The Innocents

by Margery Sharp

  I shall never forget my first sight of Antoinette on pony-back. It was a Shetland, the baby’s mount. To begin with, such was her instant delight and affection she hugged it round the neck almost to the point of throttling; a pony being larger than a frog, she hugged it all the harder. Honoria detached her, I must say quite gently, and then lifted her into the saddle, and set her feet in the stirrups, and led her on the leading-rein; so quietly, I, on foot, easily kept up with them past the church and then up onto the heath.

  The young Cockers were all older than Antoinette, also more experienced. “Now trot!” ordered Honoria. Off the three tittupped in a wide, evidently familiar circle, not bunched together but keeping at a proper distance so that Honoria could scan them individually for backs straight and heels down. Evidently they passed muster, for after about ten minutes—

  “Now canter!” called Honoria.

  The change of rhythm was like that from a jig to a waltz, and achieved, at least to my own inexpert eye, quite beautifully.—But not so to Honoria’s. “John, you’re letting Mustard break!” she shouted, to the youngest Cocker. “Rein in and start again!” Alas, John reined in so abruptly he lost a stirrup, and as his siblings (I fear contemptuously) gave him a wide berth, Honoria instinctively abandoned Antoinette to trot up to him.

  Whereupon Antoinette, or perhaps rather her pony, decided to canter too. As if bored by so much walking, and then standing, the little beast, with Antoinette on his back, neatly nipped into place behind the two elder Cockers, and cantered after.

  Antoinette at least didn’t fall off. She hung on, it must be admitted, at first by his mane. But the second time round it was to the saddle she clung, feet feeling for the stirrups. “All halt!” shouted Honoria, herself dismounting and running to catch Antoinette’s bridle and lead her back. “Terribly sorry!” she panted, as soon as they were beside me. “It shouldn’t have happened, and I’ll see it won’t happen again. But she’s certain got guts, your little dumbo!” neighed Honoria.

  I always found her offensive. Antoinette’s riding lessons were nonetheless a success. In the first place she enjoyed them, and in the second she for the first time established a normal relationship with other children. It remained slight, the young Cockers just said “Hello” to her, but after the fourth or fifth lesson Antoinette was saying “Hello” back, which I felt an important addition to her vocabulary. The Shetland’s name was Pepper, so Antoinette learned that too. There were now four words she could pronounce perfectly: vermin, tureen, pepper and hello.

  And suddenly, months after Janet Guthrie’s visit, she surprised me with the far more difficult vocable “rucksack”; so then there were five. I strung them together to make a proper sentence for her: “Hello; in my rucksack I have vermin, pepper and a tureen,” and Antoinette learned it off and repeated it apparently with all the pleasure I myself should have felt in being able to repeat a chorus-ending of Euripides, which as yet I could not.—None of the texts from my father’s bookcase had been much use to me, requiring as they did a fair knowledge of Greek already. I had difficulty in even identifying a chorus-ending from Euripides on the page. However the next time I was in Ipswich I found a modest elementary handbook, and began from the beginning with my alpha-beta.

  That the young Cockers for their part, though accepting and tolerating, never took much notice of her, was rather an advantage. As I have said, anything new needed to be taken very slowly, with Antoinette, and young Mrs. Cocker had no reason in the world to apologize to me for not inviting her to birthday-parties.

  It was still a sign of Antoinette’s difference from other children that she had no conception of a birthday. To most children, birthdays are of such cardinal importance, almost the first question one asks of another is how old are you? Antoinette was in fact now six, but perfectly unaware of it, and even I might have lost count but for the birthday presents arriving each year from New York—and then indeed, owing to the war, often months late.

  4

  Cecilia otherwise wrote punctually, describing how busy she was with Bundles for Britain—(she organized concerts and balls for them)—and always ending with a few lines for Antoinette, such as, “My precious, your mummy misses you so much, she thinks of you all the time,” which messages put me in something of a quandary. Though Antoinette couldn’t read, I might have read them to her; she still wouldn’t take in any meaning, having no conception of a mother. I was no usurper: Antoinette’s relation to myself, I believed, and was happy to, was essentially that of a young rabbit to a lettuce—source of food, shelter, and general point of repair. In the end I simply suppressed the messages altogether.

