by Nina Bawden
Mother said, ‘I must go to that poor woman. Shall I take your love to Annie? Do you think she’d like me to make her a dress?’
Most of the day now Mother’s treadle sewing machine whirred in the front room downstairs. She had plenty of customers but she found time to make a dress for Annie; a best dress with lace collar and cuffs and a tucked bodice. Poll said, ‘She’ll want new boots, too. No use having a new dress and old boots.’
‘I’ll see what I can manage,’ Mother said. ‘There’s a pair Lily’s grown out of she’s hardly worn. They’d do for the summer.’
‘Is it summer already?’ Poll said.
The year had turned while she was ill. With the first of the really warm weather, Miss Mantripp hung Kruger’s cage in her cottage doorway and the thrush’s liquid song poured in at Poll’s window. She sat, propped up on pillows, cutting pictures out of magazines for her scrapbook. She stuck Father’s postcards in, too. He had left Uncle Edmund and the saloon in Colorado and found a job as valet to a rich Englishman who was travelling round America. Since he heard Poll was ill he had sent her a card almost every day, covered in such tiny writing it hurt her eyes to read it. The cards came from the Grand Canyon, from Niagara Falls, from San Francisco (Aunt Sarah said they would be useful for Geography and bought Poll an atlas) but the card Poll liked best was made of soft leather with a picture of a bear on it, and the message, I CAN HARDLY BEAR TO LEAVE YOU. Poll went to sleep with this card tucked under her cheek and the leather dye came off on her skin.
She wasn’t bored. She had her scrapbook, and Aunt Harriet’s collection of birds’ eggs to look at, and a huge pile of Chatterbox Annuals, and Aunt Sarah’s photograph album, a heavy, leather-bound volume with a brass clasp. ‘All your ancestors, dear, that should interest you,’ Aunt Sarah said, and there they all were: whiskered gentlemen and crinolined ladies sitting beside potted palms. Granny Greengrass was there, in a lace cap and black dress, but Poll couldn’t tell if the picture was taken after the butcher had chopped off her finger because her hand was hidden in the folds of her skirt. There was one of her very much younger, with a baby Aunt Sarah sitting square and solemn-eyed on her lap and a tall man behind her, standing to attention like a soldier with his hand on her shoulder. ‘Is that Grandpa Greengrass?’ Poll asked. ‘No one ever says what happened to him!’ She hoped for a story but her mother, who was short-tempered that day because a customer was due for a fitting and her dress wasn’t ready, just said, ‘Don’t you mention that old rascal to me! He came to a bad end, that’s all you need to know!’
In the afternoon, when Theo and Lily and George came home from school, they took it in turns to sit on the other side of the carbolic sheet and read to her. It was very odd, she thought one day. Her sister and her brothers had become voices to her, reading Christie’s Old Organ or Robbery Under Arms. She said to Theo, ‘D’you know, I’ve forgotten what you look like!’
He was quiet for a minute. Then said, ‘You’ll get a surprise when you see me. I’m growing, like our peppermint pig. Not a peppermint boy any longer.’
‘Oh, I do wish I could see Johnnie,’ Poll said.
*
She heard him that afternoon. He made such a noise in the back garden, squealing and trumpeting, that the sound carried through to Poll’s little room in the front of the house. She sat up in bed, rigid and trembling. Something awful was happening – or going to happen! A dreadful thought pierced her mind and invaded her body: her heart and her stomach seemed to come loose inside her and lurch with foreboding. Annie had said, Our pig didn’t half holler! She pushed shaky legs out of bed and tottered, head swimming, past the carbolic curtain, through her mother’s room to the back bedroom. Johnnie’s wild protests continued, a shrill hooting and honking that sounded more like ten pigs than one as she struggled with the sash window. Then the noise stopped abruptly. Poll lay across the sill, faint with effort, the summer air cold on her forehead. She moaned, ‘Johnnie, oh Johnnie…’
Below, in the garden, her mother was standing at the fence talking to the woman next door. They looked up at Poll in a sudden, shocked silence that seemed, to her terrified mind, a guilty conspiracy.
She said, ‘Mother…’
‘What are you doing? You’ve no business up, you know that! Back to bed with you!’
