Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “God bless mother and make me a good boy and a comfort to her, and if it is Thy holy will, make my father repent of his sins for Christ’s sake, amen.”

  “My father” sounded very formal, and as though one were speaking of a stranger. Michael rather liked it, because it made him feel grown up.

  After that evening, things went on very much as usual.

  His mother worked hard, and sewed in the evenings, and Michael went every day to the Kindergarten at the Convent, and Miss Armstrong came round to see them often. Daddy did not come back, and no one spoke about him.

  When the summer holidays came, a boy at school asked Michael whether he was going to the sea.

  Michael felt himself blushing.

  “I don’t know yet. I expect so....” And he rashly boasted: “Last year we went to Weston-super-Mare, and I had ice-cream cornets every day.”

  “Last year you had your dad, and now you haven’t. He’s deserted you, and he’s a bad man. Sister Stanislaus says so.”

  Some of the elder children said “What a shame!” and one of the big girls — a blue-ribbon girl — reminded him that Sister Stanislaus had told them not to speak about Michael’s father.

  Michael felt at once angry and important and ashamed. He walked away from the others.

  “Are we going away to the seaside by-’n-by, these holidays?” he asked his mother.

  “No, dear. Mother can’t afford it. When August Bank Holiday comes I’ll take you to the sea for the day, perhaps, if you’re a very good boy.”

  “And can I have an ice-cream cornet?”

  “We’ll see, dear.”

  “Where shall we go, mother?”

  I couldn’t say, dear.”

  “Will it be soon?”

  “If you’re a good boy, I dare say it will.”

  He knew that mother didn’t like many questions, and that he had asked a great many already, but he could not refrain from one more, although feeling almost certain that she would be, in her quiet way, vexed with him.

  “Will it be Weston-super-Mare, like it was before?”

  “No, dear.”

  Her lips were compressed into a very thin line, and her large brown eyes looked as they always did when she was just going to cry. She cried very often: Michael could not remember a time when it had startled or surprised him to see the tears rolling down her face as she sat sewing, her hand brushing them away, without a sound.

  “Run along now, mother’s boy, and play out of doors. I’ll call you when it’s teatime.”

  So he ran out.

  When he came in, Miss Armstrong was there. She came very often nowadays, nearly every evening in fact. His mother sat sewing, and Miss Armstrong sometimes sat by the open window, doing nothing, and sometimes she made a cake, and always they went on talking, in low muffled murmurs, that only indistinctly reached Michael, slowly undressing and going to bed in the inner room.

  The term came to an end: Michael received a holy picture as a reward for General Diligence, and school was dismissed. The pavements grew extraordinarily hot, and there seemed always to be pieces of paper lying in the road, with no breeze to blow them away. At last Michael’s mother said to him:

  “On Monday we’ll have a long day at the seaside. Won’t that be lovely?”

  “Only one day?”

  “Mother said for the day, dear.”

  “But last time we stayed a whole fortnight. Why must we go only for the day, mother?”

  “For a treat, dear,” his mother answered wearily.

  “Oh, please mother, let it be a fortnight.”

  “Michael dear, when mother has spoken, there’s nothing more to be said. There’s many little boys don’t get taken anywhere at all, you know. Just think how lucky you are!”

  “Must we come back the same day?”

  “Yes, dear. I can’t leave the house empty, and Miss Armstrong wants to get back too.”

  “Oh, is Miss Armstrong coming with us?”

  “Yes, dear, she is. And you’ll have to show her what a good boy mother’s boy can be.”

  Michael had heard the exhortation so often that he paid no attention to it at all. It seemed to be part of his mother’s personality, something that belonged to her as much as did her small, pale face, and the fair hair strained far back from her high and narrow forehead. He was, on the whole, glad that Miss Armstrong should be coming with them for the outing. He felt, obscurely, that she would distract his mother’s attention from himself.

