by Andre Norton
“The—the lady who lives here?” she stammered.
“I live heah, aye. But I'm Hallie, not Mis’ Charlotta. Mis’ Charlotta, she's Mis’ Ashemeade.”
Hallie made it sound, Lorrie thought, as if Miss Ashe meade was as grand a person as Lady Cartwright, a friend of Grandmother's in England.
And now Hallie's smile was gone and she sounded almost sharp. “Mis’ Ashemeade, she's a great lady—don't you ever forgit that.”
“I—I won't. And I'm Lorrie Mallard.” Lorrie held out her hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”
Her fingers were enfolded in Hallie's. “An’ I to meet you, Lorrie. Come again.”
Lorrie trotted on down Ash Street. At the mouth of the alley she turned to glance back. But the gate was now firmly closed and Hallie was gone. What small scrap of house she could still see looked deserted.
It was colder and the wind blew stronger, pulling at her plaid skirt and cap. And the sky was dark, too, as if a storm were coming. Lorrie broke into a run, but she kept a sharp lookout. It would be just like Jimmy or Stan to hide out and pounce at her. She breathed a little easier as she skirted the parking lot. There were more cars there now, but none of them close enough to shelter lurking boys.
She clattered up the steps into the lobby of the apartment house. Mr. Parkinson was there, taking his mail out of the box. Lorrie slowed down and tried to close the door very quietly. Mr. Parkinson did not like children and he made that widely and forcibly known. There had been one afternoon when Kathy Lockner had thrown a ball all the way down the stairs and Lorrie picked it up, only to be accused of wild behavior, with threats of taking the matter to Aunt Margaret. She had avoided Mr. Parkinson carefully ever since.
He frowned at her now. Lorrie was very conscious of her rust-streaked clothing. And what would Aunt Margaret say if the marks did not come off? Clothes cost a lot of money, Lorrie knew that. Maybe if she brushed very hard—
But if Mr. Parkinson made his opinion of dirty and untidy little girls very plain in his stare, he did not put it into words. Lorrie edged past him and climbed the stairs as slowly and sedately as she could. But as soon as she hoped she was out of his sight, she hurried, her book bag bumping first against the stairs and then the walls as she went. Then she was at their own door, breathing fast, hunting under her jacket for the key. The Lockner door across the hall was closed. Mrs. Lockner was not watching for her.
Lorrie turned the key and slipped inside, shutting the door quickly behind her. Now she fronted the big mirror on the coat closet door and she gasped. No wonder Mr. Parkinson had stared so at her. She looked more of a mess than she had feared.
She hurried on to the bedroom she shared with her aunt. Then she pulled off her clothes, spreading them on her bed while she put on an old cotton dress. With a brush she set to work, trying to erase the marks left by her adventure.
Lucky, oh, she was lucky! Most of them brushed off. And those left were not too visible, even when she held them right under the lamp. This was Friday, too, so she could have another go at them in the morning. Finally she hung them up in the closet and went to the dressing table where all Aunt Margaret's nice-smelling bottles and jars were set out in a line against the base of the big mirror.
Such nice smells. There were lots of good smells in the world—burning leaves was one. Lorrie stood still, looking into the mirror, not now seeing her reflection but a picture out of memory....
Mother and Daddy raking leaves for Lorrie to pack into a big basket.... Lorrie shook her head. She did not want to remember that because then she had to remember the rest. Mother and Daddy and the airplane that had taken them away from her forever....
Lorrie closed her eyes and was determined not to remember. Now—she looked at the mirror again—there was her face, rather like the cat heads she used to draw when she was little—a triangle. Her black hair was straying out of its rib bon tieback as it always did at this hour of the day. Lorrie set about remedying that with the same will and force she had given to brushing her clothes.
Greeny eyes—just like a cat's. Now suppose she did have a fairy godmother, what would be her next wish, after making Jimmy Purvis a big yellow duck? Yellow hair and blue eyes like Kathy Lockner's? No, Lorrie decided, she did not want those. What she had suited her well enough. She made the worst face she could think of at the mirror and laughed.
