by Paul Sussman
‘Come on, Miss Wasply,’ cried the girl, her eyes flashing in the pale winter sunlight. ‘Throw it to me!’
‘Not until I hear the word!’ responded the woman. ‘The most important word in the dictionary.’
The girl sighed and raised her eyebrows in exasperation. This was clearly a situation she’d been in before.
‘Come on, young lady. Out with it! The word God loves to hear all children use. Out with it, or we’re going straight home for two hours of mathematics.’
‘Please,’ mumbled the girl grudgingly. ‘Please hurry up and throw the ball, Miss Wasply. Please, please, please, please, please.’
‘One please will do,’ said Miss Wasply. ‘And kindly remember to use it in the future. Because, as we know, those who don’t get polio and have to spend the rest of their lives in a wheelchair.’
Whereupon, with a rustle of grey skirts and a bending of what I imagined to be extremely knobbly knees, she threw a large red ball up into the air, whence it described a graceful parabola into the arms of the young girl. The latter screamed in delight and, flinging both arms behind her head, launched the ball back at her huge-chinned governess.
‘Catch it, Miss Wasply!’
Ms Wasply, however – for whom, in the matter of seconds I’d known her, I’d already developed a disregard bordering on the malevolent – quite failed to do so, standing stock still as the ball landed some two feet to her right.
‘You didn’t catch it, Miss Wasply!’
‘That is correct. And I shall continue to not catch it until you learn to throw it in a civilized manner. Flinging your arms about like some sort of monkey!’
She stepped stiffly to her right, retrieved the ball and, clucking her tongue as if to say, ‘The things I put myself through to earn a wage!’ threw it once again to the girl, the latter clasping it with both hands and hugging it to her bosom.
‘If you won’t catch it, Miss Wasply, I won’t throw it any more.’
‘In which case, young lady, we shall return home, where you will spend the rest of the afternoon reciting your times tables.’
The girl screwed up her face in annoyance, clearly feeling she’d been outwitted, and with a petulant stamp swung both arms to her right and flung the ball at her governess as hard as she could. It sailed right over Miss Wasply’s head, however, and, clearing the top of our wall, landed in our garden, where it bounced along the lawn and splashed into our ornamental pond.
‘Ooops!’ giggled the girl. ‘Sorry, Miss Wasply.’
Miss Wasply clasped her hands behind her back, her knuckles white with displeasure.
‘We could go round and ask for it,’ suggested the girl.
‘Certainly not!’ snapped her governess, nostrils flaring. ‘Knocking on strangers’ doors, indeed!’
‘Then I’ll climb over and get it. It’s not that high and I can climb up that ivy. It’s like a ladder.’
‘Never!’ cried Miss Wasply, aghast. ‘Your clothes will be ruined! I’m shocked you should even think of such a thing.’
The girl fell silent and stared at her feet. I thought for a moment she was about to burst into tears, and was as surprised as Miss Wasply when, without a word of warning, she suddenly charged at the wall, swerving around her companion and launching herself at the thick tendrils of ivy that hung downwards across the bulging brickwork. For a moment she struggled to find her grip, but, once she’d got it, swarmed upwards like a sailor through rigging, leaving her governess open-mouthed below.
‘See, Miss Wasply,’ she cried, reaching the top and swinging herself astride the summit as though it were the saddle of a horse. ‘It’s easy!’
‘Come down! Come down, I say! Oh just look at your dress!’
‘I can see for miles up here, Miss Wasply. I can see the zoo.’
‘Come down, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences!’
‘You don’t have to be!’ laughed the girl precociously. ‘I can answer for myself, thank you very much! Oh!’
This ‘Oh’ was an exclamation of surprise, prompted by the fact that, perched in my plum tree some three feet to her right and hitherto unnoticed, I had suddenly sneezed very loudly.
‘Oh!’ she repeated.
I said nothing, just wiped my nose on the sleeve of my coat and stared at her, mesmerized. Her eyes were even greener up close than they had been from a distance. I decided she must be a princess, or an angel.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hello,’ I replied. And then, after a moment, ‘It’s my birthday today.’
