The Dolls’ House

by Rumer Godden

  Mr Plantaganet couldn’t understand it. ‘The master of the house to stay in the kitchen, not to go into the sitting room, not to go where he likes in his own house? Father goes where he likes. I am the father, the master of the house, Tottie?’

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Tottie firmly.

  ‘I am not – what she called me, Tottie? I am not the butler, am I?’

  ‘You shan’t be the butler,’ said Tottie, but Emily put in her hand and took up Mr Plantaganet. ‘You are the butler,’ said Emily. ‘Go and open the door.’

  ‘I am a postmaster, the master of the house, postmaster, house master,’ cried poor Mr Plantaganet, struggling.

  ‘A pretty postmaster!’ said Marchpane. ‘Emily hasn’t opened your post office for days.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we put up the post office for Mr Plantaganet?’ suggested Charlotte.

  ‘He can’t have it now,’ said Emily. ‘He is being the butler. And Birdie can be cook.’

  ‘But – would Birdie make a very good cook?’ asked Charlotte miserably. ‘You know how muddled she gets. Suppose she were muddled between sugar and salt.’

  ‘Or coffee and curry power, or beans and sultanas.’ Emily laughed, but the Plantaganets did not laugh. ‘Very well, she can be the maid and Tottie can be the cook.’

  ‘Tottie – can – be – the – cook?’ said Charlotte, reeling.

  ‘Yes, we can make her a dear little cap and apron.’

  ‘But Tottie – Tottie, Emily!’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Emily in a hard voice. ‘I want a cook for Marchpane and Tottie must be cook. I don’t see anything in it,’ said Emily loudly. ‘We often make her cook.’ Charlotte was silent. ‘Don’t we?’ said Emily more loudly. ‘She likes cooking.’ Charlotte was silent. ‘I don’t care,’ said Emily again. ‘She is the cook, so there!’

  ‘You have to do as you think with dolls,’ she said to Charlotte’s silent face. ‘You have to play with them.’

  ‘Yes, poor dolls,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I’m only playing with them,’ said Emily defiantly.

  ‘Yes, poor dolls,’ said Charlotte.

  Chapter 19

  Now the Plantaganets, of the dolls’ house, were only allowed to use the attic and kitchen. Marchpane lay in their big bed, bathed in their bath, sat on their chairs, ate and drank out of their flowered china, looked out of their windows. She sat by the lamp and saw the shadow of the roses; she had Birdie’s birdcage, and her feather broom. If Birdie’s hat had fitted on her head, you can be sure Emily would have given it to her.

  And Apple? Apple was still Apple in the house. He would not stay in the kitchen, not because, like Birdie, he could not remember, but because he did not want to stay in the kitchen.

  ‘You are naughty, Apple,’ said Tottie.

  ‘I want to be naughty,’ said Apple.

  He was not afraid of Marchpane. He did not dislike her. He was not afraid of anybody, and he liked everybody as everybody liked him. ‘Sing me a song,’ he said to Marchpane, as he would have said to Birdie and Tottie.

  ‘I don’t know any songs,’ said Marchpane, and Apple laughed in high delight because he thought Marchpane was teasing. ‘Go on, sing it,’ said Apple.

  But Marchpane really did not know any songs. She had lived for all those years in nurseries and she did not know any songs. This was because her head was so filled up with thoughts of herself that there was no room for the smallest song to enter; but she was very clever. She knew that the Plantaganets did not like Apple to be with her and so she said, ‘You sing to me.’ This was clever because most people, however small, like to sing their own songs best, and Apple began to sing to Marchpane. Every day he sang her a song and she pretended to love it. Soon he had a habit of going in to Marchpane.

  ‘Apple, don’t do that,’ said Tottie.

  ‘Will,’ said Apple.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Tottie.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Mr Plantaganet.

  ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t,’ said Birdie.

  ‘Do,’ said Marchpane, ‘do.’

  Apple liked people who said ‘do’ better than people who said ‘don’t’ and he continued to go in to Marchpane.

  ‘She will get him into mischief,’ said Tottie.

  ‘I am very uneasy about him,’ said Mr Plantaganet, but they were far too proud to go in after Apple and show Marchpane they cared. Birdie was not too proud. She went straight in and brought Apple back. That surprised them.

  ‘There were no two thoughts about it,’ said Birdie, and she looked surprised herself. ‘Sometimes there are not,’ she said. ‘Sometimes there is only one thought and then I know what to do. Sometimes, but not very often.’

  ‘And why don’t you let him play with me?’ asked Marchpane.

