‘Did you knock this jug over or did Pin?’
‘I did, mother.’
‘Did you do it on purpose?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come here to me.’
She went, with lagging steps. But Mother’s anger had passed: she was at work on the dress again, and, by squinting her eyes, Laura could see that a piece was being joined on to the skirt. She was penitent at once; and when Mother, in a sorry voice, said: ‘I’m ashamed of you, Laura. And on your last day, too!’ her throat grew narrow.
‘I didn’t mean it, mother.’
‘If only you would ask properly for things, you would get them.’
Laura knew this; knew indeed that, did she coax, Mother could refuse her nothing. But coaxing came hard to her; something within her forbade it. Sarah called her ‘high-stomached’, to the delight of the other children and her own indignation: she had explained to them, again and again, what Sarah really meant.
On leaving the house, she went straight to the flowerbeds: she would give Mother, who liked flowers very well, but had no time to gather them, a bouquet the size of a cabbage. Pin and the boys were summoned to help her, and when their hands were full, Laura led the way to a secluded part of the garden, on the farther side of the detached brick kitchen. In this strip, which was filled with greenery, little sun fell: two thick fir trees, and a monstrous blue gum stood there; high bushes screened the fence; jessamine climbed the wall of the house and encircled the bedroom windows: and, on the damp and shady ground, only violets grew. Yet, with the love children bear to the limited and compact, the four had chosen their own little plots here, rather than in the big garden at the back of the house; and many were the times they had all begun anew to dig and to rake. But if Laura’s energy did not fizzle out as quickly as usual—she was the model for the rest—Mother was sure to discover that it was too cramped and dark for them in there, and send Sarah to drive them out.
Here, now, safely screened from sight, Laura sat on a bench and made up her bouquet. When it was finished—red and white in the centre, with a darker border, the whole surrounded by a ring of violet leaves—she looked about for something to tie it up with. Sarah, applied to, was busy ironing, and had no string in the kitchen, so Pin ran to get a reel of cotton. But while she was away, Laura had an idea. Bidding Leppie hold the flowers tight, in both his sticky little hands, she climbed in at her bedroom window, or rather, by lying on the sill, with her legs waving in the air, she managed to grab, without losing her balance, a pair of scissors from the chest of drawers. With these between her teeth, she emerged, to the excited interest of the boys, who watched her, open-mouthed.
Laura had dark curls, Pin fair, and both wore them flapping on their backs, the only difference being that Laura, who was now twelve years old, had, for the past year, been allowed to bind hers together with a ribbon, while Pin’s bobbed as they chose. Every morning early, Mother brushed and twisted, with a kind of grim pride, these silky ringlets round her finger. Although the five-odd minutes the curling occupied were durance vile to Laura, the child was proud of her hair, too, in her own way; and when, in the street, she heard someone say: ‘Look!—what pretty curls!’ she would give her head a toss, and send them all a-rippling. In addition to this, there was a crowning glory connected with them: one hot December morning, when they had been tangled, and Mother had kept her standing too long, she had fainted, pulling the whole dressing table down about her ears, and ever since, she had been marked off, in some mysterious fashion, from the other children. Mother would not let her go out at midday, in summer; Sarah would say, ‘Let that be, can’t yer!’ did she try to lift something that was too heavy for her; and the younger children were to be quelled by a threat that she would faint on the spot if they did not do as she wished. ‘Laura’s faint’ had become a byword in the family; and Laura herself held it for so important a fact in her life, that she had more than once begun a friendship with the words: ‘Have you ever fainted? I have.’
From among these long, glossy curls, she now cut one of the longest and most spiral, cut it off close to the roots, and, with it, bound the flowers together. Mother should see that she did know how to give up something she cared for, and was not as selfish as she was commonly supposed to be.
‘Oh…h…h!’ said both little boys in a breath, then doubled up in noisy mirth. Laura was constantly doing something to set their young blood in amazement: they looked upon her as the personification of all that was startling and unexpected. But Pin, returning with the reel of thread, opened her eyes in a different way.
‘Oh, Laura…!’ she began, tearful at once.
