I was exploring an old house recently with an elderly lady who had also known Isabella. She wearied, so I steered her to a nearby sofa and we settled down to enjoy a magazine together. Eyes down to take in the reading matter, we simultaneously exclaimed, "That's Isabella's carpet."
It seemed odd that our brains had bothered to store such an apparently insignificant thing, and it intrigues me that we had both spent long enough gazing downwards, not conversing and not making eye-contact for the carpet to become engrained within our brains.
I recalled the carpet from childhood, when I was young enough to play on it. Had my companion played on it too? Had Isabella loved children, or did she just love patterned carpets?
My friend gave me this photo of Isabella from about 1922. Imagine my excitement - not only is she looking happy and glamorous, she's wearing a long string of beads.
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