Evelyn Swift

An Excerpt

Nottingham, England — 1920

Albert’s mother rarely used her parlour, reserving it for special occasions. And so I looked across at Albert wondering just what the event was, as I shifted Sheila on my knee on the scratchy horsehair sofa. Four-year-old Syd seemed ill-at-ease. He wasn’t used to being allowed into the parlour.

And then I realized. It was all Margie’s doing.

Hearty was the word that kept coming to my mind as I watched her slip the green satin cosy over the teapot and start to cut the cake. Marige was a hearty girl both in looks and manner. She was generously proportioned and her thick, dark hair was generous also, framing cheeks that were firm and rosy.

For some reason a line from a poem ran through my mind, “when merry milkmaids click the latch.” Margie did remind me of pictures I’d seen of buxom girls carrying pails full of milk with barns and pastures in the background. And she had a bubbling laugh, which escaped often. But it was her warmth, good nature, combined with natural motherliness, as though she could take care of everybody and everything and enjoy doing it into the bargain, that made her seem so hearty.

She looked across at me and smiled. “Ellen, what can I cut for you? Lemon or raspberry? Albert?”

It had been five months since George had married Margie in London. After the wedding George told us that they had talked it over and then decided to ask his mother if it would be all right if they lived with her. For a while, at least.

“It seemed a good idea to both of us,” George had said, “to share the house rather than look for a place to rent, when Mother had room for us here.”

Margie had apparently said she could fit in anywhere. She’d been doing it all of her life. She certainly fits in here, I told myself, watching her take a piece of cake over to Albert’s mother, who sat in her chair, a shawl about her shoulders, looking almost cheerful.

“Move the footstool a little closer, be so good,” she asked Margie, settling the plate on her lap, and it was plain she was used now to expecting these little attentions. Margie did as she was asked, then went back to the table and handed me a piece of cake. There were two cakes on the stands, and Albert selected lemon. “My, this tastes good,” he commented.

“Oh, Margie’s the best cook you could ever imagine, she has such a hand with pastry, it melts in your mouth.” His mother eased her back slightly.

Margie laughed and took a piece of cake, then put her plate down.

“Oh, the forks, I forgot,” she cried, getting up and bustling out of the room, despite the fact that we were all managing very well without them. I expect she’d learned such niceties in service. George smiled and said she had so much energy. “She can’t sit still for five minutes without thinking of something to do,” he said. “She never gets tired.”

Margie handed out the forks and asked Albert’s mother if she’d like more cake. His mother carefully collected crumbs together with her fork and then eyed the table meditatively.

“I will have a piece of the other as it’s your raspberry sponge,” she said at last, as though she couldn’t resist such temptation. I glanced around the room as Margie cut through the icing sugar dusting the cake. There were flowers in the vases and the brasses gleamed. There was also a clean, fresh smell in the house, and I sniffed, reminded of soap and floor polish and newly-ironed clothes.

I handed Albert’s mother her piece of cake. Margie’s industry was apparent everywhere. A new runner on the dresser, antimacassars on the chairs and sofa, a fresh pelmet on the mantelpiece. The curtains hung crisply, obviously recently starched. The fine house in Belgravia where Margie had worked must have given her a taste for elegance. She was doing all she could with this one, although you could hardly say it would ever be elegant.

I looked at Albert’s mother finishing the last of her cake. She brushed crumbs from her shawl with knobbed fingers and passed me the empty plate. “Very nice,” she said, “Margie knows just what I like.” She moved her feet slightly on the footstool and I noticed that she was wearing a new pair of dark red slippers.

“They look nice and cosy,” I said, nodding towards them.

Albert’s mother followed my gaze. “Yes, Margie chose them. And they’re thinking of getting a clock with Westminster chimes for the mantelpiece. Margie thinks one would look nice there, and chimes are so pleasant to listen to,” she went on, as animated as I had ever seen her. “When I can’t sleep I’ll be able to hear them and the hours won’t seem so long and lonely.” She managed a sigh.

I put the plate on the table. She’ll never let them go, I thought, noticing how contentedly she leaned back, despite the sigh. And Margie will cosset her to the end of her days. I don’t know how many Margies there are in this world, but George couldn’t have found anyone who would have delighted his mother more. She’d acquired a jewel, a true and shining jewel.

George came to the table with an empty cake plate. He put his hand on Margie’s shoulder and she looked up at him, knife poised. “What is it this time, love? Lemon or raspberry?” she inquired, her face tilted so artlessly that George made a slight movement as though to kiss her. But he caught himself in time. You didn’t do that in public. I don’t think his mother would have approved, not even from George and Margie.

“Take the rest of the raspberry sponge home with you, Ellen,” Margie said, busy with the knife. “Syd told me it’s his favorite. I’ll make him one for his birthday.”

“It’s not till next June,” Syd said, looking disappointed.

“Bless you. I’ll make you one anytime. What about Guy Fawkes’ Day next month?”

“Oh, yes please,” Syd said.