by Rumer Godden
“She needs understanding,” said Miss Dolben, which was generous, for she had found Lovejoy oddly difficult. Angela was less forbearing, “She needs a firm hand,” she said.
This scene in the home was proving her right. “I’ve always had a room to myself.”
There was a pause; then, “Lovejoy, do you know why this house is called the House of Compassion?” asked Angela.
“It shouldn’t be called that,” Olivia had said.
“Why not? It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful feeling.”
“If you are outside it, not in,” said Olivia. She hesitated, then said, “Angela, I should so much like to do something for that little girl. Couldn’t I be her guardian? Some sort of guardian?” She stopped again, blushed darkly, then said with a defiant rush, “Angela, I want to adopt that little girl.”
“What did you say?” Angela was so amazed that she—gaped, thought Olivia. She had not known that she could make Angela look like that. “After all she’s done!” said Angela.
“Because of all she’s done,” said Olivia.
“Because of all she’s done?” Angela sounded as if she were—could floundering be the word? asked Olivia, fumbling again. Floundering out of her depth? But how could anything she, Olivia, said be out of Angela’s depth? It was only for a moment. Angela recovered. “It’s very magnanimous of you, Ollie,” she said, amused, and Olivia knew she would tell people; “Olivia’s efforts with the sparrows,” Olivia could hear Angela saying that to Mr. Wix.
She blushed more painfully still but she persisted. “Why not, Angela?”
“Poor old Ollie. She’d make rings round you.”
“Well, why not?”
“They don’t let old maids adopt children, for one thing,” said Angela cuttingly, “and you’d be totally unsuitable as a foster-mother. Besides—Oh, Olivia, why are you so exaggerated?”
“I talked to that Father, Father Lambert. He approves.”
“Catholics are exaggerated people.”
“Angela, I’m serious.”
“Then don’t be,” said Angela.
“I know it wouldn’t be easy but Ellen understands, I’m sure Ellen would help me,” said Olivia earnestly. “I’ve spoken to her about Lovejoy. We would take all responsibility.”
“Which means I should have to take it in the end,” said Angela, and Olivia knew she could not contradict her; for that one brief moment Olivia had forgotten what Doctor Wychcliffe had said.
“Compassion is pity,” Angela told Lovejoy now. “This home is called that because it’s a home for children who are to be pitied.” The Sister made a quick movement and Angela said, “I’m afraid, Sister, this sometimes needs to be said. Lovejoy is far too opinionated. Do you know why they are to be pitied?” she asked Lovejoy.
“No,” said Lovejoy.
“Because they are destitute, which means they have nothing. Nothing at all,” said Angela, “except what some kind person chooses to give them. You should be grateful and not criticize,” said Angela.
“But I can think?” said Lovejoy. She meant it as a question but it sounded bald and rude.
“You had better think,” said Angela with an edge on her voice. “Think. If there were no kind people, what would you do?”
“I’d—” Lovejoy’s face was far more expressive than Angela had thought. She looked, not masked, shut in, but eager and happy, like another child. I wonder if Olivia could have done something with her, thought Angela suddenly. “I’d—” said Lovejoy. Then her eyes came back to Angela and the eagerness died.
“You see,” said Angela.
“Yes. I have to have kind people,” said Lovejoy.
•
When Angela had gone Sister Agnes took Lovejoy by the hand. “I want to show you something,” she said. In the passage and on the stairs they passed nuns, to whom Lovejoy was introduced—“This is our new girl, Lovejoy Mason”—and other children—“Wendy, come here and say hello to Lovejoy.” In that moment Lovejoy would have given anything to see even Cassie. Then the Sister opened the door of a room off the entrance hall, a room Lovejoy had not seen before.
“This is our chapel,” said Sister Agnes. “If ever you find things difficult and don’t feel very happy, you can come in here.”
She had expected Lovejoy would find the chapel strange, even bewildering, but Lovejoy walked past her as if it were familiar, then stood as if she had been struck still. “Hello!” It was a greeting, not an exclamation. On her papers had been written Sunday school, church, nil, but she slid into a pew and knelt down.
After a moment Sister Agnes came and sat beside her.