‘Now, res’vor!’ retorted Laura scornfully—‘res’vor’ was Sarah’s name for Pin, on account of her perpetual wateriness. ‘Be a cry-baby, do!’ But she was not damped: she was lost in the pleasure of self-sacrifice.
Pin looked after her as she danced off, then moved submissively in her wake, to be near at hand should intercession be needed. Laura was so unsuspecting, and Mother would be so cross. In her dim, childish way, Pin longed to see these, her two nearest, at peace; she understood them both so well, and they had little or no understanding for each other—so she crept to the house at her sister’s heels.
Laura did not go indoors; hiding against the wall of the flagged verandah, she threw her bouquet in at the window, meaning it to fall on Mother’s lap.
But Mother had dropped her needle, and was just lifting her face, flushed with stooping, when the flowers hit her a thwack on the head. She groped again, impatiently, to find what had struck her, recognised the peace-offering, and thought of the surprise cake that was to go into Laura’s box, on the morrow. Then she saw the curl, and her face darkened. Was there ever such a tiresome child! What in all the world would she do next?
‘Laura, come here, directly!’
Laura had moved away; she was not expecting recognition. If Mother were pleased, she would call Pin to put the flowers in water for her, and that would be the end of it. The idea of a word of thanks would have made Laura feel uncomfortable. Now, however, at the tone of Mother’s voice, her mouth set stubbornly. She went indoors, as she was bidden, but was already up in arms again.
‘You’re a very naughty girl, indeed!’ began Mother as soon as she appeared. ‘How dare you cut off your hair! Upon my word, if it weren’t your last night at home, I’d send you to bed without any supper!’—an unheard-of threat on the part of Mother, who punished her children in any way but that of denying them their food. ‘It’s a very good thing you’re leaving home tomorrow, for you’d soon be setting the others at defiance, too, and I should have four naughty children on my hands instead of one. But I’d be ashamed to go to school such a fright if I were you. Turn round, at once, and let me see you!’
Laura turned, with a sinking heart. Pin cried softly in a corner.
‘She thought it would please you, mother,’ she sobbed.
‘I will not have you interfering, Pin, when I’m speaking to Laura. She’s old enough by now to know what I like and what I don’t,’ said Mother, who was vexed at the thought of the child going among strangers, thus disfigured. ‘And now, get away, and don’t let me see you again. You’re a perfect sight.’
‘Oh, Laura, you do look funny!’ said Leppie and Frank in weak chorus, as she passed them in the passage.
‘Well, yer ’ave made a guy o’ yerself this time, Miss Laura, and no mistake!’ said Sarah, who had heard the above.
Laura went into her own room and locked the door, a thing Mother did not allow. Then she threw herself on the bed and cried. Mother had not understood in the least; and she had made a fright of herself into the bargain. She refused to open the door, though one after another rattled the handle, and though Sarah threatened to turn the hose in at the window. So they left her alone, and she spent the evening in watery dudgeon on her pillow. But before she undressed for the night, she stealthily made a chink, and took in the slice of cake Pin had left on the doormat. Her natural buoyancy of spirit was beginning to r
eassert itself. By brushing her hair well to one side, she could cover up the gap, she found; and, after all, there was something rather pleasant in knowing that you were misunderstood. It made you feel different from everyone else.
Mother, sewing hard, after even the busy Sarah had retired, smiled a stern little smile of amusement to herself; and, before going to bed, laid the curl in an old leather case, where certain other treasures were hoarded up: a small nugget of gold, Laura’s first letter, a lock of fair hair streaked with grey.
II
Laura, sleeping flat on her stomach, was roused next morning by Pin, who said: .
‘Wake up, Wondrous Fair, mother wants to speak to you. She says you can get into bed, in my place, before you dress.’ Pin slept warm and cosy at Mother’s side.
Laura rose on her elbow and looked at her sister, who was standing in the doorway, holding her nightgown to her in such a way as to expose all of her thin little legs.
‘Come on,’ urged Pin. ‘Sarah’s going to give me my bath while you’re with mother.’
‘Go away, Pin,’ said Laura snappily. ‘I told you yesterday you could say Laura, and…and you’re more like a spider than ever.’
