With Julian’s birthday still some weeks away, I move my focus back to the present, spending the rest of the day with my friends and then the evening hour writing letters. There’s the reply to Clarice, and my mother has also sent a letter to tell me what Len already said (the wedding arrangements). That letter is something of a reprimand, kind words that decorate a stern warning. “While my little snowdrop is known to be kind, take care not to be thought of as soft-hearted,” is but one line.

Florence as well awaits a letter back. She (or rather her father) has arranged for shoes to be delivered, and I am to look after them until the day. I suggested sending them to Evan or Cyril at first, but, well, it quickly became a knot of etiquette. When my family sent my birthday present to Cyril, that was between family; for Florence to write to a man or for her family to make a request of a stranger…. It’s for this reason that birthdays are normally celebrated either by family visiting or when the child returns for holidays. (Of course, it could simply be sent to the school and delivered as post, but that’s viewed as something of an empty gesture.) Since I’m the one who opened up this can of worms, it’s only right I should close it up.

To think carelessly mentioning I could buy something for him on her behalf in town would end up taking three letters to resolve.

The next morning, those letters are handed to a maid and then I head off to town. Of course, I haven’t forgotten my Valentine’s embroidery for Gwen, every morning brighter when I see her card. Such a pure love, like that between sisters. When I play with her, oh I see a lot of my own sister in my actions, always eager to tease and excite, turning even reading scripture into something that can only be done with flushed cheeks and broad smiles.

Those merry thoughts only make me anticipate her reaction to my sewing all the more, the urge to hurry nipping at my heels. It’s funny how a walk I know well can feel so long.

I knock on Lottie’s door with a quick rhythm, Gwen’s voice instantly sounding out as she says, “I’ll check!”

It’s hard not to laugh, her footsteps a cute drumbeat that ends in a muffled thud and a squeak. Nearly inaudible, Lottie’s reprimand of, “What have I said about running in the house?” trickles through the door.

“Wh-who is it?” Gwen timidly asks.

Lost to giggles, I barely pull myself together to say, “Ellie.”

The door clicks, swings out to try and meet me if not for a quick step back. However, my feet aren’t quick enough to step aside when Gwen lunges at me—not that I would avoid her.

Just this step outside makes her gasp, and I lightly slap her head. “Get inside before your toes fall off,” I say, already herding her back.

“Oh I missed you,” she says.

“We saw each other as usual,” I say, pinching a cheek.

Although she tries to put on a displeased look, she can’t stop her smile from shining through. Speaking fast, she replies, “But I have so much to say!”

Her speech so clear these days, it’s hard to believe she had that impediment before, and every sentence sounds like it’s coming out of Lottie’s mouth (albeit after a breath of helium). I’m not overly familiar with how children grow up, but I guess this age of six and seven is when she starts to shed off childish tendencies along with her milk teeth.

“Before you start, I have something for you,” I say, reaching into my bag.

She just stills, overwhelmed by curiosity. Good manners and patience are obviously expected of Lottie’s child. Even when she sees me take out the handkerchief, she doesn’t snatch or reach out, only raising her hands as I offer it to her.

Looking past her, I see Lottie smiling a little smile in the kitchen doorway. For some reason, I’m reminded of a time long ago where, after I had been particularly naughty and drawn on my mother’s dress (laid out for a party that evening), she had sworn off having children of her own lest they be a tenth as troublesome as me. I was only five, I think. What did I say when caught…. “Mummy likes snowdrops.” Yes, I drew snowdrops, apparently because I heard my mother complaining it would be boring. Or at least, that was the reason I gave when properly questioned.

All things considered, I guess it’s lucky for us all that Gwen is just under a tenth as troublesome as I am; if need be, I can always become more troublesome.

While I lost myself in that memory, Gwen has been admiring my needlework, her little fingers poking at the French knots and running over my sewn signature. I guess we’re a little similar like that. When Ms Berks showed me her dress, I was also drawn to feeling the stitches.

“It’s too nice,” she says, her eyes swelling and lip quivering. “I, I only gave you a silly card!”

“Come now,” I say, elegantly lowering myself down to her height. “Your handwriting was so neat and the colouring so well done—it took you a lot of effort, right? This is something I just sewed for fun, not trying hard at all. If it looks neat, that’s because I have practised a lot, yes? So really, I am the lucky one, wouldn’t you say?”

My words are little more than a half-arsed ramble, the sort that wins people over by first confusing them and then convincing them with confidence. Really, it’s no different to telling a crying child that actually they’re not hurt and to just get up, something which works surprisingly well.

To my relief, her overspilling emotions dry up into a warm smile. “You liked it?” she asks.

“Oh I loved it,” I say, pulling her into a hug.