“She was in a church I knew,” whispered Lovejoy.
“The statue?” Lovejoy nodded, her breath held.
Angela had thought it wiser not to tell the Sisters the story of the smashing. Angela had had to know because Olivia had been taken ill, there in the church, and Father Lambert had had to go for help, but Sister Agnes could not fathom the import of Lovejoy’s words. “The statue, the very same!” breathed Lovejoy.
“Not the very same, the same,” the Sister corrected. “That statue must have been made in hundreds—thousands, I expect. If you saw it somewhere else it was another one.” Her brisk voice was intended to shatter all untruths, but Lovejoy continued to gaze in a tranced way. Then Sister Agnes distinctly heard her whisper, “Hail Mary.”
“We don’t teach you to pray to Mary,” said the Sister gently.
Lovejoy did not know the difference between Anglican and Roman Catholic; even she had not fathomed all the vagaries of grown-ups; she wondered why there were no candles, she missed their warmth and the live sounds of the clicking of beads—she understood beads now—the pattering prayers.
Tip taught me and I’ll do what Tip taught me forever and ever, said Lovejoy silently.
“And we don’t cross ourselves.”
I do, said Lovejoy silently.
“You can honour her as the mother of Our Lord but you must not give her supernatural powers.”
Supernatural powers, supernatural babies, and lions with wings. A wave of such homesickness came over Lovejoy for the Street, the church, the garden, Jiminy Cricket, that she could not speak.
The last day, in the restaurant, Mrs. Combie had served ham and peaches and ice cream for midday dinner. “Well, really, Ettie!” said Cassie.
“It’s Lovejoy’s last day.”
“It’s she who ought to be giving them to you,” said Cassie. “Do you know your mother owes Mrs. Combie thirty pounds? Thirty pounds,” said Cassie. She had looked at Mr. Dwight’s labels. “Dad’s furniture,” she said with a little sob. “Dad’s house!” She turned to where Vincent sat. “I’d give my soul if Ettie had never seen you,” said Cassie.
Mrs. Combie sat up. “Nonsense, Cassie,” she said. It was the first time she had ever said “Nonsense” to anyone. “What’s all this song and dance about?” Vincent and Lovejoy sat up too. “A man like Vincent, with all he does, must be expected to fail now and then. Next time—” said Mrs. Combie.
“You think there’ll be a next time?” asked Cassie jeeringly.
“There will be a next time,” said Mrs. Combie. “You’ll be hearing from us, Cassie.”
When Cassie had gone Vincent got up from the table. He went into the pantry and presently came back, carrying a plate. He took it to the sink and washed it and polished it carefully; then he brought it to the table, put a helping of ice cream on it, and set it in front of Mrs. Combie. It was an Angelica Kauffman plate.
Mrs. Combie put her head down on the table and cried.
Lovejoy thought it better not to think about Vincent and Mrs. Combie. I meant to bring Jiminy Cricket, she thought. He’s probably dying with no one to water him—or is he smashed up?
She shut her eyes. She had meant to bring Jiminy Cricket but—I broke the statue to bits, thought Lovejoy, and I couldn’t go back into the church. It’s queer, she thought, when you’re kind to people you can forget them but when you’r
e not, you can’t. When she had stolen the candle money the statue had been hooded up in purple but this was evidently worse, because all these days Lovejoy had felt that it was she, Lovejoy, who was swathed. “I didn’t mean it,” she said, still hearing the crash. “If I didn’t mean it, then it shouldn’t count,” she argued, but it counted and she had felt muffled, hidden in sorrow and grief, and now the statue was here again, with the sky-blue robe, white veil, pink hands and face, lilies, and gilt plate on the back of her head.
“No supernatural powers,” said Sister Agnes firmly. Lovejoy dropped her lids.
A nun came to the chapel door, and Sister Agnes got up. “Wait here a moment,” she said.
Outside a bell clanged, and presently Lovejoy heard a sound like school, the sound of children’s feet marching. She leaned her head against the pew rail and shut her eyes. Even her sharp little brain could see no way out of it. She had to have kind people.
The feet were coming nearer, the din of voices; then there was a clap of hands and complete obedient silence.
