English natural RP accent - straight reads for fiction audiobook demo
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British (England - Cockney, Estuary, East End) British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)Transcript
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well, this is awkward and surprising and extremely mortifying. This is also rendering me speechless. Well, externally, I am speechless. Internally, there are many words running through my brain, but they are running so fast that they are running together. I squint to make sure I see what I think I can see. Yep, I am sure it's him next to her, who I assume is his fiancee, Pepper, Chris and Pepper. All of my communications up until this very vital moment, have been on a first name only basis. It never occurred to me that serendipity could have such a twisted sense of humour, and I never thought that the Chris of Chris and Pepper would be my Chris of Crescent Page. Pippa is a very fitting name for the craft blonde standing in front of me. I recognise her from the thumbnail photo attached to her email signature, except that she is even more beautiful in person. She has very delicate features, with the exception of her nose, a bit of a one sided smile that doesn't reach her eyes and a perfectly tailored outfit, not a hair is that on the day that Roberts started school, Florence also had an interview at the new factory that had opened up on the outskirts of the town. That morning. She hurried around the little house two up, two down, trying to make sure they both look presentable. Riding out at sunrise to climb around old forts seemed the stuff of fairy tales these days. She arranged her son's new uniform on his bed, the one that converted into a chair in the front room while he sat at the kitchen table, spooning porridge slowly into his mouth. When he had finished, she grabbed the bowl and pushed him towards the sink with instructions to wash his face, get dressed and comb his hair. In the meantime, she attacked her own unruly mop, jamming in some pins to keep it from flying all over the place. She thought briefly of Sita's gentle hands, brushing her curls into shining submission, ensuring she looked her best for every special occasion. Her 18th birthday party came to mind, but then push the memory away. There was no time for idle, not the plainness of the kitchen was a relief. After the bright colours of the bar, pale wooden counters hugged, white sinks and black stoves. And even though the knives and pans were gleaming, the light was more bearable. Or Cora's tiredness was starting to dull everything she hoped. The local constables arrived soon to interview the stranded travellers. Cora had enough to do with the kitchen staff. Of the six people now in the kitchen, three had been working the previous night when the prisoner transport arrived. Those three plus tree Stanton and the cook, with the only staff still there by that time. Given the lateness right now, the cook was on a break, which gave Cora the chance to speak to the others individually about how the food had been prepared. What food did you send to the barn? Cora asked one of the kitchen workers, a skinny lad with a lisp and a weak leg. Soup and bread, The land said. Was it made special for them? It was The same partners were served to the others, them in the dining room, same pot, and no one else had been affected. You didn't see the cook add anything special to the soup that went to the barn? Cora asked. No final touches. The lad laughed. Chance to be a fine thing Cook don't really do touches. What about drinks? She said, trying not to lose her patience. Did you take them anything from the bar? They said they had their own. The lad leaned against the counter top to ease the strain on his bad leg, which looked scrawny er than the other. It was only the soup and bread we gave them. The midnight sky darkened black as the love bugs, eating away at her mother's heart. If Luisa listened closely, she could hear them chewing tiny bites that crackled and clicked as if their teeth were very sharp. And in the quiet of the night, when the only other sounds with groans of the old building settling and the lonely call of a loon lark, Louisa could not block out the persistent nibbling. She should have been curled with her blankets beside the fireplace, asleep like her mother. But the stone hearth had gone cold, and there was no more wood to burn. So she sat by her mother's bedside, listening to the love bugs, tick and talk like a clock winding down in her hand. Louisa held a threaded needle, careless of the mending in her lap, she stabbed the pad of her thumb through the length of fabric. She held back a yelp and sucked the pinprick wound with only embers in the hearth. It was much too dark for sewing. Shadows crowded the corners and settled under her mother's eyes, and in the Hollows of her cheeks, they changed the shape of her face, sharpening every bone.