by Jean Little
I started to argue. Then I heard how silly I sounded and I asked her what her family called her. Her look mocked me and I could feel myself going red. She had no family around to call her anything. I opened my mouth to say I was sorry.
“Marianna or Sparrow,” she said.
My eyes must have gone as round as an owl’s, I was so startled.
“It was my dad’s name for me when I was small. He called Jasper Scrap. Emily Rose was not born when he died. She never got a special name from him.”
I felt flummoxed. Now what should I call her? I don’t think I can say Sparrow unless she tells me I can. I must stop writing.
It feels strange to write “Marianna.” I think I’ve heard that poem. I think she’s the one with the broken heart who waits and waits for the man she loves to come, but he never does. I’ll look tomorrow. I think it is in Palgrave’s Golden Treasury.
After we stopped talking, Marianna turned her back and I could hear her crying. She tried to muffle the noise, but I heard. I pretended I hadn’t since I knew she did not want to talk about it, and I did not know what to say.
Somehow we must find Jasper. I keep seeing his skinny little body and his red hair and his big bright eyes. But I don’t know where to start.
I’m ashamed, but I also don’t want to have to feel bad about it all day long. It’s not my fault we don’t know where he’s gone.
Sunday, June 6, Early morning
I woke up early. Even Marianna is still sound asleep. Snortle has not raised his head. But I want to write about the stew because it was strange.
Mother still cooks most meals. I hate stew. The only good thing is the dumplings Mother usually makes. Well, yesterday she didn’t make any.
“Where are the dumplings?” Tom asked.
Mother sank down on her chair and looked strange. Marianna had turned to go to the kitchen but, all of a sudden, she rounded on him.
“You didn’t bring in the wood,” she blazed. “You didn’t do anything to help her. She’s not well and it’s too hot for dumplings.”
Then she ran out of the room.
Aunt Lib’s cheeks got all red and her eyes flashed. She asked if Mother was going to permit “that guttersnipe” to speak to her son like that.
Then David jumped in. “Nathan’s father says the Home Children are all tainted from birth,” he said. “If they had a Home Boy, he’d sleep in the back shed. Otherwise, he might burn the house down in the night.”
Mother just gave David a look. It made him red in the face. I don’t wonder. Then she answered Aunt Lib.
“Yes, I will permit Mary to speak to Thomas like that,” she said. Her voiced dragged. “She’s quite right. He didn’t do his share and it is too hot for dumplings. When Mary came in, I was fetching wood for the stove. She was worried about me. My two big sons had gone off and left both the woodbox and the water buckets empty.”
That was the end of that. But I saw Father giving Mother an anxious look and glaring at the boys. Even David hung his head.
What is wrong with Mother? If only it isn’t consumption. But it can’t be because people with that cough up blood. She doesn’t cough at all. But there is some secret about her.
Later
There’s going to be a concert at Trafalgar Square this week. Band music and marching. Mother says we can all go.
I told Roberta at Sunday school that I had told Marianna the truth. I told her about Marianna’s right name but not about her being called Sparrow by her family. She could hardly believe it. Marianna comes to church with us, but not to Sunday school in the afternoon.
I was invited to Roberta’s after Sunday school was done. I wish Marianna would stop giving me those sad looks when I come home from there. I worry about her brother, but no inspiration comes. This is not my fault.
Monday, June 7
Not only do we have the concert to look forward to, but a circus is coming to town sometime in July. A grateful patient of Father’s promised to get him all the tickets we want. What fun!
“When I was a boy, we went down to see the circus train come in,” Father said.
Tom and I made him promise to take us when the circus comes.
I was telling Marianna about last year when I got to touch the elephant’s trunk. She was too quiet.
“Are you asleep?” I asked at last.
She said no. Then there was a long silence.
“What did it look like?” she asked finally. “I’ve never seen an elephant.” Then she said that when he was little, Jasper dreamed of going to a circus.
“How old is he now?” I asked. My throat felt tight, but I asked.
“Eight,” she said. “But he grew up fast at the workhouse.”
Maybe we could take Marianna with us. I must speak to Father about it when the time comes.
I stupidly asked her if they had circuses in England.
“We have circuses. They just don’t take the children from the workhouse,” she said, sour as a lemon. “Or from the Barnardo Homes.”
I was sorry, but I felt angry too. I didn’t put her in the workhouse. She’s not in the workhouse any longer, nor in the Barnardo Home. She’s safe with us. We’re a nice family. Mother will let her go to the circus.
Suddenly, for no good reason, I remembered Father asking me what I thought of the world.
“It’s a wonderful world,” I told him.
Well, I know better now. It is not so wonderful for Home Children. I will stop writing and go to sleep. Snortle has been snortling for ages. It is high time to blow out the candle.
Why am I ashamed that it is still wonderful for me?
Tuesday, June 8
I went home with Roberta after school. Marianna Wilson could go home by herself, for once. Roberta and I talked about Marianna’s family and how sad it is that they are separated. Roberta felt so sorry for her that she cried. She said she could not bear it if something like that happened to her family.