  But soon a worse quandary arose. “Isn’t it surely time Tony wrote a letter to me?” complained Cecilia. “Tell her she must be a good girl and mind her book, so she can write to her mummy!”

  Antoinette could no more write than she could read; but how to explain why—involving as it did the child’s whole predicament—by letter? Not there to witness her daughter so obviously thriving, Cecilia must have been thrown into deep (and as I believed unnecessary) distress. She might have imagined a little idiot. So at last I decided to employ a subterfuge. I clasped Antoinette’s fingers round a pencil, and guided them to trace in capitals DEAR MUMMY I HOPE YOU ARE WELL LOVE AND KISSES.

  I had intended to make her sign, Antoinette, but though the ploy began as a game she soon tired of it, and was wriggling to get away at WELL. However Cecilia was apparently satisfied, for she didn’t raise the point again.

  Antoinette’s father never wrote to her at all. He was obviously even busier than Cecilia, and I imagined better realized the inutility. I didn’t blame him. In Mr. Hancock and Doctor Alice he had left the best agents he could to watch over his daughter’s well-being under my roof. He couldn’t know Doctor Alice departed for London—whence in fact she never returned; she lost her life in one of the last bombings.

  So did Rab Guthrie lose his life in the war. In the summer of ’44 Cecilia had graver news to report than a row of seats unsold at a Bundles for Britain concert: that she was a widow, her poor darling Rab having literally worked himself to death. I could well believe it; he’d always struck me as a worker, and I had seen what pressure the war could put on just a pig-man, let alone an industrial chemist. In a way I quite mourned him—particularly because he’d never seen his daughter on a pony. Cecilia for her part (she wrote) felt such an appalling sense of loss, her only hope of avoiding a nervous breakdown was to throw herself more than ever wholeheartedly into Bundles for Britain; that is until the war ended, and she could at last seek her only possible true consolation by coming back to collect Antoinette. Though it might be difficult to get an air passage quite immediately, she had several useful connections.

  Even at the moment of reading such sad news, the word “collect” struck me unfavourably; it is a parcel, some inanimate object, one collects, not a child. But perhaps I was oversensitive; and with Cecilia’s postscript, “Perhaps no need to tell Tony?” I thoroughly agreed. If Antoinette had no conception of a mother, no more had she of a father; and one learns to mourn soon enough.

  So I kept the news to myself.

  In the meantime we enjoyed such another exceptional spell of fine weather, Antoinette grew brown as a berry as we lived day after day in the garden. The very sunniness seemed to call for extra treats: extra strawberries, for instance, extra staying-up-lates to see the moon rise. Even Mrs. Brewer was affected; I remember her once taking it upon herself, at midmorning, while I sat knitting and watching Antoinette, to bring me out a glass of sherry—she who had never handled the decanter before. “Go on, haven’t you earned it?” said Mrs. Brewer—I cannot imagine why; I still think it just because the weather was so fine. Even the old fig tree at Woolmers bore to ripeness three out of seven fruit, of which the Admiral (always up early), had one, and Jessie (of necessity up even earlier), the other two. Mrs. Brewer in relating this added that she was fond of a fig herself, she always considered a fig quite a treat—which i
n an obscure way made me appreciate all the more her bringing me out a glass of sherry.

  I sipped it, made it last, with I confess great enjoyment. I had never seen my garden look prettier with alyssum and snapdragons, nor my artichokes handsomer: it was the moment when their huge cobalt-blue thistle-heads were at the very peak of blueness—though to say “moment” is to do the plant an injustice. There is nothing flash-in-the pan about an artichoke; they would swagger in full glory in a week or two more.

  5

  The war was already ending. At last it ended. The bonfire lit on the heath, even if several ration books were tossed into it all too prematurely, nevertheless symbolized the triumph of light over darkness. I was particularly happy that Antoinette, whom I kept up to see the glow at least (the occasion so historic), wasn’t frightened at all, only surprised and pleased. Of course she was used to quite spectacular sunsets—see where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament—but never before had seen the heath where she rode her pony suddenly and inexplicably ablaze.

