Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Violet
Painted Carnations
She had expected winter in England to be cold– and rainy. Everyone on the boat had been more than happy to discuss the weather. At first she thought they had exaggerated. This rain, which drifted rather than fell, could not be the famous London rain everybody talked about?
But weeks on, months on, she has realised the persistent power of it. While nobody was watching, this insignificant drizzle has politely robbed everything around it of colour, until all is grey and damp.
The only splash of brightness in their street is an advertisement painted on the side of a house at the end of the terrace, wet brickwork showing through the red and white painted flowers.
Carnation Milk, the milk from contented cows .
She has not seen a single cow or sheep since they arrived in England, and she wonders if they too come in tins here.
‘Carnation Milk is the best in the land,
Here I sit with a can in my hand.
No tits to pull, no hay to pitch,
You just punch a hole in the son of a bitch.’
One of her brothers– whoever is nearest– might get a swipe from their mother if they reach the end-line, but it doesn’t stop them singing it as they pound up the stairs to their small flat on the first floor. Her brothers have quickly adopted the songs, the sayings and the accent of London. They have learnt to dodge through the streets and alleyways, and they jump and splash through the puddles with ease. ‘Right little Londoners,’ their uncle calls them.
She has no idea where they are today, but she is glad to have the kitchen for just herself and her sister as they try to make something of their mother’s hat ready for her interview tomorrow. She pulls gently at the brim, easing out the creases. Her sister sits close beside her, looking through a box of ribbons, proud of the fact she knows her colours.
She doesn’t mind what ribbon her sister chooses as long as it isn’t yellow. She wonders if the yellow ribbon bound around the flowers at her father’s grave has now faded to white, fluttering and flying somewhere over the grasslands that surround the church.
Her sister is looking up at her anxiously and she realises she hasn’t responded to her.
‘Yes, a blue ribbon will be perfect. She’ll like that.’
Her sister smiles.
The rain will probably try and rob her mother’s hat of any shape, but she wants to put up a fight against the damp. She knows her mother must look her best, that they all need her to get this job. She overheard her mother and uncle discussing it. Her mother had ended up reassuring the big man as he shifted from foot to foot. She had said she knew he couldn’t do more for them, she was grateful for what he and the family had done. He mustn’t worry. She’d said she was happy to look for work, and if work meant she had to go away, so be it. They would manage.
After his visit, her mother was unusually quiet and had not even tried to swat at the boys when they came in singing. She just kept looking at them, saying very little.
That evening, the priest calls to talk to her mother about the boys, but she does not want to overhear that conversation. Nonetheless, sitting on the stairs with her sister, she can make out the shape of her mother’s whispers if not the precise words.
While her mother’s words are indistinct, the priest’s are clearer. But then he is a man who would never hear a pin drop.
‘It’s for the best. The nuns will look after them.’
Not wanting to hear more, she takes her sister to the park at the end of the road to feed the ducks.
They at least seem to like the rain.