Chapter One
‘I’m sorry, but you really mustn’t touch the rocking horse. I know it’s beautiful, but if everyone who wants to gets their hands on it, it will soon fall to pieces.’
A nine-year-old girl in a beret stepped back, disappointment written over her face.
I felt sorry for her, but what else could I do? The Victorian House Museum had to operate a strict no-touching policy or the curious little fingers of twenty-first-century children would ruin the legacy of their nineteenth-century counterparts.
I waited a few minutes until the group had had their fill of the dolls’ house and the lead-painted soldiers, then took my place at the doorway.
‘So that’s the nursery,’ I said. ‘And now I expect you’re wondering where the bathroom is? Well, I’ve got something a little bit shocking to tell you. Victorian houses didn’t have bathrooms.’
The predictable chorus of ‘No way!’, ‘Gross!’ and its traditional accompaniment of vomiting noises was like an old friend.
‘We take plumbing for granted nowadays.’ I spoke over the dying protestations. ‘But when a Victorian person wanted a bath, they had to boil up the water, just as we boil a kettle, and pour it into a tub – usually in the kitchen or, if you were posh, the bedroom.’
‘So they did wash then?’ The bereted girl’s tone was dubious.
‘Oh, yes. But a proper bath wasn’t as regular an occurrence as it probably is in your life. As for the toilet …’
I grinned. This was always every school party’s favourite subject. Discussion of Victorian waste disposal took us back down the stairs and out through the hall until we were in the backyard with the coal-hole and the privy.
I let them run amok out there for a few minutes, the more sensitive flowers screeching about spiders while the sturdier plants teased them, until their teacher decided it was time to put a lid on their exuberance and lead them to the picnic area for lunch.
They were lucky. The late October day had not brought the threatened rain, although a gusty wind was whipping up even as they ran to the clearing, scarves flying, football-themed lunchboxes swinging from their hands.
‘Thank you,’ the teacher said before hurrying along in their wake. ‘That was really interesting. It makes such a difference to their level of enthusiasm when they’ve seen the past brought to life like this.’
‘No problem,’ I said, smiling after her, partly from pleasure at the compliment but mainly because I wasn’t the one having to herd her charges into some semblance of order.
I went back inside the house where June, Rob and Lucy were changing out of their Victorian gear back into student fatigues. One of the great draws of the Victorian House Museum, setting it apart from its competitors, was its dramatic renditions of Victorian life – a supper for two, the maid dashing about in the kitchen, a discussion of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee in the drawing room.
Rob tore off his fancy-dress-shop mutton chops and passed a hand across his reddened skin.
‘Ouch, again,’ he said.
‘You should just grow a pair,’ I suggested.
‘Yeah, cos that wouldn’t make me the object of mockery, would it?’
‘Say you’re a big fan of Bradley Wiggins.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Sarah …’
His voice lowered and I began to regret entering into this conversation. I thought I could sense what was coming next.
‘Robert?’
‘I don’t suppose you’re free tonight, are you? There’s a film I fancied seeing, but I don’t want to go on my own, like a sad case.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, biting the inside of my lip. ‘I’ve got other plans.’
‘There is a man, isn’t there?’ Lucy’s light, musical tones joined in. ‘Or a woman? Go on, Sarah, tell us. You’re such a dark horse. You’ve been here three weeks and none of us knows anything about you.’
‘Is it a woman?’ asked Rob, perking up as if this might be the perfect explanation for my serial rebuffing of him.
‘No, it’s … nothing. OK then. All right. I’ll come to the cinema with you. But it’s not a date.’
Rob clapped his hands and so did Lucy.
‘No, of course not, not a date,’ he said. ‘Pizza afterwards?’
‘Whatever. I’m easy.’
He winked a hope so kind of wink at Lucy, who giggled back at him.
‘I’ll meet you at the multiplex, then,’ I said, desperate to get away now for some reason. My heart was pounding and my throat had closed up.
‘Yeah – sevenish?’
I nodded, unable to say any more, and escaped up the stairs.
This is not a date. It’s not infidelity. It’s just called having a life. He wouldn’t object to that, would he?
In the Victorian master bedroom, I sat down – against the rules, but I was a bit beyond caring – in the frilly, flouncy pink armchair by the dressing table.
I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, the smell of old fabrics and mothballs calming my senses. I loved this room. I even loved its name. ‘Victorian master bedroom’. It reminded me of Jasper and the heady, intense summer we had shared.
Jasper Jay. My lover, my master, my addiction.
But he had stayed in France while I came back here to take up my new job at the museum.