“But why do they have that thing, Mother?” she asked when she’d stopped crying.
“Because boys are different from girls.”
“Do all boys have one? Did Daddy?”
“Yes. All boys have them.” Her mother sighed.
“But what do they do with them? Why haven’t I got one?”
“Because girls don’t need them. They’re dirty. Now, come and have tea.”
Hélène stood up. She felt guilty. She shouldn’t be remembering that—Mother would be cross. Mother thought she’d forgotten all about it. But she hadn’t. She remembered, even though it was a very long time ago, last summer maybe. And she often thought about what she’d seen, when she was in bed at night, and Mother was sewing, and it was so hot she couldn’t sleep. Thinking about it made her feel good, and made her feel bad—and kind of funny, warm in between her thighs. Sometimes she’d put her hand there, in between her legs, and that felt nice too. Then she went to sleep.
But it was better not to think about that now. Now the hands of the clock were nearly touching the two stickers. She’d go and sit on the trailer steps. That way she’d see Mother the moment she reached the dirt track. She picked up Doll, and brushed down her frock, and seated her on the hot step beside her.
From here, you could see the layout of the trailer park quite well, and Hélène liked that. Over behind her was the creek, and the creek led down to the river, and the river went on a bit and then it joined the Alabama River, which was really very big, though not beautiful like the rivers in England.
In England there was the Thames, and that went through London, where the king and queen lived in a palace, and where Mother had lived too.
And then there was the Avon, and the Avon went through another town whose name she forgot, which was where Shakespeare had lived. Shakespeare was English, and he was the best writer in the whole world, Mother said. Mother had acted in one of his plays once, in a lovely dress. And when Hélène was bigger, Mother was going to teach her some of his poems to say, and that was why she had to be careful now, and talk properly, like Mother, and not do that horrible droopy drawl like the Tanner children, so when she said the poems she would say them right, like an English lady. A E I O U—lovely and open and soft; she should have practiced her vowels this afternoon. She’d promised Mother, and then she’d forgotten.
She swung her legs back and forth now, mouthing the sounds, looking around the trailer park. Their trailer was one of the oldest, painted dark green, with the rust coming through. It had two rooms, a bedroom where she and Mother slept in little narrow beds, and the room where they ate their meals and she did her lessons, and where they listened to the wireless in the evenings. Then there were the steps she sat on now, and the little yard where she’d made her garden. Around back by the free there was a pump, and what Mother called the outhouse, which smelled nasty and was full of flies in the summer. There was a white picket fence around the yard, and a little gate, and a path. Then there were more trees—thank God, Mother said, because it meant they didn’t have to see the other trailers. There were eight of them, two of them occupied by the Tanners, who had seven children and another on the way, Mother said. Mr. Tanner drank, and he beat Mrs. Tanner up sometimes—they could hear her screaming—but Mother said to take no notice, there was nothing they could do. Men were like that, she said, and Mrs. Tanner was an ignorant fool to put up with it.
“Did Daddy hit you, Mother?”
“Once. He hit me once. That was enough.”
Then her lips went in a hard straight line, and she looked unhappy, so Hélène didn’t ask her anymore. Daddy must have been a bad man, she thought sometimes, and anyway, she didn’t remember him at all. He lived in Louisiana; she and Mother had lived there, too, for a little while, before they came here. She didn’t remember Louisiana either. Daddy was a soldier, and Mother met him when he was fighting in the war. And now he was in Korea, which was a long way away, farther than Louisiana: a good thing, Mother said, and she didn’t care if he never came back. Daddy didn’t know where she and Mother lived; if he looked for them—which he wouldn’t, Mother said with a sniff—he’d never find them, and that was good, too, because they were safe and happy just the way they were, and one day—one day soon—they would both go back to England together, which was where they belonged.
Beyond the other trailers there was a field. It had been a cotton field once, Mother said, part of the Calverts’ plantation, but they let it go during the war, when Major Calvert was away fighting the Germans. Now only a few colored people lived there, in tarpaper shacks, and she was on no account to go down there, not even to see Mississippi Mary. Then there was the road, and down the road, Orangeburg, where there was a gas station, and the market and the bank and the hotel and Cassie Wyatt’s, where Mother did the ladies’ hair three mornings a week. Beyond Orangeburg, there was Selma, and Montgomery, which was the state capital, and then Birmingham—but she’d never been there.
Mother said not to worry, why should she care about Birmingham? When she was older, they’d go to New York, and walk down Fifth Avenue, and go into all the lovely shops. And then they’d take a boat, or maybe even an airplane, and they’d go to London, and Paris, and Rome. London had been bombed by the Germans, of course, and Mother hadn’t seen it for nearly five years, but she said it would still be beautiful. There were parks there—big parks, not like the trailer park at all—with lots of green grass, and trees and flowers; and there were bandstands, where soldiers played marches and waltzes.
When they had the money, Mother said, then they would go. And they wouldn’t be stopping off to see Birmingham, Alabama—not them, no sir!
