The Weight of Memory

By H.M. Pennison

Lawerence Pencey left England as a sailor in the British Navy for the shores of India. He did not return to England until three years afterward, leaving no record of his travels. When he had returned, he had lost all human capability to reason, overcome with severe illness of the mind and left to the caretaking of his sister, Ms. Augusta Pencely. Three years after, he was confined to York asylum after being convicted of murder. Now Augusta is left with the task of redeeming her brother from imprisonment and rebuilding a life that has seemingly been left in tatters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514412299

H.M. Pennison

Ms. Hannah Pennison is currently a high school senior attending Thomas Maclaren School in Colorado Springs. She has three younger siblings, a cat, a dog, and a gecko named Pip Cartwright. On her spare time, she writes, plays cello, runs, hikes, drinks a lot of tea, and writes excessively! This is Hannah’s first book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

T he cobblestones lining the alley way dimly shone with the characteristic dampness, which hardly ever seemed to retire in London. The sky was a pale, obsequious grey that seemed to transcend from the ether and embrace the drafty little barrister’s office on Wimbledon road. If one was so curious on such a tiresome day as this, one might proceed to pass the office to catch a glance at what exact events were taking place within the dusty little windows of Crookhammer’s Firm… and then continue to pass by as most civil people do to appear uninterested.

Now, if one were particularly nosy, one might actually posses the bravery (retained from that extinct race of blue faced Celts) to cross the alley way and directly observe imagined affairs through the window after reading the sign:

CASES OF ANY NATURE ACCEPTED

But, if a person then possessed the utter audacity to enter the shop, then heaven forbid he or she would make any attempt at all to mask said peaked curiosity and would directly approach the small oaken desk in the primary room of the office and ask the very young clerk (merely a boy) with curled dark hair (kindly, for one wouldn’t want to be impolite) to consult Mr. Percival Crookhammer on a pressing matter.

There are few in all of Christendom to take on this task, but rest assured that one of these mortals would be Ms. Augusta Pencely.

Certainly introductions are in order for it would be quite rude to leave a person alone in an office with merely a namesake.

Let it suffice to say for now then that Ms. Pencely had the appearance of a young woman of four and twenty. She had smooth, nearly-burgundy locks and wore a smart lavender dress. She had perfectly arched eyebrows giving her the appearance of a birthright to the upper-class.

Indeed, our dear Ms. Pencely seemed the common fashionable young woman of her time- confident, mildly arrogant, well-to-do, and with impeccably excellent diction.

She had uncommon beauty and a more than adequate disposition toward being civil. No one would dare breathe an ill-favored word in her direction.

And yet even all these presumptuous observations seemed somehow dimmed at a glance when the observer approached within arm’s length.

It was her stunning eyes… Her face was young but in her deep blue eyes seemed to exist a soul too old to recall. In her eyes one found the stars and the ocean; the sun and the moon.

These orbs with a small yellow- green ring surrounding her pupil enraptured a good many souls who had encountered her and seemed to nonchalantly invite them to join her company.

These blue gems seemed always prepared to shed tears for another unfortunate soul- as if they had shed a great many tears already.

May I please speak with Mr. Perceval Crookhammer…Sir? She ventured with a good natured smile to the clerk.

The little man (as his friends called him) straightened his neckerchief and cleared his throat, determined to be adequate company for any who entered the office.

He is in an engagement, but if you like, you may wait while I tell him of your arrival. Do you have an appointment? I am sure I have forgotten you if we have met before now.

His brown hands ticked with anxiety.

Oh, quite the contrary I am sure. I have never visited this establishment before, but my request to meet Mr. Crookhammer remains the same.

The clerk only smiled into her pretty face.

Then I will inform him of your visit. In the meantime, please sit in the lobby and wait.

I would be quite obliged.

With this Ms. Pencely promptly took her seat and began to engage in the business of fiddling with her perfectly starched gloves and drinking in the small waiting room which the clerk had called a lobby.

There were cheap cotton drapes hung parted at a moderately sized window, dyed red to look more expensive. The walls had simple greenish paper which was deemed appropriate but showed a lack of fashionable taste. The floor, instead of being lined with carpet, held the uttermost magnificence shown in exposed creaking boards, by which device one could hear the steps of any living thing inhabiting the office.