She seemed to have no breath left. She whispered, ‘Where’s Johnnie?’
‘Shut up in the hen house. Do as you’re told.’
She crept back to bed and lay shaking all over. Afraid, now she knew Johnnie was safe, of her mother’s anger. Suppose she told the doctor and he said, ‘Off to hospital!’
But when Mother came up, she was smiling. ‘That dratted pig! D’you know what he’s done? Pushed his way through the fence and ate next-door’s gooseberries. Picked them straight off the bushes, dainty as anything! The whole crop! She caught him at it and went after him with a spade and he led her a fine old dance, catch as catch can round the garden! Trouble was, I couldn’t stop laughing and that didn’t sweeten her temper – once I’d got him shut up, she went for me hammer and tongs, though it’s her fault he got through her fence, as I told her, and time it was mended! I said I was sorry, of course, all the same, but I couldn’t admit liability!’ She drew herself up as she said this, back very straight, head lifted proudly. ‘Then you looked out of the window and that softened her up. Your having been ill, you know. She said she’d forgive him this time, being as he was a special kind of a pig, and gave me an apple for him.’
Poll was weak with relief. ‘Oh, Mother, I thought…’ Tears choked her voice. Mother muttered something under her breath, sat down on the bed and held her hand while she had her cry out.
Then she said, ‘He won’t stay shut up in the hen house too long, so you needn’t fret about that. I’ll get George to mend the fence soon as he’s home. He might not do it for me but he’ll do it for Johnnie! You’re not the only one soft-hearted about the old pig, you know!’
‘I expect when I get up I’ll find he’s forgotten me,’ Poll said mournfully.
But he hadn’t. The first day she came down, he trotted into the front room where she lay on the old leather sofa, put his soft twitching nose against the palm of her hand for a moment, then grunted twice and laid his heavy head in her lap.
She said, ‘Oh, he’s huge. He’s quite different!’
His eyes hadn’t changed, though. When she pushed back his ears, they seemed to smile up at her; dark blue eyes, with long, stiff, lint-pale lashes.
‘Too big for the house, really’ Mother said.
‘Let him stay. Please. He’s been lonely for me, you can see! He won’t get in your way while you’re sewing.’
‘Just a while then. Long as no one’s due for a fitting. Some of my ladies are a bit fussy!’
‘I should think they’d be glad to see Johnnie,’ Poll said, and the pig grunted as if in agreement, and settled comfortably down by the sofa.
Poll talked to him and scratched his back, dividing her attention between him and the Privet Hawk Moth Theo had brought home for her while she was still in bed.
She had had plenty of caterpillars before, kept in an old shoe box with holes in the lid, but she had never cared for them much: their quick, looping walk and the way they waved backwards when she blew on them reminded her of Mrs Marigold Bugg. The Privet Hawk Moth caterpillar was different, more like a little locomotive, smooth-skinned and fat and slow-moving with a beautiful mauve stripe down his back. By the time Poll was down on the sofa, he had turned into a shining brown chrysalis and she liked to take him in her hand and watch the warmth make him kick up his tail.
One morning, when she opened the box, the chrysalis was gone and there in its place was a moth with grey and pink wings. Poll called, ‘Oh, Mother, come quickly,’ and Mother came running, drying her hands on her apron and looking alarmed. ‘I’m all right,’ Poll said. ‘Look!’
She edged the moth on to her finger. He seemed asleep but when Mother opened the window and Poll held him out
in the sunshine, he opened and closed his wings once or twice and then spread them wide, nearly four inches across, and floated away on a soft little wind. They watched him drift up, high over the Square. ‘Time you were out in the air too,’ Mother said.
Her head spun at first. She managed to walk on Mother’s arm as far as Miss Mantripp’s cottage and then had to sit down on a chair the old lady put out in the sun for her. The thrush, Kruger, cocked his head and looked down, bright-eyed. ‘You must get him some snails,’ Miss Mantripp said. ‘He’s very partial to snails.’
‘I will when I’m strong enough,’ Poll said, ‘I don’t think I could bend over to look for them just at the moment.’
