me that it might not matter to Gabriel even if the girl in the portrait had hair red as a fox-tail.
‘It looks distinctly auburn,’ Mama says. ‘Red is such an unholy colour. Unchaste.’
‘Mother, it’s brown.’ Gabriel steers her onto the next painting, slyly winking at me, and I feel a warm glow inside at our shared jest. I pat Mama’s arm as we stand at the next painting.
She looks down at me, a little surprised. ‘What was that for?’
‘Nothing.’ I smile at her and she smiles back all the same.
‘Now here,’ Gabriel explains eagerly, ‘the blending is the important thing, do you see? With pastels you really have to blend and blend and blend. You see, Chrissy, there’s no harsh lines anywhere—it all fades together and there’s almost no distinction between the colours, but the artist has the skill not to blend so much that the colours fade away altogether. They still keep their vibrancy.’
I like this painting too. It’s a picture of a baby boy with yellow curls all around his rosy face. He’s sitting in a doorway, one hand extended upwards like a plump pink star, the other steadying himself against the stone step. His bare toes peep from the hem of his blue skirts like little pink fish, and I wish I could reach out and touch them. A strange longing swells inside me, spreading like a smile; a longing to join the little boy in the picture and take his outstretched hand and feel his tiny fingers wrap around mine and never let go.
‘It must take a lot of skill to colour like that,’ Mama remarks.
‘Well, all art takes skill,’ Gabriel says a little pompously, ‘but once you get the knack of them, pastels aren’t that hard.’
‘I think they’re pretty,’ I say. ‘I like the way it all fades together. It looks like a rainbow.’
‘Maybe I’ll try you in pastels, then,’ Gabriel says, then explains to Mama, ‘I want to try Chrissy’s portrait again. She sat so well for me last time.’
‘I really don’t think it good for you to paint her too much,’ Mama says. ‘Children get nervous and high-strung under too much close attention.’
‘But Mama!’
‘Chrissy, what did I tell you—’
‘Mama, I’m not—’
‘Christina.’
I flinch. She’s raised her voice, and everyone in the gallery must be looking at me. Please don’t let her carry on, don’t let her scold me in front of everyone, not in front of Gabriel, please please not in front of Gabriel—
‘Christina, you will not use such a tone with me, and especially not in a public place. You should be ashamed of yourself!’
My face is red. I’m hot with embarrassment. I want to throw my coat and muff on the floor and run out into the street. ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ I whisper, hating the choke in my voice. I sound like a baby.
‘Very well.’ Mama pauses. ‘If you want to sit for your brother again, I would suggest that you learn to moderate your temper.’
‘Yes, Mama. I will, Mama.’
‘Good. Now. Shall we continue?’
I don’t look at Gabriel, but as we follow Mama into the next room, he reaches down and gives my hand a quick squeeze.
* * *
We catch the omnibus back home, which leaves me feeling grimy and even more miserable than before. Mama sends me to clean up for dinner and I slowly climb the stairs to my room. Lizzie’s already there, laying out a clean dress for me to change into.
‘Did you have a good time at the gallery, Miss Chrissy?’ she asks, coming to take my bonnet and cloak.
‘Yes,’ I say flatly. ‘The gallery was lovely.’
She looks at me shrewdly. I feel my face flush and I quickly sit down on the bed and start to unlace my boots, but I tug the wrong end and I’m left with a hopeless tangle. I wrestle with it for a moment longer but my nail catches painfully against one of the lace eyelets and I give up, flopping backward onto the bed. Behind my tightly closed eyelids, I’m desperately trying to hold back the tears, because I am not going to further humiliate myself by crying in front of Lizzie and crying won’t help anything and I don’t even know why I’m so confused and miserable, it makes no sense.
‘Miss Chrissy?’
I swallow hard. Lizzie lifts my foot and I feel her fingers start to work on my laces. I lie still and, even though I feel it’s not very mature, enjoy the moment of quiet with the fire crackling in the background, the vague murmur of movement from downstairs, the pressure of Lizzie’s fingers digging into my foot and the rush of cool air as she conquers the tangle and pulls off my boot. I sit up and pull my other foot into my lap and begin to tease the knot loose, more carefully this time.
Lizzie rises and starts moving quietly about the room; she takes my hairbrush and sets it neatly on my bureau next to my box of hairpins, then takes out a clean handkerchief and sprinkles it with a few drops of lavender water. Her quietness soothes me somewhat, and I say, ‘How’s your sister’s baby, Lizzie?’
‘Oh, she’s doing fine, thank you, miss.’ Lizzie folds the handkerchief and places it next to my hairbrush. ‘The water’s warmed for you, miss.’
I go to the table and pour water from the jug into the bowl. Steam rises into the air, and I begin to wash my face and hands.
‘She was a bit colicky a few nights ago,’ Lizzie says. Her voice is a little muffled by the washcloth over my ears. ‘She’s better now, though, and I think she’s getting over it.’
‘I’d love to see her sometime,’ I say, drying my face with the towel and looking with distaste at the grimy water left in the basin. I’d never say so to Mama, but sometimes I wish I wasn’t the youngest child. I wish I had a little brother or sister so I’ll know what it’s like to have a baby in the house and so when I have my own children, it won’t be quite so alien an experience. Having children seems to be the best thing about getting married; after all, I can’t be sure that my husband will actually love me, but I can be sure that I’ll have children.
I think about this as I change into my clean dress. Does Lizzie’s sister love her husband? Does he love her? I want to ask Lizzie, but I’m sure that wouldn’t be proper, so I hold my tongue and sit down in front of my mirror to brush my hair. My hair shines in the lamplight, but the sight of it always makes me feel sad and somehow helpless. It’s not the most original wish in the world, but I do sometimes hope that I’ll wake up one morning and find my hair miraculously changed to golden. When I was little, I used to pray for golden hair like the princesses in my stories every evening, and extra hard on Sundays; and it was always such a disappointment to wake up on Monday to find it still as brown as it was when I went to sleep.
Lizzie’s hair is brown, so maybe her sister’s is as well. She found a husband and had a baby, though. Maybe things like how she looks doesn’t matter, though, because she’s a servant. Does her husband love her, anyway? Her baby probably loves her, but it can’t be nice for her if her husband doesn’t.
Does Papa love Mama?
That thought is so disrespectful and unexpected that I stare at my reflection in dismay. Of course Papa loves Mama, otherwise he wouldn’t have married her.
But does Mama love Papa?
I slam the brush down, gather up my hair and twist it into a bun so tight it stretches my eyebrows. Twice, I stab myself in the scalp with a hairpin, and when I finally finish, my black mood is back, heavy on my shoulders like a funeral shawl.
I’m at the door, ready to go downstairs, when Lizzie touches my shoulder. She smiles at me, and I think she knows that I feel out of sorts. ‘You look very nice, Miss Chrissy.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, even though I don’t believe her.
‘You could see the baby after dinner, miss, if you really want to.’
‘Really?’ A little of the bleakness lifts.
‘My sister always pops round just before I finish for the day. If you come to the kitchen after dinner, you can see baby while Cook and I clean up.’
‘Oh, I’d love to!’ I exclaim, not caring that it might not be proper and what Mama would call ladylike. I want to see the baby, suddenly desperate to reassure myself that brown hair and a turned down mouth doesn’t mean a childless future. I smile at Lizzie, the shawl of unhappiness slipping from my shoulders, and I go down the stairs to dinner.
)