  Not so long since, she’d have been frightened to the point of vomiting. Now she squirmed against me not in fear but in pleasure, and I could put her into bed, and go to bed myself, confident of a good night’s sleep for us both.

  As the war ended some of our pretty young wives (the lucky ones) welcomed back husbands safe and sound and moved away with them. Others were less lucky; but there was no such Spring-tide of mourning as I remembered in 1918. One husband who came back and stayed amongst us was Peter Amory, so disabled that to get his wife with child again from a wheelchair was another triumph of light over dark, over war and all that is against life, and I believe it was for this rather than for his medals the village regarded him as a hero.

  6

  Though Cecilia had connections, so evidently had many another impatient passenger, with civil airlines. The first Christmas of peace passed, then the New Year; it was spring again before she was able to set a date for seeking her only consolation—and even that not entirely firm. (“If only my darling Rab were still alive!” wrote Cecilia; by which I hoped she was realizing how much she owed him all round.) However I still felt it my duty to introduce into Antoinette’s mind the notion that the war, of which she knew nothing, was over, and that a mother, of whom she had no more conception, was coming back to reclaim her.

  I forced myself to make several attempts.—I say forced, because the notion of any change whatever (even from rice to tapioca, from cocoa to chocolate) so upset her; and indeed after a third attempt to introduce the prospect of a new mode of life altogether, she and I were so equally distressed, I cowardly gave up and leaned simply on the creed of blood calling to blood, as warranted by the Elizabethan dramatists.

  Obviously Cecilia had connections of some sort; a good deal sooner than might have been expected, first by cable, then by telegram from London, then by word of mouth from Woolmers, I knew to expect Cecilia next afternoon.

  As I have said, it was for mid-April cool but not cold, showery rather than rainy, and with that peculiarly autumnal tang in the air.

  PART TWO

  6

  1

  We were quite a little reception committee to welcome her, as her car drew up outside the guest-house. I was there of course; the Vicar and his wife, who had been having tea with the Admiral, brought him out too, and several lesser lights happened to be passing by.—Any cable or telegram is naturally common, or rather uncommon news in our village, moreover Woolmers has the advantage (from the village point of view), of no drive; all the garden lying behind, the front door opens directly on the road, which makes it easy to keep a check on comings and goings. As interested spectators I noticed Mrs. Page representing the Mothers’ Union, Miss Holmes the Women’s Institute, and Mrs. Cook of the fish-and-chips representing trade.

  It is often rash of a beauty to return, even after no more than a few years’ absence, to her beauty’s cradle. Beautiful women who move much about the world enjoy a constantly renewed meed of admiration, as heads turn in restaurants, on a promenade-deck, at spa or fashionable watering-place; but the time comes when heads no longer turn; whereas a beauty who stays at home may keep her reputation as such in the face of all contrary evidence. The first time Cecilia came back she was thirty-four: now she was almost forty, and such an interval often makes all the difference to a woman’s looks. But however overdriven on behalf of Bundles for Britain, no such considerations need have troubled Cecilia: a beauty she left us, and a beauty she returned.

  Her bare head, the hair a little darker, shone like a ripe chestnut; her complexion, a little paler, but slightly tanned—it transpired she had come via Bermuda—instead of cream-and-roses was an even lovelier cream-and-honey. As she stepped from the car and stood smiling before us in her big traveling-coat of violet-coloured wool, Mrs. Page, and Miss Holmes and Mrs. Cook, and the Gibsons and the Admiral, we all, there is no other word, feasted our eyes …

  But Cecilia had eyes only for myself. Absolutely ignoring everyone else—

  “Where’s Tony?” she cried. “Where’s my darling daughter?”

  I explained I’d left Antoinette at home, thinking it better they should meet first by themselves; whereupon Cecilia instantly kissed me—her cheek smelled of gardenias—and drew me with her back into the car to drive the quarter of a mile farther. As I hadn’t remembered Rab Guthrie so silent, no more did I now remember Cecilia so affectionate. However she was naturally happy and excited.