She turned her head. The hands on the clock were on the red stickers right now. Mother would be coming; she was never late. “Punctuality is the courtesy of princes,” she said. And she’d be coming the other way, down the track that led from the plantation and the big house, because today was Saturday, and Saturday she did Mrs. Calvert’s hair. Not at Cassie Wyatt’s beauty parlor—Mrs. Calvert would never go there, Mother said—but right in her own bedroom.
Hélène had gone there with Mother once, just once—to help hold the pins, Mother said to Mrs. Calvert, but Hélène knew that wasn’t the reason. Mother wanted her to see the house: a proper house, tall and white, with pillars and a veranda. Mrs. Calvert had a colored butler, and proper servants, the way a lady should, and she fretted a lot, and said the sun made her head ache, so the blinds had to be kept down. It was cool and dark in her room, and very quiet, and there was just the smell of the hair tongs, and of scent, and freshly ironed linen and flowers.
It was lovely, Hélène thought. All those glittery crystal bottles beneath the looking glass on her dressing table, and big heavy silver brushes. Mrs. Calvert herself was a disappointment though. She was thin and scrawny, and when Hélène stood up close, she could see where the powder had caked on Mrs. Calvert’s sallow skin, and how her mouth turned down in little lines at the corners. She was a Yankee, Mother said, which meant she came from the North, New York, maybe, or Boston. A lady, Mother said, and a good few years older than her husband, she added with a little smile.
She had gray hairs. Mother had to touch them up with some special stuff from a bottle, that smelled horrid. They always called it “touchingup,” but when Mother was home, she’d laugh and wink, and say, “Better take along the dye bottle.”
When they left the big house that time, they met Major Calvert on the veranda. He was wearing a white suit. Hélène had never seen a man in a white suit before. He looked very tall and very sun-tanned and very handsome, and when he saw her, he’d gotten to his feet and come over. He’d just stood there, looking her up and down, until Mother had introduced her. And then Hélène had known just what to do, of course; Mother had taught her. She held out her hand, and looked him in the eye, and said “How do you do?” just the way Mother had shown her. And Major Calvert had stared, and then he had laughed, a great burst of laughter. And then he had sh
aken her hand very solemnly, and said something to her mother that Hélène couldn’t hear.
“What did he say, Mother?” she had asked as soon as they were out of earshot. And Mother had smiled.
“He asked how old you were, and I said five, and he said you were going to be a beauty.”
Hélène had stopped in her tracks.
“A beauty? You mean, beautiful? Like a lady?”
“But of course.” Her mother patted her fondly on the shoulder. “Haven’t I always told you?”
And she had. Always. For as long as Hélène could remember. And that was nice, she thought as, looking up, she saw her mother’s figure come into view beyond the trees.
Very nice. But not as nice as when Major Calvert said it, because Major Calvert was a man and a gentleman. He smelled of cologne, and the skin of his hands felt smooth, and when he took her hand, he’d done something very unexpected, something Mother had never mentioned, never done when they practiced shaking hands together. He’d pressed the tip of one finger into the damp curve of her palm; lightly at first, then a little more, and then he’d just scratched the surface of her skin, secretly, with one perfectly manicured nail.
She hadn’t told Mother. She might have been cross, and then Hélène wouldn’t be allowed back to the big house, not ever. And she wanted to go again very much. She wanted to see the big silver brushes, and smell the clean linen, and see Major Calvert again. Because when he touched her palm like that, it felt nice. It made her feel warm and soft and breathless. The way she felt when she’d watched the Tanner boys in the waterhole.
And that was odd. Because although Major Calvert was a man, he looked very handsome and very clean. So why did he make her feel the same way the dirty things did, the things she was never to mention?
She rose quickly to her feet. Better not to think of it; it was naughty, and Mother might notice something was wrong. She waved, suddenly happy to have a secret and happy to see her mother.
“Look,” she said. “I’ve made you an English garden.”
After supper were the best times: Hélène loved them. Then the light grew soft, and the air was cooler; the little cotton curtains flapped in the breeze at the open window, and outside, the grasshoppers sang. Then she had her mother to herself, and she had her special lessons, which weren’t like lessons at all—more like a game she was very very good at.
And tonight was special. For her mother had come back with a surprise, a brown paper parcel that she’d hidden away at once in the bedroom, though Hélène had seen the excitement in her eyes. She would be allowed to look later, Mother said. If she did her lessons well.
So they had what Mother called “nursery supper.” She was very specific on this point. The meal in the middle of the day was luncheon, never dinner, which was what the Tanner children called it, because they didn’t know any better. Then there was afternoon tea, not taken at the table, Mother explained, but in the drawing room, assuming you had one, and since they didn’t, they imagined it. Then there was supper, and when she was grown-up, there would be dinner instead, served at eight.
For supper they had boiled eggs and white bread and butter, sliced very thin, with the crusts cut off. Never anything fried. Mother said fried foods were vulgar, and gave you a bad complexion. Then there was a little cheese, and then there was fruit, and the fruit was complicated, because you had to eat it with a knife and a fork, and an orange had to be peeled one way, and an apple another, and sometimes Hélène got them muddled up, and then Mother would frown.
After that, Mother switched on the wireless, and they listened to the news broadcast, which was very boring, Hélène thought, and all about wars in places she’d never heard of except Korea. And then, when the dishes were washed, then came the best part. The lessons.
