Mansfield with Monsters (17 page)

Wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody noticing her?

Her chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose.

She shuffled back to the hall with her heavy mop and bucket. “Nothing fer it. I'll have to clean this mess up.”

 

 

When the literary gentleman returned he found that the hallway carpet was quite wet, and faintly pink. Methods of cleaning being a mystery to him he thanked Ma Parker, who had stayed unusually late, but asked her to be less vigorous with the furnishings in future. She nodded as she left, her clumsy feet and shuffling gait as pitiful as ever. She didn't seem overly troubled by the enormous bundle she carried over her shoulder, something angular and bulky wrapped in two wet coats. She coughed up a gob of blood as she left, but it didn't seem to trouble her much.

“Fresh,” she muttered to herself as she stepped out into the biting wind. “Head's no use, but still plenty of good parts left.”

It was cold on the street as she began her long journey to the doctor's house. People went flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod like cats, but nobody paid any notice to the shuffling old woman with the heavy bundle.

The icy wind swept up the street and blew out her apron into a balloon. And now it began to rain.

The Doll's House

After dear old Mrs Hay went back to town following her stay with the Burnells an antique doll's house arrived, addressed to the children from her. It was so big that the carter and Pat carried it into the courtyard, and there it stayed, propped up on two wooden boxes beside the feed-room door. No harm could come of it; it was summer. The deception would not soon be uncovered, for dear Mrs Hay wrote only infrequently. The true originator, Mrs Kelvey, had made sure that her gift would remain in the house long enough to do its work.

There stood the doll's house, a dark, oily, spinach green, picked out with bright yellow. Its two solid little chimneys, glued on to the roof, were painted red and white, and the door, gleaming with yellow varnish, was like a little slab of toffee. Four windows, real windows, were divided into panes by a broad streak of green. There was actually a tiny porch, too, painted yellow, with big lumps of congealed paint hanging along the edge.

But perfect, perfect little house! Who could possibly mind the dust? It was part of the joy, part of the charm. It was the only valuable possession Mrs Kelvey had retained as her family's fortunes waned, and though she had not kept it clean, she had poured something special into its heart.

“Open it quickly, someone!”

The hook at the side was stuck fast. Pat pried it open with his pen-knife, and the whole house-front swung back, and there you were, gazing at one and the same moment into the drawing-room and dining-room, the kitchen and two bed-rooms. That is the way for a house to open! Why don't all houses open like that? How much more exciting than peering through the slit of a door into a mean little hall with a hat-stand and two umbrellas! That is—isn't it?—what you long to know about a house when you put your hand on the knocker. Perhaps it is the way God opens houses at dead of night when He wants to look in…

“Oh-oh!” The Burnell children sounded as though they were in despair. It was too marvellous; it was too much for them. They had never seen anything like it in their lives. All the rooms were papered. There were pictures on the walls, painted on the paper, with gold frames complete. Red carpet covered all the floors except the kitchen; red plush chairs in the drawing-room, green in the dining-room; tables, beds with real bed-clothes, a cradle, a stove, a dresser with tiny plates and one big jug. But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was even filled all ready for lighting, though, of course, you couldn't light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil, and that moved when you shook it.

The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll's house. They didn't look as though they belonged. But the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile to Kezia, to say, “I live here.” The lamp was real.

None of the Burnell children could sleep that first night. One by one, they crept down into the dark courtyard to see the doll's house. It looked even more perfect in the moon-light; the yellow paint gleamed like gold against the dark green walls which looked like velvet. And when they opened the house up to look inside, the little lamp burst to life, its bright amber light flickering in the shadows as if to welcome them.

Kezia smiled back at the glowing lamp. Such a perfect little lamp. “I am here,” it seemed to say. “And you are mine now.”

When the lamp-light faded Kezia did not even notice how cold the courtyard had become. She said good-night to the lamp, returned to her bed, closed her eyes, and the image of the little lamp shone through all her perfect dreams.

 

 

The Burnell children could hardly walk to school fast enough the next morning. They burned to tell everybody, to describe, to—well—to boast about their doll's house before the school-bell rang. They had to get the other girls to come to see the little lamp.

“I'm to tell,” said Isabel, “because I'm the eldest. And you two can join in after. But I'm to tell first.”

There was nothing to answer. Isabel was bossy, but she was always right, and Lottie and Kezia knew too well the powers that went with being eldest. They brushed through the thick buttercups at the road edge and said nothing.

“And I'm to choose who's to come and see it first.”

For it had been arranged that while the doll's house stood in the courtyard they might ask the girls at school, two at a time, to come and look. It was what the lamp wanted. The girls should come two by two to stand quietly in the courtyard and see the lamp.

But hurry as they might, by the time they had reached the tarred palings of the boys' playground the bell had begun to jangle. They only just had time to whip off their hats and fall into line before the roll was called. Never mind. Isabel tried to make up for it by looking very important and mysterious and by whispering behind her hand to the girls near her, “Got something to tell you at playtime.”

Playtime came and Isabel was surrounded. It was as though the little lamp was shining through her eyes, drawing the girls in. The girls of her class nearly fought to put their arms round Isabel, to beam flatteringly, to be her special friend. She held quite a court under the huge pine-trees at the side of the playground. Nudging, giggling together, the little girls pressed up close. And the only two who stayed outside the ring were the two who were always outside, the little Kelveys. They knew better than to come anywhere near the Burnells.