‘Is it?’ she said. ‘How old are you?’
‘Six.’
‘I’m six too, although my birthday’s in July, so I’m older than you by half a year.’
I fell silent, digesting this information, wondering how it affected the dynamic of our 20-second-old relationship.
‘What’s going on up there?’ bellowed her governess. ‘Who are you talking to?’
‘There’s a boy up here, Miss Wasply. It’s his birthday today. We’re exactly the same age.’
‘That’s no concern of yours! Come down this instant!’
‘That’s Waspy Wasply,’ whispered the girl. ‘She’s my governess.’
‘She looks like a dragon,’ I said. ‘A nasty old dragon.’
The girl burst into giggles.
‘Miss Wasply, the boy says you look like a dragon.’
Miss Wasply stepped backwards and, raising the pince-nez that hung about her neck, glared at me fiercely through its lenses.
‘If some mothers raise their children as savages,’ she intoned drily, ‘that is their prerogative. We are under no obligation to mix with them, however, and should indeed avoid doing so lest their vile behaviour rub off on us.’
Under normal circumstances I would have been cowed by such a speech, particularly when accompanied by as vicious a look as Miss Wasply was currently throwing in my direction. Up in my plum tree, however, and with the beautiful girl beside me, I felt uncharacteristically strong-willed, and rather than crumbling beneath the woman’s gaze I instead stuck my tongue out at her and re-addressed myself to my new acquaintance.
‘Your ball’s in our garden,’ I said.
‘I know. I threw it over by accident.’
‘I didn’t think girls could throw a ball that high.’
She smiled, flattered by the compliment.
‘Shall I get it for you?’ I asked.
‘Yes, please. If you wouldn’t mind.’
I turned back to Miss Wasply and crossed my eyes, something Mrs Eggs had told me was very impolite, and then without further ado shinned down the plum tree and ran across to the ball.
‘Watch this!’ I shouted boastfully, pulling it dripping from of the pond and kicking it as hard as I could towards the wall. Rather than flying over into the park as I had intended, however, the ball hit the brickwork full on and rebounded spectacularly straight into my face, knocking me to the ground, where I curled up and promptly burst into tears.
‘Miss Wasply!’ cried the girl, concerned. ‘The boy’s hurt himself!’
‘I’m not surprised,’ answered her governess, an unmistakeable note of satisfaction in her voice. ‘Bad things invariably come to bad people. Now I shan’t ask you again, young lady. Come down from that wall.’
‘But I can’t leave him, Miss Wasply! He was helping get my ball.’
‘And we’re very grateful, I’m sure. His distress, however, is none of our concern. Now kindly stop being so disobedient and get off that wall!’
There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of snapping ivy twigs and rustling leaves as the girl clambered from her perch. I presumed she was leaving me to my tears, which redoubled as a result, and was thus surprised – and delighted – when I heard a thud on my side of the wall, followed by the patter of approaching feet. Miss Wasply screamed and began tugging at the ivy tendrils, threatening the most dire recriminations for the girl’s behaviour, but the object of her threats took no notice of them
whatsoever.
‘Don’t worry about Waspy Wasply,’ she said, coming up beside me. ‘She’s an old humbug. Are you hurt?’
‘My head!’ I wailed. ‘My head hurts.’
I felt her kneeling down and heard a crumpling of paper.
‘Would you like a chocolate?’ asked the girl. ‘They’re very tasty.’
I raised my head, the shock of my accident momentarily forgotten.
‘And look,’ she continued, ‘they’re shaped like animals. There’s an elephant, a snake, a monkey, a penguin and something that I don’t know what it is. I’ve eaten all the tigers.’
I selected a penguin, which was, in fact, a parrot, and popped it in my mouth.
‘Nice,’ I said.
‘Belgian,’ explained the girl.
I ate three parrots, and a couple of the things that Emily didn’t know what they were (bears, I think), after which I felt a lot less tearful and a lot more talkative.
‘My name’s Raphael Ignatius Phoenix,’ I said. ‘And I live in that house with Father and Mrs Eggs. What’s your name?’
