by Gina Wilson
“Well, I’d like to see your mother’s diaries, I must say. Why don’t you bring them along with you next time?”
“Oh, I can’t. I absolutely can’t. Dad keeps them locked up and only lets me look at them when he’s there. They’re his most important treasures.”
“Oh, I see. Perhaps he’d never let me see them.”
“I think he might if you were at home with me … Will you come one day? It couldn’t be all nice like at your house with proper cooked tea because Dad doesn’t come in till later but …”
“I don’t know, Cora. Let’s leave it for a bit.”
“Oh, I see. Tea at the Phillipses’ is all right but it’s a bit of a come-down to go to the Ravenwings’.”
I was suddenly fed up with all her sneers and gibes. I snapped at her: “Oh! For Heaven’s sake! I’ve had enough of you, Cora. You’re so rude and unfair. Why should I be friends with you anyway? There’s nothing in it for me.” Then I turned away from her abruptly and stormed off at great speed.
My outburst brought her to a complete standstill for a moment but it wasn’t long before I heard her flapping feet behind me. “Becky, Becky … wait, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
I ignored her until I was sure that my flash of temper had subsided. Then I slowed down and looked squarely in her face. She was so thin and distraught and that lank fringe was dangling in her eyes as usual. I brushed it aside so I could see her clearly and she could see me, and I held her face firmly in my hands, as I did sometimes with Jo when I really wanted him to listen to what I was going to say. “Oh, Cora! Let me be. Let me have friends if I want to. Let me see how it all works out. Don’t plague me and taunt me and sneer at other people I like; that’ll drive me away from you. If you’re nice to me and fair to me I won’t be nasty to you and leave you. Why should I?” Her sharp, dark eyes filled with tears and her head shifted and jerked uneasily between my hands. I let go of her. “I mean it, Cora. I can’t stand you nagging and if you go on I’ll have to stop being friends with you. But if you stop and if we can just have a bit of fun together instead of all this fuss all the time I’ll like being with you.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m just scared the others’ll put you off me, but perhaps they won’t. In any case I’ll just have to risk it. I can see you aren’t going to give them all up …”
“Of course I’m not. You wouldn’t cut yourself off from everyone else by choice, would you? You’d like lots of friends yourself—I bet you would.”
“I don’t know; one’d do me. But, anyway, I can see you’re different and I’ll try to stop being jealous.”
Afterwards I wondered if so much plain-speaking had been cruel. But it had seemed the only way of befriending Cora at all. I felt that much of my motive for keeping faith with her was simply pity for her predicament. At any rate it was very difficult to know what I would have thought of her if I’d met her under different circumstances. As it was, she’d attached herself to me from the outset like a maltreated puppy and I had taken her on long before I realized the half of what was entailed.
The following Saturday afternoon I donned my second summer dress and set off, alone this time, for Stansfield House. I met a tall, pleasant-looking girl at the gate; she was obviously a fellow-guest and we introduced ourselves. Her name was Barbara Foster and she had reddish wavy hair and quite a lot of freckles. She was very easy to get on with but not very interesting; I didn’t feel half-scared of her as I had at first of Hermione, with her blonde beauty and intense manner. I thought that Mother would have thought Barbara a perfect companion for me, with her fresh complexion, open smile, and friendly ways. In a way I was glad that she wasn’t going to be a challenge, one was enough, but I knew from the outset that I’d never value her friendship as much as Hermione’s.
“I hear you’re going to be in our class at school,” said Barbara. “Mummy said Mrs. Phillips thought so. It’s Miss Dingwall’s class we’re going into. Have you been told whose form you’re to be in?”
“I think Mummy’s got a letter from the headmistress somewhere but it’s been mislaid during all the chaos of house-moving. That name rings a bell, though.”
“It’ll be nice if you are in with us. You must sit with our gang. We usually bag desks next to each other—two side by side and one behind. It’ll be nice to be a foursome so that the one behind doesn’t feel out of it.”
