They couldn’t go every day. Their schedules were so busy. Four days or a week might pass. But then:
“The Little Match Girl needs weeding,” Poco would announce. Or:
“I saw a ring in a store that looked a little like …” Georgina did not even need to finish. Off they went to the knoll, though it felt odd to be always visiting without Walter. And once, in the distance, they were sure they saw him—until the person turned and walked the other way.
“I guess he really has given her up.” Georgina sighed.
“But someone else hasn’t.” Poco glanced over her shoulder.
They felt themselves being watched every time they came. There was no telling how or from where. Or by whom.
“Is it our imaginations?” Georgina whispered. She glanced protectively at the Little Match Girl.
Poco shook her head. “People always know when they’re being spied on. Animals do, too. Try staring at a rabbit when he isn’t looking. In a little while he’ll turn around and find you.”
“What is it?” Georgina asked. “An invisible ray?”
“No one knows,” Poco answered. “But this watcher is real.”
Under normal circumstances, this would have been enough to scare Georgina away. She did not like what could not be explained. A closely watched statue holding strange secrets was not the sort of company she cared to keep. But in this case, now that Walter no longer cared:
“The Match Girl needs us.” That was all she could say.
Besides, the knoll had become their special territory. There was something to be said for lonely, out-of-the-way places, for standing apart and simply observing. The statue’s little rise put the whole park at their feet. They saw who came and where they went. People often did things you wouldn’t expect—they shouted, then kissed, or laughed and wept; they petted their dogs, then turned around and hit them. A serious man came in a gray business suit. He set his briefcase on the grass and took off his jacket. Then with the spring of a circus performer, he kicked up his heels and stood on his head. For nearly a minute, he balanced that way, grinning upside down at the people who passed him. At last, he righted himself and put his jacket back on, smoothed his hair, picked up his briefcase, and returned as he had come.
Georgina and Poco gazed after him in amazement.
And then there was the work the girls found themselves doing, because fascinating though it was, who could just sit forever looking? Without meaning to, they became the Match Girl’s gardeners.
The dead grass around her knees was their first project. It was so yellow, so ragged. They yanked it out. But this only made the other weeds look worse. They tackled huge clumps with their bare hands. Later, wielding a pair of Mrs. Lambert’s clippers, they cut back the bushes engulfing the statue’s head. (“Oh!” cried Georgina. “She looks so much better!”) They even managed to snip out a sort of lawn. It spread like a carpet from the Match Girl’s skirt; just a small square of green, but it gave her respectability.
By the time this was finished, June had come. With flowers blooming all over town, the friends began to think of planting their own.
“Wildflowers,” Poco said, as they walked up the knoll that day. “Not the delicate ones that people put in gardens.”
“Yes, she would like the kind that have to live by themselves,” Georgina replied.
They set about clearing another overgrown patch of ground. But the earth had hardened after a week of bright sun, and they could no longer work it with their hands.
“Tomorrow, we’ll bring shovels,” Poco said. “Did you notice those daisies along the road? We could dig some up and plant them here.”
“We have poppies in our backyard,” Georgina offered. “My mother hates them and wouldn’t care what we took.” They both turned and glanced at the Match Girl’s face. Perhaps it was the light, but somehow she looked pleased.
And so the project went forward. As the days passed, an assortment of wildflowers from various back lots began to appear around the crest of the knoll. Their wispy clumps shriveled and all but died the first week, until the gardeners learned the importance of water. Even wild things, it seemed, required looking after.
The friends took turns lugging a plastic bucket up from the pond, ignoring the curious looks of the miniature-boat people. Once they were intercepted by a park security guard, but it was too hot that day to worry about the theft of a few pails of water. Mopping his brow, he let them go. For the most part, they tended the knoll unnoticed. And the Match Girl kept her silence, revealing nothing more.
School entered its final, sluggish crawl before the summer vacation. Georgina and Poco had begun to wonder if Walter Kew would ever speak to them again, when, without warning, he slid up beside Poco one afternoon as she walked home alone from school. Georgina was attending a last Girl Scout meeting.
“Walter!” It had been so long. The air around him had an unfamiliar flutter. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
They walked half a block before Poco dared to ask if there was something—well, something he wanted to tell her?
“Yes.”
“Well, what?” (By now, Georgina would be yelling.)
“Can you come to my house? Everything is there.”
“Everything?” Poco felt a surge of excitement. “But Georgina …”
“I know.” Walter’s pale eyes rested on her face. “If you don’t mind, could you come by yourself?”
In a great rush, Poco felt how much she liked him. She had almost forgotten his fine politeness. As they trudged along the sidewalk toward the Dockers’ house, the old comfort of their friendship began to come back.
“Are you speaking to Granny again?” she asked when they entered the silent, clock-ticking house.
Walter shrugged. “She bought a hearing aid. She said she wanted to hear me better.” They put their heads through the kitchen door and saw her bustling over the stove.
