Message from the Match Girl

by Janet Taylor Lisle

  “Who brought me, Granny?” he asked her in the quiet new tone that somehow she heard so well. “You’ll tell me, won’t you? I need to know.”

  Perhaps it was having all of them there staring at her. Perhaps it was simply the casserole dish, sitting big and bold in her kitchen again after all the years gone by. Whatever did it, Granny Docker heard Walter so clearly that her hands flew up to cover her ears, as if they’d been pierced by the words he said. Then, slowly, she took her hands away.

  “I made Chicken Wiggle that night,” she began, and it was a good thing the friends had been to see Miss Bone or they might have laughed and spoiled everything. Chicken Wiggle was not a dish anyone had heard of before.

  “It’s a fine old recipe—boiled chicken, cream sauce, peas, and so on,” Granny said, “and I’d worked all afternoon cooking and boning. I was tired when we went to the church in the evening. Walter’s grandfather carried the casserole in. Single-handed, he did it! I remember so well.”

  A fond look crept over her face, then changed to sadness. They all saw how she missed her husband. For a moment her silence threatened to pour out again, but Granny caught herself and pushed it back down.

  “An ordinary church supper it was, nothing special,” she went on. “Or so we thought as we sat and ate. Later your grandfather and I went over everything, who was there that night, who might have known, who had the chance to make such a delivery. We were never able to come up with one clue.”

  “What delivery?” Walter cut in. “Please tell what happened.”

  “We went home early,” Granny answered. “Miss Emma Bone was to do the washing up. Next morning I was to go by the church and collect the empty dish. We’d arranged it all, but during the night …”

  Granny paused and looked at Walter.

  “During the night …” she began again, and got no further.

  “During the night,” she said a third time, her voice beginning to tremble. “During the night … well, during the night, magic happened!”

  “Magic?”

  “You!” whispered Granny, touching him suddenly on his cheek. “You were there on the porch when I opened the door next morning, tucked down into this very dish. ‘Heavens!’ I cried, and nearly jumped out of my skin. Your grandfather rushed out. Then we saw the folded note. We burned it later, but I’ll never forget what it said:

  For safety’s sake, tell no one how I came. Guard me and keep me. Walter is my name.”

  Under his baseball cap, Walter had turned pale. If his friends had recently worried about the ghost world taking him over, now they were afraid of what the real world might do.

  “Walter, don’t feel bad. We’ll be your friends, no matter who you are,” Poco said in his ear.

  “After all, you could be a millionaire!” Georgina exclaimed. “Or a prince or the son of a famous person.”

  Walter stared at Granny. “So you are not my real grandmother?” he asked, as if he had only now come to fully believe it.

  She shook her head sadly.

  “And you don’t know who my real mother was?

  “No.”

  “And my grandfather was never my real grandfather?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “And my parents were never killed in a terrible accident. You said that to keep me from knowing the truth,” Walter said, his voice rising.

  “Well, yes, but …”

  “And you never told me anything,” Walter began to shout. “Even when I asked. Even though it was my own special, one-of-a-kind life and you had no right to hide it from me all this time!”

  Granny looked stricken. “I didn’t think of it that way,” she quavered. “You were so small. You needed protection. “‘Guard me,’ the note said. ‘For safety’s sake.’ We didn’t dare say a word. We pretended you were our grandson. No one ever came forward to claim you. We’d never been able to have a baby of our own. You came from the church like an answer from …”

  But Walter could no longer listen to her reasons. He was angry, angrier than Georgina and Poco had ever seen him. The kitchen suddenly grew too tight to hold him. Like a small, furious rocket, he blasted into the living room, where he ran in two maddened circles around the couch. Then he exploded with a great cry of rage and ran out the front door into the yard. They heard his footsteps slam against the walk and fade down the street.

  When he had gone, Granny sighed and went again into the quiet of her head. Her eyes became the old foggy ones they all knew, and her ears went as dead as if they were stuffed with cotton. She turned back to the ironing board and picked up her iron, and silence rose like thick, gray dust through the kitchen.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Docker,” Georgina murmured politely.