She giggles, the sound loud in my ear that’s close to her mouth.

Rather than dwell on this (and risk any more tears), I tug her hand and have her lead me to the lounge, sitting down there while Lottie goes to prepare tea. Gwen really does have much to say, detailing her Valentine’s adventures. There’s her friends who were happy to receive cards, some hastily making their own to give back. The boys, well, she speaks harshly of them all, except for little Danny (who is older than her yet shorter, she smugly says) as he simply blushed and hid behind the card, eventually asking her if she could really sew and then asking if he could see something she made.

Ah, fate’s dice are rolled early for some.

It’s no surprise that her father was happy with his card, complimenting her handwriting and telling her that all that homework has its worth, which made her upset. (She can’t explain it well, saying that she felt bullied for always complaining about her homework.)

Although Lottie joins us, she adds nothing, simply sitting there with a motherly look of knowing everything. I dare say she learnt that expression from my mother, elegant and very familiar to me.

When it comes time for my work, I feel reluctant, yet I push through. How many times did Ellie bow her head and walk into a classroom with a heart squeezed tight to the point of bursting? Instead of filling my heart with hesitation, I should keep moving. Don’t give these feelings time to settle and become habit. It’s like getting out of bed on cold mornings, better to be quick than lazy.

As always, Lottie and Gwen walk me there, talking pleasant nothings as we go. Still, I’m sure I know the way. But, well, one wrong turn and I’d be entirely lost, wouldn’t I? If I learn to tell the directions by the position of the sun, I could at least learn which way the river is and use that as a guide if I ever get lost. The school and café can both be reached easily by the road that runs beside the river, after all.

Really, I’m fortunate that there’s only a few buildings and paths at the school. Ellie may have only been at the university for a short time, but it would be quicker to count the times she wasn’t lost.

“I’ll see you later,” I say to Gwen, giving her a last little hug. She giggles at my strange words, me thinking of Ellie naturally bringing out modern a phrase. Oops.

“Have a good day,” she says, prim and proper.

Like usual, I’m the first to arrive but for Iris. I guess it is a habit I inherited from Ellie as she always tried to get places early in case she couldn’t find where she was going. Nearly finished changing, Millie arrives, giving a timid greeting. Since Len won’t be coming any more, I turn and expect to see Annie when the door opens shortly after.

Except it’s not Annie at all.

The young woman has an older look to her than us in our mid-late teens, her hair neatly up and clothing a modest colour. I mind my manners, bowing my head and greeting her with a, “Good day.”

She loses a sliver of composure, her gaze quickly looking over me, yet it only shows for a moment before she returns my greeting and continues to her locker.

Millie, catching on, comes over to me and pinches my sleeve. “This is Ellie,” she says to the woman, before turning to me. “And she is Georgia.”

Not Georgie, but Georgia. She has a more refined air about her, similar to Len and Lottie, and I wonder if she has experience working in a great house. Feeling some amount of intimidation from her professional demeanour so far, I slip into a more proper tone. “A pleasure to be working with you,” I say.

She shows nothing this time, simply taking out her uniform and then about to undress. “And you,” she says, her tone measured and voice level.

Considering I’m only here for a few more weeks, there’s little reason to be pushy. That the others on this shift have been so warm doesn’t mean it’s required of the job. My thoughts continue as I finish readying myself, checking my makeup and hair. I suppose it’s natural that, if he asked Lottie, Neville wouldn’t only hire waitresses so young. And I guess it’s only natural that these women are more experienced and work during the week, maybe taking the weekend off to look after their children.

Turning to close up my locker, I look her way. I don’t mean to stare, but her undershirt is hitched up and the stretch marks on her stomach are easily noticed, drawing the eye. It’s strange, even Ellie’s world of bikinis and lingerie models didn’t show them. Or maybe that wasn’t strange. Goodness knew what tricks computers could do to neaten up every blemish, and they’d hardly choose a mother to show off what they were trying to sell to self-conscious teens.

Still, as I really don’t mean to stare, I return to what I’m doing, already feeling bad for my poor manners. One day I’ll surely have the same marks.

Annie soon after arrives, hastily changing, and Iris joins us now we’re all here, properly introducing Georgia as Len’s replacement. I wonder if I’ll get a replacement when I leave? It’s really not so busy these days, but the weather will soon warm.

Anyway, though somewhat distant to us girls, Georgia shows to be a more than capable waitress. My own heart twisted in every which way, I’m really relieved by this, knowing that the others will have someone to rely on—as if I am some great blessing to this café.

Still, I can only be honest with myself. As far from close as I am with Iris, Millie and Annie, I do love them. If I didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt to leave them, would it? So that pain is lessened by knowing my help won’t be missed.

Yes, let me be just a name they remember from time to time. Len had it right.