Twenties Girl - Kinsella Sophie - Страница 31

Sadie considers for a moment. “He wore a scarlet waistcoat at our wedding. Other than that, I remember very little about him.”

“That’s it? A waistcoat?”

“And he had a mustache,” she adds.

“I don’t get you.” I throw another armful of clothes onto the bed. “How could you marry someone you didn’t love?”

“Because it was my only way to escape,” says Sadie, as though it’s obvious. “I’d had the most terrible row with my parents. My father had stopped my allowance, the vicar called every second day, I was locked in my room every night-”

“What had you done?” I say, avid with curiosity. “Had you been arrested again?”

“It… doesn’t matter,” says Sadie after a slight pause. She turns away from my gaze and stares out of the window. “I had to leave. Marriage seemed as good a way as any. My parents had already found a suitable young man. And, believe me, they were hardly lining up in droves in those days.”

“Oh, well, I know about that,” I say, rolling my eyes in sympathy. “There are no single men in London. None. It’s a well-known fact.”

I look up to see Sadie gazing at me with a kind of blank incomprehension.

“We lost all ours in the war,” she says.

“Oh. Of course.” I swallow. “The war.”

World War I. I hadn’t quite put that together.

“The ones who survived weren’t the same boys they’d been. They were wounded. Broken to bits. Or full of guilt because they’d survived…” A shadow passes across her face. “My older brother was killed, you know. Edwin. He was nineteen. My parents never really got over it.”

I stare at her, appalled. I had a great-uncle Edwin who was killed in World War I? Why don’t I know this stuff?

“What was he like?” I ask timidly. “Edwin?”

“He was… funny.” Her mouth twists as though she wants to smile but can’t let herself. “He made me laugh. He made my parents more bearable. He made everything more bearable.”

The room is quiet, save for the tinny sound of the TV upstairs. Sadie’s face is immobile, transfixed with memories or thoughts. She almost seems in a trance.

“But even if there weren’t many men around,” I venture, “did you have to settle? Did you have to marry some random guy? What about waiting for the right guy? What about love?”

“‘What about love!’” she mimics me mockingly, snapping out of her reverie. “‘What about love!’ Goodness, you play a monotonous tune.” She surveys the mound of clothes on the bed. “Lay them out so I can see properly. I’ll choose your dress for this evening. And it won’t be a ghastly long skirt to the ground.”

Obviously the reminiscing is over.

“OK.” I start spreading my clothes out on the bed. “You choose.”

“And I’m in charge of your hairstyle and makeup,” Sadie adds firmly. “I’m in charge of everything.”

“Fine,” I say patiently.

As I head back to the bathroom, my head is full of Sadie’s stories. I’ve never been into family trees or history. But somehow this is all quite fascinating. Maybe I’ll get Dad to dig out a few photos of the old family house. He’ll love that.

I close the door and survey my pots of creams and cosmetics, all balanced on the counter around the basin. Hmm. Perhaps Josh had a point. Maybe I don’t need apricot scrub and oatmeal scrub and sea salt scrub. I mean, how scrubbed should skin be, anyway?

Half an hour later I’ve got everything organized into rows and have assembled a whole carrier bag of ancient, half-empty pots to chuck out. Already my action plan is under way! If Josh saw this bathroom, he’d be so impressed! I almost feel like taking a picture of it and sending him a text. Feeling delighted with myself, I duck my head back into my bedroom, but Sadie’s not there.

“Sadie?” I call, but there’s no reply. I hope she’s OK. It was obviously hard for her, remembering her brother. Maybe she needed a quiet moment alone.

I put the bag of pots next to the back door to deal with later and make myself a cup of tea. Next on my list is to find that photography book he was talking about. It must still be around here somewhere. Maybe under the sofa…

“I’ve found it!” Sadie’s excited voice springing out of nowhere nearly makes me knock my head on the coffee table.

“Don’t do that!” I sit up and reach for my cup of tea. “Listen, Sadie, I just want to say… are you OK? Do you want to talk? I know things can’t have been easy-”

“You’re right, it wasn’t easy,” she says crisply. “Your wardrobe is very deficient.”

“I didn’t mean clothes! I meant feelings.” I give her an understanding look. “You’ve been through a lot, it must have affected you…”

Sadie doesn’t even hear me. Or, if she does, she pretends not to. “I’ve found you a frock,” she announces. “Come and see! Hurry up!”

If she doesn’t want to talk, she doesn’t want to talk. I can’t make her.

“Great. So what did you choose?” I get up and start heading toward my bedroom.

“Not there.” Sadie darts in front of me. “We have to go out! It’s in a shop!”

“A shop?” I stop and stare at her. “What do you mean, in a shop?”

“I was forced to go out.” She lifts her chin defiantly. “There was nothing in your wardrobe. I’ve never seen such bedraggled clothes!”

“They’re not bedraggled!”

“So I went out, and I found an angel of a dress! You simply have to buy it!”

“Where?” I’m trying to think where she could have gone. “Which shop? Did you go into central London?”

“I’ll show you! Come on! Get your purse!”

I can’t help feeling touched at the thought of Sadie wafting around H &M or wherever, trying to find an outfit for me.

“Well, OK,” I say at last. “As long as it doesn’t cost a zillion pounds.” I reach for my bag and check I’ve got my keys. “Come on, then. Show me.”

I’m expecting Sadie to lead me to the tube station and drag me to Oxford Circus or somewhere. But instead she veers around the corner and into a grid of backstreets I’ve never explored.

“Are you sure it’s this way?” I hesitate, puzzled.

“Yes!” She tries to drag me forward. “Come on!”

We pass rows of houses and a little park and a college. There’s nothing here that looks like a shop. I’m about to tell Sadie that she must have got her bearings wrong, when she turns a corner and makes a triumphant flourish.

“There!”

We’re in front of a tiny parade of shops. There’s a newsagent and a dry cleaner and, right at the end, a tiny shop with a wood-painted sign reading Vintage Fashion Emporium. There’s a mannequin in the window wearing a long satin dress, gloves up to the elbow, a hat with a veil, and lots of brooches everywhere. Next to her is a pile of old hatboxes and a dressing table holding a large selection of enamel hairbrushes.

“This is by far the best shop you have in your area,” says Sadie emphatically. “I’ve found everything we need. Come on!”

Before I can say anything, she’s disappeared into the shop. I have no choice but to follow her. The door gives a little ting as I enter, and a middle-aged woman smiles at me from behind a tiny counter. She has straggly dyed hair in a vivid shade of yellow and is wearing what looks like an original seventies caftan in a wild green circular print, together with several amber necklaces strung around her neck.

“Hello!” She smiles pleasantly. “Welcome to the shop. I’m Norah. Have you shopped here before?” “Hi.” I nod back. “This is my first time.” “Were you interested in a particular garment or era?” “I’ll… just have a browse.” I smile at her. “Thanks.” I can’t see Sadie, so I start wandering around. I’ve never been into vintage clothes, but even I can tell there’s some pretty amazing stuff here. A pink psychedelic sixties dress is displayed next to a beehive wig. There’s a whole rack of original-looking boned corsets and petticoats. On a dressmaker’s mannequin is a cream lace wedding dress with a veil and a tiny dried-flower bouquet. A glass case holds some white leather skating boots, all creased and weathered with use. There are collections of fans, handbags, old lipstick cases-