Immigrant

by Sally Bennett

  I flopped down on the small chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. All our books had been stored here while the house was rented, giving the room a smell I would later recognize in libraries, of old paper and ink and dust, a smell that would bring back this safe place, where I sometimes caught the smell of Daddy’s clothes although his closet was empty.

  In America I had read books like The Secret Garden, A Girl of the Limberlost, and Green Mansions about girls growing up without real parents. These girls were never good. They were what Sylvia called “difficult.” They sulked and talked back and aggravated whoever was taking care of them. They made friends with other misfits like Colin, the crippled boy, and the cranky old gardener, or they wanted to live in the woods and make their own shoes, or they knew the songs of the birds like Rima, the bird girl. I craved self-sufficiency.

  The books I read now in this little room were very different. They were about men and women. Things happened that I did not always understand about wanting and not having. Some were stories like The Razor’s Edge, in which a woman loved a man who was looking for God. This had a powerful effect on me and made me want to cry. I hated to cry. Others were about Mary Queen of Scots and other ladies with bodices and bosoms and men who were pirates or soldiers. They were never sad, even though a lot of terrible things happened. I began to think that being beautiful (all the ladies were beautiful) was exciting and necessary.

  When I finished the novels, I read Margaret Sanger’s book on birth control. This made me wonder why none of the heroines in novels ever had babies or even worried about it since it was so easy to get pregnant. It seemed unlikely they had any of the devices or methods Margaret Sanger recommended since they lived long ago. How could I trust what books said if they left out important things like that?

  “None of the ladies in those books upstairs ever have babies,” I told my mother one day. Usually I did not ask her about anything I suspected had to do with sex or babies because it annoyed her. On this occasion, she simply shrugged and said she supposed it was just luck. Everything seemed to come down to that, I thought, but still wondered if some books told the truth more than others.

  I worked my way methodically through all the books in the dressing room. Sight Without Glasses told you to throw away your spectacles and do eye exercises instead. Apparently Jack had thrown away his black-rimmed ones (I tried to think of him as Jack, not Daddy any more). I read about Theosophy, which explained how we all see the world through rose-colored glasses. I knew these weren’t real like the ones you could throw away: rose-colored ones made the world look prettier than it was.

  I was learning that I often didn’t see things the way my mother did. She said things that I thought were just silly, like when she talked about how so-and-so worshipped so-and-so. It was some time before I understood that my mother’s use of language was old-fashioned; much later I liked it and sometimes adopted some of her expressions.

  Sometimes on Sundays, Janine and I went to the children’s movies that were shown in the afternoon at the Casino—mostly Walt Disney. We saw Tres Amigos, in which the rooster sang popular Spanish songs like “Granada” and “Sorrento.” Sylvia had given me enough money to buy several lollipops—delicious ones with intense fruit flavors. Even I had to admit they were better than the ones in America—better even than Tootsie Pops. We were early, so we consumed our ration before the movie began. I found enough money in my pocket for one more.

  “Orange,” said my sister.

  “No,” I said. “Raspberry’s better.”

  She actually began to cry.

  “Oh, all right,” I said, disgust dripping from my words and slapped the money on the counter, leaving her to get the lollipop and then rush after me into the theater. I knew how frightened she was of our getting separated. As soon as the lights went out, I sensed someone at my shoulder and suddenly a shower of lollipops poured into my lap. I was stunned. The theater was already dark and when I looked around, no one was there and the movie had begun. Janine and I stared at each other. We had very little experience with miracles.

  Janine giggled. “What are we going to do,” she whispered. “Can we eat them?”

  I made a bowl of my skirt. There must have been several dozen. The one I picked out was raspberry; it was delicious.

  One day, when the rain stopped, I was leaning on the white plaster wall of the balcony outside my mother’s bedroom, looking over the trees to the sea. On the other side of the water was America. Three months ago, it had been home. Now it was a foreign country. The tiles felt cool on my bare feet, and I could smell the warm fragrance of the sweet peas that were growing wild by the road. The sunny part of the wall was very hot.

