by Gina Wilson
“You’ve got a lovely voice, Cora.”
“That’s about the only thing I inherited from my mum,” she said.
“You don’t look as if you could sing. I’d never thought of you as musical, somehow. Can you play any instruments?”
“A bit. Can you?”
I told her about my piano lessons. I had taken the fourth grade exam shortly before leaving Birmingham and had just heard I’d gained a distinction, so I was feeling rather proud of myself. I thought Cora looked impressed and forgot to ask any further details about her own music. She was in her usual mood of just simply asking and listening, not divulging much about herself. As we made our way up the lane past the church she stopped suddenly and said: “Becky, come in again. You haven’t been in for ages.”
“Mummy says I’m not to … I’ve promised. She says people don’t like children jumping over the graves, dishonouring their dead.”
“You know I’d never do that.” She looked hurt. “I’ve a perfect right to go in when it’s my own mother that’s buried here. If you don’t mind my saying so, your mother isn’t always absolutely right. You know perfectly well we’ve never misbehaved here.”
She was right, of course. “But I’m still a bit scared, Cora,” I admitted. “I know it sounds daft to you when you’re so used to the place, but I suddenly get the idea that a ghost might appear or something. It’s so quiet and spooky.”
“Oh, Becky! Don’t be silly! Just look in over the gate. It’s the most beautiful garden you’ve ever seen, isn’t it?” Certainly the graveyard did seem peaceful and ageless with the sun beating down on the flowering shrubs and the yew trees casting their cool dark shadows over the grass and the birds whistling all at once. “Doesn’t Dad keep it nice?” said Cora proudly.
“It’s lovely,” I said. “All right. I’ll come.”
“Here, hold my hand,” she said and grasped me securely. “Don’t be frightened.” She led me through the gate. “I won’t dance or talk strangely. Don’t worry. Trust me.” She led me along the little pathway beside the church and we didn’t trample over any of the grassy mounds I’d so dreaded before. At the back of the church we came upon her mother’s grave again. “I just wanted you to see her roses,” said Cora. “Aren’t they beautiful? I’m going to pick you some for your birthday …”
“Oh, you mustn’t do that, Cora,” I gasped.
“Don’t be silly. Why not? She’d want you to have some.”
I could feel myself beginning to panic again. The idea of gathering a dead woman’s roses was making my skin tighten all over. “Don’t touch them, Cora,” I said in a clipped voice. “Not for me. I don’t really want them.”
She looked disappointed. “Becky, don’t worry,” she said gently. “I know what you’re thinking and, if that’s how you feel, of course I won’t pick any. But they’re just flowers, you know—it makes no difference where they’re growing or why they were planted here.” Her voice was firm and even. Again I was aware of the inner confidence and strength which seemed to possess her whenever she visited this familar territory.
“It’s funny how you change in here, Cora,” I said. “You’re much surer of yourself. You should be like this all the time. In here I really feel you’re my equal and you help me not to be frightened, but when we’re outside I always feel in charge of you somehow.”
“Nobody ever bothers me in here,” said Cora. “I feel safe here. But there isn’t anywhere else I feel safe.”
“Not even at home?”
“Well, yes. At home, sometimes, if Dad’s there. But often he’s not, and I get lonely.”
“Why don’t you tell him? Perhaps he’d come home earlier.”
“He’s lonely too.”
Rather than sink into gloom contemplating the Ravenwings’ sad situation I suggested a walk on the common, and we soon recovered our earlier good spirits. Cora picked me a bunch of wild flowers; she spotted them in hollows and crannies where I would never have seen them myself. Then she sang “Happy Birthday” again, and again I was struck by the clarity of her voice and said so. She seemed, this time, to retain her graveyard vitality for quite a while after we left and I silently noted her bright face and light movements. The jerking and flapping mannerisms didn’t return till we were on our way home. It was then that I made my foolhardy move. We’d had such a pleasant afternoon and Cora had been such cheerful company that, without thought, I opened my mouth and said: “I’m having a party on Saturday, Cora. Would you like to come?”