But she was strong enough the next day. She collected snails from Aunt Sarah’s rock garden and gave them to Kruger and watched him dash them against the floor of his cage and break them open and eat them. When he had finished, he swelled his plump throat and sang. ‘He’s saying thank you,’ Miss Mantripp said, and brought her a glass of skim milk. She sat outside Miss Mantripp’s front door, drinking the milk, and everyone who passed, even people who were strangers to her, stopped and smiled and said they were glad she was better.
The whole Town, it seemed, had been worried about her. Shopping with Mother, they were met everywhere with kind, beaming faces, and when they went into Mullen’s General Store, Old Mullen himself came out of his office and said, ‘Glad to see you out and about, young woman, there was a time your Mother thought she might lose you.’
That made Poll feel very important. She wouldn’t have wanted to die, or be ill for the rest of her life, but she was a bit sorry that her legs seemed to be fattening up quite so fast and was almost jealous of Theo: although he had grown while she’d been in bed and was now at least an inch taller than she was, he was still very much thinner. When she looked in the mirror she sucked in her cheeks and practised a faint, hollow smile that made her look sad and interesting.
The day she met Lady March, she had got this smile to perfection. She and Mother were crossing the Square on their way to the baker’s when a carriage stopped beside them and a high, cracked old voice said, ‘Oh, Mrs Greengrass, I am so delighted to see your dear little girl is quite well again!’
Lady March’s face was like a piece of thin, crumpled paper under the spread sails of her hat; her fluttering, gloved hands frail as bird’s wings. Poll looked modestly down, smiling her sad, rehearsed smile, and Lady March said, ‘Poor, pretty child. I’m afraid she still looks very delicate.’
‘Only when she pulls that silly face,’ Mother said, rather grimly. She ignored Poll’s reproachful sigh and went on, ‘I’m glad we’ve met, Lady March. Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell your daughter her new dress is ready whenever she wishes to call and collect it.’
This dress, as Poll knew, had been ready for more than two weeks and the most likely reason why Arabella March had not come to fetch it was that she had overspent her quarter’s allowance. Only that morning Mother had looked in her purse and said, with an angry sniff, ‘I suppose not paying what they owe is one of the ways rich people save money.’
Lady March laughed like glass tinkling. ‘I expect she forgot, my dear, you know what girls are! But I’ll remind her, of course. I know she’s been really quite pleased with the work you have done for her up to now. As a matter of fact, I might ask you to do something for me! Not a new gown – as you know, I always get my things made at Mullen’s. So much more convenient to be able to get the material there and put it down on the bill, don’t you know! But I have an afternoon gown that needs renovating and I have never found Mrs Bugg very helpful with alterations. Won’t take the trouble, I suppose, it’s the same story wherever you turn nowadays, standards of service are not what they used to be! But then I expect you know that as well as I do!’
‘Oh yes,’ Mother said. ‘Yes, Lady March.’
‘I’ll bring you the gown, then?’ She smiled graciously as if the gown was a present. ‘Would this afternoon be convenient?’
‘I’m afraid not, Lady March. Not this week at all. One of my customers has a funeral on Friday and that, as you know, really must take priority!’
The manservant driving the carriage had been sitting still on the box and staring straight ahead all this time. He cleared his throat suddenly and Mother’s mouth twitched. A purplish colour crept into Lady March’s cheeks as if she felt she was being laughed at in some way. Poll felt sorry for her and looked at Mother indignantly but her expression was innocent.
Lady March said, ‘Well, next week, perhaps? To tell you the truth, Mrs Greengrass, one reason I am anxious to come is to see your famous pet pig. The one everyone is talking about. When I spoke to the Vicar last Sunday he mentioned it and said it really was a remarkable animal. I know, Mrs Greengrass! I have a splendid idea! Would you be kind enough to bring him up to the Manor one day? Round to the back door and show me his tricks?’ She clapped her little hands together in affected excitement and added, ‘Of course, you could pick up the gown at the same time, couldn’t you?’
Mother gave her a long, hard pitying look and shook her head slowly. ‘My Johnnie is not a back door or kitchen pig, Lady March! Nor does he do tricks, like a freak in a fair! As the Vicar told you, he is an unusual creature and he has his own proper dignity that I wouldn’t wish to offend. A formal invitation to visit you would be a different matter, of course.’
