Free The Newspaper of Claremont Street by Elizabeth Jolley Page B

after work. She had not had a great deal of practice driving yet.
    The Chathams had paid for her driving lessons as it was unthinkable for them not to do something when it was known that the Kingstons had given the car to Weekly. That week she was heaped with presents of all sorts.
    â€˜What’s the story today Newspaper?’ Valerie leaned her bosom comfortably on the counter.
    â€˜Here’s some lipsticks for yo’ Val,’ Weekly sank onto the broken chair, tired as if she would never get up. ‘They was given to me, Muttonhead’s wife, yor sister ain’t she?’ Weekly teased. ‘Yo’ have them,’ she said, ‘I never use ’em—they’re yor colour ain’t they?’
    When she had learned to drive and had passed her test—this took great patience and it was not only her patience—she tried to think of a place where she could take the car and drive to and fro on her own. The whole of the little township had been absorbed into a suburb of the city. The city, in the last few years, had become ringed with these suburbs. All of them had four-lane highwaysfilled with traffic, high-rise dwellings filled with families, and there were modern shopping arcades full of clothes and shoes and food. They were decorated with designs in blue mosaic tiles. There were supermarkets and gift shops with big signs everywhere in wild coloured neon and American spelling. There was nowhere for Weekly to practise her driving, but then she remembered a lonely place behind the sand dunes where there was a concrete patch and a ramp, put there during the war.
    It was to this place Weekly drove her car one morning as soon as it was light. It was the first day after getting her licence. The municipality, in an endeavour to beautify the local beaches, had planted Norfolk pines along the edge of the dunes. Every tree was screened from the terrible winds by a carefully erected little fence. Weekly, intent on her clutch and gears, and concentrating on the position of the brake, had a riotous drive lasting five minutes, the concrete patch and ramp being very short, and in these five minutes, before anyone else was awake, undid the work of several men and countless working hours.
    Fortunately she was unable to stop quickly enough and so gained the road, rather by chance than skill, before getting bogged in the sand.
    Though she had driven quite a lot since then she still felt nervous before driving out to find the valley. Partly it was because she was tired. Her room was no longer theplace of rest it had always been when she returned tired out after her long day of work. Nastasya sat waiting for her to prepare food and, as soon as Weekly stepped into her room, she began to talk.
    â€˜My Fazere, Veekly, had country Es-state with gardens and lawns and orchards, and every summer I ran wild there. You can have no idea of hot houses full with grapes and the fruit trees so laden, Veekly, the boughs had to be tied up with ropes. One winter, I remember, I had been ill and was there with my Nurse all alone except for the servants. Servants, Veekly, we had so many, two footmans behind every doors and a manservant behind every chair. Veekly I tell you...’ Nastasya leaned forward always at this point, earnestly explaining to Weekly. ‘I tell you Veekly, the washing of their white gloves alone employed five vimmin every veek—as I was tellink you I was there only once in winter, so cold, and my nurse wrapped us both up warm in sheepes skins and we walked out in the night. Everything is burnink, I cried to my Nurse, but she says is all right, it is just the peasants keepink warm my Fazere’s fruit trees to keep off the frost, and so it was, hundreds of fires glowing between the fruit trees, can you imagine Veekly, the orange-coloured flames leapink and the smoke hanging in the cold air, can you for a moment imagine...’ Nastasya fell silent, brooding; she had forgotten thename of her