Chapter Seven
It’s like stepping back in time.
‘Jane Austen lived here during the last eight years of her life and this is regarded by many to be her literary home . . .’
Our tour guide is chuntering away as she leads us through the seventeenth-century red-brick house which has been turned into a museum, and although I’m trying to focus, my attention keeps drifting.
Gazing around the tastefully decorated rooms of Chawton Cottage, filled with original Regency furniture, the twenty-first century seems to have slipped away.
Gone is the noise, bustle and frantic pace of modern-day life where you have to run just to keep up.
It’s as if someone hit ‘Mute’ and everything’s slowed right down.
I’ve entered this peaceful, contemplative world of writing letters with feather quills and Indian ink, reading quietly in button-back chairs and playing the harpsichord after dinner.
I stare at the harpsichord now, picturing myself sitting upright in my corset, tinkling on the keys.
Actually, I can only play ‘Chopsticks’, despite years of piano lessons, so I’d probably be reading instead.
Poetry maybe, or something romantic in Latin.
Not that I can read Latin, but I’m sure it would be different if I’d lived then.
I mean, everything would be so different, wouldn’t it? There’d be no listening to a new album on my phone, no surfing the internet and Googling that new man I’ve just met, no ordering takeout and eating spicy shrimp bhuna while watching some new drama on TV . . .
OK, now that might be tough. I pause for a moment to reflect on a world without the internet.
But you can’t miss what you’ve never had, and think how wonderful it would be to spend your evenings doing something mentally stimulating, instead of slobbing in front of the TV.
Like writing a letter to a distant cousin, or discussing the merits of Shakespeare, or doing some needlepoint.
Oh, all right – so perhaps the needlepoint might get a little boring after a while.
I mean, sewing ‘Home Sweet Home’ probably isn’t that stimulating, but I’m sure you can embroider whatever you want.
Like, for example, Coldplay lyrics onto a pillowcase, or a picture of Frida Kahlo onto a dish towel .
. . Actually, you know what? That’s probably really hard.
Especially if, like me, you’re not that good at art, and you can’t even sew on a button without pricking your finger and making it bleed, but I’m sure you could think of something.
I’m only drawing a blank at the moment because of the jet lag.
‘. . . and ahead of us we have the dining parlour, where she would spend her mornings writing, and the “creaking door”, which would alert her to visitors . . .’
Zoning back in to our tour guide’s commentary, I see she’s now moving through the vestibule and into a room at the front of the house.
Gathered loosely into a group, we obediently shuffle along behind her, our footsteps echoing on the polished honey-coloured floorboards.
I glance down at them now, at the thick, battle-scarred varnish beneath the crêpe soles of my boots.
Gosh, it’s so amazing to think that Jane Austen once walked around this house, and on these very floorboards.
She probably stood in this very spot, I tell myself, pausing by one of the many windows to gaze out across the neatly planted garden, which is being slowly drenched.
It’s raining pretty hard now and it’s getting dark.
It almost looks like there’s going to be a storm.
‘. . . and as you can see, we have photocopies of some of Jane’s letters displayed on the walls, and a copy of Cassandra’s portrait of Jane in 1810 hangs over the fireplace . . .’
Turning away from the window, I follow the group into the parlour and stand on tiptoe to see over everyone’s shoulders.
Despite being quite tall, it’s difficult to see.
Older women, I’m discovering, don’t swap their high heels for comfy flats and crêpe-soled Hush Puppies once they hit sixty – something that I’ve been led to believe.
On the contrary, Rose is wearing a pair of killer black stiletto boots with three-inch heels, and Maeve’s tramping around in a pair of vintage brown leather boots, not unlike the ones I saw in Stella’s copy of Elle.
In fact, the only person wearing comfy flats with crêpe soles is me.
Dismissing the worrying thought that I’ve been out-fashioned by women old enough to be my grandmother, while simultaneously wishing I’d taken more style advice from Stella rather than hooting with laughter every time she came to work in a wacky new outfit, I peer over the roped area to where Miss Steane is pointing.
‘. . . by the window is the original table where she revised Pride and Prejudice and created the Mr Darcy we know and love today,’ she declares, getting rather carried away.
‘And we also have an example of the type of feather quill she would have used to bring him to life. Or could it be, perhaps, the very one!’
