Page 42 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
Peace on Earth, Good will to all (Wo)Men
As has happened for the past two nights, the furniture begins to move as the decor in the sitting room changes. Even though I’m prepared for it tonight, it’s still amazing to witness the room morph before our eyes.
Estelle’s eclectic mix of styles all simultaneously change into one I easily recognise from my time on the magazine – Art Nouveau.
The fireplace surround changes to a pale cream, with ornate leafy scrolls carved either side of the fire. The wallpaper is now pale blue, with a yellow-and-pink floral pattern interspersed with birds and insects. In fact, everything in the room is based around nature and plants, with long leafy vines carved into the chairs, picture frames and a newly placed sideboard.
‘I love Art Nouveau,’ I whisper as I watch everything change. ‘It’s so elegant and beautiful. Gosh, is that original William Morris wallpaper?’
The pale, light, inviting Art Nouveau room is so very different to the heavy dark interiors of the Victorian age we witnessed last night. There’s much less clutter everywhere, and the room feels much less oppressive, even though a huge Christmas tree still fills the window. It’s decorated with brightly coloured glass baubles, beads and ornaments, and is now beginning to resemble the Christmas trees we have today. There are no naked candles this time, but some wicks covered by glass bulbs wait ready to be lit when the evening comes.
‘Here he comes,’ Angela says, as though she’s seen this story before. ‘Mind yourselves.’
We all stand up and vacate our chairs as a man enters the room. He’s wearing a brown suit made from a tweed fabric, along with a waistcoat, shirt and tie. He has a dark moustache, but no beard, and he’s smoking a pipe.
‘Nasty, smelly thing,’ Estelle says, turning up her nose. ‘He always had it on the go.’
The man sits in one of the chairs by the fire and opens up a newspaper.
The front page reads something about a general election, and there is a black-and-white photo of a man with white hair and a bushy moustache, who the paper tells us is David Lloyd George, the current prime minister.
‘The man sitting by the fire is my father,’ Estelle says without any feeling in her voice. ‘Currently, he works for the same publishing house that my great-great-grandfather Robin worked for in our Victorian story. I’m not sure why – he never cared about books, let alone read any. My lovely mother, who you will meet in a moment, is the granddaughter of Timothy, the young boy in our last story.’
A heavily pregnant woman comes into the – what should we call it now? A parlour, a sitting room, a front room? I rack my brains trying to remember what it would have been called in 1918. A drawing room, perhaps? I turn my attention back to the pretty woman who’s wearing a calf-length, olive-green pinafore dress and underneath it a white long-sleeved blouse with a large square collar. I’ve seen her somewhere before, but looking a little older …
The man looks up from his newspaper. ‘Clara, I thought you were resting?’
‘I was,’ Clara replies. ‘But I’m up now, Stephen. I have errands to run.’
‘Let Ivy run the errands,’ Stephen says. ‘It’s snowing outside and you’re in no state to be running anywhere. You should be in your confinement.’
‘Nonsense.’ Clara puts her hand on her tummy. ‘That’s such an outdated practice. Have you learnt nothing from the Great War, Stephen? Women can do so much more than you men ever gave us credit for. We kept this country running while the men were away fighting. Ah, Ivy,’ she says as another woman enters the room. Ivy is wearing a similar-length dress as Clara, but it’s plainer, and made from a much cheaper navy fabric. Over it she wears a white apron, and on her feet sensible lace-up shoes. ‘Thank you, Ivy,’ Clara says as Ivy holds out Clara’s thick coat for her to put on, which is in the same shade of dark green as her dress.
‘And you have been rewarded for it with the right to vote.’ Stephen flicks his paper. ‘The newspapers are full of the Representation of the People Act and how it will affect the voting today.’
‘Thank you,’ Clara says again, taking a large, floppy, burgundy velvet hat from Ivy. She goes over to a gilt mirror on the wall and arranges it on her head. ‘Representation of the People,’ she repeats with a hint of contempt. ‘It should beallof the people, notsomeof the people – there shouldn’t be rules to democracy.’
‘At least you have the vote now.’ Stephen returns his gaze to his newspaper. ‘That’s what you and your cronies have been campaigning for all these years, isn’t it?’
‘They are not my cronies, they are my fellow suffragettes,’ Clara corrects him. ‘And I only have the vote today because I’m over thirty, and we are fortunate to have some wealth.’ She spins around from the mirror to look at Stephen. ‘But what about all those under that age who have been fighting with us, or those less fortunate who do not have property worth five pounds or more? They have gained nothing. We will continue the fight until all women have rights equal to those of men.’
Stephen smiles. ‘I fear that will be a very long time in the future, my dear. Long after our time, if it ever happens at all.’
‘It will happen,’ Clara says, a determined look in her eye. ‘And we won’t stop fighting until it does. Will we, Ivy?’
Ivy, who has been standing quietly by the door while Clara arranges her hat, jumps.
‘Er … yes, madam. If you say so.’
‘I do. Do you have my – oh, you do,’ she says gratefully as Ivy passes her a pair of burgundy leather gloves.
‘What about you, Ivy?’ Stephen asks, dipping his newspaper to speak to her. ‘Will you be voting today?’
‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ Ivy says. ‘I’m not sure it’s for the likes of me to choose government.’
‘Of course it is, Ivy,’ Clara says. ‘It’s for people like all of us. But sadly, as I’ve just pointed out to my husband, you will not be eligible as you do not have property.’
‘No, madam.’