‘Spider’ was another nickname for Pin, owed to her rotund little body and mere sticks of legs—she was ‘all belly’, as Sarah put it—and the mere mention of it made Pin fly, for she was very touchy about her legs.
As soon as the door had closed behind her, Laura sprang out of bed, and, waiting neither to wash herself nor to say her prayers, began to pull on her clothes, confusing strings and buttons in her haste, and quite forgetting that on this eventful morning she had meant to dress herself with more than ordinary care. She was just lacing her shoes, when Sarah looked in.
‘Why, Miss Laura, don’t ye know yer ma wants yer?’
‘It’s too late. I’m dressed now,’ said Laura darkly.
Sarah shook her head. ‘Missis’ll be fine an’ angry. An’ ye needn’t ’ave ’ad a row on yer last day.’
Laura stole out of the door, and ran down the garden to the summer house. This, the size of a goodly room, was formed of a single dense, hairy-leafed tree, round the trunk of which a seat was built. Here she cowered, with her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. Her face wore the stiff expression that went by the name of ‘Laura’s sulks’, but her eyes were big, and as watchful as those of a scared animal. If Sarah came to fetch her, she would hold onto the seat with both hands. But even if she had to yield to Sarah’s greater strength—well, at least she was up and dressed. Not like the last time—about a week ago—Mother had tried this kind of thing. Then, she had been caught unawares. She had gone into Pin’s warm place, curious and unsuspecting, and thereupon Mother had begun to talk seriously to her, and not with her usual directness. She had reminded Laura that she was growing up apace, and would soon be a woman; had told her how she must now begin to give up her childish habits, and learn to behave in a modest and womanly way—all disagreeable, disturbing things, which Laura did not in the least want to hear. When it became clear to her what it was about, she had thrown back the bedclothes, and escaped from the room. And since then, she had been careful never to be long alone with Mother.
But now half an hour went by, and no one came to fetch her: her grim little face relaxed. She felt very hungry, too, and when, at length, she heard Pin calling her, she jumped up and betrayed her hiding place.
‘Laura! Laura, where are you? Mother says to come to breakfast and not be silly. The coach’ll be here in an hour.’
Taking hands, the sisters ran to the house.
In the passage, Sarah was busy roping a battered old tin box, which had travelled over a good part of Europe in its day. With their own hands, the little boys had been allowed to paste on a big sheet of notepaper, which bore, in Mother’s writing, the words:
Miss Laura Tweedle Rambotham
The Ladies’ College
Melbourne
Mother herself was standing at the breakfast table, cutting sandwiches.
‘Come and eat your breakfast, child,’ was all she said at the moment. ‘The tea’s quite cold.’
Laura sat down and fell to with appetite, but also with a side-glance at the generous pile of bread and meat, growing under Mother’s hands.
‘I shall never eat all that,’ she said ungraciously; for it galled her to be considered still a greedy child, with an insatiable stomach.
‘I know better than you do, what you’ll eat,’ said Mother. ‘You’ll be hungry enough by this evening, I can tell you, not getting any dinner.’
Pin’s face fell at this prospect. ‘Oh, mother, won’t she really get any dinner?’ she asked: and, to her soft little heart, going to school began to seem one of the blackest experiences life held.
‘Why, she’ll be in the train, stupid, ’ow can she?’ said Sarah. ‘Do ye think trains give ye dinners?’
‘Oh, mother, please cut ever such a lot!’ begged Pin, sniffing valiantly.
Laura commenced to feel somewhat moved herself, at this solicitude, and choked down a lump in her throat with a gulp of tea. But when Pin had gone with Sarah to pick some nectarines, Mother’s face grew stern, and Laura’s emotion passed.
‘I feel more troubled about you than I can say, Laura. I don’t know how you’ll ever get on in life—you’re so disobedient and self-willed. It would serve you very well right, I’m sure, for not coming this morning, if I didn’t give you a penny of pocket-money to take to school.’
Laura had heard this threat before, and thought it wiser not to reply. Gobbling up the rest of her breakfast, she slipped away.