  I put my cheek against the cool part of the plaster and looked across the street. Hamish used to live in that small house. Now it was empty.

  I stared at the road again. Two black specks appeared, crawling up from the little railroad station. Soon, they became two women dressed in black, barefoot, carrying a bundle each. I watched them pause in front of our house, then press the buzzer on the gate. Our house was surrounded by a wall and a gate that could be opened only from the inside. This was common practice, designed as protection against beggars. Some houses had high walls, the tops covered with broken glass. I heard the buzzer ring inside the house and the answering click as my mother opened the gate. I rushed to the stairs. We never had any visitors.

  “How did you know we were back?” I heard my mother ask the two women when they got to the door. They were dressed in shapeless black dresses, their hair tied neatly back; but now, hot from the long climb from the railroad station, their faces and hair were damp with perspiration. My mother looked more upset than glad to see them. Then I knew. These were our maids before the war. Eduarda, our cook, took Sylvia’s hand and curtsied, then let go a flood of Portuguese. They both wanted to come back to work. Eduarda had been married, but her husband was killed in an accident. Adelia, her younger sister, who had cleaned our house, washed our sheets and clothes, and waited at table, smiled but said very little.

  I understood most of what was being said, even though I couldn’t actually say any Portuguese words. It was weird to remember what the words meant but not be able to think of them.

  “I have no husband,” Sylvia told them, “and no money to pay you. Mr. Pratt has gone away.”

  Hearing this news, the two women began to cry. Eduarda took Sylvia’s hand and held it against her cheek. Adelia wiped her tears away with a corner of her shawl. I had hardly ever seen any grownups cry, even when we had to get into the Clipper Ship and leave Jack behind. I held my breath while they shook my mother’s hand, kissed it, then picked up their shawl bundles and left. Once outside the gate, they took off their shoes, tucked them in their shawls and set off back down the road to the train station.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Confidant

  It was at this time, when the three of us were alone in Portugal in the house my mother and Jack built, that I heard the story of my mother’s life. I was young and not able to evaluate its impact except that it seemed very real to me. She was a good storyteller and, at that sad time in her life, she took comfort from remembering her youth. My imagination took hold of the story and brought the characters to life.

  At the turn of the century, Doris, or “Dor” as she was known, was nine years old. It was a time of great optimism and self-assurance in England. The middle class was riding on the crest of the industrial wave. Business was good with its colonial markets overseas, and men like her father, Henry Pynegar, could afford to support a large family in very comfortable circumstances at Tamar, their house near the small village of Beckenham, from where he was driven each morning in a pony and trap to catch the train to London. Riding in an open carriage, through a still unspoiled countryside of birdsong and flowering meadow, he was sometimes mistaken for Edward VI, with his impressive figure and black beard. People bowed to him and took off their hats. Like the king, he was handsome and successful with
the ladies. He also loved his wife, Jane, a beauty with sloping eyes, a fine figure, and a sense of humor.

  The two younger girls, Gladys and Doris, were only a few years apart in age, and they vied for their father’s favors. Who would take out the silk handkerchief and carefully wipe the dust from his top hat before he left for the station? Who would drive him? Doris, as the elder of the two, usually had the privilege. She adored Da and he favored her. She was like the boys in temperament: high spirited, independent, and impatient. Gladys was gentler, and closer to her mother.

  In spring, Daisy, the pony, clip-clopped along the road between the hedgerows, startling the birds at their nest-building. Magpies lifted off as they approached, their beaks dripping with egg from a plundered nest. From the fields came the rich smell of manure.

  “Mind your shoes,” Mother would have cautioned the children when they came in from play. There was always one—probably the youngest boy—whose appearance was greeted with howls from one of his brothers to look at his muddy shoes, bringing Jesse, the oldest daughter, from the kitchen frowning at his language and ready to prevent the damage from penetrating further into the house.