I thought it was very kind of her to include me so readily and wondered if Hermione and Susan Spenser, whom I had yet to meet, would agree. “I’d love that. But perhaps Hermione and Susan …”
“Oh, Hermione can be a bit moody sometimes but she doesn’t mean anything by it. We just ignore it. She’s a poetic type, you know. I’m sure Susan’ll take to you just like that. She can be a bit mad and giggly; she’s the one that gets us into trouble now and then. But she’s great fun, a real scream … and ever so good at art.”
Susan and Hermione were waiting for us by the front door. They were sitting on the back bumper of a big white car, scraping the dusty gravel with their feet and looking a bit bored with each other. Susan leapt up and ran over when she saw us and Barbara introduced us. Susan dropped into an elaborate curtsey and Barbara gave her a poke. “Don’t act the goat, Susan. Give Rebecca a chance.”
“Oh, call me Becky,” I said. “Rebecca’s just for people I don’t know very well.”
They both said they liked Becky better and then Barbara nudged Susan and pointed across at Hermione, who hadn’t moved and wasn’t taking any notice of us. “What’s up with her?”
“Goodness knows! She’s been like that since I arrived. Another poem brewing probably!”
“Baggy not interrupt,” said Barbara.
“Nor me,” said Susan quickly. “That leaves you, Becky. Probably best if you speak to her first anyway. She’s bound to be nice as you’re new.”
“Isn’t she always nice?”
“We think she’s a bit spoiled,” said Barbara. “But we don’t really mind because she’s super most of the time.”
Susan said: “It’s just that she writes poetry and sometimes she gets a bit superior about it—at least that’s what we think, don’t we, Barb? Bit rude, though, sticking herself in a poetic trance your first visit.” She adopted an exaggerated pose, pretending to be lost in elevated thought, and then burst out giggling.
I felt cross on Hermione’s behalf. “Oh, I’ve been before. I don’t mind going up and speaking to her first,” I said. “Actually, I write poems myself, and Hermione and I have read quite a lot of each other’s work.” I left them looking a bit pink-faced and walked over to Hermione. I sat down beside her on the bumper. “Hello, Hermione. It’s another super day, isn’t it?”
“Mmm? … Oh, hello,” she said as if she hadn’t realized till then that Barbara and I had arrived. I thought that was a bit affected and silly, as she must have heard us and she must have been aware of Susan running over to greet us. But she carried it all off with such poise and style that I was still impressed. I could never have attempted a similar display. I was too ordinary; I should have looked ridiculous if I’d tried to seem vague or lost in a reverie. “Oh, hello, Becky,” she said mistily. “It is a super day, you’re right. I’ve been in Paradise all morning working on a new poem and I can hardly clear my mind of it.”
“It seems a pity to try,” I said. “Would you like the three of us to have a walk round the garden and leave you alone for a bit?”
“Oh no. That wouldn’t do at all. Mummy’d be awfully cross and say it was the height of bad manners.” She sighed and rose dutifully from the bumper. “No—I’m all right now. I want to come with you. It’s just difficult sometimes to switch moods, isn’t it? You’ll know that yourself …”
“Oh, yes, I know exactly what you mean,” I said, delighted to be considered a soul-mate. We went over and joined the others. They were relieved to find Hermione coaxed out of her poetical mood so quickly.
“I didn’t mean to be rude about poetry,” said Sus
an later, as we wandered across to the paddock to see the horses. Barbara and Hermione were some distance ahead and couldn’t hear us. “It’s just that it’s so embarrassing when Hermione turns herself off like that. I get all unnerved and giggly and that just makes her cross. Barb’s awfully good with her, actually—just carries on as usual right through all the ups and downs.”
“Barbara says you’re artistic yourself,” I said.
“Well, I suppose so,” she said modestly. “I’m not much good at anything else, anyway. Mummy and Daddy both paint, so it’s in the family. Hermione and Barb are both brainy though—you probably don’t know that. Hermione was top in English last term and Barb got ninety-eight per cent in the arithmetic exam. Are you frightfully clever too? It’d be nice to have someone in our gang who was just ordinary like me.”
“I think I’m ordinary,” I said. “If I’m good at anything it’s English. But I don’t see how I could be as good as Hermione.”