  “Thank you for the cookies,” Poco said.

  Granny did not look up, so they tiptoed through the house and let themselves softly out the front door.

  EIGHT

  WALTER DID NOT COME to school the next day. He did not come the day after that either, which was a rainy Friday.

  Spring showers had arrived. All morning it poured, and then all afternoon.

  After lunch, classes were sent to watch a nature movie in the gym. This was wonderful for Poco, who had always wanted to know about the feeding habits of the Patagonian mole rat, but a misery for Georgina. She scratched and jiggled and twisted in her seat, and was finally sent to the hall for kicking the person in front of her.

  “I’m so worried about Walter,” she whispered to Poco when their classes filed by in opposite directions. “What should we do?”

  “Wait,” Poco whispered back. “He needs time to think.”

  So they waited—all Friday afternoon at Poco’s house while the rain thundered down; all Saturday night at Georgina’s, where Poco slept over and a drizzle continued. By Sunday morning, which dawned clear, there had still been no word. The friends walked by Walter’s house after breakfast. He wasn’t sitting on his porch or hanging around his yard.

  “Should we knock?” Georgina asked.

  “Well, all right. Let me do it.” Poco went to the door and gave a timid rap. There was no answer.

  “Knock louder,” Georgina insisted. “Maybe Granny will hear.”

  Poco rapped a bit harder. “I don’t think anyone’s home. Maybe Walter’s gone to the park.”

  “The park!” Georgina shivered. “Do we have to go there?”

  “We should go,” Poco said. “We’re his only friends.”

  They walked over after lunch, taking the streets they knew he would choose, in case he was already walking back. They reached the park gates without seeing him, and a minute later their hopes were dashed. On her knoll the Little Match Girl huddled alone. They walked across to her anyway. Her dress pockets were filled with rainwater. Grass and weeds had grown over her knees. Poco cleared away a vine that had begun to climb up one arm.

  “Why don’t the park workers look after her the way they do the other statues?” she asked. “She is twice as beautiful, even if she is sad.”

  “She’s too far away,” Georgina replied. “And the hill is too steep. The workers can’t get their mowers up here. She was put in the wrong place—that’s why she’s left out.”

  This seemed to Poco so very unfair that she threaded her arm through the statue’s, if only to give the lonely figure some kindness. And there, as her hand brushed against the Match Girl’s cool, bronze hand, she felt something move. She leaned forward and saw a ring on one of the molded fingers.

  “Georgina, look!”

  It was made not of bronze but of some brighter metal, though covered with a film of grime. If Poco had not touched it, she would never have known it was there.

  “It’s old,” she said. “Look at this design. It reminds me of my mother’s high school ring.” She tried to pull it off, but the ring would not pass over the first molded knuckle.

  “Maybe it was always there,” Georgina said, after she had looked closely. “Maybe the sculptor put it on when he made the statue.”


  “I don’t think so. It’s a real gold ring. See how it shines when I clean off the dirt? Gold is the only metal that never tarnishes.”

  They took turns polishing, using the edges of their shirts. Finally, the gold blazed with its warm, true color. The Match Girl’s face seemed to light up, too, as if she were bending over one of her own matches.

  Poco sat back. “Do you ever get the feeling that there’s someone … well …”

  “Inside?” Georgina gazed at the statue’s pretty face. She hadn’t thought of it before, but, “The Match Girl looks about the same age as we are.”

  “Yes! And now she wants to come out and talk.”

  “But she’s afraid because she’s sat on this hill for so long and been kept apart from all the other statues.”

  Poco nodded. “That’s why she showed us her ring. She hopes we’ll come to visit her again.”

  “Oh, we will!” cried Georgina, addressing the bronze girl. “We promise we won’t let you be alone. You can tell us what really happened in your story. I never did understand why you sat there and froze.”