Tonight she had to lay a place at the oilcloth-covered table, with all the knives and forks and spoons in the right places. It didn’t look very good, even Mother admitted, because all the cutlery was the same size, instead of different sizes, the way it should have been—but still, the placing could be correct. When she had finished, she perched on a cushion on the chair and waited. Back straight. Arms tucked in by her sides because when you went to a banquet or a big dinner you couldn’t stick your elbows out—it took up too much room.
Mother smiled. “Good. Now tonight, you will be having a little soup. A clear soup, I think—consommé, you remember? And then fish—sole, perhaps, or a little poached turbot. Then the main course, which might be chicken, or meat, or game, and there will be vegetables, of course, which will be brought around to you. On which side will the servant stand?”
“On my left, Mother.”
“Good. And the knives and forks—in which order do you use them?”
“From the outside in, Mother.”
“Good. And if there are little rolls, bread of some kind?”
“Broken off, piece by piece, Mother. With the fingers. Never cut with the knife. That is for the butter.”
“Excellent. And the wineglasses?”
Hélène looked down at the line of three thick glass beakers.
“The same as the knives and forks. From the outside in. Even if the glass is refilled, never drink more than three altogether, and sip them slowly…” She grinned. “Fingers around the stems, none sticking out.”
“Good.” Her mother sighed. “Three glasses is not a rule, you understand, but it is prudent. Now…after the main course, what might you have then?”
“Pudding, Mother.”
“Pudding, precisely. Not dessert—that is the term for the fruit and the nuts which are brought in at the end of the meal. And certainly not ‘sweet.’ There may be a savory—do you remember what a savory is?”
“Devils in harness?”
“On horseback.” A faint smile. “There are others, of course. Now…” She gestured to the glass pepper pot and salt shaker in the center of the wooden table. “Those are?”
“The salt and the pepper, Mother. And sometimes there might be mustard.” She lifted her face proudly, pleased to be doing so well. “We don’t say ‘cruet,’ but if someone did, we’d pass them just the same and not smile.”
“Excellent. And that?” She gestured to the piece of paper towel that lay beside Hélène’s plate.
“Is a napkin.”
“And since we’ve already reached the savory, it should have been where, for some time?”
Hélène’s hand flew to her lips.
“Oh! I forgot. On my lap, Mother.”
“With your hands, if I’m not mistaken.”
The reproof was mild. Hélène’s hands quickly darted under the table.
“Very good. One last thing. You have eaten your fruit—perfectly, of course, not dropping orange peel under the table, but we’ll forget about that. What happens next?”
“Well…” Hélène hesitated. “We will talk for a bit, and I must make sure to talk to the person on my right and on my left, and not allow myself to be…to be…”
“Monopolized. Very good. Go on.”
“And then I wait for the hostess to look up. She might catch my eye, or lay down her napkin, but I must be ready. Then she stands up and all the other women stand up, and we follow her out of the room. And the men stay behind and drink port. And tell funny stories…”
“Yes. Yes.” Her mother stood up. “What they do is of no concern to you. And anyway…” She hesitated, looking a little lost for a moment. “That practice may be dying out now. I’m not quite sure. Since the war, you know. Things are more informal now, and of course I’ve been away a long time…” Her voice trailed away. “But it’s best to know.”
“Yes, Mother.” She hesitated, raising her eyes to her mother’s face. “Did I do well?”
“Very well, my darling. You may get down now.”
Hélène clambered down, and ran to her mother.
Her mother had seated herself in the one comfortable armchair they possessed. It was ugly, Hélène thought, with yellow wooden legs and
a greasy red cover. But her mother had draped it with a beautiful old paisley shawl she had brought from England. Now, as Hélène climbed onto her lap and nestled her head against her shoulder, her mother let her head fall back against the shawl and closed her eyes. Tilting her head, Hélène looked at her carefully.
Her mother was beautiful, she thought. She was very thin, but then they often didn’t have much to eat, especially if Cassie Wyatt was late paying her mother her wages, as she was sometimes. But she always smelled clean and flowery, and she always made up her face, and set her hair in pins every evening. No one else around here looked like her mother, no one. She had soft brown hair, which she cut herself, and marcel waves, so her hair rippled. She was pale, and never sat out in the sun because it burned her skin. Her eyebrows were plucked into two thin arches and her eyes were large and widely spaced, like Hélène’s own. They were violet, that was how she came to be given her name, she said. She was Violet Jennifer Fortescue—or she had been when she acted on the stage in England. Here, she was Craig, Mrs. Craig, because that was Daddy’s name, and Hélène was Hélène Craig. Hélène didn’t like the name Craig so much; it would be nicer, she thought, to be Hélène Fortescue, and when she was grown-up, she would be. She would act on the stage, like Mother, and then she could use any name she liked. Or maybe in the movies—the films, Mother said. There was a movie theater in Selma, and her mother took her there sometimes for a treat. Hélène loved the movies. She sat there as still as a mouse. She thought her mother looked like Carole Lombard—only better, because Carole Lombard’s hair was dyed silver-blond, and Mother’s was its natural color.
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