“Certainly not, Kezia.”
“But why not?”
“Run away, Kezia; you know quite well why not.”
At last everybody has seen it except them. On that day the subject rather flagged. It was the dinner hour. 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 servant 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,” 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 servant when you grow up, Lil Kelvey?” shrilled Lena.
Dead silence. But instead of answering, Lil only gave her silly, shamefaced smile. She didn’t seem to mind the question at all. What a sell for Lena! 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!” she hissed spitefully.
This was such a marvellous thing to have said that the little girls rushed away in a body, deeply, deeply excited, wild with joy. Someone found a long rope, and they began skipping. And never did they skip so high, run in and out so fast, or do such daring things as on that morning.
In the afternoon Pat called for the Burnell children with the buggy and they drove home. There were visitors. Isabel and Lottie, who liked visitors, went upstairs to change to their pinafores. But Kezia thieved out at the back. Nobody was about; she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard. Presently, looking along the road, she saw two little dots. They grew bigger, they were coming towards her. Now she could see that one was in front and one close behind. Now she could see that they were the Kelveys. Kezia stopped swinging. She slipped off the gate as if she was going to run away. Then she hesitated. The Kelveys came nearer, and beside them walked their shadows, very long, stretching right across the road with their heads in the buttercups. Kezia clambered back on the gate; she had made up her mind; she swung out.
“Hullo,” she said to the passing Kelveys.
They were so astounded that they stopped. Lil gave her silly smile. Our Else stared.
“You can come and see our doll’s house if you want to,” said Kezia, and she dragged her toe on the ground. But at that Lil turned red and shook her head quickly.
“Why not?” asked Kezia.
Lil gasped, and then said, “Your ma told our ma you wasn’t to speak to us.”
“Oh, well,” said Kezia. She didn’t know what to reply. “It doesn’t matter. You can come and see our doll’s house all the same. Come on. Nobody’s looking.”
But Lil shook her head still harder.
“Don’t you want to?” asked Kezia.
Suddenly there was a twitch, a tug at Lil’s skirt. She turned round. Our Else was looking at her with big, imploring eyes; she was frowning; she wanted to go. For a moment Lil looked at our Else very doubtfully. But then our Else twitched her skirt again. She started forward. Kezia led the way. Like two little stray cats they followed across the courtyard to where the doll’s house stood.
“There is it,” said Kezia.
There was a pause. Lil breathed loudly, almost snorted; our Else was still as stone.
“I’ll open it for you,” said Kezia kindly. She undid the hook and they looked inside.
“There’s the drawing-room and the dining-room, and that’s the –”
“Kezia!”
Oh, what a start they gave!
“Kezia!”
It was Aunt Beryl’s voice. They turned round. At the back door stood Aunt Beryl, staring as if she couldn’t believe what she saw.
“How dare you ask the little Kelveys into the courtyard!” said her cold, furious voice. “You know as well as I do, you’re not allowed to talk to them. Run away, children, run away at once. And don’t come back again,” said Aunt Beryl. And she stepped into the yard and shooed them out as if they were chickens.
“Off you go immediately!” she called, cold and proud.
They did not need telling twice. Burning with shame, shrinking together, Lil huddling along like her mother, our Else dazed, somehow they crossed the big courtyard and squeezed through the white gate.
“Wicked, disobedient, little girl!” said Aunt Beryl bitterly to Kezia, and she slammed the doll’s house too.
The afternoon had been awful. A letter had come from Willie Brent, a terrifying, threatening letter, saying if she did not meet him that evening in Pulman’s Bush, he’d come to the front door and ask the reason why! But now that she had frightened those little rats of Kelveys and given Kezia a good scolding, her heart felt lighter. That ghastly pressure was gone. She went back to the house humming.
When the Kelveys were well out of sight of Burnells’, they sat down to rest on a big red drainpipe by the side of the road. Lil’s cheeks were still burning; she took off the hat with the quill and held it on her knee. Dreamily they looked over the hay paddocks, past the creek, to the group of wattles where Logan’s cows stood waiting to be milked. What were their thoughts?
Presently our Else nudged up close to her sister. But now she had forgotten the cross lady. She put out a finger and stroked her sister’s quill; she smiled her rare smile.
“I seen the little lamp,” she said softly.
Then both were silent once more.
‘The Doll’s House’ was most recently published in The Doves’ Nest and other stories (Century Hutchunson NZ Ltd, 1988).
Katherine Mansfield was a short-story writer, poet, critic, diarist and letter writer. She lived in Wellington, England and Europe where she died of tuberculosis in 1923. Her writing and status of a writer of merit is internationally recognised.
‘The Doll’s House’ is thought to be drawn from Mansfield own childhood memories and the social dynamics of her small district school.
Letters from
Whetu
Patricia Grace
English,
Room 12,
Period 1,
Friday.
Dear Lenny,
Be like Whetu o te Moana,
Beat Boredom,
Write a Letter.