She smoothed down her skirt. What would it feel like, she wondered, to wear yards of skirt the way Hallie did? People all did in the olden days whether they were grown up or just girls. Lorrie enjoyed leafing through Aunt Margaret's costume books to look at the pictures. Aunt Margaret wrote ad vertising copy for Fredericka's Modes and knew all about high fashion. But nobody wore such dresses any more, so why did Hallie? Did she have only very old, old clothes? But the red dress had not looked old or worn. Or did Hallie wear just what she wanted to, and did not care if it were stylish to have a skirt short, or long, or in the middle?
Lorrie went on into the kitchen and began to bring pack ages out of the freezer section of the refrigerator. As she set the table in the dinette she thought of Jimmy and his gang. Jimmy would not forget her, but tomorrow was Saturday and then there was Sunday, no school, no Jimmy. So she had two days before she had to worry about him again.
If Aunt Margaret did not have to work overtime they would go shopping together in the morning. Then Lorrie could stop at the library. If only Aunt Margaret would stop worrying about why Lorrie did not have any close friends. Who needed the kinds of friends one could find about here? Kathy Lockner with all her silly jokes, and whispering about boys and playing those screechy records?
It was getting harder and harder to evade Aunt Margaret's pushing. Lorrie laid a napkin straight. She was not going to tell her that she did not like Kathy, or Kathy's friends.
There were some girls at school Lorrie would like to know better. Lizabeth Ross, for example. Lizabeth did not go around much with others, either. But she was smart and she liked to read the same sort of books. Lorrie had seen a copy of The Secret Garden on her desk. She had wanted to ask Lizabeth what part she liked best, and if she had read A Little Princess too. But then at recess Mrs. Raymond had kept Lorrie in for a talk about math mistakes and she had never had the chance. And Lizabeth lived down by Bruxten Drive and had never said anything to Lorrie except “hi.” But to spend good time listening to Kathy's stupid old records, fussing with curlers in her hair, and talking silly—no!
Grandmother had never worried about her. If she just wanted to sit and read, that was fine. And she had had the right sort of friend in Anne. Only that was all gone, along with Miss Logan's, and what seemed now to Lorrie all peace and contentment. It was easy to forget the shadows and re member just sunny days when one wanted to.
Think of something else now—quick! Not Miss Logan's, or Hampstead, or Canada, or burning leaves or—Mother and Daddy—
The Octagon House, Lorrie seized upon that. The queer house, and the black kitten—Sabina, Hallie had called her— and Hallie herself. Hallie had asked her to come back. Maybe if she got out of school fast, and ran a lot of the way, she could some day.
Lorrie sat on the dinette bench and thought about it. There was nothing scary about the house she had seen. Was it strange inside, she wondered. What were the rooms like— three-cornered as wedges of pie? She would like to find out.
There was the click of a key in the hall door. Lorrie hurried through the rooms. Should she tell Aunt Margaret about her adventure, or part of it? Perhaps, but not yet, she decided just as the door opened.
The Bad Week and Old Miss Ashemeade
The bad week began early on Saturday with a blustery wind and a lot of clouds, plus the fact that Aunt Mar garet's alarm clock failed to go off. She had extra work at the shop, and now she was so late she had no time for a proper breakfast, only the cup of coffee Lorrie poured for her while she scribbled down her grocery list.
There would be no shared shopping trip today. Aunt Mar garet must try to get all the thin
gs they needed on her way home.
“Sorry, Chick.” She frowned into the mirror of the closet as she put on her coat. “With the Christmas rush coming up, I can't get out of going to work today. But Mrs. Lockner will be driving to the shopping center and she'll let you visit the library. You just ask. Now"—she gave a swift glance around—"I think I have everything. Goodbye, Chick, and be good. Ohh, darn that clock anyway! I'm hours behind.”
She was out and running down the hall, her heels click-clicking on the stairs, before Lorrie had more than time to blink. Slowly she went back to the kitchen and sat down to eat her cereal as she reviewed the ruins of all her plans. Out side the window, the dark clouds were already letting down spatters of rain and it looked thoroughly dismal.
