Playing Beatie Bow Popular Penguin

by Ruth Park

  Her real name was Dorcas Tallisker, and she limped because when they were young Judah had run over the cliff with her in a trundle-cart and her thigh-bone had been broken. Sometimes it stiffened up, and then she had to walk with a stick; but the warm New South Wales weather had made the pain lessen.

  The Orkney isles are harsh country,’ she said, ‘for all there is such beauty there – the heather, and the wild birds crying, and the great craigs and the magic stones.’

  ‘Magic stones?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Aye,’ said Dovey simply. ‘Built by dwarfies, ye ken, and even giants so they say, long before the Northmen came; for Orkney folk is half Scots and half Norwegian, so ’tis said. Ah, I would that I was there now, milking my wee cow Silky.’

  Sad of face, she helped Abigail back to bed and went away with the chamber-pot covered with a cloth. Soon she was back with a little brass shovel with a few red hot coals upon it. Abigail watched with interest as Dovey put sprigs of dried lavender on the coals and waved the resultant thin blue smoke about the room.

  ‘There now! You’re all sweet again.’

  ‘Can’t I have the window open?’ asked Abigail.

  Dovey was shocked. ‘But the spring air brings so many fluxes and congestions in the chest,’ she said. ‘And you’re still no’ yourself, ye ken, Abby.’

  So it was spring. But how? For when she had left home it was already lowering with winter. She recalled how Beatie, in her thin dress and shawl, had shuddered with cold.

  How could it be? Where had all the time gone?

  But she was unable to puzzle further, because footsteps came up the stairs. Dovey, brushing Abigail’s hair, hastily pulled the sheet up to her neck, so that she would look proper, and said, ‘Tis Uncle Samuel. Try to forgive him for the harm he did you, love, for, as you’ll see, he’s a pitiful man.’

  The tall man who came stooping through the little doorway was stooped and spindly himself. He was the ruin of what had probably been a handsome trooper in his blue and buff uniform and pipe-clayed gaiters. His ashy hair looked as if it had flour in it, and his bright blue eyes were spectacularly crossed.

  ‘’Tis the effect of the head wound,’ murmured Dovey. She said in a louder voice, ‘Come in, Uncle Samuel. Abigail is much better today.’

  Mr Bow wore a long white apron. He smelt deliciously of syrup and almonds. He twisted his scarred hands in his apron and said abjectly, ‘Oh, dear Miss, there hain’t words to tell how broken up I am for doin’ yer such damage. It’s these spells, you see. I think I’m back at Balaclava and I hain’t seein’ a thing but Rooshians like bears in their big coats. And I pray from the bottom of me heart, honest to God, that I didn’t do yer too much harm.’

  Abigail was much taken with Mr Bow. He looked so much like a Siamese cat. She could see Beatie’s little face scowling from under his arm.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Mr Bow. I just didn’t get out of the way quickly enough. And all I have are a sprained ankle and a bump on the head, so you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You’re sartin sure you forgive me?’ he asked pleadingly. ‘I hain’t been myself since my dear ’Melia died, you see, and then when Granny tells me you’re the Stranger …’

  ‘Hush, Dada!’ said Beatie, and the tall man, mopping his eyes, turned, muttering, ‘Ah, she was a good wife, my ’Melia, and the babby, such a fine sonsy lad – make two of Gibbie, he would.’

  As he went out, Beatie dawdled in and gave Abby a sullen look.

  ‘Did you do well at school today, hen?’ asked Dovey.

  ‘Patching,’ Beatie said scornfully, ‘and how to curtsey when the Lady Visitor came. And I was sore scolded for wearing no shoes. The Lady Visitor said I might as well be a Chinaman.’

  ‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Dovey. Bright scarlet stained her cheeks. ‘We’ll do something about that. Orkney folk are not to be spoken to in such a way, I tell you. But I’ll not soil myself with anger at such trash. Beatie, lass, Granny wants you to read the Gospel to Abby, for she’s no memory of the Lord’s good words, either.’

  From the tall narrow cupboard she took a huge book bound in half-bald green plush, its edges reinforced with well-polished brass.

  ‘The Sermon on the Mount would be a bonny choice,’ she said. ‘And now I’ll see to Gibbie. Granny’s been up with him half the night.’

  Beatie grimaced at Abigail. ‘I’d liefer read the bloody bits, about slaughtering the enemy and blowing down walls and sticking pikes into the Canaanites.’

