Dancing the Charleston, page 13
It wasn’t Aunty’s trip-to-Harrods day, so I didn’t linger at the Higginses’ cottage very long. I went to see my mother. I’d been so eager to see Sixpence recently that I’d simply stopped to pat the grass on her grave three times, meaning I Love You, and then rushed off home. This time I lay down flat and begged Mother to make me feel better.
She was as gentle with me as ever – but not very comforting. ‘Poor Peter,’ she murmured. ‘Poor Ginger.’
‘But Peter’s not my actual friend,’ I said.
‘He’d like to be,’ said Mother.
‘Well, I can’t help that,’ I replied sulkily.
‘Mona,’ she said softly. ‘You’re my good kind girl. You know what you’re going to do.’
I sighed, scrambling up and brushing the grass off my school dress. I could easily disobey Aunty when she snapped at me, but I couldn’t resist Mother’s gentle suggestions. I left the graveyard and doubled back on myself. I went down the narrow alleyway behind the cottages in case Maggie was playing in her garden. I headed for the pink-washed cottage at the other end of the street, where the Robinsons lived.
It was one of the prettiest cottages, with roses round the white door and a garden full of flowers, with never a weed in sight. Mrs Robinson had time on her hands because she only had the one child, Peter. She didn’t have to work like Aunty. She had Mr Robinson, who was a train driver, and earned a good wage. Almost all the boys at school wanted to be train drivers when they grew up – they begged Mr Robinson to take them up into the engine with him. It made Peter very popular.
I hovered for a minute or so, pretending to myself that I was simply admiring the flowers. I was feeling nervous. I knew that Peter liked me, but I wasn’t sure his mother would. Then I looked up and saw him standing at his front window, his forehead against the glass. He looked comically surprised.
I gave him an airy wave, then went to the front door and knocked politely – Aunty had trained me never to bang hard. I hoped Peter himself would come running, but it was his mother, in a dress as floral as her garden, without an apron.
‘Yes, dear?’ she said. Her voice was as refined as Aunty’s.
‘How do you do, Mrs Robinson?’ I said, holding out my hand.
She shook it, disconcerted. ‘And you are …?’
She knew perfectly well who I was. Everyone knew who I was. I was that girl who lives with her aunt in the cottage on the estate.
‘I’m Mona Smith,’ I said.
‘She’s in my class at school, Mother,’ said Peter, coming to the door too, cradling Ginger. ‘Hello, Mona!’
‘Hello, Peter. Oh, Ginger’s grown! He’s much bigger than Sixpence, but he’s still very sweet. I was wondering – would you like to come round to my house with him so he can play with Sixpence?’
‘Yes, please!’ said Peter, going painfully red. ‘Can I, Mother?’
‘But I’m just making your tea! I thought you said you were starving!’
‘I’m not hungry any more. Oh, please!’ he begged.
‘Won’t your aunt mind?’ she asked me.
There! She did know me.
‘Peter could have tea at my place,’ I said.
We had much nicer food now that Aunty had a contract with Harrods. We had ham or corned-beef salad, or cheese on toast, or egg and beans – really tasty food that filled you up but didn’t need much cooking. (Aunty was busier than ever, sewing and sewing until her hands stiffened and her sight blurred. Still, she didn’t seem to mind too much. She held out the skirts of her little dresses, checked the white collars and puffed sleeves, examined the embroidery, and then gave them a little pat, as if there was a real child wearing them.)
‘Please, Mother,’ said Peter.
‘Oh, very well then. But don’t outstay your welcome. Come back home after half an hour like a good boy,’ she said. ‘Let me look at you.’ She ran a comb though his short hair and then spat on her hankie and wiped round his mouth. Peter wriggled uncomfortably.
‘I wish she wouldn’t do that,’ he said as we set off.
‘My aunty does it too,’ I said. ‘I expect the kittens’ mother licked them clean too.’
‘I keep wondering if Ginger is missing her,’ said Peter, rubbing his cheek against the bright furry head.
‘I keep thinking that too!’
‘Do you miss your mother, Mona?’ Peter asked. ‘Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.’
