“Eh, but there should be; I remember Missis sayin’ . . .” Mrs. Royer felt clumsily among the tissue paper and uttered a triumphant,” Here y’are; fancy missin’ that,” and she brought from underneath where it had been lying flat, a navy-blue knitted hat something like a turban. It suited Flo; she felt as well dressed as she imagined any queen could feel. She took off its nail the square of pitted glass that was kept by the window, and holding it in both hands, tilted her head first one way then the other to see how she would appear to passers-by on either side.
“Now, you
“Oh, I wouldn’t have done that!” exclaimed Flo. “Isn’t it . . .,” she didn’t want to say “natty” again, because she had already used it three times, therefore she ended with “neat?”
“It might have growed on you, it’s that much as it should be,” agreed her mother. “Let me try.”
But on her round skull with streaky hair hanging all round like cobwebs the turban made her look “like nothin’ on earth”, as she said, and she dragged it off and gave it back. “It don’t look like the same when you have it on,” she said, quite relieved that she had not spoilt it. “My word, what’ll Mrs. Dower an’ Sal Fairburn, an’ Old Poll say . . . an’ Sarah Ann? Huh, it was Sarah as told me as I’d no right to send you away. Let me get my things on.”
She bustled to the door and plucked her hat and coat off the nail as if there were a fire and she had to escape.
“What, keep them on and go with you?” asked Flo. “I . . . I’m not washed or anything.”
“Who’ll know with you with them things on?” demanded Mrs. Royer, leading to the front door.
Flo followed, hesitant yet thrilled; and the daffodils forgotten in the firelight, seemed to shake their heads.
On Sunday morning Flo was taken to the Vicarage where Mrs. Royer worked. There was a cook, who was also supposed to be general, but she never touched any job that was dirty or tiring. Ivy and Flo had told their mother that she ought to leave, only she had been going there for twenty-two years last February 28, a date easy to remember, so that it was foolish even to expect her to leave. All Saturday night Flo had been happy, standing to be admired and stroked by her mother’s friends, listening to exclamations and questions, and aware of jealousy when there were others of about her own age present. But now she felt different.
“Is Missis up?” asked Mrs. Royer as soon as she had got her head and first foot across the back doorstep.
“Up? Of course,” snapped Mrs. Worthing, six feet two, little more than a skeleton. It was one of her grumbles that Mrs. Royer should be allowed to get there at nine on Sundays instead of at eight. “She’s been up half an hour.”
“Here’s our Flo,” said Mrs. Royer, quite deaf to the antagonism. “What d’you think of her? Isn’t she a stunner?”
The inspection was made with a widening of the lower part of Mrs. Worthing’s nostrils, the wings of which had a curious flexibility that let her make a sneer her most artistic accomplishment.
“Where did she get them?” she asked.
“Missis got ’em,” Mrs. Royer answered, enjoying her moment.
“Whatever for?”
“To go to job as she’s got her; that as I told you of, and as you said wouldn’t be no good.”
“And if she’s got to be dolled up for it like that, it won’t be no good. If she was any girl of mine, I’d send them back and tell them I can dress my own daughter without any of their charity.”
Mrs. Worthing turned away and clanged the iron frying-pan on the gas-stove.
“It isn’t charity; she’s going to pay for ’em,” said Mrs. Royer determinedly. “Where’s Missis?”
“There’s all the washing-up waiting,” Mrs. Worthing stated coldly, now ignoring Flo. “Missis’ll have no time to waste. It’s a special service . . .”
“She’ll be in the breakfast-room, is she?”
Mrs. Royer accepted cook’s silence as “Yes”, and told Flo to wait. She came back five minutes later and told Flo to follow. They went through the hall which was overcrowded with a Victorian hatstand, a mahogany table with a marble top, and a much-carved black oak chest. There was a smell of dust. The breakfast-room was on the right. The vicar’s wife was at the far side of the fireplace sitting very upright in a maroon silk dressing-gown decorated with large scroll pattern in white. Her plentiful auburn hair was done loosely, chiefly towards the front, so that it helped to increase her appearance of height, and Flo felt small, as if she were going up to someone on a dais.