Wow. I stare at the little round wooden table for a moment, absorbing its significance. Just think, that’s where it all happened. Pretty incredible.
‘Amazing, huh?’ mutters a voice close to my ear.
I jump. Spike, the journalist, is standing next to me. Seeing him again is like a trigger.
‘pretty dull . . . average-looking’.
The effect of his words hasn’t dulled. They sting just as hard as when I heard them.
I throw him the most withering look I can summon up.
I call it my ‘shit-on-my-shoe’ look, and I have to say, it’s pretty effective.
I once did it to myself in the bathroom mirror, just to see, and boy, it even made me feel like shit.
Satisfied, I turn away. Well, that’s the last you’re going to be hearing from him, Emily Albright.
‘To think she wrote all her stuff longhand, and with a feather quill. It’s bloody unbelievable, isn’t it? I mean, crikey, I write all my articles on my laptop and it still takes me for ever,’ he chuckles to himself.
Er, hello, is he still talking to me? Doesn’t he realise I’m blanking him?
The group is shuffling around the parlour, looking at the various objects of historical interest and reading the plastic-covered information that goes with them.
Moving sideways, I stare determinedly ahead.
I will not make eye contact. I will not make eye contact.
‘Just imagine not being able to hit the delete key.’
I wish I could hit the frigging delete key. That way, I could delete you, I curse silently.
Anger now, Emily, warns a little voice.
I quickly compose myself. I’m not angry. I’m not angry at all. I really couldn’t care less what he said about me.
‘So, you’re a big Jane Austen fan, huh?’ he persists obliviously.
Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough.
‘Listen, buddy, I couldn’t care less about you, your laptop or your stupid newspaper article,’ I snap, rounding on him. ‘So why don’t you go hassle someone else with your questions and leave me alone?’
OK, I take it back. I’m angry. And I’ve made eye contact. Fuck.
‘Whoah.’ He throws up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Who rattled your cage?’
He pretends to back off, his hands still up in the air, a sardonic look on his face. God, that man is so unbearable, I fume.
Finally he turns away and begins excusing his way through the group, his spiral notebook in one hand, a Dictaphone in the other.
I stare after him for a moment and notice how the hem of his corduroy jacket is coming unstitched and the way his jeans are so old they’ve worn away by the back pocket and you can see a flash of boxer-short material beneath.
Huh. And I thought British men were supposed to be all smart and stylish. I mean, just look at him. This guy is such a mess.
Feeling irritated, I turn and focus on a pair of Victorian buckled shoes in a glass case.
Cute, though, I think begrudgingly.
Forty minutes later we’re still slowly making our way around the house.
So far we’ve seen the drawing room, the dining parlour, where Jane wrote on the small round table, and been upstairs to the bedrooms to look at the patchwork quilt she made with her mother.
Hers was obviously not the life of disastrous dates, vodka martinis and Sunday mornings spent in bed with a hangover, I reflect, thinking about how different my own life is.
But at least we do have one thing in common – books.
Entering one of the rooms, I see a showcase that houses an interesting collection of books. My eyes flit across the embossed spines, reading the various titles. Like myself, Jane was obviously a huge fan of reading, I reflect happily, feeling a bond with the author.
She also died single, reminds a little voice inside me.
Right, OK.
Turning away from the showcase, I look at the other members of the group.
Absorbed in their pamphlets and brochures, they’re stopping and staring at various points of interest. Maeve is bent over a showcase of family silver, while Rose is peering at some jewellery and brooches and fanning herself with a copy of Sense and Sensibility.
I stifle a yawn. Gosh, my jet lag is really bad. I could do with a little nap.
‘And so, moving on to the admiral’s room. Here you will find memorabilia of her two sailor brothers, Francis and Charles, both of whom had distinguished careers in the Royal Navy . . .’
Hmm, that doesn’t sound very interesting.
I glance at my watch. The museum is about to close, so it wouldn’t hurt if I skipped this bit.
Maybe I should go for a little walkabout.
Go outside and get a bit of fresh air to try and wake myself.
I glance out of the window. It’s still raining, but I think I saw some umbrellas at the entrance when we came in.
I hang back as Miss Steane leads the rest of the tour through a doorway, and when I’m sure no one’s looking, I slip quietly out of the room.