For the fact was, the school the Burnell children went to was not at all the kind of place their parents would have chosen if there had been any choice. But there was none. It was the only school for miles. And the consequence was all the children in the neighbourhood, the judge's little girls, the doctor's daughters, the store-keeper's children, the milkman's, were forced to mix together. Not to speak of there being an equal number of rude, rough little boys as well. But the line had to be drawn somewhere. It was drawn at the Kelveys. Many of the children, including the Burnells, were not allowed even to speak to them.

They were the daughters of a spry, hardworking little washer-woman, who went about from house to house by the day. This was awful enough. But where was Mr Kelvey? Dismembered and buried at a crossroads by the town's elders, condemned as a demon and warlock. But everybody said he was in prison. So as far as the children of the town knew the Kelveys were the daughters of a washerwoman and a gaolbird. Very nice company for other people's children! And they looked it. Why Mrs Kelvey made them so conspicuous was hard to understand. The truth was they were dressed in ‘bits' given to her by or stolen from the people for whom she worked. Lil, for instance, who was a stout, plain child, with big freckles, came to school in a dress made from a green art-serge table-cloth of the Burnells', with red plush sleeves from the Logans' curtains. And her little sister, our Else, wore a long white dress, rather like a night-gown, and a pair of little boy's boots. But whatever our Else wore she would have looked strange. She was a tiny wishbone of a child, with cropped hair and enormous solemn eyes—a little white owl. Nobody had ever seen her smile; she scarcely ever spoke.

Now they hovered at the edge; you couldn't stop them listening. When the little girls turned round and sneered, Lil, as usual, gave her silly, shamefaced smile, but our Else only looked.

And Isabel's voice, so very proud, went on telling. The carpet made a great sensation, but so did the beds with real bed-clothes, and the stove with an oven door.

When she finished Kezia broke in. “Tell them about the lamp, Isabel.”

“Oh, yes,” said Isabel, “and there's a perfect little lamp, all made of yellow glass, with a white globe that stands on the dining-room table. You couldn't tell it from a real one.”

“The lamp is real,” cried Kezia. “It shines into your soul. All of you must see it.” She thought Isabel wasn't making half enough of the little lamp. But nobody paid any attention. Isabel was choosing the two who were to come back with them that afternoon and see it. She chose Emmie Cole and Lena Logan. But when the others knew they were all to have a chance, they couldn't be nice enough to Isabel. One by one they put their arms round Isabel's waist and walked her off. They had something to whisper to her, a secret. “Isabel's my friend.”

Only the little Kelveys moved away forgotten; there was nothing more for them to hear. They knew their mother's secret anger, they knew the doll's house had once been theirs.

Days passed and a series of mysterious accidents plagued the town. Mr Logan died after falling off his roof while fetching a ball for his daughter. The Coles' house burnt down in the middle of the night and no one knew what caused the fire. The whole town talked of little else but at school there was no discussion amongst the children about these unfortunate events. None of the girls spoke of anything but the doll's house and as more of them saw it, the fame of the little lamp spread. It became the one subject, the rage. The one question was, “Have you seen the lamp in the doll's house?”

The entire lunch hour was given up to talking about it. The little girls sat under the pines eating their thick mutton sandwiches and big slabs of johnny cake spread with butter. While always, as near as they could get, sat the Kelveys, our Else holding on to Lil, listening too, while they chewed their jam sandwiches out of a newspaper soaked with large red blobs. Even the little girls in mourning-clothes, just back from their parents' funerals, talked of nothing but the lamp. Fathers had been trampled by horses and choked in their sleep, mothers had fallen down stairs or drowned in the bath, yet the girls spoke only of the lamp.

 

 

At last everybody had seen the doll's house except the Kelveys. The children stood together under the pine-trees, and suddenly, as they looked at the Kelveys eating out of their paper, always by themselves, always listening, they wanted to be horrid to them. Emmie Cole started the whisper.

“Lil Kelvey's going to be a witch when she grows up.”

“O-oh, how awful!” said Isabel Burnell, and she made eyes at Emmie.

Emmie swallowed in a very meaning way and nodded to Isabel as she'd seen her mother do on those occasions.

“It's true—it's true—it's true, my mother told me,” she said.

Then Lena Logan's little eyes snapped. “Shall I ask her?” she whispered.

“Bet you don't,” said Jessie May.

“Pooh, I'm not frightened,” said Lena. Suddenly she gave a little squeal and danced in front of the other girls. “Watch! Watch me! Watch me now!” said Lena. And sliding, gliding, dragging one foot, giggling behind her hand, Lena went over to the Kelveys.

Lil looked up from her dinner. She wrapped the rest quickly away. Our Else stopped chewing. What was coming now?

“Is it true you're going to be a witch when you grow up, Lil Kelvey? Just like your cursed father?” shrilled Lena.

Dead silence. But instead of answering, Lil only gave her silly, shame-faced smile. She didn't seem to mind the question at all. The girls began to titter.

Lena couldn't stand that. She put her hands on her hips; she shot forward.

“Yah, yer father's in prison! In league with the devil and locked away!” she hissed, spitefully. The rage bubbled up inside her, she wanted to lunge forward and seize them. She would break every bone in their bodies. Smash their heads together like hardboiled eggs. She could do it. She had killed both her parents already. The lamp gave her strength. Afterwards she could make it look liked they'd fallen out of the tree, climbed up high and plunged to their deaths in a terrible accident, just as she had done with her father.

The other girls would say that was what had happened. No one would care about a couple of dead Kelveys. No one wanted them here. They hadn't even seen the lamp.