I was shocked. Nothing like that COULD happen to us. Her father is a stone mason. I heard somebody say he is the best builder in Guelph. Roberta’s oldest brother was the one who said it, but I am sure it is true. And Father is a doctor. I can’t imagine his dying but, if he did, there are my Cope grandparents, and Uncle Peter and the rest of my relatives …
I wonder what happened to the other people in Marianna’s family. Didn’t she have uncles or a grandfather?
When Mother bought her new hat at Easter, Father did say, “If you keep this up, we’ll all be moving to the poorhouse.” But he was teasing.
I changed the subject by asking if Lou was coming to the concert in Trafalgar Square. Roberta said he never misses a concert if he can help it. Isn’t that superb, dear Diary?
Not only that, but I heard Cousin Anna saying she and Aunt Lib are thinking about going to visit somebody else this summer. Mother says they are saving face, whatever that means. But maybe she is wrong and they will leave this week.
As Tom would say, no such luck.
I have a tickle in my throat. I hope I am not catching Marianna’s cold. I am trying to keep away from Mother and not let her notice the little croak in my throat, so she won’t make me stay home from the concert. You would think Father would be the one to worry about since he is a doctor but, as Mother says, “the shoemaker’s child goes barefoot.” Father never notices it if his children get sick.
Not only would she make me stay home, but I’d have to drink castor oil and have my throat wrapped up in a strip of camphorated flannel, which smells awful.
One funny thing happened tonight. The rain clouds blew away late in the afternoon and, just before dusk, I went out to the privy. Perhaps I shouldn’t put this in but it is funny — although I would not admit that to Tom. I was so busy thinking about troubles with relatives that I did not notice anything strange. Then, all at once, there was a flip-flap-flutter above me and I looked up and saw a BAT! I didn’t even stop to pull up my drawers. I dashed into the back garden, shrieking at the top of my voice. Mothe
r came on the run and Father too. Thank heavens Tom and David had gone up the street with some friends. Mother hugged me and Father got the bat out of the privy somehow. I told Mother I would never go into that privy again.
“I foresee difficulties in your future,” was all she said.
I was not going to tell Marianna. Then I could not help myself. And she laughed right out loud!
Wednesday, June 9
Mr. Grigson kept Roberta and me in tonight for passing a note. He is the meanest man in the world. I was feeling wretched all the way home, and when I got here, I was just settling down to read Eight Cousins when Mother made me come and help hull berries. Work, work, work! That’s all grown-ups ever think about.
I could not tell her I was sick.
“Why can’t Mary Anna do it?” I asked without stopping to think.
“Mary has been hard at it for over an hour. I need you too. We have all these to do yet. You’ll be glad of the jam when winter comes, young lady. Now roll up your sleeves and get busy.”
I sat down by Marianna but she didn’t even turn her head. Her cold is not all gone, of course, so she probably does not want to work either. And now she is angry at me for what I said. But Home Girls are supposed to do things like hull berries. That’s part of their job.
I was at such a good place in my story.
If she still won’t speak to me tonight, it will be miserable in our room.
Bedtime
I’m too sick to write in here, but Mother has not noticed. Aunt Lib is “feeling a bit poorly” and that takes all her time and attention. After we finished the berries, I began to shiver. Mother, who usually sees illnesses coming before they have arrived, did not notice. I was lying here half an hour ago, sure I could not write in my diary and would not get to go to the concert and trying hard not to cough, when Marianna came up with a mustard plaster to put on my chest.
“Did Mother see you?” I croaked, thinking she’d given me away.
“Of course not,” she said. She did not look right at me. “Now be quiet and get well fast or you’ll miss your concert.”
I lay here with my chest on fire for twenty minutes and then removed the plaster. It made my eyes water and my nose run and my chest burn, but I think I feel slightly better.
Thursday, June 10, After school
Tonight is the band concert. It is terribly hot. Cousin Anna thinks maybe nobody will come.
Bedtime
Oh, the concert was glorious. Everyone was there, the Johns, even Mr. Grigson and my Sunday school teacher Miss Carter. And the music was so stirring. The military band was terrific.
But that was not what made it so exciting. We were standing listening when I saw the boy with the yellow curls who had been at the station the day the Home Children arrived. Maybe, just maybe, he would know something about Jasper. I waited until Father was completely caught up in the music and I slid through the crowd to talk to him.
“Did you get a Home Boy that day?” I asked.
He stared at me blankly for a minute. Then he remembered me and said they had.
“What’s his name?” I demanded.
“Harold,” he said. “He’s right here. We couldn’t leave him home. He’s never been to a concert like this.”
I was so disappointed that it was not Jasper. I was ashamed too. My cheeks burned and I thought I would burst out crying. Marianna was at home and I had not once thought about trying to bring her.
“You didn’t see what happened to the red-headed boy, did you?” I asked.
“The little one called Jasper? Sure. A lady took him.”
I already knew that much from the boy Roberta’s uncle took in. “What was the lady’s name?” I asked, new hope springing up inside me.
