Chapter Eight #3
I open the wardrobe. Mr Skipton is very tidy.
Jackets are arranged on hangers in an orderly row according to colour – black to navy to beige and finally brown, and are made in all sorts of fabrics.
I finger them curiously, trying to get a sense of the man who wears them.
Wool, silk, cotton, velvet and tweed. Below the jackets is a rail for trousers.
I’m quite mesmerised by the choice. Ulysses would kill to have a cupboard like this!
I push my nose into the jackets and inhale the scent of sandalwood.
‘Is everything all right, Mrs Skipton?’ I jump as if caught with my hand in the safe. It’s the maid again. She is standing in the doorway with a sequinned green dress hanging over her arm. Her tone is gentle and a touch fearful, and she’s looking at me with concern.
‘Everything is just fine,’ I reply, and smile, closing the cupboard. I feel my face burning guiltily.
Her concern turns to pity. I’m not sure why she’s looking at me like that. My blush deepens.
‘Your dress for tonight,’ she says. ‘I managed to get that stain out, although it took a fair bit of elbow grease. I’m not sure what that dog had to eat.’
I can’t imagine what the hell she’s talking about. But I agree with a nod. ‘Thank you very much. I’m so grateful.’ Then I remember what she said about Cook. ‘When will Bunsen mend the range?’
‘You know Bunsen!’ She laughs cautiously. I don’t think she’s one to easily give in to joy.
I laugh with her. ‘Oh, I do,’ I reply, wishing I knew her name. ‘Well, let’s hope he manages to fix it before supper.’
‘Indeed, or it will be cold meat and cheese again. The young ladies won’t like that, two nights in a row.’
Are the young ladies Eddie’s daughters? ‘We can’t have Cook giving in her notice, can we?’ I add.
She shakes her head and clicks her tongue. ‘She’s all bark and no bite, that one. Don’t you worry, ma’am, she’ll manage. We all will.’ She hesitates and looks past me to the wardrobe. ‘Were you looking for something?’
‘No, no. I’m about to go out.’
She nods slowly, but her eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘I do keep it clean and tidy in here, you know, even though …’ She gives a little sniff and lifts her chin, then turns and walks back into Eddie’s bedroom.
I follow her. I watch her carefully lay the dress on the bed. ‘You’ll look lovely in this tonight,’ she says, and her voice is full of pride. ‘Perhaps the black headband with the green feather, and those pearl earrings Mr Skipton gave you that time he took you to Paris.’
‘Ah, Paris,’ I repeat and smile at what surely must be a lovely recollection.
She regards me with such sympathy, I’m taken aback. I wonder whether I shouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic about Paris. She purses her lips. ‘Damn the war,’ she says, then adds quickly, putting a finger to her lips, ‘Pardon my French, ma’am.’
I glance at the gold clock on the mantlepiece.
There seems to be a fireplace in every room, and a clock too.
It’s now twenty to twelve. Twenty minutes to the mysterious rendezvous.
I’d like to ask the maid, but I doubt she’d know.
The letter seemed secretive. I sigh. There’s nothing for it.
I can’t go to ‘the usual place’ so I’ll have to go to the theatre instead and see what’s going on there.
‘I’m heading out,’ I say, and leave her staring at me with a strange look on her face.
She must think me very odd. I don’t even know her name.
Just before I set off down the stairs, I remember the possibility of Eddie writing a journal and pop back into the room to ask her about it. ‘I can’t remember where I put it,’ I tell her hopefully.
She frowns. ‘I wasn’t aware that you wrote a journal, ma’am.’
I shrug. ‘Oh, I’ve only recently started. I thought it would be fun to record the minutiae of my life,’ I say. ‘If you come across it, do let me know.’ I feel her confused gaze boring into my back as I turn and walk away.
The scissor-grinder is working on the clock in the dining room.
I decide to see if I can elicit some information from him.
‘Good morning,’ I say cheerfully, trying to convey the appropriate confidence and authority of the woman who owns this house.
‘Will you do the clocks upstairs as well, please?’ I add in order to start a conversation.
He doffs his cap. He’s a rough-looking man with weathered brown skin, bushy eyebrows and a thick, woolly grey beard. His eyes are very blue, shining out of his face like sapphires in rock. ‘Yes, madam,’ he replies. His West Country accent is tightly wound, like his clocks.
‘If you need anything, you know whom to ask.’
‘I do, indeed, madam. Mrs Crocker says she will escort me upstairs when I’m ready.’
I silently congratulate myself. Smoothly done! I smile at him. ‘Very well.’
I leave him to it, satisfied that my skills are being honed with each new slide. No doubt about it, I’m getting quite good at this.
There are hooks by the front door upon which various coats and hats are hanging.
I choose a bright red, brimless hat because Eddie Skipton is clearly a woman who likes colour, then stand before the mirror to put it on.
It complements the light tan on my skin and is very becoming.
I admire myself a moment. Pixie Tate is not beautiful like Eddie Skipton.
It’s a delightful novelty to be so good-looking, and I make a mental note to bask in it while I can.
I take a deep breath, then open the door and step out into this strange new world of 1923.