‘Emily,’ replied the girl, nibbling a chocolate elephant. ‘Emily Emilie.’
‘Emily Emily?’
‘No, Emily Emilieeee. One’s got a Y on the end, and the other’s IE.’
I must have looked baffled, for she went on:
‘My first name’s the same as my last name, you see. Except they’re spelt differently. It’s easy to remember.’
‘Emily Emilie!’ I cried, laughing. ‘Emily Emilie! That’s funny!’
‘Is it?’ she said, furrowing her brow. ‘Why?’
‘Because your name goes round in a circle, of course. Round and round and round, like a dog chasing its tail. Emily Emilie! Woof woof! Emily Emilie!’
I struggled to my feet and began prancing around the garden, shouting ‘Emily Emilie!’ at the top of my voice. The girl stared at me for a moment, and then, laughing, stood up, stuffed the bag of chocolates back in her pocket and began skipping back and forth too, crying ‘Phoenix the bird! Phoenix the bird!’ as loud as she could. We became quite engrossed in our shouting, enchanted by the power of our voices, and it was only when, like a cat amongst doves, a third voice cried: ‘There he is! That’s the kidnapper!’ that we fell silent. Coming towards us across the lawn, having issued unnoticed from the back of the house, were Mrs Eggs, my father, a policeman and Miss Wasply, the latter pointing at me accusingly with her long, thin skewer of a finger.
‘That’s the kidnapper!’ she repeated. ‘Arrest him immediately. I insist he be charged!’
There ensued a considerable to-do as Emily’s governess rushed to her side and began shouting at me, Mrs Eggs rushed to my side and began shouting at Emily’s governess, the policeman shouted at both of them and my father – clearly itching to get back to his wind-powered gramophone or whatever it was he was inventing at the time – sat down on an upturned wheelbarrow and mumbled, ‘Please, ladies! Please!’ whilst dabbing at his brow with a large green handkerchief. The fracas continued for some time and only abated after I had apologized for calling Miss Wasply a dragon and Emily had said sorry for entering our garden uninvited, whereupon the constable declared the matter closed and escorted Emily and her governess back through the house and out of our front door. In the confusion they almost forgot their red ball, but I fetched it and chased after them.
‘Your ball!’ I cried as they hurried down the street, Emily’s hand clutched firmly in that of her governess. ‘Your ball!’
‘Shoo!’ cried Miss Wasply. ‘Shoo, you dirty boy!’
‘Keep it for me,’ called Emily over her shoulder, almost tripping as she strained to see me. ‘I’ll come back for it. I’ll see you again. I promise. Nothing can keep us apart!’
At the time I don’t think even Emily realized just how true those words would prove.
I loved her from the word go. Literally, since ‘Go’ was the first word I ever heard her speak. Loved her, wanted her, needed her, fell completely under her spell. I can’t properly explain why, any more than I can properly explain why I kill people. It was just one of those instantaneous, spur-of-the-moment things. One of those divine mysteries. One of those joys.
She was beautiful, of course, and fun, and, a definite recommendation, had a large bag of tasty Belgian chocolates. We were also the same age, which at the time struck me as a coincidence of positively mystical proportions. From the outset I imagined us to be fatally connected.
It runs deeper than that, however. There was something about her – the way her voice echoed from the far side of the wall as though from another world; the way her face shone so perfectly in the winter sunlight; the flashing angelic brilliance of her eyes – that swept me up, like a butterfly in a collector’s net. Swept me up and locked me for ever in the cabinet of her perfection. From the outset I knew we’d always be together, clutched in one another’s arms, never letting go, indissoluble, connected. We were meant for each other. I knew it from the start. From the first second. But I can’t explain. Words would simply cheapen it. Silence is better. The ceaseless eternal hum of silence: that’s where my love for Emily sings. Oh my dear, darling Emily. My life, my life.
When she promised we’d see each other again I didn’t for one moment doubt her word, a faith that was vindicated three days after our first fateful meeting, when I received an invitation to Sunday tea at her house.