Terribly practical. Thought Ms. Pencely determined to maintain a positive outlook on the establishment before meeting its owner.

The boards groaned and protested as the clerk reentered the lobby.

Mr. Perceval will see you presently.

Certainly a lack of breeding on the clerk’s part to address his employer with such familiarity…or simply great fondness-he is quite young after all, she thought reassuringly.

To understand the situation plainly, it was not a brief time before Ms. Pencely was permitted into Mr. Crookhammer’s office (unless one considers three hours brief) and upon being admitted she was abruptly greeted by a weeping middle-aged woman waving her handkerchief about and shouting her founded sentiments concerning the drafty weather and the flippancy of lawyers.

Thus confirming (much to the relief of humanity), that all lawyers are insipid, heartless fools who care for nothing except the English pound and a good deal of brandy.

Then, without any explanation, turning heavily around, she marched promptly out of the comparatively small doorway, not caring to close the door behind her.

She left behind a bewildered young man and stark silence.

Mr. Percival will see you Ma’am. He said standing erectly with an attempt at straightening his second rate waist coat.

After such a scene one hardly knows what to expect in the next room beyond the clerk’s little oaken desk, and part of Ms. Pencely (I am sure) hesitated in proceeding to cross the thin threshold separating the lobby from the office, half expecting (if I may take the liberty to say so) to find some devious looking man with a dark pencil-thin mustache twirling it in his fingers while cleverly chuckling to himself.

But alas! People must make due with their circumstances otherwise they would never do anything at all. Therefore, still fidgeting with her gloves, Ms. Pencely daintily stepped into the small office.

Instead of meeting a human, her eyes encountered a tall bookshelf on the far wall, doubtlessly, holding thick volumes of English law. There was a small oaken desk on the far left wall upon which sat a small jar of dirt.

Above it hung a portrait of a solemn, sturdily built man with a monocle and a thick grey mustache.

Suddenly, a small cough was heard from behind as she swerved around to find a man of very little build lying uncomposedly in a corner doubled up against the wall.

Upon meeting Ms. Pencely’s gaze, he bewilderedly leapt into the air, and wildly ran to shake her hand.

His powdered wig lay somewhere beyond reach, which allowed for his greyish white hairs to stand in all directions as if confused on where they were to go.

His small wrinkled hands firmly clasped hers in an enthusiastic seizure of shaking, yanking Ms. Pencely’s arms in all possible directions as if in a dance, while failing at any attempt to actually greet the recipient of such tattered civility.

Ms. Pencely I believe? Oh! Indeed… indeed. You must forgive that little… episode just then. Some of my clients can be ... erhhh…very passionate in regards to their case. He concluded still shaking her hand.

Oh heavens! He said throwing his arms in the air, I do require a bit of brandy I am afraid, my senses are so bedraggled!

With this he hastily ran to a small dresser and without any hesitation poured himself a glass of brandy, which he unreservedly downed in one gulp.

Then, upon realizing that there was actually another human soul in his office, blushed, snatched up his wig, and as composedly as was presently possible, endeavored to seat himself at his oaken desk and politely ask Ms. Pencely to occupy a chair as well.

Now, he said with his voice squeaking in slight anxiety, what possible service could I perform for you madam?.

Ms. Pencely, commonly undaunted in situations such as these, slowly and emphatically replied; I am in need of your services. You see… recently… my brother has been placed in unfortunate circumstances and forced into involuntary… servitude.

Of what nature may I ask? Said Mr. Crookhammer with the utmost solemnity, concerning the circumstances.

Well, you see…if I may be allowed to narrate?-

Oh, Of course! Of course! was the even more emphatic reply.

Indeed… She said pausing, quite surprised by his enthusiasm.

Allow me to relate to you a brief family history which very few people know but which is certainly necessary… In this present case-

Oh, of course! I am quite intrigued. Mr. Crookhammer burst in reassuringly.

Indeed… If I may continue?!

Oh yes! Of course! Of course!.

With this Mr. Crookhammer donned a silver rimmed pair of spectacles and endeavored to attain a comfortable position from which he might listen. This required a great deal of crossing of legs and re-crossing, then shifting weight from one elbow to another, and trying various angles of head positions, until out of utter frustration Mr. Crookhammer stood up.

Oh, confound it all! This blasted chair is insufficient in every regard! It has failed in its duties and should be disposed of immediately..