  I suppose we were in the car no more than two or three minutes, but they were filled to overflowing with delightful impressions. She emanated an aura of vitality and luxury of which we had been as long deprived as we had of French scent, and which equally refreshed.—A fold of thick, soft, violet-coloured tweed lapping over my mackintosh, I could hardly refrain from fingering what I knew would be soft, springy texture of cloth undoubtedly woven in Scotland, but for years For Export Only. I have described the colour as violet, but there were all the tints of heather in it. It was more a rosy lavender and in the folds purple. I still do not find it absurd that I took such pleasure in a mere patch of cloth; and at the moment (drawing in the scent of gardenias as well), suddenly remembered a child in a marquee wide-eyed as at the kiss of a fairy princess; and felt it was perhaps like a fairy godmother Cecilia came back for Antoinette.

  2

  As we entered my sitting-room Mrs. Brewer, who I saw had been letting Antoinette help her shell peas, tactfully withdrew—or rather scuttled out. (I appreciated the effort it must have cost her; she scuttled sidelong, crabwise, her eyes—like a crab’s almost on stalks.) Cecilia too showed great tact. She didn’t swoop to press Antoinette to her bosom. She just stood tall and beautiful and smelling of gardenias as the child stared up at her, and said, “Hi, my darling!” It was I who made a fool of myself.

  For the Elizabethan dramatists proved broken reeds. Naturally, in this case, the mother (Cecilia) knew the child; but the child Antoinette merely stared as at a complete stranger, also remained completely mute.—Thinking back, I realized that even had she pronounced her one complete sentence—“Hello, in my rucksack I have pepper, vermin and a tureen”—Cecilia might have been less impressed than disconcerted. At the moment I realized only that something had to be said, and so made a fool of myself.

  “Look, Antoinette,” said I, “here’s your pretty mummy!”

  Ready as I was to envisage Cecilia as a fairy godmother, even in my own ears the words rang false. Antoinette shifted her gaze to direct it upon me instead. I had never seen her give such an intelligent, searching look. Alas, it was also suspicious. Hitherto I’d never spoken a word to Antoinette she couldn’t absolutely believe in; that she as often as not judged by tone rather than sense possibly helped her now to detect a falsity. She looked at me with—suspicion.

  “And see what I’ve brought you!” exclaimed Cecilia.

  It was a pretty thing indeed she produced from her big crocodile leather purse—another, littler purse, of pink silk embroidered with da
isies, on a slim gilt chain. It was quite beautifully made, and obviously expensive, and to most little girls would no doubt have been a thing of joy. Antoinette regarded it without interest.

  “And what will you give me, for this pretty thing?” enticed Cecilia.

  Of course most children of eight are sophisticated in Forfeits, but it was still too difficult a game for Antoinette. She remained mute.

  “A kiss?” suggested Cecilia, leaning with her hand outstretched in the very attitude I remembered so well. She had lost not a whit of her old grace! But Antoinette stood pat.

  “She’s shy,” Cecilia told me. “Take it for free, honey!”

  With which she put the purse into Antoinette’s hands; who turned and took it out into the garden.

  I thought Cecilia acted wonderfully well. She just laughed and shrugged her shoulders as amiably as possible. She didn’t stay many minutes, even, longer; she was naturally tired, and when she said she meant to bribe the chambermaid at Woolmers to bring her dinner in bed, I didn’t blame her.

  “Though I’d intended to grab Tony straightaway!” she regretted. “It’s what I’ve been promising myself! But perhaps not just to-night, would you say?”

  Indeed I would, and we left it that she should instead return for Antoinette in the morning.

  “When I’ll tell you all my wonderful plans for her!” added Cecilia gaily.

  As soon as she was gone I went out into the garden myself, but the child was nowhere to be seen. I looked in all her favourite haunts, such as up in the thicket and under the artichokes; no Antoinette. Of course she had her own ways of getting back into the house: where I found her at last was under her cot.