“No, I suppose she is rather special,” Susan agreed, and envious feelings stirred inside me. I wanted to be as good as Hermione.
This time, it turned out that Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were away for the afternoon and there was absolutely no sign of the boys. When we went in for tea we found the kitchen table laid for the four of us. It looked like a party table with flowery paper napkins and straws sticking up out of our tumblers and a white-iced cake and trifle. “Oh goody,” said Hermione. “Horti’s made us our tea. I’ll go and tell her we’re ready.”
“Wait till you see Horti,” said Susan mischievously when Hermione was out of the room.
“Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Ooh, là, là!” said Susan. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly. She’s just terribly French. She’s the au pair, you know. Very fancy set-up they have here.”
Hermione came back and poured out orange juice and handed round egg sandwiches. They seemed to have some sort of herb flavouring, and at first I found it very off-putting. But by the time I’d reached my third I was enjoying the new taste. Then the door opened and in came Horti; she stepped neatly across to the oven and took out a plate of sausage rolls. She was small and black-haired with brown skin and dark eyes. She was wearing a scarlet silk scarf over her hair, a scarlet blouse and black skirt, stockings and shoes. There was a broad shiny belt around her waist with a big gold buckle. She balanced the plate aloft on one hand like a waitress and tripped elegantly across to the table. “Hello, girls,” she said and smiled warmly at all of us. She put the plate down in the middle of the table. “Tuck in. Right?”
Hermione said: “Right! Very good! Horti, you must meet Becky—she’s the one I’ve been talking about, the one who writes poetry.”
Horti stepped smartly round the table and shook my hand. “How do you do, Becky?” she said. “It’s nice to see you here. It’s a lovely house, isn’t it? And a lovely family. I love it here. Now, Hermione, chérie, if you want something else come and get me. I’m in my room.” She turned, and her black skirt swirled round with her. Then off she went, darting us a last bright smile as she went out.
Susan could scarcely wait for the door to close before giggling and spluttering into her orange juice and mimicking Horti to a tee. “’Ello, ’ello! Ooh, ’Ermione, chérie! Come eef you need me.” She burst into streams of mock-French, throwing her arms in the air and flashing her eyes in all directions.
I thought Hermione would be angry, but she smiled indulgently across at Susan and waited for her to stop. “Try not to be a complete ass, Sue,” she said at last. Then she turned to me and said: “Horti’s super, actually. Her real name’s Hortense, you know. She’s from Normandy. She’s been with us eighteen months now. Mummy says she’s pure gold.”
“Go on,” said Susan, giggling. “Tell Becky how she’s teaching you French …”
“So she is,” said Hermione. “What’s wrong with that?”
Firmly and quickly Barbara said: “Nothing.”
I was thinking all the time that I’d seen Horti before, and suddenly I remembered. “I’ve seen her before,” I exclaimed. “—On the common.”
“The common!” said Hermione.
“Yes. She was with your big brother.”
When I saw Hermione’s expression I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Even Susan managed to keep silent, though bursting with glee.
“Are you sure?”
“Well—yes. Just walking they were …”
“But Mummy won’t hear of any of us going to the common. Which brother, anyway?”
“The biggest one—Hector, is it?”
“Hector and Horti!”
“Just walking …” I muttered.
“Oh, come on, Hermione,” said Barbara. “Hector’s over twenty now.”
Hermione looked down at her plate. “Oh, it’s not that,” she mumbled. “It’s just that she never said … I don’t expect she means half she says to me. I bet she’s no intention of having me to stay when she goes back. And she knows Mummy thinks people who loiter around on the common are—common.”
We all laughed uproariously at her little joke, but Hermione didn’t. I hoped she wouldn’t mention to her parents that I had been on the common, let alone Horti. “I’m terribly sorry,” I said nervously. “I wish I hadn’t said.”
She sighed deeply. I thought she was going to cry, but suddenly she smiled at me and said: “Don’t be silly, Becky. I’m being daft. It’s just that I’ve always thought Horti was marvellous. And I thought she considered me an equal and told me everything. But of course she doesn’t. Not surprising really.”
