Page 54 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
‘Nonsense, you’re doing a marvellous job,’ Estelle says firmly. ‘Talking of your brother … where is Rudy this evening? Has he left you here doing all the work as usual?’
‘No, he helped me to clear up after dinner. He’s just popped out on some errands for your father.’
‘What sort of errands?’
‘I don’t know – he didn’t say. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, though, if you’re looking for him?’ Holly suggests innocently.
‘No, no,’ Estelle says lightly. ‘I just wondered where he was, that’s all.’
‘I’ll tell Rudy you were asking after him.’ Holly raises her eyebrows. ‘I’m sure he’d be glad to know.’
‘Only if you remember,’ Estelle says breezily. ‘It’s not important.’
‘Of course.’ Holly gives her a knowing smile.
A bell rings on the kitchen wall. It’s part of the same set of bells that were in the Victorian kitchen. Clearly a better way of summoning your staff has not yet been invented.
‘That’s your mother,’ Holly says, glancing at the bell. ‘I’d better go and see what she wants.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll go.’ Estelle hops off the table. ‘I was going to go up and visit her anyway. You carry on with your planning – some fish would be wonderful this week if you can get some. I do so tire of all the meat dishes Father insists on every evening.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Holly says, winking. ‘Let me know if your mother requires anything more than a visit with her favourite daughter.’
‘Only daughter,’ Estelle reminds her. ‘But thank you, I will.’
Silently, we all follow Estelle. She goes back up the flight of stairs that leads to the hall, then up the second set of stairs to the floor above the sitting and dining room. It doesn’t look that dissimilar to how I know this space today. The bare floor boards are covered, like the stairs, with a narrow piece of carpet that runs the length but not the width of the landing. The walls are painted a plain cream, with an occasional watercolour painting hung from a wooden picture rail, and the doors, which I know as stripped wood in 2018, are painted in a thick cream gloss paint.
The young Estelle walks towards one of the doors – the door I know as my bedroom – and knocks gently on it.
‘Come,’ a weak voice calls, and the young Estelle turns the handle. ‘Estelle, how lovely,’ the voice says. ‘I was expecting it to be Holly.’
‘Come.’ Our Estelle beckons us all into the bedroom.
I feel a bit strange, first to be intruding into someone else’s bedroom without them knowing we are here, and secondly, that this is the same room I use now, with the same view out over the square. I can’t help feeling relieved when I see that the large bed, with its varnished wooden headboard that a pale and frail-looking woman is sitting propped up against, is not the same one I sleep in now.
But then something clicks – this isn’t just any woman, is it? This is Clara, Estelle’s mother, the strong, feisty, independent woman we met in the last story.
I’m quite shocked. Eighteen years may have passed, but Clara looks a shadow of her former self as she rests against several white feather pillows. She’s frail and clearly in poor health as the dark shadows under her eyes attest to. Her dark hair, which was so carefully pinned up in 1918, is now peppered with grey and tied back in a loose ponytail at the side of her head, and she wears a short, pink frilly jacket over her nightgown.
‘Yes, it’s me instead.’ Estelle walks over to the bed. ‘Did you want Holly to bring you something in particular?’
‘I was going to ask her for some fresh water,’ Clara says, a little shamefaced. ‘But that was only so I could have a little chat with someone. My water is absolutely fine.’
‘Oh, Mother,’ Estelle says, sitting down on the edge of the bed now. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in to visit you much today. I’ve been a little busy.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Clara takes her daughter’s hand. ‘You’re here now, and I’ve been quite content watching the snow fall outside my window today. The flakes are so pretty when they land on the glass. So intricate and full of detail.’
‘Did you know every one is different?’ Estelle says. ‘No two are the same.’
‘What a clever girl you are,’ Clara says proudly. ‘So well read for a young lady of your age. Now, entertain me some more by telling me all about your day.’
While Estelle goes through quite a dull list of events that have made up her day, from washing her hair to reading a book, I take a look around the bedroom.
It’s just how I imagine a 1930s bedroom might look. Various paintings – a vase of flowers, a countryside scene, and one of a hairy little dog that looks a bit like Alvie – hang from a high picture rail that has a floral chintzy border underneath. There is a large wooden wardrobe with smooth curved edges, a matching chest of drawers and a pretty Art Deco-style dressing table with a triptych mirror. On the table are some green and pink glass bottles, and a vanity set consisting of a silver-backed mirror and matching hairbrush. Clara’s bed matches the soft style of the other furniture, and, along with her many pillows that are helping her to sit up in the bed, she’s covered in a sumptuous pink silk eiderdown.
Although my bed is different from Clara’s, I do recognise some of the other pieces of furniture that still remain in my room today – especially the Art Deco dressing table, which I so admired when I first saw it.
‘Anything else?’ Clara asks when she’s finished. ‘You’re looking very beautiful tonight, Estelle, is that for a special reason?’
