The Victory Garden(38)
“Not at all,” Alice retorted. “Me and Daisy is used to sharing a bed, so it won’t bother us.”
Emily went upstairs to make her bed. The cottage had a sad, neglected feel to it, and this small room with its sloping ceiling felt especially cold and damp. There seemed to be a draught coming from the window, and there weren’t even any curtains here. No lamp either. When night fell, she’d have no means of light at all. “I’ll need to ask for a candle tomorrow,” she decided. She started to make the bed, taking care not to bang her head on the sloping ceiling. As she moved around to the other side of the bed, she glanced out of the window. The village was bathed in setting sunlight. It looked like a picture postcard. Nothing moved around the green. It struck Emily how empty it seemed.
She put on the pillow slip and folded down the sheet. The mattress felt hard and lumpy. Emily sighed, and for a moment, a memory of her comfortable bedroom with its pink silk eiderdown flashed into her mind. She turned her gaze back to the room. Apart from the bed, there was no furniture at all. Not even a table to put a lamp or candle on. Hoping to find something she could use, she came out of her little bedroom and crossed the landing to the storage area. At the entrance, she hesitated. It was dark, dusty and musty, and she could see cobwebs festooned from the beams. The window at the far end was covered in more cobwebs and let in little light. Her bedroom window had faced the setting sun. This one faced the hillside, and twilight was fading fast. “Come on,” she said to herself. “It’s only a few cobwebs.” And she forced herself to pick her way amongst the discarded objects. There was not much in the way of furniture. A cracked water basin, an old school desk, a torn lampshade—everything broken beyond repair. Hardly encouraging. She recoiled in horror as she saw a ghostly figure standing in the corner. She almost retreated, her heart pounding. Then she made herself go forwards and laughed out loud when she pulled off an old sheet and found a hatstand beneath it. At least she’d have somewhere to hang her clothes. As she went to move it, her hand brushed a cobweb. She stumbled, pitched forwards and put out her hands to save herself. Dust rose in a cloud, and she found that what had stopped her fall was an old trunk. That would do to put a candle on at least. She attempted to lift it and found it surprisingly heavy. Her heart beat fast as she squatted to open it. The latch was rusted, and it took a lot of jiggling before it flew open. It was full of books. This struck her as surprising—the last thing she expected to find in what had surely been a labourer’s cottage.
Emily dragged the trunk out on to the landing, where she could examine its contents properly. She picked the books up one by one: Dickens and Tennyson, a history of England, as well as the sort of holy stories handed out as Sunday school prizes. Someone with education had lived here once. Then, she caught sight of an old brown-leather volume with no title. She pulled it out and opened it to find it was a journal, handwritten in tiny fading copperplate script.
The light was starting to fade. She carried the journal over to the window and attempted to read the writing.
From the Journal of Susan Olgilvy, July 10, 1858
In the Village of Bucksley Cross, Devonshire
I have done it. I am officially the schoolmistress of the village of Bucksley Cross, Devonshire, installed in my own little cottage at the edge of Dartmoor. There are thatched cottages on the other side of the green, a church with a tall, square tower and a public house that looks quite inviting (although I am sure that ladies do not venture into a public house, especially not spinster schoolmistresses).
The chairman of the parish council personally escorted me across the green to my small, grey stone cottage with a slate roof, set amid a rather overgrown and neglected garden.
“I think you’ll find everything you need here, Miss Olgilvy,” he said. “The ladies of the parish have made sure the house is comfortable and well-furnished, providing items from their own households when necessary.”
“You are very kind,” I replied, but now as I stand alone in my tiny living room and look around me, I have to admit that his definition of well-furnished is a far cry from my own.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Emily went to find the others. “Look what I’ve found,” she said. “Someone’s journal from long ago. Isn’t that interesting?”
“It’s bad luck to read someone else’s diary,” Daisy said, regarding Emily with horror.
“Really? I never heard that,” Emily replied.
“That’s what Rose told me when we shared a bedroom at Moorland Hall and I peeked into her diary. She said she’d read her sister’s diary and then right after she caught scarlet fever and nearly died. And sure enough, I spilled a pail of water all across the floor and got into terrible trouble for it.”
“But this is from eighteen fifty-eight. The person is probably dead by now.”
“All the same, it’s private, isn’t it?” Daisy said.
“Then why did she leave it here for anyone to read?”
“Maybe she died,” Alice said.
Emily stared down at it, feeling suddenly awkward. “All right. I’ll put it back,” she said.
“So what are we supposed to do now?” Alice asked. “It’s only eight o’clock, and I ain’t ready to go to bed yet.”
“There are some books upstairs,” Emily said. “Come and see if there’s anything you might like to read.”