Falling Angels. Tracy Chevalier
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this house and me to my best friend.
It is funny how things happen. Daddy always says that coincidences are usually nothing of the sort if only one studies them carefully enough. He proved his point today.
I was looking out of my window when I saw a girl standing in hers across the way, brushing her hair. I had never seen her there before; two spinsters used to live in that house but had moved out a few weeks before. Then she tossed her head and shrugged her shoulders, and I realised it was Lavinia. I was so surprised to see her that I simply stood and stared.
I hadn’t seen her for so long – not since the Queen’s death over two years ago. Although I had asked Mummy several times if we could meet, she always made an excuse. She did promise to ask at the cemetery for the Waterhouses’ address, but I don’t think she ever did. After a time I stopped asking because I knew it was her way of saying no. I didn’t know why she didn’t want me to have a best friend, but there was nothing I could do, except to hang about in the cemetery whenever we visited, hoping the Waterhouses would choose to visit then too. But they never did. I had given up on ever having a best friend. And I had not met any other girls who would like to go around the cemetery with me the way Lavinia did.
Now here she was, just across the way. I began to wave, and when at last she saw me she waved too, frantically. It was very gratifying that she was so happy to see me. I signalled to her to meet me in the garden, then ran downstairs to tell my parents about the amazing coincidence.
Mummy and Daddy were already eating breakfast and reading the papers – Daddy the Mail, Mummy the St Pancras Gazette. When I told them who our new neighbours were, Daddy was not amazed at all but explained he’d told the Waterhouses about that house.
Mummy gave him a peculiar look. ‘I didn’t know you were so friendly with them,’ she said.
‘He contacted me at the bank,’ Daddy said, ‘quite some time ago. Said they were thinking of moving to the area and did I know of any property. When that house came up I told him about it.’
‘So now we are to be neighbours in life as well as in death,’ Mummy said. She cracked the shell of her egg very hard with a spoon.
‘Apparently he’s a fine batsman,’ Daddy said. ‘The team could do with one.’
When it became clear that there was no coincidence, that Daddy had led the Waterhouses here, I felt strangely let down. I wanted to believe in Fate, but Daddy has shown once again that there is no such thing.
I would not dream of criticising Albert’s judgement. He knows best in these matters, and to be sure I am very pleased with our new little house, a storey higher than our Islington house and with a garden full of roses rather than the neighbour’s chickens scrabbling in the dirt.
But my heart did sink when I discovered that not only are we neighbours with the Colemans, but their house backs on to ours. And of course it is yet a storey higher than ours and has the most tremendous garden. When no one was about I stood on a chair and peeked over. There is a willow, and a pond, and a bank of rhododendrons, and a lovely long lawn which I am sure the girls will play croquet on all summer.
Kitty Coleman was working in the garden, planting out primroses. Her dress was of the same buttery colour, and she wore a lovely wide-brimmed hat tied on with a chiffon scarf. Even at her gardening she is so well dressed. She didn’t see me, I am thankful to say, or I should have been so mortified I might have fallen from the chair. As it was I hopped down quickly and jarred my ankle.
I would not confess this to anyone, not even Albert, but it irritates me that she keeps such a fine garden. It is south-facing and very sunny, which makes it easier. And she must have a man to help – at the very least with the lawn, which looks rolled. I shall do my best with our roses, but I do kill plants off so easily. I really am hopeless in the garden. It doesn’t help that ours is north-facing. And we cannot manage any help with it at present. I hope she does not offer to send her man over – I wouldn’t know what to do.
After Maude tumbled over the back fence I felt we should call round, if only to explain the scratches. The front of their house is so elegant – the garden is full of rosebushes, and the steps leading up to the door are tiled in black and white. (The door of our own house opens directly on to the pavement. But I must try not to compare.)
I was hoping just to leave my card, but Kitty Coleman received us very gracefully in her morning room. I blinked at the colours she’d had it done in – mustard yellow with a dark brown trim, which I suppose is fashionable now. She called them ‘golden yellow’ and ‘chocolate brown’, which sound much better than they looked. I prefer our own burgundy. There is nothing to compare with a simple burgundy parlour. Mind you, I don’t have a morning room – perhaps if I did have such a light room as hers on the first floor I might paint it yellow as well.
But I doubt it.
Her taste is very refined – embroidered silk shawls over the sofas, potted ferns, vases of dried flowers, and a baby grand piano. I was rather shocked by the modern coffee set, which has a pattern of tiny black and yellow checks that made me feel dizzy. I myself prefer a simple rose pattern. But chacun à son goût. Oh! I made the mistake of saying so out loud, and she replied in French. I understood not a word of it! It was my own silly fault for trying to show off.
I came away with one secret comfort. No, two. The girls at least are delighted with each other, and Livy could do with a sensible friend. At least Maude will be a steadying influence, unless she too succumbs to Livy’s spell as the rest of us have – all but dear Ivy May, who is impervious to her sister’s excesses. I am always surprised by her. Quiet as she is, she does not let Livy get the upper hand.
And the other comfort: Kitty Coleman’s At Homes are Tuesday afternoons, just as mine are. When we discovered this, she smiled a little and said, ‘Oh dear, that is a pity.’ I will not switch mine, however – some traditions I will not tamper with. And I know she will not switch hers. In this way we shall be able to avoid that social occasion, at least.
I can’t say exactly why I don’t like her. She is perfectly civil and has good manners and is lovely to look at. She has a fine house and a handsome husband and a clever daughter. But I would not be her. A vein of discontent runs through her that disturbs everything around her. And I know it is uncharitable of me to think it, but I do doubt her Christian commitment. She thinks too much and prays too little, I suspect. But they are the only people we know close by, and the girls are already so fond of each other, and so I am afraid we are bound to see a great deal of each other.
When we got home and were sitting in our back parlour, I couldn’t help but look out of the window at their grand house in the distance. It will always be there to remind me of their superior position. I found this so upsetting that I let my teacup crash into its saucer, and the dear thing cracked. I did weep then, and even Ivy May’s arms around my neck (she does not like hugs, as a rule) did little to comfort me.
Lavinia and I are desperate to get to the cemetery. Now that we can go together it will be so much more fun than before. But since the Waterhouses have moved to the house at the