‘It’s all right. She died when I was born, but I sometimes go to the graveyard and talk to her,’ I said. I’d never told anyone that before, not even Maggie, because I knew she’d think it weird.
Peter stopped in his tracks, looking interested. ‘How do you talk to her? Is it like saying prayers?’
‘Not really. I just lie down beside her – well, on her, actually – and whisper stuff down to her,’ I said.
‘You mean you lie on her grave? Isn’t it a bit scary?’ Peter asked.
‘Not in the slightest,’ I said. ‘And she talks back to me.’
Peter must have squeezed Ginger quite hard in surprise, because the kitten gave a little protesting mew.
‘Sorry, Ginger! She doesn’t really talk, does she? Like a ghost?’
‘She’s not a ghost, she’s my mother, and she still loves me and wants to look after me, even though she’s dead and buried,’ I said.
‘Cripes!’ said Peter. He stood there, stroking Ginger. ‘Are you going to talk to her now?’
‘No, I’ve already done it. She told me to invite you back to my house so that our kittens could play together,’ I told him.
He blinked. ‘That was nice of her,’ he said. He paused. ‘Did she tell you to invite Maggie too?’
‘No, she didn’t actually.’
Mother didn’t seem to think much of Maggie. I’d told her all the secret things we whispered about sometimes, and Mother had been shocked. She hadn’t scolded me – she never did that – but she did murmur that it wasn’t very nice for little girls to talk about such things.
‘Though I do understand that it’s lovely for you to have a special friend, dear,’ she added comfortingly.
Aunty didn’t mince her words. She didn’t know about Maggie’s surprising knowledge or her rude jokes (she’d have been utterly horrified by them), but she didn’t think much of her manners. The one time I’d invited Maggie to tea she’d wiped the crumbs off her face with the back of her hand, and once she’d even wiped her runny nose. Maggie had got down from the table without asking, and when she peeped into Aunty’s workroom she’d whooped at the sight of the sewing machine.
‘Let me have a go!’ she demanded, sitting down on Aunty’s chair and touching the machine’s gold lettering with her sticky fingers.
‘Oh no, dear, it’s not for little girls,’ said Aunty, giving her a steely smile.
She sighed deeply when Maggie went home. ‘Well!’ she said. She didn’t say any more. She didn’t need to. I knew she wouldn’t want me to invite Maggie back, though it was a little awkward when kind Mrs Higgins minded me once a week now.
I worried that Aunty wouldn’t take to Peter either, but when we got to the cottage he was very polite.
‘I won’t outstay my welcome, Miss Watson,’ he said, quaintly quoting his mother. ‘I’d just like to let my kitten Ginger meet up with Sixpence again. I think it would be good for them.’
‘Sixpence has been a very naughty girl today,’ said Aunty, shaking her head. ‘She’s just knocked my box of embroidery silks off the shelf and got them into a terrible tangle!’
‘Oh dear!’ said Peter. ‘Shall we help you untangle them?’
Aunty had vowed never to let any more visiting children into her workroom, but surprisingly she agreed. We shut Sixpence and Ginger in the kitchen together, and then sat cross-legged on Aunty’s lino floor, winding each different skein of silk. Aunty sat on her little chair, unpicking knots in a totally mangled thread, nodding at Peter approvingly.
‘You’ve got nimble fingers for a boy, Peter Robinson,’ she said.
‘They’re not a patch on yours!’ he replied. ‘I love that little shirt thing you’re making. My mother makes my shirts, but they’re not a bit like that. She gets Simplicity fashion patterns. Are they what you use, Miss Watson?’
Aunty was always scathing about patterns, but she simply shook her head. ‘No, dear, I create my own designs.’
‘Aunty makes children’s clothes for Harrods,’ I said proudly.
‘What’s Harrods?’ Peter asked.
‘It’s the biggest, best department store in the world,’ I said. ‘It’s up in London, and I’ve been there with Aunty, and it’s astonishing – like a palace, with marble pillars and soft carpets and those huge bright sparkly lights.’
‘Chandeliers,’ said Aunty.
‘And you’ve really been there, Mona?’
‘Yes, and Aunty bought us a box of Harrods chocolates, which were incredibly expensive. I’d have offered you one, but we ate them all. I’ve still got the box though. I’ll fetch it,’ I told him.