How slack finding myself the only one of the old gang in the sixth form. How slack and BORING. And it’s so competitive around here – No chance of copying a bit of homework or sharing a few ideas. Everyone’s after marks and grades coz that’s what counts on ACCREDITING DAY and Nobody Never tells Nobody Nothing – No Way. ACCREDITING DAY – it’s ages away yet everyone’s in a panic. It’s like we’re all going to be sorted out for heaven or hell, or for DECIDING DAY, and I really don’t know what it’s all for. I’ve thought and thought but just don’t get it. I tell yuh it just doesn’t add up. Must tell you about DECIDING DAY inaminnit.
See . . . it seems we get put through this machine so that we can come out well-educated and so we can get interesting jobs. I think it’s supposed to make us better than some other people - like our mothers and fathers for example, and some of our friends. And somehow it’s supposed to make us happier and more FULFILLED. Well I dunno.
I quite like Fisher, I kind of appreciate her even though she thinks she, and she alone, got me through S.C last year, and even though she thinks I’ve got no brayne of my own
. Little does she know that I often wish now that I’d fayled. How was I to know I’d be sitting here alone and so lonely learning boring things. Why do we learn such boring things? We learned boring things last year and now we’re learning boring things again. I bet this letter’s getting boring.
I sometimes do a bit of a stir with Fisher, like I say ‘yous’ instead of ‘you” (pl.) It always sends her PURPLE. The other day I wrote it in my essay and she had a BLUE fit. She scratched it out in RED and wrote me a double underlined note – ‘I have told you many times before that there is no such word as “yous” ‘(I wonder if it hurt her to write it). Please do not use (yous heh heh) it again.’ So I wrote a triple underlined note underneath – ‘ How can I yous it if it does not exist?’ Now that I think of it that’s really slack – what lengths I go to, it’s really pathetic. I mean she’s OKAY, but I’m a bit sick of being her honourable statistic, her minority person MAKING IT.
I’ll tell you something else, that lady sure does go on. And on. And on. She’s trying to make us enjoy K.M. Kay Em is what she calls Katherine Mansfield, as though she and K.M. were best mates. Well I suppose Fisher could be just about old enough to have been a mate of K.M’s . . . I’ll tell you what she’s doing. She’s prancing about reading like she’s gonna bust. Her lips are wobbling and popping, and she’s sort of poised like an old ballet dancer. She does a couple of tip-toes now and again. Sometimes she flaps the book about and makes circles in the air with it. I don’t think she’ll burst into tears.
Do you know what? When she waves and flaps the book about she doesn’t stop ‘reading’, so I suppose that she means she knows her K.M. off by heart, bless her HART (Halt All Racist Tours) , punctuation and all. I don’t think her glasses will quite fall off – Beat Boredom, wait and hope for Fisher’s glasses to fall off and cut her feet to ribbons.
Gee I enjoyed our day at the beach last weekend, and us being all together again first time for ages. Andy looks great. All those hours in the sea and those big waves lopping over us. Hey why don’t we save up and get us a surfboard?
I got my beans when I got home though, boy did I get my beans. Yes, and we’ll take some food next time, and some togs and towels (to save our jeans from getting so clean). What about this weekend, but we’d have to contact Andy. Anyhows think on it. Really neat. It wuz tanfastic bowling around in those breakers hour after hour.
And what about those new songs we made up – haven’t done that since fourth form. Soon as I got home, after having my ears laid back by Mum and Dad, I went and wrote that second song down so we wouldn’t forget it. I like it, I really do. I’m writing out a copy for each of us and I’m sending Andy’s with his letter which I’ll write period 4. I’m writing letters to all of you today. Gonna post them too, even though I see you all at lunchtime (except Andy).
Can’t remember the words to that first song, there must’ve been about twenty verses, and what rubbish. I can remember the ‘Shake-a Shake-a’ and the ‘Culley bubba’ bits, and I remember Iosefa’s verse,
Tasi lua tolu fa
Come a me a hugga, hugga
Shake-a Shake-a Shake-a
Culley bubba longa-a long-a.
And
Tangaroa Tangaroa
Little fish belong-a he a,
Shake-a Shake-a . . .
Then there was another one about a shitting seagull – well never mind. Great music you and Andy made for it though, and only the waves to hear.
She’s still flapping, and poncing, and I swear there’s a tear in her eye.
And yes. I said I was going to tell you about DECIDING DAY. Went to the library on Monday, and opened a book which I started reading in the middle somewhere. Well this story is all set in New Zealand in the future ay, and there’s been a world war and wide devastation.
There are too many people and they’re short of stuff – goods, manure, natural resources and all that, so it’s been agreed that all the cripples, mentals, wrinklies and sickies have to be sorted out and killed, then recycled. DECIDING DAY is the day the computer comes up with who’s human and who’s ‘animal’. They’re going to make them (the dead mentals, etc.) into energy, and use their skins for purses, etc. The kid down the road becomes your new knife handles, buy a bottle of drink and it’s your granny stoppered inside ready to fizz. Turn on your light and there’s your nutty uncle. After that there’ll be a perfect society and a life of ease so they reckon. Neat story?
