Tuesday, 15 January 2019
Ten-minute Writing Challenge!
Jorge said he wasn't coming back until I learned how to be a better wife. The Trouble was, I didn't know what that meant. I'd been raised by my Uncle Edwin, Earl of Cavendish, who had so many servants I didn't have to lift a finger.
Breakfast was served on silver platters and in heated silver dishes with ornate knobs, lined up neatly on the sideboard. I had no idea how the food was prepared.
My dresses were made for me. I knew you had to pin and then baste and then sew, but how - I had no clue.
Then came the war. And the London Blitz. The large mansion was many of the victims of incendiary bombs. Uncle Edwin believed that his home wasn't near any of the key targets, so we wouldn't get bombed. But we did.
The Germans bombed everything, it seemed to me. Devastation everywhere.
Uncle Edwin was sitting in his favourite armchair when the bombers came. I had gone to the air-raid shelter with the servants. Jorge was the chauffeur. We struck up a friendship which, a year later, led to marriage.
But the adjustment to living in a small, damp cottage, albeit in the beautiful Cotswolds, was too much. I had no clue how to be a housewife and look after the cottage, and feed my husband, and darn his socks.
So, I left before Jorge had the chance.
That's when I believe my life really began.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2019