She Was Proud, My Mother

My mother knew how to cook ormers. When she had cut the part you eat out of the shell, she would scrub the black edges with a scrubbing brush until they was perfectly clean; and that took some doing. Then she would put them between two towels and beat them with a flat iron for half an hour, or more. They are hard as leather, but she’d roll up her sleeves; and she had muscles on her arms, my mother. . . . When there was a lot to be had, she would pickle some. They was four-pence a dozen, if you bought them; but they was worth it. After they had been scrubbed and beaten, they was boiled for a long time; and then pickled in the best vinegar with bay leaves in an airtight jar. We didn’t have no bay leaves in our garden; so I had to go and steal some from Mr Dorey of Oatlands. He had a bay tree with leaves hanging over the road. Mr Dorey would have given us as many bay leaves as we wanted, if we’d asked him: but my mother wouldn’t let me. She was proud, my mother. She would rather steal than beg; and I’m the same.