With this he dramatically sighed, and much to his satisfaction took a seat on the bare floor in front of his desk, very much reminding Ms. Pencely of a small child preparing to play a game.

Now if I may continue sir?-

Yes, yes, of course. Forgive my rudeness, please begin.

His eyes lit up with childish intensity.

With clear yet trembling voice, Ms. Pencely began.

Chapter 2

W ell, this all began when my older brother, Lawrence, joined the Royal Navy. You see, he was always a seaman at heart and I suppose you could say that it beat in time with the lapping of pacific waves. I believe he first sailed to India in August of 1797, a few days after my twelfth birthday. Every time the tide came in he ventured to the docks and every time the tide pulled out he left to follow it. He was dearly fond of the sea- He used to bring back the most lovely shells and as a little girl I would write poems on them with charcoal and return them as gifts near Michaelmas. Life was lovely then….

Her eyes watered slightly and drifted to some far off place the observer on the floor could not follow. She sat up a bit straighter and composed herself before continuing.

"Naturally, we all grow up. I …I…suppose my life was never the same after I became grown, the bosom friends whom I had known all my life married and left the country side for the more enticing life of London. I remained alone to care for Papa until he passed away…Mama died when I was quite young, and my brother unable to bear the sadness of home left to bury his agitation in sailing….

At any rate, he had so many marvelous adventures on the ocean he was able to visit practically anywhere, constantly sailing to India or Tobago, even then he remembered to send gifts, a fan or a little parcel of some sort along with an incredibly small monthly allowance… This was really of little consequence to me at the time due to the fact that Papa left every thing which he owned as a shared inheritance between myself and Lawrence. Every month the allowance would arrive with a little news of his voyages, but as time passed he soon forgot to write letters to me at all and the allowance ceased to arrive. I am sure this was no great ordeal. I cared not for his money or gifts…" She pulled out a handkerchief.

"Lawrence could hardly be expected to continue to share the small income of a sailor with his sister who had ample means of providing for herself.

Of course I still wrote to Lawrence relating to him daily life. At the time I believe I was about seventeen."

Mr. Crookhammer’s eyes widened and he gasped.

Sir, There is no need to be ridiculous. I was well suited to life on my own. I had proper schooling and had learned all the tricks of house keeping. I was quite mature at my age already and I was happy to do my part while my brother was away. I didn’t have many friends so I kept busy with gardening and reading and becoming a better musician. I rallied my efforts and talents to make Lawrence proud. Someday he would get married and I wanted to make a good impression.

But there was no one to raise you? Mr. Crookhammer inquired. You had no family? Goodness, at such a young age… He trailed off in thought but she recalled him by continuing.

"I was not quite alone. Sometimes I stayed in London to visit my cousin- Dolly. She was quite unlike me in all respects, a very social creature indeed, and well… she acquainted me with a very pleasant young gentleman and it soon became expected by the general community that I was to marry him. His name was Charles, Charles Montclaire. He was the kindest person I had ever known and I was lonely without my dear brother…. somehow he seemed to at least partly fill that longing void for affection. He, like my brother, was in the navy though unacquainted with Lawrence.

Of course, I informed my brother of our soon expected attachment and how I prayed for his speedy return in hopes that he would bless our marriage. I believe I was about nineteen. How I longed to hear from him! I grew anxious. I wrote him nearly every day that year. Still, there was no reply. Somehow, Lawrence had remained completely indifferent to all my letters. He had not responded to one! I simply did not know what to do. By this time, Charles and I were engaged. The wedding was to be in June. Out of sheer anxiety and affection for my brother, I could no longer conceal my worry for Lawrence. I informed Charles of my present ailment and he lost no time in fervently assuring me that he would do all within his power to inquire after my brother. It was thereafter discovered that he had been lost from all naval records and that he had not been seen at sea for nearly three months. How my heart grieved for my unfortunate brother. How could someone so apt to love the sea be lost within its bounds? Every night vexed tears fell upon my pillow as if they would somehow write his fate upon the sheets. Naturally, I had to postpone the wedding. How can such great happiness be accompanied by such grief?" Ms. Pencely exclaimed with great emotion.

Hardly! Returned Mr. Crookhammer standing out of passion as his voice climbed in pitch.

