The house was late Victorian, but had lost much of its interior charm to modernization. The rooms were lofty and difficult to keep warm, the windows drafty, the floorboards shrunken to allow small things to fall into the darkness below. The breakfast room had been the kitchen, the kitchen had been the scullery and the room in the attic had been home to a maid until the late nineteen-thirties. There was a ‘butler’s pantry’ just outside the breakfast room, home to stacks of empty jam jars, discarded shoes, drawers of maps and light bulbs, a tall wooden step-ladder and the first domestic freezer in the street.

            'Library!' Their mother shouted again.

            Isabel trotted into the hall from the breakfast room, arms laden with books of various sizes, carefully placed them on a chair and arranged them in a neat pile.

            'Darling Issy, you can't possibly have read all of those.' The girls’ mother was languid and pretty, she would never be hurried, but determined to always get her way. Her outlook was modern, but her upbringing Edwardian; she was very naïve, but not easily shocked. Somehow she was always at the forefront of fashion, but never seemed to shop for clothes, her hair immaculate without obvious visits to a hairdresser.

            'Have! To Wendy!' Isabel replied, placing her hand firmly on the top book, her bottom lip pouting in protest that her mother could question her ability. ‘Wendy! Wendy! Wendy!’ Isabel called her sister to support her.

            Wendy trailed into the hall, dragging a large picture book almost the same size as the child, a sleepy expression in her eyes, her thumb between sticky lips, her blanket tucked under her arm.

            ‘Did I read these stories to you? Did I? Did I? I did, I did. Say I did.’ Isabel demanded, but Wendy looked at her with a harried and uncomprehending expression.

            ‘Rain,’ said Wendy, pulling her thumb out with a ‘plop’.

            ‘Oh! You’re no good.’ Isabel stated, turning away with a flounce. Wendy’s thumb disappeared again.

            Mother ruffled her daughter’s hair, one dark and strictly controlled in two tufty shoulder-length plaits, the other with a permanently tangled fuzz of indeterminate colour behind her head. Isabel immediately made sure her hair was smooth, brushing it down with both hands.

            ‘Don’t do that! Come on, let’s go!’

            ‘But Wendy’s right, it’s raining. A day for Wellington boots and mackintoshes. don’t you think?’ Both girls looked up at their mother and beamed at her. ‘But first the books need to go in a bag to keep them dry. What do you think, Issy? Will they fit in your satchel?’

‘Um, Wendy’s is too big.’

            ‘I think you should get your satchel and fit in as many as you can. I can put the others in my bag. Off you go now.’ Isabel scampered away. ‘Wendy, you and I will hunt out the Wellington boots. You know where they should be, off you go.’ Mother gently pushed her with an elegant hand on her back guiding her to the pantry door.

            ‘Boot,’ said Wendy around her thumb and gathered up her blanket.

            Mother opened the door with the big brown knob, flipped the switch, shedding a low watt glow into the musty interior. 'Find your boots, Wendy, quickly. Issy's are just here, look.'

            'Mac.' Wendy pointed upward to where the two macs hung with sou'westers dangling from their chin straps looking like fruit bats. ‘Mac, mac.’

            ‘Boots, Wendy. Boots.’ Mother gathered boots, macs and child into her arms and backed out of the small room. Turning, she saw Isabel standing with her satchel crammed with books and a huge smile on her face.

            ‘Macs!’

 

(c) Rebecca Mills 2013