SHOWCASE
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September In London |
Ann Lynch |
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September 1920 was a glorious month, borrowing the heat of August, and evenings were loathe to close in, even in the smoky city of London. The three sisters, Abbie, Alice and Chrissie were alone in the house for a whole week, as the Master, the Mistress, the cook and Mrs Mathews, and Yeats, the butler, with three of the kitchen staff, were still in Scotland for the grouse-shooting season. The sisters were getting the house in order for the return of the family, working hard by day, but, being young, they took full advantage of evenings off. Their friend, Mary O'Neill had come to London from their home village in the South of Ireland, looking for work. Unknown to anybody, she was staying with them. She was unhappy leaving her family and spent the days looking for a position in service, like the sisters, her evenings she enjoyed with her childhood friends. Having seen The Jazz Singer, three times visited the parks, and looked at all the shop windows, they had tea in Lyons, and Abbie said that, for their last evening together, they should do something daring. Over a side lane off the Chiswick Road, there was a lady who told fortunes! Now, in 1920, having your fortune told was a sin, well, only a kind of a sin, well, maybe, only a venal sin, not really a mortal sin, and sure couldn't they go to confession for the First Friday in October. This was Abbie, who was game for anything and found reasons to excuse the inexcusable. But Alice was doubtful! What would Mama say? What would Fr Flanagan, the Parish Priest say? Abbie assured her that Fr Flanagan and Mamma had their tea leaves read by Biddy at the end of the lane heaps of times. Finally, she persuaded the sisters that the days of wondering which of the Edward the Footman fancied were coming to an end. And Mary might be told where to go for a job! And they might be told they would come into money and buy that gramophone to take home to Mother next year. The possibilities were endless! Even Alice, the doubtful, was persuaded, so off they set that beautiful September evening. Wearing their Summer dresses, they looked carefree and happy, giggling their way to the bus. Alighting at the High Road stop, the giggling ceased. Alice began moaning again about sin and indulgences, Chrissie was gone deathly silent and Mary's heart was thumping, but Abbie swept them along to Madam Lisa. If they were looking for something out of the ordinary, they were disappointed. The house was small, two up, two down, with dingy lace curtains and Madam Lisa's pseudo-continental speech was spoilt by a pronounced lisp. There was no turning back now. Abbie sat down and parted with her sixpenny bit, and held out her shaking hand. The ecstasy after all the agony. Abbie would marry young and wealthy - naturally - and have a large family. She would cross the water several times. Hollywood, here I come. Chrissie, the quiet one, was next. She would meet the man of her dreams! She would win a large sum of money! She would have a long and happy life! Well worth sixpence. And so, it's Alice. To sin or not to sin! But she saw her hand holding out the sixpence and the lisping voice of Madam Lisa began. Alice would go on the stage. The films, maybe! She would become famous beyond her wildest dreams. (Let Abbie have Edward - John Barrymore, here I come!) Fr Flanagan and sins and confession flew out the window. Her turn was over and she came down to earth with a bump! Mary, having heard all these wonderous predictions couldn't wait! She nearly knocked over the chair in her haste, with the height of excitement and trepidation. My turn next. Enough money go I can go home. Home to ma! Never to work here in this awful place. Not a lot, only enough for a little shop for ma and me. She sent her sixpence spinning across the table and down on the floor. Madam Lisa took the sweating hand She looked at it and said nothing. She shook her head and her big earrings jangled in the silence. She wiped her forehead with her shawl and smiled and said, "I'm sorry, dearie, I don't feel well. Come back next week and I'll read your hand. And for free Sorry, my dear."
Cutting from the parish newsletter: Copyright © 2001 Ann Lynch
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