Page 8 - Another Twist in the Tale

Baggage was indeed her name. She had added the surname Jones, being the name of her mistress, which she believed lent a certain elegance and gave her a sense of belonging – to someone at least.
And to be sure Baggage suited her name – as our names come to suit us, or perhaps we them (as sometimes people say our dogs do). For Baggage Jones was a scrawny scrap of a creature with a round flat face, rather crumpled and pale. She had been born with a harelip, and one eyelid drooped a little, the result of an overenthusiastic beating with a wooden spoon (which we shall encounter in the next chapter). So overall, she bore a squashed appearance, as of clothing, hastily scrumpled. But in the middle of this rather odd face was a pair of large grey eyes, the colour of dirty dishwater but with a glow of love about them – though where Miss Baggage Jones could have acquired such a thing in her short, loveless existence was a puzzle. And yet it was this very quality – this love, shall we call it – that made her stop short at the sound of the baby’s wails.
“Why? What ’ave we here?” she exclaimed. “Pots an’ pans an’ pat-a-cakes! A baby – in the snow!”
Baggage peered down at the angry red-faced infant, who instantly stopped crying and stared at her, dark button eyes wet with tears.
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