  Birdie could not answer. As soon as Marchpane spoke to her, she became confused, and thought of heaviness and lightness, and yellow hair that was not real and was real, and eyes that were painted and eyes that opened and shut, and wedding clothes and cracker feathers and the fairy off the Christmas tree. She could not speak to Marchpane, but Tottie answered her.

  ‘Because we do not choose,’ said Tottie.

  ‘You do not choose?’

  ‘You let him do dangerous things,’ said Birdie suddenly.

  ‘Do I?’ asked Marchpane and smiled. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said, ‘if I want.’

  ‘You had better not,’ said Tottie. ‘He is our little boy.’

  ‘Is he? Fancy that!’ said Marchpane. She glared at Tottie. ‘Wait and see,’ said Marchpane. ‘Wait and see, you little splinter!’

  Suddenly, just after that, Emily said to Charlotte, ‘I know, Apple shall be her little boy.’

  ‘Whose little boy?’

  ‘Marchpane’s.’

  ‘Marchpane’s?’

  ‘Yes. Marchpane’s.’

  ‘But he isn’t Marchpane’s little boy. He is a Plantaganet. You can’t change him now.’

  ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘You can’t. I won’t have it,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Charlotte, who is the Eldest?’

  ‘You can’t be the Eldest all the time,’ cried poor Charlotte.

  In the dolls’ house there was silence. Marchpane, Birdie, Mr Plantaganet, Tottie, and Darner had all heard. Apple was not listening; he had made a white gumboot out of the little bedroom jug and was trying it on his foot over his red shoe and now he could not get it off.

  Darner was the first to break the silence. ‘Prrick!’ said Darner. ‘Prrick! Prrick! Prrick!’

  ‘Did you hear?’ asked Mr Plantaganet then, in a long, long whisper. ‘Tottie, did you hear?’

  ‘Did I hear? Or did you? Did I? Did you? Did I?’ said Birdie, rattling terribly.

  Tottie did not answer. She was wishing desperately, her wood as hard as if were full of knots and grains. ‘Oh, Emily! Emily! Emily! Emily! I wish. I wish. I wish,’ wished Tottie. ‘Oh, Emily. Emily!’

  But Marchpane only smiled her heavy china smile.

  Chapter 20

  If it were impossible for Birdie to remember that her room was Marchpane’s, how could she remember that Apple was now Marchpane’s little boy? She forgot all the time and this, of course, gave Marchpane many opportunities to pounce on her, and Marchpane loved pouncing on Birdie. ‘She is like a cat with a poor little bird,’ said Mr Plantaganet indignantly. ‘Oh, I hate to see her,’ and he begged Birdie, ‘Birdie, do try and remember. Remember that your room is her room. Remember that Apple is her little boy.’

  ‘You say that?’ said Birdie.

  ‘I have to say it,’ said Mr Plantaganet sadly.

  ‘I shall never say it,’ said Birdie.

  Tottie looked at her. ‘Birdie, do you try and not remember?’ she asked.

  Birdie did not answer.

  ‘But she is so cruel to you,’ said Mr Plantaganet.

  ‘Yes,’ said Birdie, ‘but I don’t mind. I don’t remember it.’

  Tottie and Mr Plantaganet looked at her. ‘How strang
e Birdie is,’ they were both thinking. ‘She looks as if she had grown lighter,’ thought Mr Plantaganet. ‘And how untidy she is. No wonder Marchpane teases her. She looks as if she had forgotten about her hair and her apron strings, and the feather on her hat and her parasol. She looks as if she might fly away. And how bright she looks,’ thought Mr Plantaganet, ‘like someone standing near a candle.’

  ‘Like a doll in a lit shop window,’ thought Tottie. ‘Like a doll on a Christmas tree,’ thought Mr Plantaganet.

  ‘Birdie, do try and remember,’ urged Tottie. ‘Try and remember not to go in after Apple. We must give him up for the present. Just for the present,’ said Tottie firmly. ‘We shall get him back,’ said Tottie.

  Mr Plantaganet was too sad to speak. Darner did not even growl, but turned over in his kennel with a sharp little flop; Birdie said nothing, nor did that bright look on her face alter at all.

  It happened that Mrs Innisfree gave Emily and Charlotte a musical box. It was a small wooden one, painted with kittens and fans, and it was made in Switzerland. When it was wound up, it played music that was the smallest tinkle, delicate and thin. Emily had put it in the dolls’ house sitting room for Marchpane and Apple to hear, and the sound of it filled the house. ‘Tinkle, tinkle,’ played the musical box. It drew Birdie form the kitchen.