  When the day came, it was fine, and very hot. His mother, as usual, went to early church, but this time she left Michael to kick his heels in bed, instead of taking him with her as she generally did.

  When she came back, she told him to get up and gave him clean clothes.

  “Always remember to put on clean things before a railway journey,” she admonished him, “you never know that there won’t be an accident, when you’ll wake to find yourself in hospital. Your teeth, dear, and then your prayers.”

  To his prayers, Michael added, at his mother’s suggestion, a petition for a safe journey. He felt almost too excited to eat any breakfast.

  At nine o’clock Miss Armstrong called for them, was offered a cup of tea, refused it, and then accepted it — and they were off, Michael carrying a new wooden spade and a tin bucket.

  On the top of the omnibus it was cool, but at the station it was very hot and there was a queue of people waiting outside the booking-office.

  “Oh dear, Clara, we’ll never do it! Would it be any use saying we’re in a hurry — sometimes people do, you know.”

  “Look, dear, you go with Michael and sit down somewhere. There’ll be sure to be a bench. Yes do, Gertrude, really. I know what your feet are. If you’ll just take the basket, dear, and Michael, catch hold of the string-bag for mother, there’s a good boy and go with Miss Armstrong.”

  “No but really, dear,” protested Miss Armstrong.

  “It’s all right. Don’t think about me.”

  “Your mother’s one of God’s saints,” said Miss Armstrong, as they made their way through the crowd to a bench. “They say that the Lord sends the heaviest crosses to those He loves best, and she’s had more than her share. I hope you’re a great comfort to her, Michael, and always do what she tells you, and remember that you’re all she has left.”

  Michael was not listening. He was watching the people and smelling the strange, exciting smell of the railway, and wishing that he could be somewhere where he could see the trains.

  It seemed ages and ages before Miss Armstrong exclaimed:— “At last! Come along, Michael!”

  She grasped his hot hand in her still hotter one, and he felt himself pressed and pushed on every side by thick grown-up bodies, and by the parcels and umbrellas and baskets that projected from them.

  Unheeding, Michael pressed and pushed back again, intent only on finding himself on the platform, so that he could see the trains.

  “Did you ever!” panted his mother, above him. “I shouldn’t wonder if we couldn’t get seats.”

  In the end they got two seats. Michael was shoved into the railway carriage before he had any opportunity for looking at the engine.

  “You’ll have to sit on my lap, dear,” said Miss Armstrong. “Let me take him, Clara.”

  “Thank you, but I expect he’d rather come to me.”

  “I’ll stand, please,” said Michael, “I want to look out of the window.”

  When at last the train started, his mother would not let him stand by the open window any more. She pulled him on to her knee, and kept him there for the whole journey.

  In the next carriage someone was playing a concertina and people were singing. They could be heard plainly. In their own carriage, although every seat was occupied, things were quiet. A very fat person sitting opposite Michael offered him some sweets out of a paper bag, and he took one and thanked her shyly.

  “He’s sharp, for a little fellow, isn’t he?” said the fat person. “No mistaking who’s boy
he is — his eyes are the very image of yours.”

  “Yes, he’s his mother’s boy.”

  When mother said that she squeezed him rather tightly, and sighed heavily.

  “Shall we soon be there, mother?”

  “Not very long now. Patience, dear.”

  When it seemed as if he really could not bear the excitement of the waiting any longer, his mother put Michael off her lap, and began to fumble about on the seat behind her and on either side of her and to cast agonized glances up at the luggage-rack.

  “Wherever’s that bag gone to? I’ve some fruit in it, for the journey.”

  Miss Armstrong stooped, creaking as she did so, and felt on the floor, and between the feet of her fellow-passengers, and then came up again, looking hotter and redder than before.

  It isn’t there, Clara. I can’t imagine, — but there was such a crowd and all—”

  “Michael dear, say a prayer to St. Anthony of Padua — he’ll be kept busy to-day, I shouldn’t wonder — but I’ve never known him fail yet.”