Lorrie drank the rest of her orange juice. She was not going to say anything to Mrs. Lockner. A library visit with the Lockner clan was the last thing she wanted. Kathy and Rob had cards, or had had them. But they thought of the library as only another part of school where one was forced to go when the teacher said such and such a book had to be read. She had gone with them once and even now felt warm inside with remembered shame. Rob had been sent out for loud talking, and the librarian had warned Kathy and Lorrie, too, since Kathy had been talking to her. Kathy and Rob had both followed her around the shelves demanding what did she want that silly old book for, and saying every moment or so, “Come on! Hurry up, let's get going!”
To Lorrie a library must be enjoyed in peace and quiet, with plenty of time in which to choose a book. It took time to choose properly, since one was allowed to draw only two books at a time, and Lorrie was a fast reader. Most books lasted barely past Sunday afternoon, so size as well as subject matter was highly important. Only recently had she stumbled on pure treasure, a whole shelf of bound magazines, one year's issues all in one big heavy volume. They were old magazines, older than Aunt Margaret (though she had read some of them, too, when she was a little girl, be cause she had opened one and found a story she remembered), perhaps even older than Grandmother Mallard. But the stories in them were good.
Lorrie took her bowl, glass, and Aunt Margaret's cup and saucer to the sink, and washed and dried them.
Her books were due and she wanted one at least of those St. Nicholas magazines. One would be all she could carry if she went alone, because that was just what she was going to do. It was easy when you planned it. She could go down to the corner of Wilton and Ash and take the Woodsville bus. That let you off at the shopping center. There was a stop light there so it was safe to cross the street to the library. Then, on the other side, was the bus stop to use coming home. Bus fare was twelve cents for children and she had a quarter.
Lorrie had never been to the library by herself, but there was no reason she could see why she could not go. Aunt Margaret had never said not to. Of course, Lorrie had never asked her about it, but she decided to ignore that thought.
It was raining harder. She would have to wear her raincoat and boots, and she would wrap up her books in a plastic bag. Lorrie moved briskly, putting the dishes away, mopping up the drain board and sink with a paper towel. The library did not open until ten, and it would take at least a half-hour to go. She had better leave a little after nine, or Mrs. Lockner might come over.
Lorrie sighed. People who wanted to be kind and helpful could certainly complicate life. “Kind and helpful,” were Aunt Margaret's words for Mrs. Lockner. But to Lorrie, at times it seemed far more like interfering.
Now that she had made up her mind, she was excited. Why, she could do this every Saturday, and it would not matter how long she stayed at the library. No one would hurry her through her book selection, and she could even sit and read awhile. The thought of such bliss made Lorrie move restlessly from room to room, wishing the hand to go faster around the dial of the clock.
She was all dressed and ready at nine, hovering by the door with a nervous eye on the Lockner apartment across the hall. Then, unable to wait any longer, her books in their covering bag held tight against her, Lorrie locked the apartment and scuttled down the hall, though she took the steps at a slower pace.
It was raining really hard by the time she reached the bus stop. But there was a shelter there and she stood waiting for what seemed hours before the bus appeared. Lorrie was pleased with her own resourcefulness when she got off at the shopping center.
There was another wait by the library door. She hunched over her books, hoping none of the wet would reach them, and her coat was damp across the shoulders when the guard opened the building at last.
Once inside, Lorrie forgot all but the delights she always enjoyed. She had all the time in the world to browse along the shelves, pulling out old favorites to read a sentence here and there, even though she knew the stories almost by heart. Time meant nothing until she became aware of a hollow feeling in her middle and glanced up at the room clock. Twelve o'clock! Surely that was as wrong as the alarm had been earlier.
Lorrie picked up the heavy, bound-magazine volume and with it her other choice, which she had read twice before, Half Magic, and hurried out to the charging desk.
“This is heavy to carry, isn't it?” asked the lady at the desk.
Lorrie shook her head determinedly. “I take the bus, I won't have far to carry it. Here"—She pulled the plastic cover from her pocket; she had wiped it off with her hand kerchief and it did not seem too damp—"I can put this over them. They won't get wet.”
“You won't need that, the rain is over. But I'm glad to see you know the proper way to take care of books.”
