by Ben Holden
I tried to return to my book, to draw all those children round me for safety, but in my disturbed mind I began to feel that Mrs Vivaldi was not asleep. A wasp zigzagged round the room and went abruptly, accidentally, out of the window. It did not leave the same peace behind, but unease. I could see myself – with her eyes – hunched up over my book, my frock crumpled under me, as I endlessly sorted out and chose and ate and brooded over my bag of sweets. I felt that I had intruded and it was no longer a natural thing to be indoors on such a day. If she was awake, I must get up and speak to her.
Her hand supported her head, her white elbow was on the plush arm of the chair. In that dark red chair she seemed very white and fair and I could see long blue veins branching down the inside of her arm.
As I went towards her, I saw, through the slats of her parted fingers, her lashes move. I stood in front of her, holding out the bag of sweets, but she did not stir. Yet so sure was I that she was awake that I did not know how to move away or leave her. Just as my hand wavered uncertainly, her hand fell from her face. She opened her eyes and made a little movement of her mouth, too delicate to be called a yawn. She smiled. ‘I must have dropped off for a moment,’ she said. She glanced at the basket of flowers, at the clock, then at my bag of sweets.
‘How kind of you!’ she murmured, shaking her head, increasing my awkwardness. I took a few steps to one side, feeling I was looming over her.
‘So you were here all the time?’ she asked. ‘And I asleep. How dreadful I must have looked.’ She put her hand to the plaited hair at the nape of her neck. ‘Only young people should be seen asleep.’
She was always underlining my youth, emphasising her own age. I wanted to say, ‘You looked beautiful,’ but I felt clumsy and absurd. I smiled foolishly and wandered out into the garden, leaving my book in the room. The painted balls lay over the lawn. The syringa made the paths untidy with dropped blossom. Everyone’s afternoon was going forward but mine. Interrupted, I did not know where to take it up. I began to wonder how old Mrs Vivaldi was. Standing by the buddleia tree, I watched the drunken butterflies clinging to the flowers, staggering about the branches. Why did she pretend? I asked myself. I knew that children were not worth acting for. No one bothered to keep it up before us; the voices changed, the faces yielded. We were a worthless audience. That she should dissemble for me made me feel very sad and responsible. I was burdened with what I had not said to comfort her.
I hid there by the buddleia a long time, until I heard my mother coming up the path, back from her walk. I dreaded now more than ever that her step would drag, as sometimes it did, or that she would sigh. I came out half-fearfully from behind the buddleia tree.
She was humming to herself, and when she saw me, she handed me a large bunch of wild strawberries, the stalks warm from her hand. She sat down on the grass under the tree, and, lifting her long arms, smoothed her hair, pressing in the hair-pins more firmly. She said: ‘So you crept out of that stuffy little room after all?’
I ate the warm, gritty strawberries one by one, and my thoughts hovered all over her as the butterflies hovered over the tree. My shadow bent across her, as my love did.
(1952)
★
Dream Children: A Reverie
by Charles Lamb
Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene – so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country – of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts; till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother’s looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterward came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner’s other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.’s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, ‘that would be foolish indeed.’ And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer – here Alice’s little right foot played an involuntary movement, till upon my looking grave, it desisted – the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said ‘those innocents would do her no harm’; and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she – and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous. Then I told how good she was to all her grand-children, having us to the great house in the holydays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the twelve Cæsars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out – sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me – and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then, – and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at – or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me – or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening, too, along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth – or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings, – I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavours of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of children. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish
them for the present as irrelevant. Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L——, because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out – and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries – and how their uncle grew up to man’s estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed boy – for he was a good bit older than me – many a mile when I could not walk for pain; – and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterward it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled sometimes), rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he, their poor uncle, must have been when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty, dead mother. Then I told them how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W——n; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens – when suddenly, turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech: ‘We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name’ – and immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side – but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.
(1822)
★
Of the many treasures I have read to my children, Philip Pullman’s refashioned Grimm Tales have perhaps brought us all the most joy. The fact that my mother gave my wife the book for her birthday corroborates its headline, ‘For Young and Old’. The kids hang on my (Pullman’s/Grimms’) every word, as do I even as I read them aloud.
I also love reading the coda to each tale, in which its literary context is framed succinctly.
The book is an embarrassment of riches but my then six-year-old daughter Ione herself read ‘The Mouse, the Bird and the Sausage’ to me, while I dozed in bed early one Saturday morning. It was bliss. We immediately agreed, together with her brother, George, that this was the right story to include in this anthology.