After DECIDING DAY the fires are going for weeks and weeks, and there’s smoke and stink everywhere. The remaining people (not very many coz the computer doesn’t find too many ‘humans’) try to make out they can handle it, but they can’t. They can’t hack it at all, and they want to chunder over and over, or fall about mad screaming.
Well e hoa. Fisher’s winding down, and period one almost over. Love talking to you, not bored at all. See you lunchtime but you won’t get this til next week. Gonna get me some envelopes and stamps and do some lickin’.
Arohanui,
Whetu o te Moana.
(I was named after a church.)
Mathematics,
Room 68,
Period 2,
Friday.
Dear Ani,
The new maths teacher is really strange. He never calls the roll but just barges in, goes straight to the rolling blackboard and starts writing. At the same time as he’s writing he’s mumbling into his whiskers and flinging the board up. His face is only about six inches from the board and you keep thinking he might catch his nose in it. I think he’s half blind.
When he gets to the end of the rolling board he starts rubbing out with his left hand and keeps on scribbling his columns and numbers with his right. At the same time he keeps up his muttering and his peering. All he needs now is a foot drum and some side cymbals. When the bell goes he turns round as if he’s just noticed us, his specs are all white and chalky and his whiskers are snowy, and he has a tiny pyramid of chalk pinched between his finger and thumb, all that’s left of a whole stick. What a weird-o. Then he yells out page numbers and exercise numbers for homework and says, ‘Out you go. Quickly.’ As we go out he’s cleaning his bi-fokes and getting out a new piece of chalk ready for the next lot of suckers. No wonder I’m no good at maths (not like Lenny who’s got a mthmtcl brayne. What say we save up for a srfbrd and Lenny can be the treasurer).
Trust you to get stuck halfway up the cliff. Hey I got really scared looking at you, then I got wild with the boys just leaving you there and doing all that Juliet stuff with the guitar. Wasn’t til I started up to help you that they decided to come up, and even so they were only assing around.
Then it was really beautiful up on that ledge after all. Wasn’t it? You forget, living here. Living here you never really see the sun go down, or you don’t think of it as being anything really good. Sometimes if you’re outside picking up the newspaper or the milk bottles you see the sky looking a bit pink, or else it just gets dark and you know it’s happened. But you don’t think ‘The sun’s going down,’ you only think ‘It’s getting dark.’ Mostly we have the curtains over the windows because of people going past, and you think they might LOOK IN, or something TERRIBLE like that. And what if one of them HAD A GUN and aimed it at you? What if there was a loud bang, and a little hole in the window the size of a peanut, and a big one in your head the size of an orange? What a splash of colour, what a sunset and a half that would be. Yes and anyway we need the curtains over the windows because of the telly being on. Telly is a sort of window too, with everything always on the other side of the glass. After a while you don’t know the difference between ‘looking out’ and ‘looking in’. Well you know what I mean fren, you don’t ever think how it is sitting halfway up a cliff making up songs, with the sun dropping behind an island.
You weren’t scared anymore once we all got up there, and the sun settled at the head of the island like a big bloodshot eye just for a sec. Then it dropped behind like a trick ball.
You don’t ever think of the
sky slapped all over red and orange, and the sea smothered in gold-pink curls. When you think back you can see it all again, but can’t quite feel the same, like your skin is stretching tight over your body, like your eyes are just holes and it’s all pouring in.
Well what a climb down in the dark, then the hunt in the dark for shoes. If we hadn’t had to look for our shoes we’d have caught an earlier train home. God I got my beans when I got home. Then of course there was that long wait in the greasy shop for our greasies. I was starving.
When we were little we always used to go to the beach – every low tide even in the cold weather. But now that us kids have grown up I don’t think Dad likes it anymore. Anyway he’s so busy and on so many committees – marae committee, P.T.A., Tu Tangata, District Council – and Mum’s almost as bad. We’re never home together these days, especially now that Hepa’s flatting and Amiria’s married. As for Koro, he’s never in one place for a day. He gets called north south east west, if not to a tangi then to a land meeting, if not to a land meeting then to a convention. Well it’s no wonder we never get to the beach or see each other much.
Er um! Hepa turned up on Saturday, so Dad went and got Amiria and John. Er! Koro was back from Auckland, so, er, I was the only one not home. And NOBODY knew where I was. Tricky huh? Well we didn’t know we were going to the beach did we? We started out to meet beautiful Andy off the train and ended up getting the train north.
Hey old chalk-chewer is yelling out page numbers, he’s remembered we’re here. He looks like a sort of constipated old Santa – I’d better end this letter inaminnit.
Yes Dad cracked a fit and I took a bit of flak from Mum as well. They were all dressed to go out and they’d been waiting hours for me. Of course what Dad really thought was that I was out getting myself popped, it’s what they all think but won’t say. Ding Dong. Got to bed midnight. Or was that the time we got home, heh heh?
The beach. It beats late shopping nights by a long way. Gotta go. I’m the only one left, goodbye fren. Writing to Iosefa next period. See you lunchtime, but you won’t get this til next week.
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