He hastily offered his handkerchief.

Thank you, I will continue…

Are you certain?

Yes quite. replied Ms. Pencely, slightly disgruntled by his informality.

Well, then do not let me hinder you… he retook his seat on the floor.

Indeed….well, with great effort I assure you, after months of searching, Charles and I were able to find no trace of Lawrence. Alas! All seemed lost, until in February of that year, my brother was found off the coast of Bombay. He was entirely alone and without any knowledge as to the whereabouts of his crew… at least that is what the naval office wrote me when I inquired….

She took a deep breath as if to continue but it seemed more to hold back the approaching tears. She fought with her lips as they betrayed her inner thoughts.

Mr. Crookhammer leaned forward with concern.

When he was…. transported…. back to England he… well….

Ms. Pencely said nothing more. She tried to restrain her grief but it seemed all too weighty.

Oh heavens Madame! Pray! Do not continue unless you are quite prepared! There was something chivalrous in his informal manner and it comforted Ms. Pencely in her uncivil sorrow.

Yes, yes, I am sorry sir, you see I am a dreadful mess. My emotions always take the better of me I am afraid, it’s just that…

This was followed with a few silent tears from Ms. Pencely and a great deal of comforting on Mr. Crookhammer’s part.

There, there, you mustn’t cry, otherwise we will all be a mess and get absolutely nowhere… Now, just continue when you’re ready.

After a few more moments Ms. Pencely had composed herself.

I really do apologize Mr. Crookhammer, I am not in the habit of sharing my emotions with strangers, but life can be so wretched at times.

Indeed! Mr. Crookhammer replied emphatically.

Well, I will continue and unfortunately conclude in saying that my brother had met some unfortunate circumstances and was unjustly convicted of murder, and thus sent to prison.

And what about…! Hgmm…excuse me it is not my place to inquire, terribly rude of me as it were.

No indeed do not condemn yourself. But we must continue now. Said Ms. Pencely trying to regain her good humor, are you willing to take my case sir?

Without any hesitation Mr. Crookhammer consented.

How could he refuse this young woman who had so willingly shared her sorrow with him?

Him, an old rotten man who was withering away already at age 61!

Indeed his weakness, as most would say, was his soft heart.

Mr. Crookhammer hardly knew anything of this girl and yet he believed her in all of her innocence and without question accepted her case. Whether his feelings do him justice is yet to be seen, for the world has a habit of taking advantage of the innocent and compassionate, but let it be known that he had never ceased to give his heart away nor withhold his charity from any one person.

On Monday I will sort out the particulars with you, for now go home and rest- for you are quite weary I am sure.

Indeed sir… thank you.

Mr. Crookhammer gave a polite nod and stood up as Ms. Pencely departed.

Lawrence ... That’s a curious name…- Mr. Crookhammer thought to himself.

I wonder if it could be… No, no of course not, certainly not, indeed. Sometimes old boy you get ahead of yourself. How could both be related to him and not know the other, although unlikely, I am sure there is more than one man in this world who goes by the name Lawrence.

Chapter 3

N ow we must unfortunately depart from this story for a short while, you see, no person lives in a vacuum. Our everyday actions impact everyone around us, even if it takes several years or generations. Therefore without further adieu allow me to introduce Mrs. Christelle Oliverè.

Certainly not an English name, oh no. She was the prime example of how far the effects of an empire could reach. It has been the main force of fate in her lot of life, the creator’s chisel against her block of marble.

Where she had been raised it didn’t matter what sort of Christian name one had. In fact, the more exotic one’s name the more one blended with the general populous.

A mere fourteen years ago she had lived in India. She had spent her entire youth there, with a French father and Hindi mother. A rare occurrence in this time I can assure you and a rare occurrence then.

And she did so very much resemble the part. She had tanned brown skin, which was absolutely without flaw, and deep raven hair. From a distance anyone would have assumed she was one of those blasted foreigners, probably working in some small shop, perhaps even a workhouse. But if one were to approach a closer proximity, one would notice the stark and beautiful green eyes which so complimented the rest of her visage- most likely from her long dead father.

Long life was a luxury of the well off, the rest could not afford it.

She was slender, but not bony. Her teeth seemed all the more white in contrast with her dark complexion. She was already one and fourty in this blessed year of our lord. Certainly younger than some but not inexperienced in the ways of the world.