Steps came towards the chapel—to fetch me, thought Lovejoy in a panic. In a moment someone would say, “Come along.”
All the things said to children rose in her mind. “Do as you’re told.” “Don’t answer back.” “Come along.” “Be quiet.” Lovejoy ground her teeth. Quiet, obedient, grateful. All the detestable things children should be, and all the lovely free things, thought Lovejoy, that they must not, opinionated, cocky—she hadn’t Angela’s word “cocksure.” Cocky, thought Lovejoy longingly.
The door opened. “Come along,” said Sister Agnes, but Lovejoy was praying.
“Hail Mary,” prayed Lovejoy between her teeth, “Mary, make me cocky and independent.”
CHAPTER XXIV
SPARKEY sat on his folded newspaper and looked down the Street.
It was almost time to go home; his mother was selling the last batch of her evening papers. Most people were home from work, only a few got off each bus now and hardly anyone got on; there was a quiet, a relaxation in the air; far overhead the evening smoke went up from the chimneys, some of the windows were lit. The bigger children, slipping in and out of the shadows, were still playing, but the little ones had gone to bed. The very big boys and girls were parading up and down the High, and a couple or so had already come down the Street, where they disappeared in a doorway—to kiss, thought Sparkey accurately. A few women stood talking late on their doorsteps—there was time to talk now—but most of them were indoors. Istanbul, full of herrings’ heads up to his throat, sat purring on the portico wall.
Sparkey’s mother came and wrapped a paper round Sparkey’s bony little knees. The October wind was chilly and in it was a tang of wood smoke; Sparkey knew where that came from; Lucas, reinstated, had been burning leaves in the Square Gardens.
“An old rating, a naval man, give him another chance,” said the admiral. Mr. Donaldson had nodded agreement. Angela, surprisingly, had allowed herself to be guided; she was oddly quiet and amenable; a little later she had resigned from the Garden Committee.
The wood smoke made Sparkey think of Guy Fawkes Day. Tip had promised that Sparkey could help with the gang’s Guy. It was Tip’s last Guy. In January he was going to the Arethusa.
Suddenly Sparkey sat up on his step. A green car, the green car, had turned into Catford Street. It drove slowly down the length of the Street as if it were looking for something, then stopped at the river end, where Vincent’s used to be. Sparkey’s patrolling was accepted now, even by his mother. “After all, I’m nearly big enough to be in the gang,” he said hopefully. “I’m four months nearer six,” and he unwrapped the newspaper swiftly from his legs and ran down the Street.
“Where are you going?” called his mother.
“Hist!” said Sparkey over his shoulder.
Charles—Sparkey had heard Lovejoy call the gentleman Charles—was out of the car, standing and looking; after a moment Liz—Sparkey remembered her name too; unlike Lovejoy he thought it pretty—got out as well. They were looking at the restaurant. What’s the good of that? thought Sparkey. It’s shut.
He knew how shut it was. Like all the other boys, he had tried to get in, but the door was locked and the windows were covered with bolted-on grids; through their mesh the rounded glass could be seen covered in grime and cobwebs and dust; the place where the bay trees had stood was full of litter and rubbish swept into the doorway by the wind, and the paper flapped eerily; the polish had gone off the door and the brass-work was black. Even the board where VINCENT’S still showed was grimed and dim. “The minute you give up cleaning a place,” any woman in Catford Street could have said, “the minute you give up, it’s done for and black.”
After a moment Charles and Liz got back into the car, which turned and drove up to the church. Sparkey ran back to the steps and was on the pavement when Charles opened the car door and got out. “But it’s gone,” said Liz, looking where the church had been.
Charles laughed. “Didn’t you expect it to be gone?”
Hut, steps, walls, bell, aeroplane notice had been swept away, and in their place was a big empty pit; where the rubble and marble had been was space. The steps in the Street sounded hollow in this emptiness, and the wind that Sparkey’s mother had been frightened of made a howling noise as it caught the open walls. Sparkey came closer. “There were bodies here,” he whispered. “They found them when they cleared away the church. They dug them up.”
“Cut along,” said Charles sharply to Sparkey.
“They put them all in a hole and sealed them up,” said Sparkey, ignoring Charles.