  The front door, forbidden to the children, was already scraped of its finish by Daisy who, if neglected, would somehow escape her stall and paw and stamp at the front door to get attention. This trick was, of course, wildly popular with the children, and Daddy had been known to wonder aloud how such an intelligent animal, who could let herself out of her stall at will, could not find her way back home from the neighboring village. Besides Daisy, there was Roger, the plum pudding dog, whose whip-like tail wagged with pleasure at being allowed into the drawing room.

  At dinner, Father sat at one end of the dining room table, Mother at the other, and, while their father carved, the boys vied with each other for their mother’s attention. She adored her sons, and they repaid her by making her laugh. Once they became prosperous, Henry indulged her with splits of champagne, and after a glass she became an even better audience, silently rolling from side to side at her sons’ stories.

  About l905, Henry decided it time for a family photograph. The family awoke early to a perfect summer day. There was no time to dawdle: baths had to be taken and hair combed, clothes had to be clean and pressed. The maids, with the help of the gardener, took the rugs and chairs outdoors.

  Standing from left: Jane Coulter Pynegar, son (?); sitting from left: son, Doris Sylvia, Henry Pyneger with a child on his lap

  As each child was readied, he or she was required to sit in the drawing room and wait. At last it was done. Mother and the girls wore their best frocks, with embroidered collars, full sleeves, and pieces of jewelry. Daddy and the boys wore coats and ties. The two youngest boys had short pants and blouses.

  The photographer composed the group. He directed everyone where to look; some forward, some to the right and some to the left. No one smiled, the situation was too serious. Their expressions ranged from mild alarm and vigilance to contemplation.

  How different they all were. Vernon and Jesse, the two oldest, stood at the top, staring into the distance like figureheads on a ship. Jesse’s hair, like Mother’s, was coiled on top of her head in the manner made famous by the Gibson Girls. On one side stood Kemys with his saturnine smile, then Reginald, his “north” eye hidden by the direction of his gaze. Harry’s pointed ears made him look like an elf standing behind one of the seated twins. Doris stared, rapt, into the distance, her mouth slightly open. On the other side, Daddy is holding the nextto-youngest boy, Donald, and on his right sits Doris’s twin, Rex. Mother was the center, with one arm around her youngest daughter, Gladys, and in her lap the baby, Sylvanus. She is staring directly into the camera, and her expression is not one of trust.

  Donkey “Daisy” with child, Doris, and Gladys

  No one is over 45 years old. All are handsome and vigorous: flowers of Imperial England. Who could have guessed that within 10 years, two of the boys, including the youngest, would die in the Great War, and a few years later Doris and one of her brothers would leave the country, never to return in their parents’ lifetime?

  CHAPTER 11

  School

  Over the years of my childhood, I heard about my mother’s school days. Perhaps because I did not go to a formal school until we got to America when I was eight, her memories of a girl’s school in the early 19th century sounded almost romantic. Only later did I understand how harshly the girls were treated and how deprived they were of any real knowledge or intellectual training. They were taught self-discipline, respect for authority, and some social graces.

  Doris and Gladys went to an expensive finishing school designed to prepare girls for life in the middle and upper class. The school was run by a Frenchwoman, known simply as Mademoiselle, and an Englishwoman, Miss Self. The school was a former manor house. The bedrooms were dormitories, and there were rooms for lessons, a dining room, lounge, kitchen, and chapel. Like all houses at this time, it had no central heating and was warmed by coal or wood fires in the main rooms. The bedrooms were unheated.

  The girls were taught sewing, deportment (how to sit and walk), elocution (how to speak), French, and some literature—Milton, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats—considered appropriate to the social and moral goals of the school. The girls were being prepared for marriage, for motherhood, and, most important, for positions as wives of the future leaders of the country and the empire. The comfort of the girls was not considered, any more than that of their male counterparts in the public (private) schools that shaped those future leaders.