In fact perhaps she had seen too much of it.

But, indeed, I believe you have already met, at the barrister’s office. Don’t you recall? She was the woman running from the Mr. Crookhammer’s office.

I absolutely cannot believe they have not found him, she whispered to herself and after all of this time. That old codger won’t press it any further. Oh were I him I would press it to the ends of the earth. He believes that the cause is lost, that there is not enough ‘substantial information’ to find him.

She stormed down the walkway. Muddy runoff splashed upon her frock and boots, entirely soiling the lower half of her dress.

Oddly enough she didn’t care at all, indeed she took note of it, but the world was much too busy a place to dwell on such petty things, and if it had the time then it should find a more substantial occupation.

Mrs. Olivere was not so fortunate in her connections as other ladies. Anything which she owned was gained from the aching of her own coarse fingers and the kneading of her hands.

Out of all the things which could have happened I daresay!… and not to find him. Oh, shall god never forgive me? Shall I never gain recompense? Just to be stuck in a way which I never imagined possible?

The runoff continued to splash. It was muddy and dirty, filled with all the filth of London, and soaked through her frock onto her very thin petticoat.

He won’t even recognize me by the time I find him. How fervently would I plead for forgiveness, he would want nothing, he would have anything. Of course I know I am being selfish. I know, I mustn’t forget.

She turned onto a more empty road. It was chilly. The damp February air seeped in through her clothes and her hat. Just then the cold muddy runoff touched her stockings and a shiver was sent up her spine.

Ahhh! Dreadful this London weather! And blast all this dreaded water. I am wet to the bone. How can they expect me to come to work in such conditions as this? Who would buy stationary on such an unmerciful day? ‘Your request has been denied’ that’s what he told me, does he not understand? Oh alas. I thought I had explained my situation. I made my case very clear… Indeed….well… I know I mustn’t blame that old Barrister, he is near death’s door as it is… Hardly reasonable of me to blame him. No, no dear. you cannot be allowed to go about making enemies of people like that. With the landlords already upon you every moment, and my dear boy on the path to becoming one himself? It might do some good to have a barrister in your coin purse, and he is compassionate and very kind. I hardly have anyone else, and the children must be fed. Oh dear Violet and Jonas, they already sacrifice so much. Oh dear, Jonas! And to have to see that episode today and contain himself as his mother raged and ranted. And he promised to say nothing of this to Adrian. Oh poor Adrian, he wouldn’t understand, no indeed I haven’t told him yet. But I don’t want to give the wrong impression. He is so good to me and I love him so dearly.

Mrs. Olivere turned yet another corner with her dirty frock trailing behind. She passed the bakery, the tailor’s shop…

Oh, I really should bring home some morsel for them all but we haven’t got enough for that right now have we? She thought.

She continued down the road passing a tall and wide brick building with steam coming out of smoke stacks in great plumes. The sun was just beginning to come up and she could see the great iron lettering above the small entry way reading-

WHITNEY and KAY INC. - FABRIC INDUSTRY.

Certainly such a place was anything but inviting at this hour. She could see all the sorry souls working the heavy machines through the lit windows. They would take different shifts. The factories continued to run. All night and all day, and absolutely without holidays.

She was grateful indeed when she compared her circumstances with those who had sold their freedom for bread. She was reasonably poor but also reasonably happy.

She turned another corner. The lamplighters were out, blowing which ever lamp had been lit eight hours ago.

BONG….BONG…. BONG…

The night had been frosty.

BONG…BONG…

It had taken a great deal of time. But what could she do? There was no one to tell, no money to pay for a coach. She worked in London all week and then left to return to her home in Twickenham during the weekend.

She rounded the final corner.

The Stationer’s. The light within had just been lit. She breathed a bone racking sigh of exhaustion and stepped into the little shop.

A young boy was already working by the shelves, running to and fro. Placing this pile of parchment here, inkwells there, quills over there. Lighting more candles.

Mrs. Oliverè donned an apron and folded up her sleeves.

The owner of the shop had not yet arrived.

She took her place behind the counter thus beginning what she did all day and hiding her dirty frock. She ran her fingers through her wet hair. One day more, she thought. Then I might return home.

Chapter 4

T he rosy dawn slowly crept across the sky, pulling behind it a horizon of grey light.