  Everybody in the carriage began to move about uneasily, looking for the bag.

  Suddenly Miss Armstrong exclaimed, and heaved herself up.

  “I do believe — well, if that doesn’t beat all! I declare I’ve been sitting on it the whole of the time! I hope to goodness I’ve not smashed anything.”

  In view of Miss Armstrong’s size, the hope seemed rather a forlorn one. Everybody in the carriage was amused and laughed. Michael’s mother smiled, in her mirthless way.

  She took a flattened banana out of the bag and gave it to Michael. It was very soft, and tasted warm, which was interesting.

  It made him extremely thirsty, but when he asked for a drink, mother said that he must wait.

  “You can offer it up as a little act of mortification,” she whispered to him.

  Michael felt rather rebellious. Why should there be little acts of mortification, when they had come out to enjoy themselves? He knew that was a naughty thought, and felt ashamed of it, but he couldn’t help it. Next moment, however, he had forgotten all about it, for the train was slowing up, and they had arrived.

  “Take my hand, dear, till we’re out of the station — have you the tickets, Gertrude? You’d think the whole world had come out for the day, wouldn’t you?”

  People were surging out of the train, and through the iron gateway, at which stood the man who took their tickets.

  When at last they got outside Michael looked round for the sea but there was nothing to be seen except a long, very clean-looking road with railings on either side, and a row of taxi-cabs with men standing beside them, offering to drive people to the Front.

  There was a sort of shimmering haze all over everything, that seemed oddly mixed up with a hot, tarry smell from the road.

  “It’s going to be a scorching day,” Miss Armstrong remarked, looking up at the cloudless sky.

  “It strikes up from the asphalt, like. But it’s cooler now than it will be later, that’s certain. Well.”

  They began to walk, behind other groups of people, all going in the same direction.

  Michael was given the string-bag to carry, besides his spade and bucket. He swung it carelessly and presently it flew out of his hand, and a number of things rolled into the road — his mother’s crochet, and Weldon’s Journal, and a pair of clean socks, and some ginger nuts. They had to pick up all these things, and chase a thimble, that had rolled quite a long way off.

  “Dear, dear, what a clumsy boy you are, Michael! Now try and be more careful.”

  “Are we nearly there, mother?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure, dear.”

  They plodded on, for what Michael thought was a very long while. His feet felt frightfully hot, and as though they were gradually becoming too large for his shoes, and his cotton shirt was sticking to his body.

  Neither his mother nor Miss Armstrong spoke. Miss Armstrong kept on shifting the basket that she was carrying from one arm to the other.

  “I wish I’d brought my parasol,” she said once.

  “We don’t want anything more to carry than what we’ve got,” returned Michael’s mother.

  At last they turned a corner, and immediately ahead of them were rows and rows of people, sitting on a wall facing the road, or walking up and down in front of the wall.

  It was the Esplanade.

  On the other side of the wall, below it, were more and more and more people, of whom the upper half could be seen, bobbing up and down, waving and splashing about. Michael could not remember ever having seen so many people out of doors together, all at once.

  “My word, what a crowd! I hope we shall find room to sit down.” Miss Armstrong remarked doubtfully.

  They went down some steps, threading their way with some difficulty through closely packed people, and came to the sands. Michael floundered for a step or two, and at once the sand poured in over the tops of his laced shoes, making them more uncomfortable than ever.

  A recollection of the previous year came to him.

  “Can’t I take off my shoes and stockings?” he demanded.

  “In a minute, dear. There isn’t room, here.”

  There wasn’t. There was scarcely room to move. Michael saw an ice-cream man, and thought of the cornets, but he knew that it wouldn’t be of any use to ask now. The grownups wouldn’t stop and look for pennies, when they were so hot and tired and out of breath, and had so much to carry.

  Presently, between two family groups, they discerned a space.

  “Won’t this do?” gasped Miss Armstrong.