The manservant took a red handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose loudly. The noise startled the horse and the carriage jerked forward over the cobbles. The man looked over his shoulder and grinned.
Mother smiled pleasantly. ‘Good morning, Lady March. You will give my message to your daughter, won’t you?’ She took Poll’s hand and walked on. Out of earshot, she chuckled. ‘Really the cheek of the woman!’
Poll said, puzzled, ‘She only wanted to see Johnnie.’
‘Just a sprat to catch a mackerel, Poll. Mullen’s won’t do alterations at a price she’s willing to pay, that’s the truth of it. Well, I won’t, either! I may have sunk down in the world but not so low that I’m ready to turn seams on an old miser’s gown for a shilling and a kind word or two! That’s the last we’ll hear of that, I do hope!’
She was wrong. The next day the manservant came to the door with a note on an engraved card. Lady March would be pleased if Mrs Greengrass, her younger daughter, and her pet pig, would care to take tea with her next Friday at four.
Mother sat in the kitchen and laughed. ‘She’s beaten me,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, she’s a sly one! Run to the door, Poll, and tell the man we’ll be delighted to come. No wait a minute, I’ll write, since we’re being so grand with each other!’
Poll watched her write. She said, ‘Shall you alter her dress after all?’
Mother put her note in an envelope and stuck it down. ‘Oh yes, she’s earned it. Out-smarted me properly and it’s always best to pay up with a good grace when that happens. If she’s willing to entertain an old pig in her drawing room just to get a bit of work done on the cheap, then good luck to her!’
Mother scrubbed Johnnie down with the broom – since he liked having his back scratched he found this no hardship – and left him to dry in the sun while she and Poll dressed. Poll wore her pink shantung with a hanging pocket to match and her leghorn hat trimmed with daisies. ‘Now you’re fit to have tea with a Queen,’ Mother said.
They set off at twenty minutes to four, Johnnie walking sedately behind them across the Market Square, past the church, and took a short cut through the ruins of the old Priory on the edge of the Town. When they started up the long drive that led to the Manor House, Poll began to feel nervous. She looked at her mother and saw her lips moving silently, as if she were holding an internal conversation. Then she made a little grimace, and smiled. Her eyes shone suddenly bright and when she spoke her voice was light and eager as bird song. She said, Polly, love, forget the unkind things I said about Lady March, she’s not a bad old thing, really,’ and Poll thought at first she was ju
st saying this because she felt happy and wanted everything to be pleasant about her. But then she added, ‘It’s hard to be lonely and old and know that even your servants laugh at you when your back’s turned,’ and Poll remembered the man snorting into his handkerchief and grinning on the box of the carriage and knew it was true.
He had the same knowing grin on his face when he opened the door to them and it made Poll indignant. Copying her mother, she averted her gaze and ignored his impertinence. It was harder to ignore the two young maids giggling at the far end of the hall, particularly when she knew they were not just laughing at the sight of a pig walking in the front entrance and at foolish old Lady March for inviting him, but at her and her mother too, for joining in this daft game, but she did her best. She gave them one look and put her nose in the air and followed Mother and Johnnie into the drawing-room, where a log fire was burning in spite of the warmth of the day.
Johnnie went straight to it as if he was accustomed to being received like a gentleman. Lady March, looking small and witch-like without her big hat, scratched his ears tentatively and he sat down by her chair and leaned against her. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh my!’
‘Push him away if he’s heavy,’ Mother said. ‘He won’t hurt you. Or your carpets. He’s as well trained as a good dog in that way.’
‘I’ve never had a dog in my drawing-room either,’ Lady March said.
One of the maids brought in tea. She was still giggling openly and when Lady March motioned her to put the tray down on a low table beside her, she dumped it down with a rough air of contempt that Poll recognized as deliberate: she wanted the visitors to know how little she thought of her mistress! Lady March laughed as if she were not embarrassed at all, only amused at the girl’s clumsiness, but when she had gone she looked at the tray and said, ‘Oh dear, Cook has forgotten the sugar,’ in a tone that said, clearly as if she had spoken the words, ‘I’m afraid if I ring the bell, she’ll be rude again.’