  ‘Save your breath,’ said Abigail briskly. She pulled herself up on her pillows. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘If you’re about to ask me to take you back where I got you, you can save your ain breath,’ snapped Beatie, ‘because I don’t know how to do it, and that’s the truth of it.’

  The two girls glared at each other. Then Abigail laughed. The younger child was such a fierce homely creature, the eyes so bright and intelligent, the small thin hands crooked as though they would claw the eyes out of life itself.

  ‘You’ve got plenty of brains,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Aye,’ said Beatie suspiciously. ‘And what brings you to say that?’

  ‘Because I think you want to do other things besides learn how to feather-stitch and drop curtseys to rude rich old hags at the Ragged School.’

  Beatie’s tawny eyes glittered. ‘True enough. I want to learn Greek and Latin like the boys. And geography. And algebra. And yet I’ll never. Gibbie will learn them afore me, and he’s next door to a mumblepate!’

  ‘But why?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Why, why?’ cried Beatie. ‘Because I’m a girl, that’s why, and girls canna become scholars. Not unless their fathers are rich, and most of their daughters are learnt naught but how to dabble in paints, twiddle on the pianoforte, and make themselves pretty for a good match!’

  Suddenly light broke upon Abigail. ‘So that’s why you wanted to know why the children were playing Beatie Bow, how they got to know about you?’

  ‘That’s what I asked before,’ answered Beatie resentfully, ‘an’ ye wunna tell me, damn ye!’

  ‘Well, I don’t truly know,’ said Abigail, ‘but I think I can guess.’

  ‘Tell me!’ cried Beatie, bright-eyed.

  ‘We’ll trade,’ said Abigail.

  ‘I dinna know what you mean,’ said Beatie suspiciously.

  ‘You say you can’t get me back to where I came from. Maybe that’s true. But could you help me to Harrington Street? Because that’s where things started to change. And maybe if I got back there …’

  ‘I could. But it wunna be easy because Granny thinks you’re none other than …’ Beatie stopped short.

  ‘I know. The Stranger, whatever that is. But will you help me get to Harrington Street, when my ankle’s a little better?’

  ‘I dinna like going agin Granny,’ muttered Beatie. ‘She’s got the Gift. It’s not what it was when she was a lass, but she’s still got powers.’

  ‘Very well, then. Go away,’ said Abigail, and she lay down and turned her back on Beatie. She heard the child fidgeting around, going to the door once or twice, then coming back hesitantly to stand beside the bed.

  ‘Right, I’ll help you, and the dear God help me if Granny kens what I’m doing, for she’s dead set on your staying. There, I’ve given my word. Now for your part of the bargain.’

  Abigail sat up again. ‘I think those children were using your name in their game because you got to be famous.’

  Beatie’s face flushed. ‘Me? You’re daft. Famous? In Elfland?’

  ‘It isn’t Elfland,’ said Abigail, exasperated. ‘How many more times? If I tell you where … what … that place is, do you solemnly swear it will be our secret?’

  ‘I swear,’ said Beatie. ‘I swear by my mother’s grave, and there inna anything in the world more sacred than that.’

  So Abigail told her. The little girl burst into wrathful indignation.

  ‘You ought to be ashamed, telling me such lees. You’
ll go to hell for it, and be toasted on a pitchfork!’

  ‘You saw it for yourself,’ said Abigail, taken aback, ‘the Bridge and the Opera House, and all the tall buildings. Why, I live in one of them, right at the top!’

  ‘You’re a damned leear. Such things inna possible except in Elfland.’ But the girl’s voice quavered.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought this place, time, or whatever it is, would be possible either,’ Abigail said angrily.

  ‘What’s the matter with here then?’ shouted Beatie in a whisper.

  ‘For one thing, it stinks like a pig-pen, and for another they won’t let a girl have a proper education, and for another people can die here of fever, and smallpox, and diphtheria.’

  Beatie was silent. Then she said hoarsely, ‘Don’t folk die of those things in … that time?’ When Abigail shook her head, Beatie broke into a passion of sobbing. ‘Then Mamma would still be alive, and the babby, and Gibbie wouldn’t be so sickly.’

  Abigail let her sob. Suddenly she felt towards this wounded tough little scrap as she had felt towards Natalie in that other life. But she did not touch her. She knew instinctively that Beatie would throw off any sympathetic hand.

