It was the kind of December morning Victorian novelists dream about. Diamond frost sparkling over the trim English pastures, horses with steam breath puffing in the air, a slanted sun line on the stable roof, shiny with melt. On the hill, past the white plank fences, the winter bare trees were pencilled against the too-blue sky. And not that far beyond where the old stone Roman road curved behind the fruit groves, there was the village steeple, arrow sharp and tiny in the distance. Emily could hear the Dilfords, mother, uncle and daughter, opening the paddocks and starting the tractor. She wouldn’t ride today, or any time soon; it was difficult with the bandages, and anyway there was too much work to do. Besides, she was tired – tired, bitchy and sore. Her hand had hurt in the night with a black ache, clock-ticking sleeplessness that almost made her cry. She could still feel it, the dull pressure of the bandages on her fingers that didn’t have enough courage to be pain but had settled in to irritate her. And she was cold – just out of bed chilly through flannel pajamas and a thick duvet hugged around her shoulders. She turned away from the window, looked at the cold stone hearth and shivered.
“Damn the insurance,” she thought, “Tonight, I’m going to have a fire.” She swept the duvet off her shoulders and back onto the bed. Then awkwardly, she pulled heavy green trousers over her pajamas and a red checked work shirt. She struggled with the buttons, gave up after two and went down to breakfast. Not quite the lady of the manor, but . . . . She ran her fingers through her hair to smooth out some of the tangled sleep. It would be warmer downstairs where the wheezing old Pyaridge’s boilers could reach, but there was no way she was going to endure another winter like this. Something would have to go out of next year’s budget. Next year’s budget? She hadn’t paid for this year’s yet! She ran her hand over the thick oak bannister like you would an old dog and continued down the big step staircase, through the high, wide entrance hall and into the breakfast room.
No matter what time Emily arrived for breakfast, it was there waiting for her. In winter, porridge, eggs and toast, sometimes bacon, sometimes sausage, coffee and juice. She knew if the salt and fat didn’t kill her the cholesterol eventually would, but it had been a war to get rid of the beans, tomato, mushrooms, wheat cakes and assorted other fried bits, so . . . . Mrs. Tisdale ran the Pyaridge kitchen with an iron ladle, fed the entire estate on a budget that would embarrass Gandhi and hadn’t taken no for answer since Emily was 6 — which meant, after winning half the battle, it was an act of valor for Emily to just shut up and eat her breakfast, nice girl. And she did that, every morning, alone at a huge table, in a room built for twenty.
In London, Dreyfus Sinclair didn’t usually eat breakfast unless he was travelling or Mrs. Flynn was in the mood to cook. And since Mrs. Flynn only came in 3 days a week and was seldom in the mood, it was mostly just coffee and a newspaper under the tall windows in the loft over the river. That day, there was a crawling mist on the Thames, so there wasn’t much boat traffic, and the lights on the far shore looked distant and scuffed. It was a perfect day to sit back and contemplate the woes of the world. Actually, Dreyfus didn’t much care about that, but he did enjoy the style and variety of Fleet Street journalism, so he had the concierge bring him a different/random newspaper every morning. It made the read a little more interesting. (Today was The Guardian, full of opinion.) He thought about going to work later, but he wanted to write a few letters, and he enjoyed writing letters, so . . . . Plus, he had that neatly-wrapped plastic package of clothes to deal with, and he wasn’t sure what he should do about that. They had arrived yesterday back from the cleaners with a note that read. “Our apologies. Unfortunately, we were not able to remove the extensive bloodstains from the garments without ruining them, and the style and quality dictate that they would not be easily replaced in that event. Therefore, we are returning them to you. Regards …”
Friday – Part II
6 thoughts on “Christmas At Pyaridge Hall”
Ooooh, you’re giving us a holiday short story for Christmas?!
WD, you shouldn’t have! (Actually, you should have. No take-backs!)
With a twist.
Thanks for brightening my day!