  This was such an enchanting fantasy that the friends kept on with it for nearly an hour, even making up answers the Little Match Girl might give. And though outwardly she never revealed a thing, they began to feel they were getting to know her. Georgina sighed and looked around.

  “Where is Walter? I was sure he’d come if we waited.”

  “Let’s start walking back. Maybe we’ll see him.”

  On the way out of the park, they had a sudden thought and crossed the street to the sandwich shop. The nice waitress was behind the counter.

  “Yes? Can I help?” She stepped forward as they entered.

  “We are looking for our friend,” Poco explained. “The boy who was with us before. He comes here sometimes to buy candy and we wondered …”

  “No, he hasn’t come.” The waitress moved closer. “Not for four days. Is something wrong?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “He was coming every day. Not here, of course.” She waved a hand around the store. “To the park. I saw him every afternoon, going in, coming out. He went to the statue or sat by the pond.”

  “You could see him from here?” Georgina said in surprise. “I can hardly even see the Little Match Girl.”

  Everyone turned and stared out the window. Streams of people were going in at the gate. Inside, the pathways were filling up with Sunday walkers. If Walter came now, they could never pick him out, one small boy lost in the shuffle.

  “I’m sure he’s all right,” Poco told the waitress. “The park is a little way from his house. He probably didn’t want to walk in the rain.” She wasn’t going to say what had really happened.

  “Oh yes. The rain. But today is nice.”

  The swinging doors to the sandwich shop’s back room flew apart. The old man came through and took up his post behind the meat case. He gave the waitress such a threatening look that she moved away and began to wipe the counter. The friends made for the front door. They left without daring even to say good-bye.

  “I feel so sorry for that poor waitress,” Georgina said on the way home.

  “That man is the meanest-looking person,” Poco agreed. “I guess he must be the owner of the shop.”

  “Did you see how she jumped when he came in? She’s scared of him. I would quit that job and go work somewhere else.”

  Poco didn’t answer. She was gazing at something in the distance.

  “Look!” she cried. “Here he comes!”

  “Where!” shouted Georgina, who thought she meant Walter.

  “My robin!” Poco cried. “The one who spent the winter here. He just flew into that maple tree. Hello! Hello! I’m so glad to see you! I was beginning to think you hadn’t made it through!” She ran toward the tree.

  Georgina looked up and saw not one robin but a large flock coming in for a landing. There must have been twenty red-breasted birds fluttering, changing branches, chirping furiously at one another. No one could possibly have told them apart.

  Or could they? As Georgina watched, Poco stopped under the tree. A robin hopped to a low branch and gave out a piercing squawk that made her laugh. Then began one of the loudest, friendliest, and most embarrassing bird conversations that Georgina had ever heard, and she had suffered through quite a few in her time with Poco.

  “See you later,” she shouted over the racket. “You know I can’t stand this.”

  “I know,” Poco yelled back. “Isn’t he great, though? He knows the funniest jokes.”

  “How could you tell it was him?” Georgina couldn’t help asking. “He looks exactly like all the others to me.”

  “It’s easy,” Poco said, smiling up at the bird. “Once you get to love a robin, you can spot him anywhere.”

  NINE

  POCO LAMBERT WAS A good person, and sometimes amazingly wise, but she was not always reliable. When she got onto bird talk, or happened to run into one of the five hundred rabbits she knew around town, she could forget about everything else in the world. At such times there had to be someone to step in—someone smart, sensible, and willing to work alone. (Georgina thought this masterfully to herself as she continued along the sidewalk.)

  There had to be someone who was never distracted or afraid to take risks. (Georgina walked straight to Walter’s house and marched up the front path.) Someone to pound on doors (Georgina pounded on Walter’s door) and to coax stubborn people out of hiding for their own good.

  “Walter Kew! I know you’re in there,” Georgina bellowed on the front porch. “Open up or I’ll start screaming!”

  A muffled noise came from deep inside. Moments later the door drifted open and a white hand floated into the breach. It was followed by the pale figure of … a ghost! Georgina jumped and let out a shriek.