  At last Beatie was silent.

  ‘I thought I was over it,’ she said in a stifled voice.

  ‘You will be some day.’

  ‘It wunna lees you told me, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘But I want to get back as soon as I can walk properly because my mother and father will be anxious to death about me.’

  Beatie nodded. ‘I know how you feel about your mother. When I cried when Mamma was dying, Dovey said “Dunna let her go to her reward fretting about you, child” – that’s what she said. “For Granny and I are here to look after you and Gib. I’ll be your mother, hen,” she said. “Smile now and let your mamma be at ease.” So I did.’

  She was quiet for a while, sniffling. Then she said grudgingly, ‘You’re no’ so bad, you.’

  ‘Neither are you,’ said Abigail, grinning. ‘Is it a bargain then?’

  Beatie stuck out her hard, work-harsh little fist and they shook hands.

  During the next two days Abigail learnt a great deal about these people amongst whom she had been thrown in such a strange way. She learnt that the Orkneys were a hard and ancient group of islands set amongst dangerous seas north of Scotland. All of the family had been born there except Mr Bow the Englishman, Gibbie, and the baby boy who had died with his mother.

  Dorcas Tallisker was the cousin of the Bows. Her mother had died when she was born, and she was reared by her fisherman father Robert Tallisker, and his mother, Granny. Two years before, Dovey’s father was drowned in a squall in Hoy Sound, off Stromness, and Granny had decided to emigrate to New South Wales to live with her daughter, Amelia, who had married an English soldier, Samuel Bow. When Dovey and Granny arrived, they found Amelia, the children Beatie and Gilbert, and a six-months-old infant, deathly ill with the fever.

  ‘What kind of fever?’ thought Abigail uneasily, remembering that though she had been immunised against most modern infectious diseases, a dockside area of the 1870s very likely had plenty of lethal bugs of its own.

  ‘The typhoid,’ said Beatie. ‘’Tis very common in these parts.’

  Abigail decided she’d drink nothing but tea. At least she would know the water had been boiled.

  ‘And now tell me about the Gift,’ she said. Beatie gave her a scared look.

  ‘No, I wunna. Granny would ne’er forgive me. It’s the family Gift, you see.’

  ‘But I’m connected with it in some way. I’m the Stranger. Even your father said so. I ought to know what it is; it’s my right. Tell me or I’ll ask Granny.’

  ‘Dunna,’ pleaded the child. ‘I’m gey scared of it, Abby. I dunna want it. I just want to be a scholar. I dunna want to see things and know things a mortal body shouldna know.’

  ‘Why,’ Abigail thought, ‘it’s the second sight, ESP, or something. And Beatie’s afraid that she might have it too, poor brat.’

  But she said nothing.

  By the third day she was allowed to get dressed and be carried downstairs by Mr Bow. In fact she was dressed by Dovey: for when confronted with the garments the older girl lent her she had not the faintest idea how to put them on. There was a boned bodice of stiff calico fastened with rows of strong hooks and eyes at the back. Abigail eyed it with distaste.

  ‘Where’s my own underwear?’ she demanded.

  ‘But you had hardly a thing for underclothes,’ answered Dovey. ‘Just a few queer rags and drawers the size of a baby’s. Now, slip your arms through here, and I’ll hook you up, and you’ll be more comfortable.’

  Scowling, Abigail did so. She also obediently drew on the cotton knickers and the long flannel ones that went over them, a waist petticoat that tied with a tape, and a woollen blouse that had long full sleeves and did up to the neck with an endless row of pearl buttons.

  ‘She’s such a skinny wee thing she won’t need the stays, Granny,’ said Dovey. Abigail thanked heaven.

  ‘I’m boiling,’ she said. ‘I don’t wear heavy clothes like this, ever!’

  ‘’Tis the kind of clothes worn at this season,’ said Granny with her quiet inflexibility, ‘and Dovey’s best, at that.’

  ‘I do thank you,’ said Abigail awkwardly, ‘but it’s not what I’m used to, you see.’

  When she was completely dressed, in a long dark serge skirt over the blouse, a ribbon belt with a pewter buckle, knee-high stockings of hand-knitted wool in circles of brown and yellow, and one of Granny’s best buttoned boots (for Dovey had feet as tiny as her hands, and her boots would not fit Abigail by three sizes) on her good leg, she felt like a wooden image, stiff, clumsy, and half choked with the smell of mothballs and lavender that drifted from the fabric. On her other foot she had a knitted slipper with a fringed top. She hopped over to the mirror and recoiled.