The Mouse, the Bird and the Sausage
A mouse, a bird and a sausage decided to set up home together. For a long time they carried on happily, within their means and even managing to save a little. The bird’s job was to go into the forest every day and bring back wood for the fire, the mouse had to get water from the well, make the fire and lay the table, and the sausage did the cooking.
But we’re never content with living well if we think we can live better. One day, as the bird was in the forest, he met another bird and boasted about his pleasant way of life. The other bird only called him a poor dupe.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, who’s doing the lion’s share of the work? You are. You have to fly back and forth carrying heavy bits of wood, while the other two take it easy. They’re taking advantage of you, make no mistake about it.’
The bird thought about it. It was true that after the mouse had lit the fire and carried the water in, she usually went to her little room and had a snooze before getting up in time to lay the table. The sausage stayed by the pot most of the time, keeping an eye on the vegetables, and time to time he’d slither through the water to give it a bit of flavouring. If it needed seasoning, he’d swim more slowly. That was more or less all he did. When the bird came home with the wood, they’d stack it neatly by the fire, sit down to eat, and then sleep soundly till the next day. That was how they lived, and a fine way of life it was.
However, the bird couldn’t help thinking about what the other bird had said, and next day he refused to go and gather wood.
‘I’ve been your slave long enough,’ he declared. ‘You must have taken me for a fool. It’s high time we tried a better arrangement.’
‘But this works so well!’ said the mouse.
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Besides,’ said the sausage, ‘this suits our different talents.’
‘Only because we’ve never tried to do it any other way.’
The mouse and the sausage argued, but the bird wouldn’t be denied. Finally they gave in and drew lots, and the job of gathering wood fell to the sausage, of cooking to the mouse, and of fetching water and making the fire to the bird.
What happened?
After the sausage went out to gather wood, the bird lit the fire and the mouse put the saucepan on the stove. Then they waited for the sausage to come back with the first load of wood, but he was gone so long that they began to worry about him, so the bird went out to see if he was all right.
Not far from the house he came across a dog licking his lips.
‘You haven’t seen a sausage, have you?’
‘Yeah, I just ate him. Delicious.’
‘What d’you mean? You can’t do that! That’s appalling! I’ll have you up before the law!’
‘He was fair game. There’s no sausage season that I know of.’
‘He certainly was not fair game! He was innocently going about his business! This is outright murder!’
‘Well, that’s just where you’re wrong, chum. He was carrying forged papers, and that’s a capital crime.’
‘Forged papers – I’ve never heard such nonsense. Where are they? Where’s your proof?’
‘I ate them too.’
There was nothing the bird could do. In a fight between a dog and a bird, there’s only one winner, and it isn’t the bird. He turned back home and told the mouse what had happened.
‘Eaten?’ she said. ‘Oh, that’s dreadful! I shall miss him terribly.’
‘It’s very sad. We’ll just have to do the best we can without him,’ said the bird.
The bird laid the table while the mouse put the finishing touches to the stew. She remembered how easily the sausage had managed to swim round and round to season it, and thought she could do the same, so she clambered on to the saucepan handle and launched herself in; but either it was too hot and she suffocated, or else she couldn’t swim at all and she drowned, but at all events she never came out.
When the bird saw the vegetable stew coming to the boil with a dead mouse in it, he panicked. He was making up the fire at the time, and in his shock and alar
m he scattered the burning logs all over the place and set fire to the house. He raced to the well to get some water to put it out, but got his foot caught in the rope; and when the bucket plunged down the well, down he went with it. So he was drowned, and that was the end of them all.
Unlike the cat and mouse, these housemates are not fundamentally ill-matched. They could have lived happily together for a long time, if the bird’s satisfaction had not been fatally undermined. That’s the only moral of this story, but it is a sort of fable, like the tale of the cat and the mouse, so a moral is only to be expected.
Some enquiring readers might like to know what sort of sausage it was. After all, according to the internet, Germany has over 1,500 kinds of sausage: from which could we expect this sort of selfless domesticity? Well, it – I mean he – was a bratwurst. But somehow the word ‘bratwurst’ isn’t as funny as the word ‘sausage’. According to a famous comedian whose name has slipped my mind, ‘sausage’ is the funniest word in the English language. This story would certainly have a different kind of poignancy if it had been about a mouse, a bird and a lamb chop.
(2013)