I’d turned it into a house for Farthing. The bottom drawer was her kitchen. I’d made her a little cardboard stove and baked her some miniature jam tarts when Aunty was making pastry. I’d even put a dab of jam in each tart. I’d made them as small as I possibly could, but Farthing could have used each tart as a large sofa, only then she’d have got her dress sticky.
The middle drawer was her living room, with a lot of conker chairs in case she had visitors. I’d made her a book to read too, and written the title with a pin carefully dipped in the ink bottle: Thumbelina.
The top drawer was Farthing’s bedroom. I wanted to copy the fairy story and give her a walnut-shell bed, but I didn’t have any walnuts, so I had to make do with a matchbox, which wasn’t anywhere near as pretty, though I did give her silky bedding from Aunty’s bag of scraps. I put the top from a little medicine bottle beside the bed in case Farthing needed a potty in the night.
I kept the drawers firmly shut while I showed Peter, but he asked if he could open one to see if he could still smell the chocolates.
‘Well, just a peep,’ I said reluctantly, worrying that he would laugh at me for being such a baby.
He had more than a peep. He peered at each drawer in turn, smiling, but only in admiration.
‘You’ve made a little house for your doll!’ he said. ‘I love all her furniture! And you can still smell the chocolate!’ he said, breathing in deeply. ‘Your doll’s so lucky living in a house that smells like the best chocolate in the world!’
‘I’ve always liked the bit in “Hansel and Gretel” where they find the gingerbread cottage, and the tiles on the roof are slabs of chocolate!’ I said.
‘And the door knocker’s made of barley sugar! If I had a house like that, I’d eat it all up,’ said Peter.
‘Is that a hint that you two would like some tea?’ Aunty wondered.
‘Yes please!’ said Peter, who had clearly got his appetite back.
We all went into the kitchen, and Peter and I did our best to keep the kittens amused while Aunty started cooking. Peter got out a little India rubber ball and bounced it into a corner. Sixpence and Ginger raced across the room to pounce on it. Sixpence was slightly faster, even though her legs were shorter, but Ginger was stronger. They tussled for it, rolling over and over, play-fighting. Then they ran around in circles, dashing this way and that, so fast we couldn’t catch them. Suddenly Sixpence was exhausted: she flopped down on the rag rug and put her head on her paws. She was asleep in seconds. Ginger looked disappointed, made a circuit of the room by himself, and then lay down beside Sixpence.
‘Aah!’ we exclaimed simultaneously, and then laughed.
Aunty made us a good tea – poached eggs on toast and then treacle tart. The tart was a little stale now, but still very good heated up and served with cream from the top of the milk.
‘This is spiffing food!’ said Peter. He talked with his mouth full, but Aunty didn’t seem to mind.
‘The tart’s from the manor,’ I explained.
‘Mona!’ said Aunty. It was meant to be a deadly secret that Ella sometimes slipped us leftover food. Aunty worried she might get into trouble – but Mr Marchant had gone now, and he hadn’t been replaced yet.
After we’d had our tea the kittens woke up again. We fed them too, and then sat with them cuddled on our laps. It was very peaceful in the kitchen, with just the ticking of the clock and the whir of the sewing machine from Aunty’s workroom.
‘I do like it at your house,’ said Peter. ‘Ginger likes it here too.’ He looked up at the clock and sighed. ‘I’ve been here an hour and a half!’
‘But you haven’t outstayed your welcome,’ I told him.
‘Really? Still, Mother will be worrying. I suppose I’d better go,’ he said, tucking Ginger down his shirt front.
He said goodbye to Aunty and thanked her for having him. I went to the front door with him.
‘Thank you very much too, Mona,’ said Peter. ‘Could I come again?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Just Ginger and me, like today?’
I nodded. We didn’t need to spell it out: we had to keep this a secret from Maggie.
It wasn’t easy at school. I went around with Maggie all the time. I didn’t speak to Peter much, though we sometimes caught each other’s eye. I’d nod and he’d wink.
Maggie caught him once, and was outraged. ‘Peter Robinson winked at you!’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘So what?’ I said, though I could feel myself going pink.