  ‘What is it? What is it?’ asked Birdie. ‘Oh, how beautiful! How beautiful it is!’ It seemed to her more beautiful than anything she had ever heard or ever imagined. ‘It is like the songs I meant my bird to sing, only I didn’t know them then. How could I know? I am only a cracker doll, but I know now,’ said Birdie. ‘I know now.’

  It drew her from the kitchen across the hall to the closed sitting-room door.

  Birdie had tried to remember what Tottie and Mr Plantaganet had asked. For two whole days she had not followed Apple, not gone into her bedroom, not gone near Marchpane. Now, as she stood at the sitting-room door, the tinkling of the musical box delighted her so much that it tinkled in her head and she could no longer remember what anyone had said.

  She had no idea of going in, nor of anything else but the music, when suddenly she heard a sound that upset the running of the tinkling and spoilt it.

  ‘Oh, hush!’ said Birdie. ‘Don’t, don’t.’

  She tried to listen to the music again, but again came that ugly sound.

  ‘No!’ said Birdie. ‘Hush. Hush.’

  But it came again. Again. Suddenly Birdie, as if she had woken up, knew clearly what it was. It was Darner barking. ‘Prrick,’ came the sound. ‘Prrick! Prrick! Prrick!’

  Clearly, in that instant, Birdie had one thought, and only one. ‘That was Darner,’ thought Birdie clearly, ‘Darner barking. Some-thing is happening to Apple. Apple. Apple is in danger,’ thought Birdie, and she opened the sitting-room door.

  ‘Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle.’ The sound of the music met her so much more full and clear near the musical box that the sound of it knocked against the sound of Darner’s barking in her head and confused her. She did not know she had come in; she could not see what was happening to Apple.

  For Apple was standing on one of the tapestry chairs, which was dragged up near the table, and he was leaning over the lamp with his darning-wool wig near the candle flame; there was a strong smell of singeing, and it was just going to send the whole of Apple up in flames.

  Marchpane was sitting on the couch, watching him and smiling her china smile.

  ‘Tinkle. Tinkle,’ went the musical box.

  ‘Prrick!’ barked Darner. ‘Prrick! Prrick! Prrick! Prrrrrickkkckckckck!’ he barked frantically.

  ‘Isn’t that Darner?’ asked Tottie in the kitchen.

  Marchpane went on watching, watching with her smile.

  ‘It is Darner,’ said Mr Plantaganet, and he dropped his newspaper.

  ‘Emily!’ said Charlotte suddenly. ‘Something is happening in the dolls’ house.’

  ‘Tcha!’ said Emily. She was not liking the dolls’ house at present. They could hear the musical box, ‘Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle.’ ‘Nonsense. What could happen?’ asked Emily.

  ‘I smell singeing,’ said Charlotte, sniffing. ‘Emily, did you light the birthday candle?’

  ‘Prrick! Prrick! Prrrrrickkckckckck!’ barked Darner so loudly that Birdie heard him clearly over the music.

  ‘Darner. Tinkle. Darner. Tinkle,’ fluttered Birdie, while Marchpane smiled. ‘What am I to do?’ cried Birdie. ‘Which is it? Is it which?’

  ‘P-R-I-C-K!’ barked Darner.

  As the candle caught the edge of Apple’s fringe and he screamed, as Tottie and Mr Plantaganet tumbled in at the door, and Emily and Charlotte swung open the dolls’ house front, the sound of Apple’s scream tore the sound of Darner’s barking and the tinkling music out of Birdie’s head. She had one thought, and she threw herself at the lamp.

  ‘Birdie! Back! Back! Back!’ cried Mr Plantaganet.

  ‘Birdie! Let me!’ screamed Tottie. ‘Birdie, you are made of celluloid, remember!’

  ‘Celluloid!’ said Birdie in her light calm voice, and the lightness of the real candle was in her face. Light as she was, she threw herself between Apple and the lamp, and Apple fell off the chair face downward on the carpet and put out the spark of fire in his wig.

  There was a flash, a bright light, a white flame, and where Birdie had been there was no more Birdie, no sign of Birdie at all, only, sinking gradually down on the carpet beside Apple, floated Birdie’s clothes, burning, slowly turning brown, and going into holes; last of all, the fire ran up the pink embroidery cotton of her apron strings and they waved up in the air, as they used to wave on Birdie, and then were burnt right up.

  ‘Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle,’ said the musical box.

  Marchpane smiled.

  Chapter 21

  ‘But where did Birdie go?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘She was celluloid. That is highly inflammable,’ said Father.

