Chapter One #3
The house wasn’t in good repair, and my father spent what money he had on having it rewired, and the cracked paint sanded down and decorated, but whatever improvements were made haven’t ever entirely removed the stale, dusty smell of the ancient carpets or stopped the draughts from whistling down the corridors.
To this day there’s an air of faded grandeur, especially in my mother’s bedroom where the finest furniture lives and where her best diamonds glimmer forlornly from tattered velvet, on a mahogany dressing table adorned with discoloured scent bottles and silver topped brushes.
There’s an echo of another time in the mottled looking glass that sometimes captures a lost image from the past reflected in its murky surface, when an old sepia photograph of an ancestor, clothed in black silk, stares with lifeless eyes from a tarnished silver frame.
I’ve grown up in beautiful, yet dilapidated surroundings for most of my life, punctuated with flashes of wild modernity when Mum has come into a small legacy from a forgotten relative.
Then the drawing room has glowed with new loose covers on the sofa in sensuous psychedelia, at odds with the walnut chiffonier and buttoned back chairs, and we’ve celebrated with a cocktail party.
I remember my mother looking very sophisticated in black at one of these parties, the diamonds glittering in her ears as she handed out hors d’oeuvres - devils on horseback and mushroom vol-au-vents.
My father always said she reminded him of Princess Grace of Monaco, and if not quite a princess in her youth, I think she’d known a different life before she fell in love with my dad.
It’s easy to imagine her in a ball gown, a long train trailing across a red carpet - in my mind’s eye I see her stepping from a sleek car with white Gardenias scenting her hair, as young men bow and hold out their hands to fill hers with saucers of pink champagne or twirl her across a polished dance floor.
I remember on one occasion actually having a party dress bought for me, a rare treat.
It had a scarlet velvet bodice, layer upon layer of white organza with a ribbon sash, and I had black patent leather shoes.
I think I was about eight years of age and I felt very grown-up when my father presented me with a jewelled brooch of a twirling ballerina to pin on my frock.
I found it, recently, in my old treasure box wrapped in a silk handkerchief my aunt sent from her travels in Greece.
It was strange, yet weirdly comforting to find what I’d considered to be precious mementos back then.
Apart from the brooch, I discovered a cat’s collar belonging to my grandmother’s old black cat Boogie-Woogie, a glass bottle painted with Devon violets and still smelling cloyingly of the sweet scent, a Christmas postcard my grandpa had sent in the First World War, a heart-shaped trinket box encrusted with shells, and a faded box of Floral Cachous.
***
Ellen talks a lot, but I think she’s just trying to put me at my ease.
‘What would you like to do first, when we get there, Caroline?’ she said, craning round to look at me, a wide smile on her scarlet painted lips. ‘Do you like shopping? I expect you do, all girls like shopping.’
To tell the truth, I do like shopping, but I don’t do it very much - all my clothes are homemade, and there’s only ever enough money for the occasional book, or a magazine, and a bar of chocolate.
I used to have a Saturday job in a dress shop, which helped pay for my art materials and fabrics, but I had to give in my notice when I became ill.
Mum’s given me a little bit of money, though it’s got to last for the whole holiday, and I think I might need some of it to take Mr and Mrs Appleby out for a treat, as a sort of thank you for having me.
‘I like window shopping,’ I started to say, and then felt I must sound really silly, and added, ‘I love buying material to make a new dress, and a set of buttons can completely transform an old coat.’
‘I can see you like nice clothes, Caroline, and I always wanted a little girl to dress up. Would you let me take you shopping, my dear?’
What could I say? I know I should have felt instantly grateful, but all I could think was that she might want to choose my clothes for me, and then I knew for certain, I’d be clothed in the old-fashioned Crimplene frocks, beige slacks, and Kay shoes that she wears.
‘That’s very kind, but I shouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I insisted. ‘I really don’t need anything, and I’ve brought lots with me.’
‘Caroline, you don’t realise just what a treat it would be for me. Now, I know you’re a good girl, but I shan’t hear any more of your polite rebuttals, we will go shopping this very afternoon.’
She turned and smiled indulgently, as if she was very sure I was just being polite, and then I told myself off for having unkind thoughts before silently sending up a prayer to the fashion gods to watch over me in my time of need.
I must have dropped off to sleep for a while because we’re now halfway down the London Road, coming in to Bath.
Mrs Appleby is chatting away to her husband while I feel a little bit like Catherine Morland, all eager delight, and my eyes taking everything in, here, there and everywhere.
It’s just so good to be up and about, and I’m feeling much stronger.
This feels almost like an adventure, and dare I say it, that thought makes me feel happy.
Life is spread out before me, as broad and sweeping as Great Pulteney Street, and as splendid as its majestic townhouses.