‘And you had a silly smile on your face like you didn’t mind!’
‘Oh, Maggie, do shut up about it,’ I said.
She went off in a huff, and my tummy clenched, wondering if she was going to break up with me. She joined some of the other girls in their skipping game, and ignored me. I sat by myself, pretending I didn’t care. Peter hovered, looking anxious.
‘Go away,’ I muttered, and after a while he did.
I sat with my head on my hands, wondering if I’d lost both friends now, but when it was time to go home Maggie linked arms with me and we went back to her house, same as always.
I didn’t go calling for Peter straight away, but when I dodged back to his house a few days later he seemed thrilled. I was invited in for tea, but it wasn’t quite the same. I didn’t have Sixpence with me so the kittens couldn’t play together, and Peter and I couldn’t play properly either, because his mother stayed with us all the time. In fact, she insisted on playing too. She liked card games. The three of us played Snap and Happy Families and Old Maid.
I’d played Snap with Maggie, but after five minutes it became boring. I found Happy Families quite enjoyable because I liked the pictures on the cards and it was fun getting to know each family in turn. I detested Old Maid right from the start. I was left with a card showing a grotesque old woman, and Peter and Mrs Robinson pointed at me and shouted, ‘Old Maid, Old Maid!’ in mocking voices. I knew it was simply part of the game, but I didn’t like it at all.
‘Why are you doing that? What does it mean?’ I asked, ashamed to find that I was nearly in tears.
‘We’re not being horrid,’ Peter said quickly. ‘You have to shout whenever someone’s left with the Old Maid card. I expect it will be me next time, and then you can shout at me.’
‘But why do you shout Old Maid? Why does she look so horrible?’
‘Because it is horrible to be left a sad old maid. It means that no one wants to marry you,’ said Mrs Robinson, twisting the wedding ring on her finger. Then she looked at me and suddenly went red. ‘But it is rather a silly game, Mona. Shall we have a change and play Spillikins?’
She’d remembered that Aunty was an old maid. No one had ever wanted to marry Aunty. Was she sad about it? Was that why people weren’t always very nice to her, and whispered behind her back? I wanted to stab Mrs Robinson with her own spillikins.
‘I don’t think I’d better play any more. I have to get home. Thank you for having me,’ I gabbled, and then headed for the door.
Peter came running after me. ‘Are you upset, Mona?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Mother didn’t mean to say that. You will come again, won’t you?’
I shrugged, not wanting to now.
Peter came nearer so his breath tickled my ear. ‘I can still come to yours, can’t I? With Ginger? It’s ever so much nicer at your house.’
I nodded, and then very quickly he kissed me on the cheek. We both sprang apart and I ran off down the street. When I got to the corner I looked back, and he was still standing at his front door, waving. I waved back. I supposed he was my sweetheart now. I wasn’t sure I was keen on the idea, even though I liked him. It might mean that I would never have to be an old maid – but was that really so dreadful?
Aunty stopped working and made me a cup of cocoa when I got home. She made herself one too, but didn’t take it into her workroom in case she got a brown drip on the delicate cream silk she was sewing. We sat together in the kitchen, sipping away.
‘Aunty, do you mind not being married?’ I blurted out.
She looked startled. ‘Has someone been saying something to you about me?’ she asked.
‘No, no! I just wondered, that’s all,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m perfectly happy as I am,’ she told me.
‘You don’t ever get lonely?’
‘Well, I’ve got you to keep me company, haven’t I?’
‘That’s right,’ I said, relieved. ‘There’s you, me and Sixpence.’
I decided we were a Happy Family too.
He took a daisy out of his hair and stuck it behind my ear.
11
‘You should see what’s been happening up at the manor now!’ said Ella. ‘Oh, Flo, it’s breaking my heart! He’s had all the paper ripped off, and the walls painted the most bizarre colours you’ve ever seen. You’ll never guess what colour the drawing room is. Pink! Bright pink! Pink as a stick of seaside rock! And now the new furniture is arriving, and it’s all as rum as anything – hideous pale wood, and ever such funny shapes. It’s meant to be some art style, but it don’t look the slightest bit artistic to me, and it’s dead uncomfortable into the bargain.