Susan said: “I do think you’re being brave, Hermione. I’m sorry I teased you so much earlier on. It’s rotten finding out that someone hasn’t been honest.”
“Yes,” agreed Barbara, “—that awful let-down feeling.”
“Oh, she’s not such a rat, really,” said Hermione. “I’m always thinking I’m more important than I really am.”
We all protested and consoled her. We each said why we thought she was important. And, to my relief, I found that the incident had actually pulled me right into the heart of the group where, at first, I thought I’d ruined my chances with my unguarded chatter.
Towards the end of the meal Barbara returned to the subject of school. “I thought it’d be nice if Becky sat with us next term. What do you think?” she asked the others.
“Oh, certainly,” said Hermione. “I’ll sit next to her, shall I, as we’ve got so much in common with our poetry?”
Barbara and Susan were full of approval of the plan and I felt extremely happy. Okington was going to be wonderful. Here I was with three special friends already, one of a gang … Dimly a vision of Cora flitted through my mind, a tiny shadow so swiftly banished as scarcely to register. My friendship with Cora would just have to be fitted in behind everything else. Hermione and the others came first. I could not imagine ever choosing Cora’s company in preference to theirs.
Chapter 6
The Birthday Party
THE NEXT WEEK, THE LAST OF THE HOLIDAYS, INCLUDED MY birthday. I’d thought it would have to be a very quiet affair this year, with the house move and no friends in the area to ask to a party. But now it seemed there could be a party after all and Mother was almost insistent that there should be. I personally thought it would seem a bit forward to ask such new acquaintances to celebrate my birthday with me. “They’ll think they’ve got to bring a present. It’s a bit much when they hardly know me.”
“Rubbish! All you girls like parties. You can have it in the garden. It’ll be lovely.”
“But still—the present business …”
“It’s not going to bother the Phillipses buying you a little present.”
“The others, though. Maybe they have to spend their own pocket-money on things like that.”
“Well, all right. How about asking them to come and only telling them it’s your birthday when they arrive?”
That seemed a good idea. It would also mean I didn’t need to w
orry about what to wear. I still felt that Mother was rushing things a bit—it might have been more appropriate for Susan and Barbara to have had me to their homes first—but I assumed she knew she was doing the right thing. In the event, she rang all the mothers herself and I could hear her explaining that it was my birthday and she wanted me to have a little party as usual. I heard her saying to Mrs. Spenser: “It’s her birthday, actually, but she’s shy of telling the others so we’re keeping it a secret … But it seems a shame for the poor little soul not to celebrate in some way … And perhaps you’d like to pop in yourself towards the end, just for a cup of tea—or something a bit stronger! It’d be so nice to meet you …” Then I realized that at least half the point of the party was that Mother and Father should meet the parents. I wasn’t yet used to considering their problems very deeply. But, of course, this would be the perfect opportunity for them to make the acquaintance of the Spensers and the Fosters at the same time as keeping things ticking over with the Phillipses.
My birthday was on Thursday but the party was arranged for the following Saturday afternoon. The new school term was to start on the Tuesday of the next week. My actual birthday was fairly uneventful except for the arrival of a pleasing number of cards from old school friends who said they were missing me. I felt a little faithless, as I’d been concentrating so hard on making new friends that I’d scarcely given the old ones a thought. I think it was this feeling of disloyalty which led me to do a rather foolish thing in the afternoon.
I’d been sent a ten shilling note by a great-aunt and had gone down to Copcutt’s to spend some of it on sweets. I was wandering slowly home with a packet of peanuts and some peardrops when I met Cora. I jumped guiltily because I hadn’t seen her for a day or two and expected an instant tirade of abuse. But it didn’t come. She smiled and said: “Becky! It’s nice to see you. Are you free for a bit? Shall we go for a walk?” I was grateful to her for being so affable and agreed to spend the afternoon with her. After we’d told Mother we were going for a walk we set off together, sharing the sweets and talking easily and happily. I told her it was my birthday and she sang “Happy Birthday” in clear, true tones which took me utterly by surprise.