“Come on,” Walter whispered, pulling Poco away. “You know the photo of me and my mother? Granny said it came with me in the big casserole. She said she’s sorry she waited to show me. I had a right to know who I was.”
Poco nodded.
“She also told me how I got my last name. My grandfather gave it to me.”
“I always wondered why it wasn’t Docker.”
“My grandfather used to call me Walter Q., short for Questionmark, because I was such a mystery. Then other people began to call me that, too, even though no one knew what it meant. In the end, my grandfather decided I should have it for my own. So he spelled it out: K-E-W.”
Poco smiled. “That’s a great story.”
“I know,” Walter said. “And there’s a lot more.”
They ran upstairs to his room. He opened the door with a nervous flourish.
“My collection,” he announced.
He might just as well have said, “My crown jewels.” They were laid on his bed like priceless diamonds: the huge casserole dish and the tiny mitten. The photo in the park and …
“Walter, what are these?”
“The Little Match Girl is giving me presents again. One by one, she’s giving me back my things.”
“The Match Girl! But how? You’ve been going to the park?”
“Yes, whenever I get a message.”
“What message?”
“Wooden matches. The same as before.”
“But how …?”
“I’ve seen you and Georgina there. I went away whenever you came. Don’t worry, I like all the work you’ve done. The Match Girl looks better. And I saw the ring.”
“Walter! Why did you never tell us?”
He kept his eyes down and wouldn’t answer.
“Is it your mother?” Poco whispered. “Is she back again?”
“Yes, she’s here!” He looked up to see if she would believe him.
Poco knelt to inspect the items. There was a locket shaped like a tiny book that opened on silver hinges. Inside were two miniature photograp
hs. One was of a baby with fat cheeks. In the other, a man was wearing a soldier’s uniform. Walter watched over her shoulder.
“I think it’s me again, and maybe …”
“Your father?”
“I’m not sure,” Walter said carefully.
There was a pair of fuzzy socks with blue satin bows, and a matching sweater small enough for a doll.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Walter begged. “I know this stuff is stupid. Don’t tell Georgina. She’d laugh if she saw it.”
“She might not,” Poco said.
“But she might.”
There was a cheap plastic rattle with a clown’s head at one end, the kind that came out of the discount bins. Walter watched anxiously when Poco lifted it up.
“Incredible,” she whispered, and gently replaced it.
Finally, there was a baby’s hospital bracelet made of blue and white beads. “W-A-L-T-E-R,” the white beads spelled.
“I have one of these.” It was so little that Poco could hold it on her palm. “But mine has pink beads and my last name is on it, Lambert.”
“What’s it for?”
“The hospital nurses put it on you when you’re born. There are always a lot of babies in the hospital. The nurses want to make sure your right mother takes you home.”
This comment had a strange effect on Walter. He began to walk around the room, swinging his arms like a powerful windmill. For a moment Poco had a vision of the sort of baby he must have been: a quiet, serious baby who didn’t cry very often, who kept his troubles to himself but wanted, more than anything, to be picked up and held.
“Do you still have the matches?”
Walter stopped.
“The matches that told you when to go to the park?”
He walked to his dresser, opened a drawer, and took out a pile of white envelopes.
“Georgina was wrong,” he said, handing the pile to Poco. “Sometimes there are three matches, sometimes more. The number isn’t important.”
Poco spread the envelopes out on the bed beside Walter’s other treasures. There were six, five with stamps and one without. Each envelope was addressed to Walter, care of Mrs. Fred Docker, just like Walter’s other message from the Match Girl. Poco recognized the same nervous, scratchy writing. The stamps were ordinary. Their postmark dates showed no particular pattern, though Poco saw how the first letters had come close together. The final two had arrived further apart, the last dated over a week ago.
She picked up the unstamped envelope, which had no postmark. “When did this come?”
“It was first,” Walter said. “I found it in the mail basket just after Georgina came here. I thought for a while she’d left it to trick me.”
“I remember that day. It was a Sunday. We went to the park and the sandwich shop and everywhere looking for you. Then, on the way home, I ran into my robin. Did I tell you? He’s perfectly all right and hangs around my backyard talking to Juliette. No one can believe it, but I think they’ve made friends.”
There was silence while Poco concentrated on the envelopes again. She shifted some around, and picked up the rattle. “Sunday,” she murmured, then got to her feet and gazed at Walter.
“Have you ever wondered …,” she began, and paused to get his attention.
“Walter?” His pale eyes came up to meet hers. “Have you ever wondered if your mother was still alive?”
“Alive? Oh no, she couldn’t be,” Walter said. “If she were, I would never have been left to stay with Granny.”
ELEVEN
GEORGINA WAS, IF POSSIBLE, more impressed by Walter’s treasures than Poco. Far from laughing, she picked up every one and examined it with a microscopic eye. The friends were all gathered in Poco’s room the next afternoon. Somehow Poco had persuaded Walter to come. He stood by nervously rattling a paper bag, as if he might, at any moment, take his things and leave.