She stopped dead, right in the middle of the pavement, and clasped her hands together in great excitement. “Oh, Becky! How super! Nobody’s ever asked me to a party before.”
At once I knew the invitation was a huge mistake. But it was too late. It would have been cruel to retract it. All the time that I was explaining who the other guests would be and when to come and what to wear I knew that I shouldn’t have asked her.
At home Mother said non-committally: “Oh, you’ve asked Cora, have you? Was that wise? It’ll make an odd number. Will she fit in with the others?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “It’ll be all right. They’re in the same form at school, after all.” Mother just nodded. She still had no real reason to suspect that Cora’s presence might be disastrous. She’d still heard none of the gossip that I’d heard.
“I’ve asked Mrs. Briggs to come and give me a hand on Saturday afternoon,” she said. “She can put the finishing touches to the food and that’ll leave Daddy and me free to help organize games and keep the boys from under your feet.”
“Mrs. Briggs!” I said horrified. “Oh, we don’t want her, Mummy. She’s so managing. She’ll take over the whole thing. Can’t we keep it just family? I don’t even like her.” The idea of Cora and the other three sitting together round the one tea-table was difficult enough to contemplate, but with Mrs. Briggs as hostess … that must be prevented. Goodness only knew what sort of outburst might result.
“Becky! Don’t be silly! It’ll be ideal to have someone handling the kitchen end of things. Anyway, I’ve asked her—it’s all arranged.”
There was nothing I could do. I lay awake most of Thursday night battling to find a solution but the only way out seemed to involve cancelling Cora’s invitation and I couldn’t bring myself to be so mean—not after witnessing her immense pleasure at being included for once. By the time Friday dawned I had decided to put every effort into making the party a success despite all my misgivings. I spent the day helping Mother make little cakes and trifle, blow up balloons and set up a treasure-hunt in the garden. We even erected a table under the trees so that we could have our tea outside and I felt that that would largely eliminate the danger of unpleasantness from Mrs. Briggs. She could glower at Cora and mutter all the calumnies she liked from the kitchen window; nobody would hear or notice her.
But when I came to in my bed on Saturday morning all my hopes were dashed. I could hear the steady drum of heavy rain against the roof and window-panes and knew at once that we were all going to be confined for the afternoon in our little front room. I tore downstairs in my pyjamas. Father was finishing his breakfast and reading the paper and Mother was putting out cereal and making toast for me and the boys. “Look at the rain!” I said. “Let’s cancel it. It’ll be hopeless. Let’s just scrap it.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Becky!” said Father. “What’s all this about? We’ll have the party inside. It’s not that difficult.”
“Oh, it is, Daddy. It’ll be hopeless,” I said, bursting into tears. “It’s not what we’d planned at all, is it, Mummy?”
Mother looked astonished and cross at the fuss I was making. “Pull yourself together, Becky. Of course it’s disappointing but we can’t just cancel because of a bit of rain. Everybody would think we were mad!”
“Well, we can’t have the treasure-hunt now, can we? That’s what people like best. That’s all spoiled. All the clues’ll be sodden out there,” I said desperately. I already knew I wasn’t going to win.
/> “Jo and I will set up a new treasure-hunt indoors,” said Father in an effort to appease me. “Now go upstairs and get your clothes on. Your mother’ll need your help getting things tidied up this morning.”
I went heavily back upstairs. There seemed no way in which the afternoon could be anything but calamitous.
Mrs. Briggs arrived first. She came at about two-thirty to help with sandwiches and setting the table. When the doorbell rang my heart started pounding in my chest. It must be Cora an hour early! But when I opened the door it was Mrs. Briggs, her face all red and wet, a plastic rain-hat tied tightly over her head and a soaking black rain-cape buttoned up under the chin. As she stepped in she filled the hall with the nasty smell of not-very-fresh wet clothes. “That’s better,” she panted as she struggled out of the cape and hung it over the end of the banisters. She untied the plastic hat, shook out her grizzled hair and patted it into some sort of style. I fancied the smell in the hall thickened. In horror I stared at the flowery frilly dress she was wearing. “Admiring my dress?” she asked, pirouetting clumsily around and flouncing out the skirt which had been crushed by her rain-cape. “No good going to a party and not wearing your glad rags, is it, dear? How do I look?”