Ms. Pencely awoke with a start on the coach. The excessive rattling and jostling made it practically impossible for one to fall asleep for more than half an hour. In addition to this fact, one was often forced to be very economic with personal space and was often squeezed between numerous people wherever there was available room; and if one was particularly fortunate then one might actually end up holding some miscellaneous child upon one’s lap.

This was precisely the position of Ms. Pencely at the moment and although most undesirable, she was determined to maintain a cheerful countenance. For now though, nodding, blinking, and squirming were the only civil practices she could endeavor to maintain.

I will be very happy when I reach home. She thought with great satisfaction. Of course this took several more awkward, numbing hours but she did arrive home.

Home…. Or at least as close as it could have been these past few years.

She had not been back to Garvinshire these past two years.

How dearly she desired to see the graceful fields and running brooks.

Such an odd word. So many connotations. A shack or a palace could be considered home. France or Egypt. The sea or land. How many different homes do we all have in some sense and yet very few are truly homely.

For now home was wherever Ms. Pencely could rest. For three months she had been visiting barristers in London, none of whom had accepted her case until yesterday.

For now she was staying with her cousin Dolly in a lovely townhouse, from which there was access to all things that a young lady of the time could find desirable.

A Tailor’s shop (to look at all of the latest fashions), a bakery (for practical reasons)… There was also a splendid factory where you could go to observe all the new grandeur of industrial machinery, a dancing hall which was only open on Wednesday but was certainly very popular, and if one continued a bit farther there was a small stationary’s office where things for writing letters could be found. This was quite applicable to Ms. Pencely for she wrote letters quite often, despite a lack of response from the recipient. Of course after her brother had returned there became less and less need to write, but still, every Christmas and Easter and sometimes on Guy Fawkes’ day Augusta Pencely would pick up her quill and write to her brother.

Today she simply rested. Upon entering the house through the tall oaken doors in the front, she was let into a wide space in which two symmetrical staircases curled down from the second floor and met with the thick Persian carpet laid below.

Augusta, oh dear how are you? I hope your trip went smoothly?

A short, plump older woman had just entered. She had a smiling face that never changed and strawberry blond hair which (with much effort) was pinned back but did not hinder wisps of hair from falling everywhere upon her round and reddened face.

I don’t know where Wilkins has gone. He seems to have disappeared… Wilkins. Oh Wilkins. Will you come down? Ms. Augusta requires help with her bags.

No, indeed, I am quite sure I can order them mys…

Yes Madame. You called?

A tired-looking old butler stood at the top of the stairway on the left. His collar was up and his cravat was slightly disoriented but he nonetheless hobbled down the stairs on seeing Ms. Pencely’s bags.

Oh, Wilkins, why do you insist on being so tardy? Surely there can be no good reason? The older woman’s voice raised in pitch.

Oh dear cousin do calm down. I am sure Wilkins has many other duties beyond answering the door. And you absolutely must take notice of the fact that he has aged considerably since you first bought the house.

Oh, I suppose you’re right, but I simply cannot be expected to answer the door all the time… and honestly dear are you quite well? You look so very worn.

I assure you dear Cousin, I am well enough. The weariness of my countenance is merely the effect of the coach.

Indeed, well, would you like tea then-

Forgive me cousin, but I must decline. You see I believe the greatest remedy for my weariness would be sleep, now if you will excuse me, I will retire.

Oh, of course, of course dear, naturally you want sleep. If you need anything just ring and Wilkins will fetch it for you. I had postponed all of my engagements expecting to have tea with you, but if you are going to rest, I think I will call on Mrs. Tipple, her son has just recently recovered from a chest cold. It was thought to be serious.

I do apologize cousin if I have caused you any inconvenience-

Nonsense! Nonsense! Of course you are tired and should rest. I return by luncheon. Then you may tell me all about your trip if you are not still resting.

With this cousin Dolly politely turned, grabbed her bonnet, and headed out the door.

Ms. Pencely trudged up the left staircase.

The hall seemed incredibly long, and were it not for her sensitive impression of manners, she could have fallen asleep on the carpet.

The house was quiet and only the faint wobbling and scratching of coaches on the cobblestone road could be heard through the curtains. She opened the door to her room. White drapes were drawn across the window, thus giving the whole space a cold and refreshing colour.

The bed