“I should have been going to dances, larking with men who had Clark Gable hair and whispered in my ear I was as pretty as an English rose. My legs should have been caressed in silk stockings, a pointed toe and a delicate heel on my shoe as I stepped from a car. I should have trailed lily-of-the-valley scent, my hair waved, my face powdered to porcelain perfection. I should have been a lady. But I was stuck in a stinking farm. Muck. Muck. And every day the same. Until one day Mother said, “Queenie go and fetch father from the butchering shed.”
Andrea Levy, “Small Island”, 2003.
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