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CHAPTER X.

O, THE DAYS ARE BEGINNING TO BLEED TEDIOUSLY INTO ONE ANOTHER.

T he Grim Wolds church bell wakes me at six.

I’m in the nursery at seven to hear the children’s prayers, to watch them eat and seethe at one another over their porridge. The French nurse invariably is dazed and distracted at this early hour. One can only imagine the sweaty, demanding nights she spends tending to Andrew’s every whim, and the effects of the rigorous dressing of Drusilla’s hair with pomade and elaborate plaiting.

At eight the nurse takes them for a walk, and I descend to the dining-room for breakfast with the masters, observing from my end of the table as they exchange small cruelties.

At eight thirty sharp breakfast is removed, as is my will to live.

From nine to twelve I teach Andrew reading, writing, and arithmetic while I coach Drusilla in French conversation, or teach her how to press flowers in heavy books. Some days Andrew throws toys or sticks or bread or milk on the floor, or he might try to strike me with the poker. Some days Drusilla whispers meanness into my ear, the words as soft and tickly as dandelion fluff against my earlobe. Fat ugly useless .

At midday I slap on their bonnets and coats for a short stroll along the grounds, during which Drusilla tries to steer us in the direction of the gates to stare with longing at the false promise of freedom. Andrew, in turn, attempts to usher us toward any living creature upon whom he can practice the snarling supremacy that is his birth right.

Upon our return to the house, red-faced and sweating under our coats, our ears collectively ringing from Andrew’s tantrum because today isn’t his birthday, I send them off to dress for lunch in the dining-room, where I am expected to keep them quiet and cut up their meat, unless Mrs Pounds has decided she can’t deal with them on this particular day (which occurs frequently), in which case I shuffle them into the nursery to wait for the scullery maid to send their trays up. The nurse’s fingers brush against mine as we exchange the children back and forth. Drusilla might make a scene at this point about being too grown-up to be manhandled by servants and makes us bear her dead body weight as she drops to the floor in a sulk.

Lunch is over at two and we return to the school-room. I teach them history and arithmetic and what corpses smell like and French. I teach them nursery rhymes. Little Bobbie Binkins / Was boiled in a kettle / Served as tea to unsuspecting dames at the Brown’s Hotel . I start to read from the heavy tomes approved by Mr Pounds, but every page starts with words like ‘cispontine’, and I very nearly collapse from the effort.

At five o’clock, I return the children to the nursery then rush to my bed-room to change for dinner. I dress in my overworn, politely grey dress with the sweat patches and blanched hems. I take my supper with Mr and Mrs Pounds while the children eat in the nursery. I apprise them of the children’s progress, but they do not seem to listen.

After prayers at half past seven everyone has retired to bed, unless Andrew is having a fit over a missing tin soldier (which translates to ‘I am void of any human connection and impatient for the day I can take my frustrations out on my wife, where oh where is my muttonhead of a wife’).

The Grim Wolds church bell wakes me at six.