“Go away, you little ghoul,” said Charles.
He laughed, but Sparkey thought he, Sparkey, had frightened Liz.
“It’s life stamped out,” she said, looking round the empty pit. “Our restaurant, the funny church, and I wanted to see my little saint.” She sounded almost as if she were crying.
“You’re hungry,” said Charles. “Come along.” Lovejoy would have been surprised to know that grown-up people were sometimes told to come along. “I’ve seen all I need to see,” said Charles. “You’ll feel better when you have had some dinner, even if it’s not our little man’s.”
“I don’t want any dinner,” said Liz, as Sparkey often said. Then, “Look,” said Charles.
He turned her to the old back wall; on a bit of brick was a tiny spurt of copper-pink and green. It was so small that it was easy to overlook it but it was there, on its piece of brick, a plant in a strange round pot. “It’s—is it?” said Liz. “But—how can it be?” she cried. Charles went across and brought it to her, trying to dust the wreath pot with his handkerchief. “You’ll dirty your gloves,” he told Liz, but she took it from him.
“What was it she called it?” she asked Charles.
“Jiminy Cricket,” said Sparkey obligingly.
“That was it, Jiminy Cricket,” said Charles. He looked at Sparkey. “It seems to be a famous rose.”
“But how can it be Jiminy Cricket?” asked Liz.
“It must be,” said Charles. “It isn’t likely there would be another rose like that in Catford Street.”
“It’s blooming,” said Liz. “Someone must have watered it.” The tiny leaves were dusty but they were green, and on the little standard tree were two roses and a bud, a deep pink bud.
The watchman came out of his hut. “Do you have to have a watchman on a ruin?” asked Liz.
“It isn’t a ruin,” said Charles. “We’re building.”
The watchman looked at Jiminy Cricket. “A boy comes in and waters it,” he said. “He must have put it up there, on the wall.”
“A boy? Not a little girl?” asked Liz.
“I think it was a boy,” said the watchman. “Of course, it may have been a girl. There are hundreds of girls. I spend my life chasing kids out of here.” And he glowered at Sparkey.
“Hundreds of little girls,” said Liz. “Little churches, little restaurants. What does it matter what happens to
one?”
“Don’t be impertinent,” said Charles and he took her arm and swayed her as if he were gently shaking her. “Look at Jiminy Cricket and what he has come through. Perhaps Vincent’s the new head waiter at the Savoy; perhaps he has won a football pool and opened a better restaurant somewhere else. As for the little girl,” said Charles, “no one, nobody, has the faintest idea what that little girl will do.”
•
Olivia had died in August. It was very inconvenient, almost another of her social lapses; everyone was away, the Miss Chesneys themselves should have been in Scotland, and Noel had to interrupt his holiday. “Though why he should interrupt it to see Olivia dead when he would never have dreamed of it to see her living,” Angela had begun, then, shocked at herself, said, “Hush.” Once or twice in those days she had found she was saying “Hush” to herself, as she used to say it to Olivia, but then, most oddly, she seemed to be thinking some of Olivia’s thoughts. She even found herself leaving the office and coming up by herself to the schoolroom. Olivia had insisted on moving there when she was ill so that she could hear the noise of the Street. “Such an odd thing to want to hear,” said Noel. “And very inconsiderate,” said Angela. “It made a great deal of work for Ellen.”
“I didn’t mind,” said Ellen. “She died so happy,” but Olivia’s face when she died had not looked happy as much as satisfied. “What was she so satisfied about?” asked Angela. Angela had forgotten the sparrows.
On the afternoon of the funeral Mr. Anstruther, the Chesneys’ young lawyer, had come to read the will.
“It isn’t much more than a month ago,” he said, “that Miss Chesney came to see me.”
“Mr. Anstruther,” Olivia had said, “you are young, but I’m sure you have some sense. Please will you tell me? Do you think I’m in my right mind?”
“My dear Miss Chesney!”
“I am asking you,” said Olivia, “because presently Angela will tell you I’m not. You may have trouble so I should like you to telephone my doctor, Doctor Wychcliffe—I have just come from him—who will tell you that though I’m not very well, I’m perfectly sane.”