Why shouldn't she, wondered Lorie. People always seemed to think you didn't know about such things, and were surprised when you did. But maybe they were right to worry. She had seen Jimmy Purvis throw a book, actually throw it. And, when Stan had not caught it, it had hit the wall, to fall with loose pages. And Sally Walters had drawn pictures on the page margins in one of hers.
The rain might be over but the wind was cold. There was no bus shelter here, and she was so afraid of missing the next bus that she had to stand out by the sign on the curb where the wind swooped.
“Lorrie! Lorrie Mallard! What are you doing here?”
A car had come out of the shopping center lot across the street to draw up by her corner. Now the door swung open as Mrs. Lockner called again sharply, “Get in this minute, Lorrie. You are blue with cold. Where have you been? Where is your aunt?”
Lorrie sighed, there was no escape now. Reluctantly she got in beside Mrs. Lockner.
“Aunt Margaret had to work this morning. I just came to the library.”
“By yourself? Did your aunt say you might?”
“I came on the bus. It was all right,” Lorrie said defensively. “My books were due.”
“But, Lorrie, you must have known I was coming to the center, you should have come with us. My, look at the time! I must swing around by Elsmere and pick up Kathy at dancing class, then get home in time to see Rob off for the game! What a big book, Lorrie. Isn't that too heavy for you?”
“I like it, and I can carry it all right.” As always Mrs. Lockner's voice did something to Lorrie. She asked a lot of questions, and for anyone else Lorrie would have answered them without resentment, or at least with not as much as Mrs. Lockner always aroused in her.
“I do hope Kathy will be ready.” Mrs. Lockner drove a couple of blocks before she turned right. “They are practicing for their recital and sometimes the class runs overtime. Kathy has a solo, she is going to be a gypsy.”
“She told me,” Lorrie said. “And she showed me her costume.”
Lorrie did not envy Kathy in the least her Saturday mornings at dancing school, but that costume was another matter. Dressing up was fun, one of the things her friend Anne and she had shared in the old days when Grandmother had al lowed them to dip into one of the attic trunks.
“There. Oh, thank goodness, Kathy's waiting! Just open the door for her, dear. We have to travel if we are going to get Rob off on time.”
So
Lorrie was swept up and carried away by the Lockners. She shared their lunch, her protests being brushed aside. But she refused to share Kathy's plans for the after noon, to go to the double monster feature at the movies.
At Lorrie's plea of having homework to do, Mrs. Lockner shook her head. But, since she could not push Lorrie out of the door with Kathy, she accepted it. Once Lorrie was back in Aunt Margaret's apartment, she got out her school books and started in on her homework. The mathematics she did first, because she hated it so. Always get the bad out of the way, then you could enjoy the good.
The good today was to write a theme about fall for English. And Lorrie knew just what she was going to write this time, about leaves and bonfires. Leaves—that made her think about Octagon House. My, the big wind today must be whirling them around. Would Hallie ever try to rake them up? Maybe Lorrie could offer to help.
She was making a neater copy of her first draft when she heard Aunt Margaret's key in the door. She was so pleased with her labors that she went eagerly to meet her, the scribbled-over first sheets in her hand.
“Aunt Margaret, I—”
But Aunt Margaret was frowning. She balanced a big grocery bag against her side and walked past Lorrie into the kitchen.
“Shut the door, Lorrie, and come here. I want to talk to you.”
Lorrie obeyed. When she came to the kitchen, Aunt Mar garet had taken off her coat and was sitting on one of the dinette benches. She looked tired and the frown made two sharp lines between her eyes.
“Lorrie, Mrs. Lockner spoke to me just now. She told me that you went to the library alone on the bus and that she found you standing on a street corner near the shopping center.”
“I was at the bus stop there,” Lorrie protested.
“I don't know what to do with you, Lorrie.” Aunt Margaret had taken off her gloves, was smoothing them back and forth between her fingers. “I want to spend more time with you, but I can't. Mrs. Lockner has been very kind. She is perfectly willing for you to stay over there with Kathy when I am not at home. She would have given you a ride to the library.”