Ivy

Ivy says I can be whatever I want, I can live in a big house and never lift a finger, just bake, read and paint all day. Or, I can get a job, if my husband isn’t too well off. I can fall in love and get married, or I can escape the misty moors of Yorkshire and go and travel the world. Ivy’s our cook and she’s too pretty to be a cook. All cooks in the books I have read have been round and old, but Ivy’s not. She’s petite and pretty, with long hair she pulls back in a scalp plait when she’s cooking. She has big pretty brown eyes and she tells the most wonderful story’s. She used to be rich but then her dad died and she got stuck in England with no money, so she had to get a job and the poor girl ended up working for Grandpa, months before he died. We got his house when he went and father said we had to look after it for him, we don’t really do that, the maids do. Ivy as well, even though she’s the cook. It’s a shame she has to clean, because her soft, small hands are all red and scaly now. She has frown lines and her hair is never silky anymore. But, Ivy doesn’t seem sad, she is always happy, singing in her silky French and telling us story’s of her Papa and how he owned a big business in Paris, but she doesn’t pronounce it like Paris, but like Par-ee. What is really strange about Ivy is that even though she is French, she speaks in a British accent and only says the odd words in French. She says after living in England for fifteen years, she can speak better English than me and Max, my brother, I said she’s probably true.

The End

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