  “There isn’t a speck of shade, but we shan’t find that anywhere. Yes, this’ll do,” Michael’s mother decided.

  Michael threw himself down, but was told to get up again and leave room. First Miss Armstrong lowered herself, very carefully, but letting herself go at the end with a heavy flump and a loud sigh of relief. Then Michael’s mother sat down, apologizing to the people on either side of her.

  “It’s crowded, isn’t it? Here, Michael, on mother’s knee.”

  “But he’ll make you so hot, dear,” Miss Armstrong protested.

  “Oh, I’ll let him run off in a minute. I’ll just take off his shoes and socks.”

  It was a blessed relief to feel the freedom of bare feet. The heat of the sand was nice — quite different to the heat of his tight shoes.

  “Now can I dig, mother?”

  “If you like, dear. Do you see where those children are, out there, in the green waders? Well, you can go as far as they are, and dig there. But not one step further, Michael. Mother knows she can trust her little boy. Remember, mother can see you quite well from here.”

  “Yes. Can I get my feet wet?”

  “Yes, salt water never gives cold. Don’t get talking to strange children, Michael.”

  “No.”

  He hurried off, tracing a zigzag course in between the chairs and the people and the bathing-machines and the groups of digging children and the stalls with winkles and ginger beer and lemonade and ice-cream and sticks of pink and yellow rock.

  He noticed with excitement that the children in green waders, pointed out as a landmark by his mother, were a long way off, quite near the actual sea itself, and beyond the region of dry sand and fluttering paper-bags and bits of orange peel and broken glass. This sand was wet and shiny, and much less crowded. There were mostly children here, digging and building castles or paddling in the edges of the water that lapped the sand too gently ever to produce waves. Already the sand felt wet under his feet.

  He wanted to do everything at once — paddle, and dig, and fill his pail with the salt water, and then pour it all away again, with the joyful certainty that he could get as much more as he wanted, and that there would always be enough.

  He was still absorbed and happy — in fact it seemed to him that he had only been playing a few moments — when something made him look up suddenly, and he saw his mother picking her way slowly towards him, holding his shoes an
d stockings in her hand.

  “Have you been having a lovely time, dear?”

  “Oh yes — it isn’t time to go, is it?” he asked in sudden fright.

  “Not nearly. But it’s time for some nice dinner and a little rest. You’re to have a treat for dinner.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ham sandwiches.”

  Michael, very pleased, went back with his mother to where Miss Armstrong waited with the ham sandwiches. On the way his mother bought a stick of peppermint rock and three bottles of ginger pop.

  The sands were now much less crowded. There were a few picnic parties, but many of the people had gone off into the town to get a meal in the shops and cafes.

  “What a hot little boy!” exclaimed Miss Armstrong, and Michael realized that he did feel very hot, although he had not noticed it whilst he was playing.

  “You must sit still for a while, after dinner,” said his mother.

  “Oh, please, mother—”

  “Michael!”

  “But why—”

  “Because mother says it will be so, dear.”

  He heard Miss Armstrong whisper, as though she thought he wasn’t listening: “That’s right, Clara. I always think it’s wonderful the way you’re so firm with him, without ever showing temper. That’s the way to bring up a child.”

  “With things the way they are, I have to be doubly careful.”

  “Poor dear!”

  Then Miss Armstrong, in her ordinary voice, offered Michael two of the large, moist ham sandwiches, and although he wished there had not been quite so much mustard with them, and that ham wasn’t so salt, he enjoyed eating them very much. Afterwards he had ginger nuts, and cherry-cake, and a whole bottle of ginger pop. Finally his mother broke a large fragment off the stick of pink rock, and gave it to him.

  Michael, sucking it, felt more reconciled to the idea of keeping still for a time than he would have liked to own.

  The sun was beating down upon them fiercely, and Miss Armstrong arranged a kind of small tent of newspaper over her head.