Saturday, January the 14th, 2012
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She heard her come back into the room, shut the double-door, turn out the gas, which died with a full sighing plop, heard her draw back the window-draperies with the now remembered and recognisable squeaking drag of the rings on their mahogany rod. The light struck Melanie's lids again, but she could not open her eyes and meet Adelaide's, who had unlocked the door to the hall and called, “Lizzie! The lavender shovel!”
There was a moment's waiting, and then Lizzie's heavy steps came up the stone stairs, along the passage and into the room. Now curiosity forced open Melanie's eyes, and she saw Lizzie come past her couch, holding at arm's length a black kitchen-shovel on which burned red embers.
Adelaide was standing by the fireplace, a small green bottle in her hand. Lizzie held out the shovel to her, and on the embers Adelaide dripped liquid from the bottle. There was a sizzling, and smoke rose from the shovel, heavy with the smell of lavender. Adelaide recorked the bottle, and replaced it behind the jar containing the bulrushes, while Lizzie walked about the room, holding the shovel before her, waving it slowly from side to side.
The embers were nearly grey when she again passed by the couch on her way out of the room.
from Marghanita Laski, The Victorian Chaise-Longue (1953)
I want a lavender shovel. A lavender shoveller would be handy too.