Domestic fiction; Sisters -- Fiction; Women -- England -- Fiction
It was effective. The next day subdued and plausible workmen of all
sorts awoke the house with knocking at six-thirty precisely, and the
two doorways were slowly bricked up. The curious thing was that, when
the barrier was already a foot high on the ground-floor Constance
remembered small possessions of her own which she had omitted to remove
from the cutting-out room. Picking up her skirts, she stepped over into
the region that was no more hers, and stepped back with the goods. She
had a bandanna round her head to keep the thick dust out of her hair.
She was very busy, very preoccupied with nothings. She had no time for
sentimentalities. Yet when the men arrived at the topmost course and
were at last hidden behind their own erection, and she could see only
rough bricks and mortar, she was disconcertingly overtaken by a misty
blindness and could not even see bricks and mortar. Cyril found her,
with her absurd bandanna, weeping in a sheet-covered rocking-chair in
the sacked parlour. He whistled uneasily, remarked: "I say, mother,
what about tea?" and then, hearing the heavy voices of workmen above,
ran with relief upstairs. Tea had been set in the drawing-room, he was
glad to learn that from Amy, who informed him also that she should
'never get used to them there new walls,' not as long as she lived.
He went to the School of Art that night. Constance, alone, could find
nothing to do. She had willed that the walls should be built, and they
had been built; but days must elapse before they could be plastered,
and after the plaster still more days before the papering. Not for
another month, perhaps, would her house be free of workmen and ripe for
her own labours. She could only sit in the dust-drifts and contemplate
the havoc of change, and keep her eyes as dry as she could. The legal
transactions were all but complete; little bills announcing the
transfer of the business lay on the counters in the shop at the
disposal of customers. In two days Charles Critchlow would pay the
price of a desire realized. The sign was painted out and new letters
sketched thereon in chalk. In future she would be compelled, if she
wished to enter the shop, to enter it as a customer and from the front.
Yes, she saw that, though the house remained hers, the root of her life
had been wrenched up.
And the mess! It seemed inconceivable that the material mess could ever
be straightened away!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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