  “Georgina! Good grief!” The ghost covered its ears.

  “Walter? Is that you? Wait, don’t close the door.” She recovered in time to force her foot over the threshold. A brief struggle broke out. Walter’s face appeared from under his cap. He looked terrible, tired and rumpled, and so thin there seemed hardly anything left of him. Georgina was shocked. She grew more upset as the visit wore on. For despite his ghastly, ghostly appearance, Walter was no longer in touch with his invisible worlds.

  “He’s stopped believing in spirits,” Georgina told Poco in hollow tones on the telephone that evening. “And he’s quitting school. Everyone hates him, he says.”

  “That’s crazy. Where is Granny Docker?”

  “She’s come out of her fog and is trying to talk to him. I think she’s really worried, but he won’t listen.”

  “Did you tell him about the Match Girl’s ring?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t care. He says he’ll never go there again. The mitten, the matches, everything was a lie.”

  “A lie! What does he mean?”

  “He said his ghost-mother was someone his own mind invented. The same with his spirits—he made them up. And the Match Girl’s message was a trick someone played. It could be Miss Bone or Granny—or us! He doesn’t trust anyone anymore. The baby mitten is too new to be his, he says. And the photo was never really of him.

  Granny told him that to cover up the real truth.”

  Poco’s heart sank. “What is the real truth?”

  “That he wasn’t good enough.” Georgina took a deep breath. “Walter thinks he wasn’t good enough to be somebody’s child, and that’s why his parents gave him away. Oh, Poco, it’s just what you said—he’s lost all his stories. And now he’s too sad to invent any more, so I guess he’ll just slowly shrivel up and, you know … like the little rabbits.” Her voice trailed off. They sat in silence.

  “Are you missing Juliette, by any chance?” Georgina remembered to ask after a while. “I thought I saw her running along the sidewalk when I was going to Walter’s. She looked as if she was heading for the park.”

  “It couldn’t have been Juliette,” Poco said. “Juliette doesn’t run an
ywhere anymore. She just keeps getting older and slower. My mother is worried she won’t make it until Angela comes back from Mexico.”

  This struck such a final dreary note that the friends shortly decided to hang up. Outside, spring rain had begun to fall again. All over town, homeowners closed their windows and braced for the new downpour. People passing on the sidewalks raised their umbrellas and lowered their eyes to avoid stepping in puddles. It was for this reason that no one saw the strange gray shadow that shot up the path to Walter’s house and paused by the mail basket next to the door. The rain came down harder. The shadow whisked away.

  TEN

  AT FIRST, WALTER KEW really did seem to have quit school. For a week he was absent without explanation. When, finally, he did come back (“Because otherwise he’d be arrested,” as Georgina said), he kept himself so invisible that even Poco had trouble finding him. He was a shape in the corner, a blur on the stairs, an anonymous figure at the back of a room. And if, by chance, someone did catch up with him, it was only a matter of time before he slipped away. Houdini himself might have wondered how it was done.

  None of this was especially new. For years Walter had been a master of invisibility, as people often are who have long been ignored. Rather than be snubbed, they learn to step aside or, better yet, to make it appear they have never been there at all. Now Walter seemed to have perfected the art. He would not be seen and—

  “He will not talk!” Georgina raged in exasperation. “No matter what I say. Walter hears but he looks away—as if I’m the one that’s turning invisible!”

  “That would be impossible,” Poco assured her.

  They were walking along the sidewalk toward the park. For some reason, without Walter, they found themselves going there more often. After the fussy crafts of Girl Scouts or a polite piano lesson, they would go together in the late afternoon. The Little Match Girl had a sharper, realer air around her. It wasn’t only her story—“Remember, she dies,” Poco said—but a sense that there really was someone still there, caught inside, crying out for attention if only they could understand her. But whether this was connected to the Little Match Girl’s trouble, or to some more recent sadness, they could not tell.