Tracy Chevalier - Burning Bright

Jem nodded and got up from the stool. ‘Thank’ee for the beer, sir.’

‘Course, lad.’ Dick Butterfield hooked his foot around Jem’s stool and dragged it back under the table. Maggie grabbed Jem’s half-drunk beer and took a gulp. ‘Bye,’ she said.

‘Z’long.’

On his way out, Jem passed Charlie standing with a crowd of other young men. Charlie glared at him and shoved one of his friends so that he knocked into Jem. The youths laughed and Jem hurried out, glad to get away from the Butterfields. He suspected, however, that he would see Maggie again, even if she had not said ‘Bye for now’ this time. Despite her brother and father, he wanted to.

She reminded him of September blackberries, which looked ripe but could just as easily be sour as sweet when you ate them. Jem could not resist such a temptation.

Anne Kellaway sometimes felt that a cord was tied at one end to her wrist and at the other to the window in the front room. She would be scrubbing potatoes, or washing clothes, or cleaning the ash from the fire, and find herself at the most inconvenient moment – hands smeared with dirt, sheets half-wrung, ash dusting the air – tugged to the window to look out. Often there was nothing unusual to see, but occasionally she was rewarded with something worthwhile: a woman wearing a hat trimmed with long peacock feathers, a man cradling a pineapple as if it were a newborn baby, a boy carrying an uprooted bay tree, its leaves trimmed into the shape of a dove. Maisie or Jem would have called to the others to come and see these unusual sights, but Anne Kellaway preferred to keep such little moments of pleasure to herself.

Today there were no potatoes or ash or laundry keeping her away from the window: it was Easter Monday and she was meant to rest. Maisie and Jem were clearing up after their mid-day meal, leaving Anne Kellaway to gaze down at the crowds of people moving along Hercules Buildings, many of the women dressed in new Easter gowns and bonnets. She had never seen so much colour, such bright cloth, such daring cuts and such surprising trim on the bonnets. There were the usual daffodils and primroses as you might see on hats outside the Piddletrenthide church, but there were also exotic feathers, bunches of multi-coloured ribbons, even fruit. She herself would never wear a lemon on a bonnet, but she rather admired the woman passing who did. She preferred something simpler and more traditional: a plait of daisies or a posy of violets, or one ribbon, like the sky-blue one she’d just seen dangling down a girl’s back almost to her knees. Anne Kellaway would happily wear that, though she would not have it be quite so long. London women seemed to push the length of a ribbon or the angle of a hat just that bit further than Anne Kellaway would dare to herself.

Among the traffic walked a man with a tray of white crosses on his head, calling, ‘Hot-cross buns! Four a penny, cheap for Easter, hot-cross buns! Buy ’em now, last day till next year!’ He stopped in front of the house, just below Anne Kellaway, having found a customer. From the other direction strolled Miss Pelham, her bonnet festooned with tiny yellow ribbons. Anne Kellaway snorted, trying to mask the laugh that had begun to bubble up.

‘What is’t, Ma?’ Maisie asked, looking up from wiping the table clean.

‘Nothing. Just Miss Pelham in a silly hat.’

‘Let me see.’ Maisie came over to the window, peered down and began to giggle. ‘She looks like she’s had a pile of straw dumped on her head!’

‘Shh, Maisie, she’ll hear you,’ Anne Kellaway replied, though not very fiercely. As they watched, a grey horse pulling a peculiar two-wheeled vehicle trotted up the road, scattering bonnet-wearers and potential bun-buyers to the right and left. The cart had big wheels and peculiar dimensions, for though short and narrow, it had a high roof; on the side was a long vertical sign that proclaimed in black letters, ‘ASTLEY’S ROYAL SALOON AND NEW AMPHITHEATRE proudly announces its NEW SEASON beginning TONIGHT! Spectacular Acts to Excite and Stimulate! Doors open 5.30 p.m., prompt start 6.30 p.m.’

Anne and Maisie Kellaway gaped as the gig drew up in front of Miss Pelham’s house and a boy jumped down and said something to Miss Pelham, who frowned and pointed up at the Kellaways’ window. Anne Kellaway shrank back, but was not quick enough at pulling Maisie out of sight as well.

‘Wait, Ma, she’s beckoning to us!’ Maisie pulled Anne Kellaway forward again. ‘Look!’

Miss Pelham was still frowning – as she always did when anything to do with the Kellaways disturbed her – but she was indeed gesturing to them.

‘I’ll go down,’ Maisie declared, turning towards the door.

‘No, you won’t.’ Anne Kellaway stopped her daughter with a steely tone and a hand on her shoulder. ‘Jem, go and see what they want.’

Jem left the pot he had been scouring and raced down the stairs. Maisie and Anne watched from the window as he exchanged a few words with the boy, who then handed him something white. He stared at whatever it was he held, while the boy jumped back into the gig and the driver tapped his whip lightly on the horse’s neck and sped away up Hercules Buildings towards Westminster Bridge Road.

Jem returned a moment later, a puzzled look on his face.

‘What is’t, Jem?’ Maisie demanded. ‘Oh, what have you got?’

Jem looked down at some bits of paper in his hand. ‘Four tickets for Mr Astley’s show tonight, with his compliments.’

Thomas Kellaway looked up from the piece of beech he had been whittling.

‘We’re not going,’ Anne Kellaway declared. ‘We can’t afford it.’

‘No, no, we don’t have to pay. He’s given them to us.’

‘We don’t need his charity. We could buy our own tickets if we wanted.’

‘But you just said—’ Maisie began.

‘We’re not going.’ Anne Kellaway felt like a mouse chased by a cat from one side of a room to the other.

Jem and Maisie looked at their father. Thomas Kellaway was gazing at them all, but did not say anything. He loved his wife, and wanted her to love him back. He would not go against her.

‘Have you finished that pot, Jem?’ Anne Kellaway asked. ‘Once you do we can go for our walk.’ She turned away towards the window, her hands shaking.

Maisie and Jem exchanged glances. Jem went back to the pot.

In the two weeks they’d been in Lambeth, the Kellaways had not gone much beyond the streets immediately surrounding their house. They did not need to – all the shops and stalls they needed were on Lambeth Terrace by Lambeth Green, on Westminster Bridge Road, or on the Lower Marsh. Jem had been with his father to the timber yards by the river near Westminster Bridge; Maisie had gone with her mother to St George’s Fields to see about laying out their clothes there to dry. When Jem suggested that they go for a walk on Easter Monday across Westminster Bridge to see Westminster Abbey, all were keen. They were used to walking a great deal in the Piddle Valley, and found it strange not to be so active in Lambeth.

They set out at one o’clock, when others were eating or sleeping or at the pub. ‘How shall we go, then?’ Maisie asked Jem, knowing better than to direct the question at her parents. Anne Kellaway was clutching onto her husband’s arm as if a strong wind were about to blow her away. Thomas Kellaway was smiling as usual and gazing about him, looking like a simpleton waiting to go wherever was chosen for him.