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12
Little Dorrit, Charles Dickens
2nd December
It’s already December 2nd, meaning I’ve been here a week. The old servants’ kitchen is the room I’ve come to know best, with its original scullery and butcher’s block made of a slab of oak that must be over five hundred years old. This is where I’m spending most of my time, scrubbing and slogging. My fingernails are down to the quick, there are shadows under my eyes and my hair is a rat’s nest because I don’t have time to drag a brush through it before Lady Where’s My Breakfast, Lunch, Tea, Dinner, Nail File, Book, Sherry gets wind of the fact that I’m still standing. How the hell does Nettie do it all? Well, at least the poor dear is getting some rest and enjoying her family.
I picture the streets of Starry Cove, the shops and the houses, the living room windows ablaze with Christmas trees and lights. I picture families gathered round the dining room table at Christmas, perhaps squished between old Aunt Vera and distant cousin Norman whom they only see once a year. But still, they’re happy. They have time off school and work, they’re rested, warm, full of good old comfort food and tons of chocolate and cakes. Because at Christmas, all is calm, all is bright. Everything is easy (at least for the people not cooking and decorating).
And here I am, still trying to connect with my only living relative, who’s far too absorbed in herself and her own sorrows to give a crap about me or Christmas. If only the MIL or Stephen could see me now. They’d have kittens.
Calvin is a dear – quiet and thoughtful. After his own duties, he comes in for a cup of tea and a slice of cake, asking me if I need any help. But more than anything, I value his company and his invaluable moral support. I like not having to talk all the time or raise my voice like I do in class to get someone to listen to me. It’s pleasant adult company, where I don’t have to impress or entertain. Calvin is calm and soothing, and the titbits he provides of Lady Mary Heatherton are priceless.
The room I know least of all is the bedroom I’ve been assigned. It’s a large square room, all done in various shades of blue, and when the curtains are open – in other words, always – a beautiful quality of light bounces around the upholstery. The bed is huge, with a high mattress and very thick quilt with slightly frayed edges and a tarnished mirror. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Especially the fact that it’s a long way down the hall from hers, so every time she calls it’s a mini-marathon. I swear I’ve never been so exhausted in my life.
‘Emily! What’s keeping you?’ my grandmother calls from down the hall as I’m balancing her lunch on a tray.
Talk about juggling acts. From the day (a week ago) I volunteered to take care of her, I haven’t stopped cooking and cleaning and doing the washing up and the laundry and the food shopping. If there’s something we haven’t got in the pantry, rest assured Lady Heatherton-Smythe wants it. And why (seeing that she’s on Dr Miller’s strict orders to stay in bed) she needs her silk dress and shoes dry-cleanedthis instantis a mystery.
I’m so run off my feet I’m dizzy with fatigue. I barely have time to pee in the mornings, let alone do any proper grooming, than she’s already calling me, demanding her breakfast. Are the oranges freshly squeezed? Has her egg boiled precisely four minutes? For someone who doesn’t need me or evenlikeme, she’s certainly taking advantage. At this rate I’ll be dead before Christmas.
‘Emily, what took you so long?’ she demands as I elbow the door open, my feet dragging as I bring her tray to rest on the dresser.
‘Sorry, I dropped the toast and had to run back and make it again…’
‘Did you clean the floor at least?’ she says as she twiddles her fingers impatiently for her tray.
She’s hungry this morning. Me, I’m starved and parched but I haven’t got the strength even to open my mouth to speak, let alone eat.
‘Please, no slouching, Emily! What is the matter with you?’ she barks, and I stand to attention.
OK, she may be my rightful grandmother, but so far I’m only getting the MIL vibes.
‘Well, Grandmother, to be perfectly honest—’
And that’s when the doorbell rings.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Dr Miller. Don’t just stand there, Emily! She hasn’t got the keys to the front door, you know.’
I stare at her, open-mouthed. This is not going well. Perhaps I should warn the doctor to keep her distance.
‘Right!’ I say as I turn and head for the hall.
I’m halfway there, when she calls after me: ‘My breakfast, Emily! What is wrong with you this morning? And by the way, I thought I asked you to put up the Christmas decorations.’
She hasn’t. But perhaps the festivities will mellow her somewhat. Christmas won’t be coming soon enough.
I clomp down the stairs like a limping colt and throw the door open to warn the poor GP to run while she still can, but someone completely different is standing there. A very handsome man, in fact. It must be the Cornish air. Or maybe I’m so company-starved that everyone looks beautiful to me.
‘Oh!’ I gasp. ‘I’m sorry. I was expecting Dr Miller…’
‘And here he is,’ he smiles amiably. ‘Pleased to meet you, Emily.’
‘How do you know my name?’ I ask, and then roll my eyes. ‘Scratch that. But you’re not Dr Miller. She’s a she.’
The man chuckles. ‘You mean my sister, Janice. She’s at a conference in London for a few days and has asked me to step in for her. I’m Dr Martin Miller.’
‘Oh. Pleased to meet you.’ I open the door wide for him to come in.