“Beautiful!” Georgina whispered over the locket. “Amazing!” The hospital bracelet disappeared inside her hand. Walter watched closely until she put it down.
Next she alighted upon the socks and the doll-size sweater. Walter sucked in his breath and waited for her to snicker. But she examined them as seriously as the others.
“I guess someone has found out who Walter is.”
Walter nodded. “My mother. She knows I need to have these. George, promise you won’t tell? I don’t want anyone hearing at school.”
“Of course not!” Georgina’s voice took on commanding tones. “We will proceed in the strictest confidence. You know how the police keep evidence secret.”
“Evidence?” Walter glanced up in alarm.
“Well, yes. When we start our investigation …”
“Investigation! For what?”
“For finding out who is behind the Little Match Girl,” Poco told him. “It’s what you’ve been wanting to know all this time.”
Georgina added her vigorous nod. “Even you must admit that it’s starting to look as if a real person is doing this. And that’s a very good sign because …”
“A real person?” Walter cried. “What does that mean?”
“It means not a ghost, or one of your old spirits!” Georgina had begun to lose her patience.
“A real person is someone we can handle,” Poco explained. “We can make a real plan to find out who it is.”
“Or even who she is,” Georgina said. “Because who else but a mother would keep all this stuff?”
For one moment Walter’s eyes showed pure fright on their pale surfaces. Then he pulled his cap down and hid them from view. “No plans,” he said. “I don’t want any plans.”
“But why?” Poco and Georgina couldn’t believe it. “Don’t you want to know?”
“No.”
“Walter! Why?”
He would not answer. “I’m going home,” he announced, and put his treasures into the bag. “I need to see if there were any messages today. They’ve been coming slower, and I’m beginning to think …”
“Walter, wait!” Georgina and Poco followed him outside, stepping squarely on Juliette, who was asleep on the mat.
“I’m beginning to think there might not be many more. So please don’t come to see the Match Girl,” Walter told them as he went down the walk. “It’s very important. She must be left alone.”
“You can’t order us to do that!” Georgina cried. “The Match Girl belongs to us as much as you.”
Poco ran after him. “And what about the flowers …?”
“Stay away!” Walter shrieked in a strange, wild voice. “Stay away or you’ll end up wrecking everything.”
Never had Walter Kew acted so rude and crazy. After he rushed off, Poco and Georgina stared at each other, and then at Juliette, who had retreated to a corner of the porch to lick her wounds.
There seemed no earthly reason why the same Walter who had longed for his mother and waited for her voice and tried to contact her in every possible way would now, suddenly, call off the search.
“Just when we were getting close.” Poco clenched her fist. “When I think about the locket and those little socks … Someone kept those things for years because they cared about Walter. Someone hid those things away because they couldn’t forget. Why doesn’t he want to know who it is?”
Georgina shook her head. “There’s something else. If these things are so precious, why is this mother giving them up? And why leave them one by one in a park?”
They sat down on the porch steps. Juliette came padding over, and their hands were drawn like magnets to her silky back. The sounds of summer wafted in from all directions—baseball, outdoor voices, the screech of bicycle brakes. It was a perfect, lazy June afternoon, except somewhere close by a child was crying.
“I read the story of the Little Match Girl again last night,” Georgina said, as they patted the cat. “You know what? I still don’t get it. While hundreds of people are walking past, a girl like us quietly freezes? Why doesn’t she cry out and ask for help?”
; Poco shrugged. “Maybe she’s ashamed. She feels bad to be poor. Maybe she thinks it’s her fault.”
“So she tries to stay warm by lighting her own matches? I would have gone and found a pile of wood.”
“I guess she’d already gotten too cold. And anyway, that’s when the magic begins. Whenever she strikes a match, a beautiful picture comes that makes her warm.”
“Except she’s using up the matches she should have sold. In the end, the Match Girl will be even poorer.”
“She knows that, but she can’t help it.”
“So she lights another match. And then another. One by one by one by one …” Georgina’s voice turned soft and thoughtful. “For some reason that reminds me of something.”
“Walter’s treasures!” They both said it at once. It was almost as if the Match Girl herself had spoken and made them understand after all this time. Below, on the step, Juliette stared at them.
Poco jumped to her feet. “Walter’s mother is alive, and she keeps watch in the park. Then one by one she leaves her treasures.”
“And then,” said Georgina, “she waits for Walter to come.”
“Because she wants to see him. Is that really all?”
“I think she’s as scared as Walter. She doesn’t dare to go any closer.”
“But it’s so strange,” whispered Poco. “She really is like the Little Match Girl. She uses matches to get Walter to come. Then she can watch him for a while and feel warm and happy. Do you think she knows the Match Girl’s story?”
“More than that. Remember how Walter said his presents were coming slower? It’s like the matches in the story. She’s using them up.”
“Oh no! What will happen when there aren’t any more?”
“She’ll get cold,” said Georgina. “She’ll get very, very cold.”
Message from the Match Girl Page 5