“I don’t remember,” he said offhandedly. He gave me a questioning look, as though he could not believe I was so interested in this. When he saw I was, he leaned over and asked Harold.
“Her name was Mrs. Jordan,” Harold said, staring at me with serious eyes. “She didn’t want to take him because he was so small. She said her brother would not want such a little fellow. But he had her brother’s name on his tag and nobody else was there to take him away, so she went off with him in the end. Her other name was some sort of flower. Lily, or maybe Violet? Jasper was crying when they left.”
My heart was sad and glad at the same time. Surely we could find the Jordan place.
When we got home I waited until Marianna and I were in our little back bedroom before I said a word. Her eyes were like saucers. Well, they got very big. Eyes don’t look much like saucers really.
She burst into tears and then she hugged me tight. I didn’t know what to do. It’s the first time she has ever touched me.
“We’ll find him, won’t we, Victoria?” she sobbed.
“We will, Marianna,” I said, making it a promise. “Cross my heart and spit for death.”
I don’t know if we can, but it seemed the only thing to say after that hug. Imagine if I had told Mother about my cold! She would have made me stay home and we would never have heard about Mrs. Jordan.
When we were in bed in the dark, Marianna said, so softly I almost missed it, “When we’re by ourselves, you can call me Sparrow, if you like. When nobody else can hear.”
I felt like singing.
If only my throat would stop hurting!
Friday, June 11
I’m too sick to write a word but Mother has still not noticed. It is not like her.
Saturday morning, June 12
This morning I had to clean the lamp chimneys and I talked with Marianna and found out so much more. You would think the least Marianna could do would be to have hands smaller than mine so she could take over the detestable job.
I was scowling at the glass in my hand when Marianna said she used to do it in England. Then Jasper took over because his hands were smaller. Poor Jasper has my sympathy. The soot smells so sooty and I can’t get my hands clean enough to suit Mother when the job is done.
Marianna did have to polish the silverware, though. And the little brass teakettle and stand some missionary uncle brought home from India. And when that’s done she has to go outside and do the brass knockers and doorknobs.
Thinking of the uncle who gave the teakettle reminded me of the question I’d been wanting to ask Marianna. I told her that the brass kettle was a present from some relative. Then I said. “Do you have relatives in England? Grandparents and uncles and aunts?”
Marianna’s hands stopped polishing and she gave me a long hard stare. Her eyes looked cold.
“Why do you want to know, Victoria?” she asked.
“No reason,” I said, very fast. “I just wondered, that’s all.”
I wished, with all my heart, that I had kept quiet.
“Of course I must have kin somewhere,” she said. “My mother was a lady’s maid. Her family lived in Scotland somewhere, but her mistress took her south with her. They were at their country home when she met my father.” Marianna stopped for a minute, then told me that her father had been a farm labourer. Her parents had very little money, but when the lady learned that they wanted to marry, she encouraged them. She came to their wedding and even gave them five pounds as a present.
It sounded like a romance in a book and I was all ears. I told Marianna so.
She said that it did not stay romantic. Times got bad and the kind lady’s husband sold the farm and turned her parents out without a penny. They went to London, thinking there must be work in such a big city. They lost touch with the family back in the north.
“His folks could not write, I think,” she said. “Hers thought she had married beneath her.”
I forgot I was cleaning lamp chimneys. The story of Marianna’s parents held me spellbound. I sat there gazing at her, waiting eagerly for the next bit.
“Close your mouth, Victoria. You look daft,” she said, her mouth twitching into a sudden smile.
My mouth was hanging open. I shut it and grinned at her.
/>
“Don’t stop. What happened next?” I demanded.
She took pity on me and continued, but the laughter died out of her eyes.
Her father had an accident down at the docks which left him lame, and he began drinking to kill the pain. They had no money for the doctor. Then one night on his way home from the pub, he was set upon by a gang of thieves who left him unconscious in the gutter. They did not find him for a long time, and he died from the injuries and the cold.
“Is that what you want to know, Victoria?” she ended up.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, grabbing for another lamp chimney.
“Don’t be,” Marianna said slowly, her head bent over her polishing. “It feels good to tell somebody. When no one knows, you feel as though part of you doesn’t exist. My mother talked of getting in touch with her family, but she never did it. I think she was too ashamed. When we were turned out of our place and had to go to the workhouse, she kept saying it was her fault. It was terrible there, Victoria. People dying of consumption. Never enough to eat. The baby got sick. It was so dreadful that my mother managed to get us all out one day and she took us straight to the Barnardo Home at Stepney Causeway.”
I felt sick just hearing about what they had suffered. I asked if Mrs. Wilson had had to go back to that workhouse all alone.
Marianna shook her head and said her mother had a friend who had offered to take her in, if she was on her own. She already had six people in a room and she had no space for the three children, but Marianna’s mother thought that if her children were safe at Barnardo’s, she herself might get work. She had been a lady’s maid, after all.
Marianna sounded so proud of her mother having been a lady’s maid. Maybe such things are different in England. I cannot imagine my mother as a lady’s maid. I certainly would not be proud of it.