  In Britain, daylight is as short in winter as it is long in summer. At school, Doris was woken by a loud bell before it was light. She jumped out of her warm bed, shivering as soon as her feet touched the floor, and broke the ice in the basin so she could wash her face and teeth.

  “Hurry up,” chattered Lottie Bennett. Two of my fathers’ sisters, Lottie and Dorothy, also attended this school. Doris did not like them any better than she did their brother, Bill. Since the 15 girls shared one ewer of water, the water got scummier as it was used. Doris unplaited her long braid and started brushing. This was the worst of her early morning tasks. Her hair was thick and long and her fingers were stiff from the cold. She only had a few minutes to brush it out and replait it before getting to breakfast and inspection by the headmistress, Miss Self.

  By now, the girls were all up, talking and giggling in subdued voices. They could see their breath in the dim light—little puffs of warm vapor. Doris winced as her hair caught in one of the chilblains on her knuckles. This winter was unusually cold and most of the girls had painful sores on their fingers that bled when the skin cracked. She pulled her dark brown hair tightly back from her forehead and began the long heavy plait, wishing she was one of the lucky girls born with thinner hair who could wear a fringe and tie the rest back.

  The headmistress insisted on absolute plainness of appearance. No mirrors were allowed and no curls or other decoration. Obedience, modesty, and endurance were the three virtues of the Victorians, and this school was, like most institutions, a bastion of tradition, looking back for guidance, never forward.

  By now, most of the girls had left the room. Doris tied the end of her plait and ran after them. She was buttoning her heavy blue serge blouse when she reached the dining room. Fortunately, Miss Self had not yet appeared. The maid was passing around the bowls of porridge and mugs of tea. Until last year, the girls had to spend the first hour of the day in chapel praying, before they were allowed breakfast, but there had been a lot of illness as well as enough complaints from parents that Miss Self had to allow breakfast first.

  The door opened. A tall, thin woman entered, wearing a dark blue skirt and heavy blouse, her hair pulled back in a bun.

  “Good morning, Miss Self,” rang out a chorus from the table.

  Miss Self seated herself at the head. “Good morning, girls.” She did not smile, but looked quickly around to make sure everyone was there. One seat was empty. “D
orothy is still in the infirmary,” she said, “but Sister assures me her chest is much better, and she should be back with us in a day or two.”

  Severe respiratory ailments were common: bronchitis, pleurisy, ear infections. Some girls became ill each winter; some had to be withdrawn from school; some died. The school was neither held responsible nor blamed.

  After breakfast, the girls stood by their chairs for inspection. Miss Self toured the room, examining finger nails, hair, and necks, and noting obvious stains on clothing. Since the girls changed their underclothes only once a week and their skirts and blouses when summer came, stains were a serious matter. Miss Self looked at Doris’s swollen knuckles. “Are you drying your hands well?” she asked.

  “Yes, Miss Self.”

  “See Sister for some salve. We don’t want any infections. And dry them a little better.”

  Doris heard Lottie Bennett snigger. Cow. Miss Self was telling Lottie to tighten her vest band. Poor Lottie had large breasts and was required to bind them inside her vest. Doris knew Lottie was jealous of her because of her clear skin and good figure. And because she could make the other girls laugh. When they were at home for holidays, the boys, especially Bill Bennett, flocked around Doris. Everyone knew he adored her but was too shy to do much about it. She was considered to have “It,” or sex appeal, as it was later known, unlike the Bennett girls, who definitely did not. Doris knew she was not pretty—Jesse, her older sister, was pretty—but then again she was not boring like the Bennett girls. Doris thought Lottie was thick in every way. Dorothy, her sister, was thin, spoke very softly, and had a weak chest. She was even shyer than Billy was. Doris knew Dorothy didn’t like her because Doris did not treat Billy very well.