This had not, I later discovered, been issued without some considerable soul-searching on the part of Emily’s parents. Miss Wasply had been strongly against the idea, and the fact that I had called her a dragon and shown her my tongue did not stand well in my favour. Emily, however, had been most insistent, dissolving into fits of tears at the least suggestion that I wouldn’t be welcome in their house and threatening to drown herself unless I was summoned forthwith for scones and cake. Even that, however, might have been insufficient to secure my invitation had it not been for a most curious chance. Of the three steam-powered bottle openers my father had sold in the early years of the century, one had been purchased by none other than Emily’s father. He considered it a splendid appliance and, on the assumption that the son of the inventor of such an exhilarating gadget could not be all bad, the invitation was duly dispatched.
The Emilies lived in Baker Street, in a three-storey house whose upper levels were given over to private use and whose ground floor was taken up by Mr Emilie’s pharmacy (‘Emilie’s of Baker Street, Druggists by Appointment’). To one side of the building – oh how well I remember it! – was a florist’s shop, to the other a narrow, sooty alleyway that no one ever used.
My invitation to tea was for 3.30 p.m., at which hour I was duly delivered to the Emilies’ front door by Mrs Eggs, who’d spent most of the day scrubbing my face and polishing my shoes in preparation for the outing. I was met by Edie the maid, who escorted me upstairs, Mrs Eggs promising to return at 5.30 to bring me home.
‘Raphael!’ cried Emily as I was shown into the drawing room. ‘This is him, Mama! The boy who got my ball.’
Mr and Mrs Emilie, neither of whom looked remotely like their daughter, Mrs Emilie being short and dumpy, her spouse even shorter and bald, were seated side by side on a yellow chaise longue, with Miss Wasply hovering menacingly behind them. She looked even more like a dragon than I’d remembered, and fixed me with a look of quite murderous distaste. I shuffled my feet nervously.
‘I do hope your head is better,’ said Mrs Emilie.
‘Yes, thank you, ma’am,’ I replied.
‘Bell’s Fairy Cure,’ announced her husband. ‘That’s what you need for a sore head. Never fails.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Emilie, laying her hand on his.
‘I am very honoured to be here, ma’am,’ I said, repeating a phrase Mrs Eggs had been drumming into my head for the past two days. ‘Thank you for having me.’
‘Why, Miss Wasply!’ cried Mrs Emilie. ‘The boy is charming. Positively charming.’
Miss Wasply grimaced.
‘Yes, sir,’ I lied. ‘Very interested.’
‘Hah!’ snorted the pharmacist in evident satisfaction. ‘I said he’d be OK. Father’s a damn clever man. Would you like to see the shop?’
‘I’d be delighted, sir!’
‘Now, now dear,’ chided his wife. ‘The boy’s only just arrived. At least let him have his tea. Miss Wasply, kindly take the children upstairs to the nursery. Raphael, we’re most pleased to have you here.’
She held out her hand, which, for want of anything better to do, I stepped forward and kissed.
‘But how delightful,’ laughed Mrs Emilie. ‘How utterly charming.’
‘I told you you’d like him,’ said Emily. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’
‘Yes, you did, dear. Now hurry along with Miss Wasply. And don’t eat too much or you’ll get indigestion.’
‘Mother Seigel’s Curative Syrup,’ said Mr Emilie as we left the room. ‘That’s what you need for indigestion. Mother Seigel’s Curative Syrup, and if symptoms persist a good dose of Dinneford’s Magnesia.’
Tea was held upstairs in Emily’s nursery. Miss Wasply sat between us, dispensing fish-paste sandwiches with a look of utmost sourness on her face, constantly interrupting my and Emily’s chatter with exhortations to wipe our mouths, not eat so quickly, sit still, cease slurping, not be greedy and, in short, stop doing anything that might reasonably be expected to enhance our enjoyment of the afternoon. When she accidentally spilled scalding tea on my hand I caught a look in her eyes that suggested perhaps the accident wasn’t so accidental after all.
‘I do so apologize,’ she purred. ‘I hope it doesn’t smart too much!’
‘No,’ I said, clenching my teeth. ‘I can’t feel it at all.’