  ‘I never saw such a scarecrow in my life!’

  She looked so hideous she could have cried. But she had finished with crying; and, anyway, she couldn’t afford to lose her eyes as well.

  ‘You’ll look more yourself when your hair is brushed,’ said Dovey in her soothing way. She brushed Abigail’s hair flat off her forehead and plaited it tightly from the nape of her neck. The corners of Abigail’s eyes were pulled taut, so that she looked like a beaten-up Oriental. A huge greenish-blue bruise extended from her forehead to her cheek. Her nose had become pointy, and her teeth seemed to stick out.

  ‘Dracula teeth,’ she said mournfully, then hurriedly covered her slip by murmuring, ‘I look so awful!’

  ‘Beauty does not matter. It is all vanity, the Good Book says,’ reproved Dovey gently.

  ‘No wonder people in Victorian photographs look so monstrous,’ thought Abigail. ‘They didn’t have a chance, what with no make-up, ugly hair-dos and clothes that would make the skinniest woman look like a haystack.’

  Mr Bow carried her downstairs. He seemed silent and absent-minded. There was a peculiar dull sheen in his eyes, and a red patch on each cheek.

  Downstairs the odours of sweet-making were strong. Abigail could smell aniseed, treacle, hot butter, and boiling sugar.

  She said, ‘I’d so like to see the shop, Mr Bow.’ But he did not seem to hear.

  ‘I bet he’s working up to another spell,’ she thought uneasily. Being so close to his head she could see the old wound in his skull, a scarred hole only half covered by the ashy grey hair. It was so big she could have laid the fingers of one hand in it. She shuddered and looked away.

  ‘What did they fight with in that Crimean War? Axes?’ she wondered. ‘How it must have hurt!’

  He carried her into the little front room. A small fire burnt in the basket grate. The furniture, covered with rose-patterned plush and stuffed as hard as bricks with horsehair, was plainly not for sitting on. Abigail was placed in a rocking-chair to one side of the fireplace. (‘As if I were one of a pair of china dogs,’ she thought later.
) On the other side, in a smaller rocking-chair, swathed in shawls, was a small peaky-faced boy.

  ‘I’m Gilbert Samuel Bow,’ he announced in an important and yet tremulous voice, ‘and I’m in a decline. But if I live to my next birthday I’ll be ten.’

  Abigail looked at him with distaste. She felt like saying, ‘Why bother?’ But Dovey was hovering around, so she didn’t.

  Chapter 5

  Gibbie peered out of his huddle of shawls like a small wizened monk. His head had been shaved. It was not an agreeable head, being bony, bumpy, and bluish.

  ‘Mercy on us!’ piped this monkish person. ‘You’re as plain as a toad.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Abigail, nettled. ‘You’re not exactly a dazzler yourself.’

  The little face assumed an expression of insufferable piety. ‘I expect you know I’m not long for this world. I’ve been given up by the doctors.’

  Dovey limped in with two bowls of broth on a tray and a box of dominoes.

  ‘Just to pass the time away,’ she said coaxingly. Gibbie turned up his eyes and said, ‘I mun turn away from the things of this world.’

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ growled Abigail. ‘You’d get better faster if you moved yourself out in the sun and fresh air, instead of lying around like an old granny.’

  Dovey reproved her. ‘Gibbie has been nigh to death, Abby,’ she said.

  Gibbie put on a holy face. ‘And I still am. Maybe by my birthday I shall be with my mamma and the angels in heaven.’

  Abigail looked disgusted. It seemed to her that a good spank on the backside would do wonders for this whiney, self-important little monster. She marvelled at Dovey’s patience with him. Typical Victorian morbidity about the sick and the dead, she thought, remembering what her mother had said about this mildewed aspect of the Victorian era. Certainly kilos of ‘mourning’ stuff came into Magpies – jet jewellery; brooches containing wreaths of the dear departed’s hair; once an onyx-framed miniature topped with two delightful tiny weeping angels. The miniature was of a white-eyed gentleman with side-whiskers and carnation cheeks. It had gone off, to the accompaniment of shrieks of laughter, as a conversation piece. At the time Abigail had thought the buyer’s mirth unbearably vulgar; because, after all, that man had once been real and someone had loved him and missed him when he died.