With the other children at her heels, she made a round of the garden, bidding goodbye to things and places. There were two summer houses, in which she had played house; in which she had cooked, and eaten, and slept. There was the tall fir tree, with the rung-like branches, by which she had been accustomed to climb to the very tree-top; there was the wilderness of bamboo and cane, where she had been Crusoe; the ancient, broad-leaved cactus, on which she had scratched their names and drawn their portraits; here, the high aloe that had such a mysterious charm for her, because you never knew when the hundred years might expire, and the aloe burst into flower. Here, again, was the old fig tree, with the rounded, polished boughs, from which, seated as in a cradle, she had played Juliet to Pin’s Romeo, and vice versa—but oftenest Juliet: for, though Laura would greatly have preferred to be the ardent lover at the foot, Pin was but a poor climber, and, as she clung trembling to her branch, needed so much prompting in her lines—even then, to repeat them with such feeble emphasis—that Laura invariably lost patience with her, and the love scene ended in a squabble. Passing behind a wooden fence, which was a tangle of passion-flower, she opened the door of the fowlhouse, and out strutted the mother hen, followed by her pretty brood. Laura had given each of the chicks a name, and she now took Napoleon and Garibaldi up in her hand, and laid her cheek against their downy breasts, the younger children following her movements in respectful silence. Between the bars of the rabbit hutch, she thrust enough green-stuff to last the two little occupants for days; and everywhere she went, she was accompanied by a legless magpie, which, in spite of its infirmity, hopped cheerily and quickly on its stumps. Laura had rescued it and reared it; it followed her like a dog; and she was only less devoted to it than she had been to a native bear, which had died under her hands.
‘Now listen, children,’ she said, as she rose from her knees before the hutch. ‘If you don’t look well after Maggy and the bunnies, I don’t know what I’ll do to you. The chucks’ll be all right. Sarah’ll take care of them, ’cause of the eggs. But Maggy and the bunnies don’t have eggs, and if they’re not fed, or if Frank treads on Maggy again, then they’ll die. Now, if you let them die, I don’t know what I’ll do to you! Yes, I do: I’ll send the devil to you at night, when the room’s dark, before you go to sleep. So there!’
‘How can you, if you’re not here?’ asked Leppie.
Pin, h
owever, who believed in ghosts and apparitions with all her fearful little heart, promised tremulously never, never to forget; but Laura was not satisfied till each of them in turn had repeated, in a low voice, with the appropriate gestures, the sacred, secret, and forbidden formula:
Is my finger wet?
Is my finger dry?
God’ll strike me dead,
If I tell a lie.
Then Sarah’s voice was heard calling, and the boys went out into the road, to watch for the coach. Laura’s dressing proved a lengthy business, and was accomplished amid bustle, and scolding, and little peace-making words from Pin; for, in her hurry that morning, Laura had forgotten to put on the clean linen Mother had laid beside the bed, and consequently had now to strip to the skin.
The boys announced the coming of the coach, with shrill cries, and simultaneously the rumble of wheels was heard. Sarah came from the kitchen drying her hands, and Pin began to cry.
‘Now, shut up, res’vor!’ said Sarah roughly: her own eyes were moist. ‘Ye don’t see Miss Laura be such a silly-billy. Anyone’d think you was goin’, not ’er.’
The ramshackle old vehicle, one of Cobb’s Royal Mail coaches, big-bodied, lumbering, scarlet, drawn by two stout horses, drew up before the door, and the driver climbed down from his seat.
‘Now good day to yer, ma’am, good day, miss’—this to Sarah, who, picking up the box, handed it to him, to be strapped on under the apron. ‘Well, well, and so the little girl’s goin’ to school, is she? My, but time flies! Well do I remember the day, ma’am, when I drove yer all across for the first time—the poor gintleman, too. These children wasn’t big enough then, to git up and down be thimselves. Now, I warrant yer, they can—just look at ’em, will ye?—But my! Ain’t yer ashamed of yerself’—he spoke to Pin—‘pipin’ yer eye like that! Why, ye’ll flood the road, if ye don’t hould on. Yes, yes, ma’am, bless yer, I’ll look after her, and put her inter the train wid me own hans. Don’t yer be oneasy. The Lord He cares for the widder and the orphin, and if He don’t, why, Patrick O’Donnell does.’
The Getting of Wisdom Page 3