“Nice,” I mumbled. She looked like one of the ugly sisters dressed up for the ball. “I’ll tell Mummy you’re here.”
“Just a minute,” she said, fumbling around in the baggy hold-all she always carried. “Let me get out me fancy apron. And there’s a little something here for you.”
Mother came out of the kitchen at that moment. “Mrs. Briggs! Not a present!” she said in tones of mock crossness. “What did I say? Nobody’s supposed to know it’s a birthday party!”
“What I say,” said Mrs. Briggs, pulling out a package and handing it to me, “is that a birthday’s a birthday—secret or not. And a birthday means presents. Isn’t that right, dear?” She gave me a grotesque wink.
I pulled off the wrapping paper, wondering what on earth I was going to find and how I would be able to look grateful. Mother said: “You’re very wicked, Mrs. Briggs; you shouldn’t have bothered. Isn’t it kind of Mrs. Briggs, darling?” Inside the outer wrapping was a twist of white tissue paper and, as I opened that, a little shiny bracelet dropped on to the floor. It had a single charm on it and, when I bent to pick it up, I saw it was a horrid little hobgoblin figure, with an ugly gaping mouth, who seemed to be hopping round on one leg, the other bent up in front of him and held at the ankle. I was speechless—but Mother and Mrs. Briggs were not. “Let me see, dear,” said Mother “How fascinating! I haven’t seen anything like this, Mrs. Briggs.”
“No. Unusual, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Briggs smugly. “I thought you’d like it. Copcutt’s have got a whole batch in. They’re novelty charm bracelets. That’s a special good-luck goblin to start you off … no, don’t wrap it up again, dear. Wear it for your party.”
“Shouldn’t I keep it safe?” I appealed to Mother, hoping she would understand how much I wanted to put the thing out of sight.
She did understand but chose to ignore me. “No, no, dear. Of course you must wear it today. What a lovely idea. Here … I’ll do it up for you. Now, what about changing into a dress …?”
“I thought I wasn’t dressing up. I thought everyone was coming in ordinary clothes.”
“Well, now we’re obviously not going to be outside, I expect the others will put nice dresses on.”
“Of course they will,” seconded Mrs. Briggs. “Go on, dear. You slip on something pretty. You won’t feel a birthday girl if you don’t make an effort—And I won’t let you keep on your new bracelet!”
I was beginning to think it didn’t much matter what I wore or what other changes of plan Mrs. Briggs managed to engineer, the whole afternoon was doomed in any case. As I plodded numbly upstairs I heard Mother saying: “She’s terribly disappointed about the weather, I’m afraid. Do excuse her. I expect she’ll cheer up soon.”
“Oh, don’t apologize, dear,” said Mrs. Briggs. “I’m used to kids, remember.”
I glanced back at her; she was pulling a lurid shiny apron over her head—another “glad rag”.
At half-past three on the dot the doorbell rang again and I went to open it. By this time the boys had been taken next door to be out of the way and I’d put on my only party dress, which Mother had always assured me was not only very pretty but also a “good garment”. It was broderie anglaise, with narrow, crimson, velvet ribbon threaded through at the neck, waist and hem. I’d also put on my white angora bolero to please Mother. These tiny jackets were very much the fashion amongst girls at the time—we nearly all had one. I hated mine; it had been knitted by my grandmother and the wool was rather thick and matted where it should have been like fluffy down round my shoulders. Barbara and Susan were standing in a huddle on the doorstep, giggling and chattering and holding brightly wrapped packages above their heads to keep the rain off their hair. They looked excited and pretty and for a second my spirits soared as they jumped inside, saying: “Happy birthday, Becky! I knew you’d be in a party dress!”
“Have a present!”
“I’ve only put a frock on because Mummy insisted,” I said. “You’re not supposed to know it’s a birthday party. You shouldn’t have brought presents!”
Mother came through from the kitchen. She looked cheerful and fresh in a crisp cotton dress. “Hello, girls … now I specifically said … Becky, aren’t they naughty? … Well, you must look now, dear. What kind new friends …!”
