The Girl with the Creel Read Free Page B

puffy, he mumbled, ‘Your mother … we think … ach! You can go out wi’ Peter the night.’
    Her heart leaping, she said, ‘What if he wants us to go steady?’
    After a slight hesitation, her father nodded. ‘But not every night. I just saw your mother once a week when we was courting.’
    Lizann was appalled at this. ‘I’ve only to see him once a week?’
    Her fallen face made him relent. ‘Twice then, but that’s plenty.’ He stood up. ‘I think I’ll take a walk to let my dinner go down.’
    Lizann looked gratefully at her mother when he went out. ‘How did you get him to change his mind?’
    â€˜I never said a word to him, it was what Mick said, that and his own conscience. You’ll need to mind, though, just twice a week if Peter asks you to go steady, or your father’ll put a stop to it.’
    They sat quietly for the rest of the afternoon – Mick had brought home a wireless set some time ago, but Hannah never allowed anyone to listen to it on Sundays. As Lizann gazed idly at the fireplace, she couldn’t help admiring the shining range, always kept spotless despite being the only means of cooking food and heating water. Since she left school she had been responsible for buffing the steel parts with emery paper until she could see her face in them, using a dampened rag to coat the larger areas with blacklead, then burnishing them with a curved brush with a handle on top. It was hard work, but worth it. And of course, after every meal, the pots – having been set directly on top of the hot coals – had to have the soot scraped off them with the old knife kept for the purpose, before they were washed and laid past in the corner press; the outside of the big black kettle was cleaned with a wire brush every night. There was an oven on each side of the range, one being utilized to dry the sticks one or other of them gathered from the shore for kindling, the other, being hotter and more dependable, produced perfectly baked puddings and roast meat.
    Her eyes moved idly round the room now, to the mantelpiece, crammed with ornaments and fancy shells and edged by a strip of scalloped lace, changed every wash-day; to the lace-screened window that had a geranium on the wide sill; to the little stool she had upturned and pretended was a boat when she was small; to the couch, obviously bought at a different time from the two leather armchairs, whose sagging, cracked seats were covered with lumpy cushions; to the lace antimacassar on the back of her father’s chair – her mother had been a great one for crocheting at one time; returning to the fireplace and the heavy poker resting on a trivet inside the iron fender.
    Willie Alec came home just after quarter to five, had a quick shave, the second that day, and was changing into his Sunday suit in his room when Mick walked in, so Lizann was able to tell him what had happened. ‘And it was thanks to you he changed his mind.’
    â€˜Well, well,’ he grinned, ‘wonders’ll never cease. I thought I’d made things worse, sticking my oar in.’
    When their mother and father went to church, Mick put on his jacket. ‘I’m going to see if Jenny’ll get out. When are you meeting Peter?’
    â€˜He’s coming for me about seven.’
    â€˜Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ he teased as he went out.
    After washing her face, she went up to her room to brush her hair, then, remembering the papier poudre she had bought at the same time as the lipstick, she took the small packet out of a drawer and removed one leaf. She hadn’t had the courage to use any before the dance, but she found it put a velvety bloom on her face, enhancing the effect of the thin layer of lipstick she applied last. Back in the kitchen, she sat down by the fire to wait for Peter, her insides wobbling like jelly. When the knock came, she was glad he was