  ‘What is “highly inflammable”?’

  ‘It burns up in a flash, leaving nothing behind it.’

  ‘Birdie left nothing behind,’ said Charlotte sadly.

  ‘But what happened? What happened? I still don’t understand what happened,’ said Mr Plantaganet.

  ‘Apple was standing on the chair far too near the lamp. You must have put him there, Charlotte,’ said Emily.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Charlotte,’ said Emily. ‘And his wig must have caught fire. That was what we smelled singeing; and we opened the front so quickly that we tumbled Tottie and Mr Plantaganet over, and Birdie was standing too near, though I have warned you, Charlotte, and they tumbled her over so that she fell against the lamp and knocked Apple over, and was burned herself.’

  ‘She gave her life for Apple,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘What a good thing it was only Birdie,’ said Emily, but she did not say it very certainly.

  ‘She gave her life for Apple.’

  ‘I suppose she did in a way. I suppose – if you like to call it that.’

  ‘She gave her life for Apple.’

  ‘Don’t go on and on, Charlotte.’

  ‘Tottie tumbled in at the door,’ said Charlotte, ‘and Mr Plantaganet did too. I put them in the kitchen. I didn’t put them in the doorway, although you say I did. I didn’t put them there nor Apple on the chair, nor, nor – Birdie near him. The only one who never moved,’ said Charlotte loudly, ‘was Marchpane.’

  ‘Yes, Marchpane,’ said Emily slowly.

  ‘I should like to take her up by a pair of tongs,’ said Charlotte, ‘and drop her in the fire.’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte. She is far too beautiful.’

  ‘She isn’t beautiful at all,’ said Charlotte. ‘She is nasty and she smells nasty too. She isn’t beautiful.’ A thought struck her. ‘Emily,’ she said, ‘wasn’t Birdie beautiful when she went up in that flame? Like a fairy, like a beautiful kind of silver firework.’

  ‘Birdie would have liked that,’ said Em
ily, and she sounded like the old Emily who knew so well what all the Plantaganets liked. ‘Oh, Charlotte!’

  ‘Yes, Emily?’

  ‘I – wish . . . ’

  ‘Yes, Emily?’

  ‘I wish the dolls’ house was like it was – before Marchpane.’

  ‘Yes, Emily.’

  ‘Suddenly,’ said Emily, ‘I don’t like Marchpane very much.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Charlotte decidedly.

  ‘I didn’t like the way – she sat there – when Apple – when Birdie –’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I’m sorry now,’ said Emily. ‘I wish – but what are we to do with her, Charlotte? She is too valuable and beautiful. We should never be allowed to throw her away. We must do something with her.’

  ‘She must go out of the dolls’ house,’ said Charlotte. ‘She must go out at once.’

  Marchpane sat all this time on the couch, staring in front of her with her smile on her face, as if she had not heard a word, as if she were something stuffed in a glass case.

  Perhaps it was that that put it into Charlotte’s head. Charlotte who so seldom had ideas. This was Charlotte’s idea, not Emily’s, or perhaps it was Tottie’s, for it came to Charlotte like a voice, and it might have been Tottie’s voice. It was Tottie who knew how Marchpane had liked being at the cleaners, and at the Exhibition. Cleaners. Exhibition. The thought came clearly into Charlotte’s head.

  ‘I know,’ said Charlotte. ‘We must give her to a museum.’

  Chapter 22

  Marchpane enjoyed being in the museum. She was in a glass case, between a lace collar and a china model of a King Charles spaniel. She was dusted very carefully twice a week and a number of people came to look at her. Sometimes young men and girls came to the museum to make drawings, and Marchpane was always quite sure, no matter what they drew, that they were making drawings of her. Every day she increased a little more in conceit, and the glass case made her safe from ever being played with.

  Chapter 23

  Towards six o’clock, just after tea, Charlotte brought Mr Plantaganet back from the post office and put him in his chair in the sitting room and gave him his paper. Emily brought Tottie in from shopping; she had found Tottie a raffia shopping basket the size of a nut, and she made Tottie hang it up with her cloak in the hall. Then she went in to sit with Mr Plantaganet. Apple was upstairs. He had been sent to bed early by Tottie so that he could not play with the lamp. Charlotte still said she had not put him on the chair, and Emily had lately given up saying that she had. Apple was safely in bed, tucked up in his patchwork quilt so that only his round head showed. Emily had clipped his burnt fringe straight with nail scissors and his plush had not been hurt at all. Darner lay quietly snugly in his kennel.