Susan had brought me a new pencil case and Barbara had brought chocolates. We all had one at once while they took their coats off and shambled hesitantly into the front room, where Father was fiddling with the record player. “Snap!” said Susan, pointing at my bolero; she was wearing one too, over a silky orange dress with a huge sash. Barbara was wearing a sensible plain navy dress with white buttons and she’d put a white band in her hair. I could see Mother thought them a very nice pair of girls, just the sort I should be mixing with. And Father looked just as pleased as he rose to greet them. I left him putting them at their ease to open the door for Hermione, who arrived at that moment. As she came in I spotted Cora approaching the gate, but instead of holding the door open for her I slammed it quickly. I wanted just a few seconds with Hermione before Cora’s presence jinxed everything. Hermione’s father had delivered her at the door in the big white car and she was hardly wet at all. She was wearing a green velvet cape with a fur collar, and underneath she had on a pink dress trimmed with lace, and she had brought soft pink shoes to change into. She gave me a present to open while she changed her shoes; it was a collection of poems by Walter de la Mare.
I said: “Hermione! That’s my best present of all!”
Then Mother was bustling into the hall and sweeping her off into the front room as the doorbell rang again for Cora, the last and fatal guest! My heart was black with treachery as I contemplated not opening the door. I wished she’d be suddenly sick and have to go; I wished I could just stick my head round the door and hiss: “Buzz off!” I wished I’d never in my life had anything to do with her. But, with profound reluctance, I opened the door and looked wanly out at her.
“Becky!” she said smiling. “Happy birthday!” She held out a damp little parcel. “… Can I come in?” A big shiver ran right through her. She was drenched and cold.
“Oh, come on in, Cora,” I said. I was relieved that the actual sight of her brought me back to reality. How could such a drab, wet little creature provoke anything but pity? She was so limp and insignificant the others would hardly notice her. She could just sit by the fire and dry out while the rest of us went ahead with the fun and games.
“I thought nobody was dressing up, Becky,” she said, worried when she stepped round the door and saw my party dress.
“Change of plan—because of the weather.” I said. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter at all.”
“Oh, I wish you’d said …” She looked upset as she took off her macinto
sh and stood there in the usual navy tee-shirt and shorts, the rain gathering in droplets along the ends of her fringe. She struggled out of her Wellingtons and pulled on the black gym shoes she’d brought for inside. “I have got a frock, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Cora. You’ll be fine. Come on; the others are here already. Come and get warm.” I wanted to get on with the moment of confrontation. Sounds of music and mirth were coming from the front room. I wanted everyone to know the worst as soon as possible.
As I pushed the front room door open I caught sight of Father grinning, his hand hovering over the gramophone pick-up. Susan and Barbara were thumping up and down to the music and Hermione was taking rather more elegant skips and jumps in a corner; Mother was looking on from an arm-chair, smiling gently. Cora and I stepped in as Father lifted the pick-up. The music stopped. Susan, Barbara and Hermione crashed to the floor in a giggling heap. “Still not too old for musical bumps!” said Father to me. “Now. Who’s this? Do we all know each other?”
One by one the others sat up and stopped laughing. “Cora!” said Mother. “My dear, you’re soaked! Come and sit by the fire with me and get dry. Becky, run and get a towel, love.”
So I left the room and didn’t see the immediate effect of Cora’s entrance. I didn’t see if there were any nudges, faces pulled, whisperings … or if Father sensed a sudden chill. By the time I came back with the towel Cora was huddled at Mother’s feet and the others were watching Susan unwrap a prize she’d won for the musical bumps. The next hour passed pleasantly enough, I thought. I was glad Father had worked out a non-stop programme of games. I had protested earlier in the day that we were all getting rather old for organized games, but now they provided the perfect excuse for the others to ignore Cora totally without it appearing the least obvious. We all soberly and intently applied ourselves to games which would normally have given rise to much roistering about. By the time it was a quarter to five and Mother excused herself to put the finishing touches to tea I was almost enjoying myself.