very little had been needed. “And I mean that.”
“Of course you love her,” James said stupidly, and he looked at his watch.
“No, I don’t. And I don’t love this bloody old egg, either.”
“Go,” mouthed Amy, parting her hands, and then making a pushing movement with them towards the door. So Maggie went off in distress, with Isobel’s screams still ringing in her head, which should have been used to them.
When she had gone, Isobel shuddered with a few left-over sobs, and then her face cleared. She bashed her bloody old egg, got shell into it, dribbled bits onto her plate. Dora finished hers primly, laid down her spoon.
“Can I get down?” Isobel asked, having done so.
“And wash your hands and face,” said Amy.
“Mummy never makes us.”
“I do.”
“Did she wash her hands when she was a little girl?” asked Dora.
Isobel lingered by the door for the reply.
“I am sure she did.”
“She doesn’t now,” Dora said gravely.
“Did Daddy wash his hands?” Isobel asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“You seem more certain about him than Mummy,” Dora said.
“Well, I didn’t know Mummy when she was a little girl.”
“Didn’t know her. Whatever next?” Isobel took a grip of the door knob with her sticky hands. “Where was I, then?” she asked, coming back into the room with a look of concern on her face.
“You weren’t there,” Dora said.
It was beyond belief to Isobel, an outrage, that sometime, somewhere, she had not existed.
“Rude pig,” she screamed, and then she fled to wash her hands and think of answers.
Dora spread honey on bread-and-butter. When Isobel returned, a change seemed to have come over her. With her finger-tips under the gushing tap, she hadtried to sort out the problem of her own identity and of the limits of its being. She was disturbed, as many children and all egoists are (and she was both), by the idea of a non-existence at any time with relation to the present. She knew of cavemen with clubs dragging women along by their hair. She had seen them on television cartoons, and she could accept the fact, and be glad of it, that in those days she had not been born. She came by most of her theories from the television, and was ready, most ready, to believe that when children slept in air-raid shelters she was not among them, that she had been missing from scenes of antique carnage she had viewed: but to think that her own parents had been alive when she was not was disturbing to her, as were her mother’s references to a school she had gone to without her little child. “Who stayed with me?” she had asked. Torrents of tears met any sort of answer.
She came back quietly into the room, sidled towards Amy, lifted her arms to be lifted, and when she was, sank her head and began to suck her thumb. Her eyelids wavered slowly. I will carry her up to bed, Amy thought.
But no. Dora took a biscuit and bit little scallops round its edge, looked menacing. As if continuing a conversation, she said, “Yes, I did love that house where we lived before Isobel was born. There was a magic well in the garden.”
Isobel pushed her head quite hurtfully into Amy’s bosom and let scalding tears soak through her blouse. Amy rocked her gently, amazed at all the tears inside the child, and the ready manufacturing of them. If thetears went on strike, Isobel, she supposed, would burst. “Would you like another biscuit?” she asked Dora, to change the conversation. But the conversation, apparently, having done its work, had been completed.
“I haven’t finished this one yet, thank you,” Dora said politely, nibbling daintily at her chocolate Wheat-meal Dairy Crisp.
Isobel, worn out, and no wonder, dozed heavily against Amy, who was astonished at a rapture she felt at this. She hadn’t so touched or held anyone for a long time, and hadn’t, until now, realised what she had missed. She thought that other people go through half a lifetime without touching or being touched.
“Of course you love her,” James said stupidly, and he looked at his watch.
“No, I don’t. And I don’t love this bloody old egg, either.”
“Go,” mouthed Amy, parting her hands, and then making a pushing movement with them towards the door. So Maggie went off in distress, with Isobel’s screams still ringing in her head, which should have been used to them.
When she had gone, Isobel shuddered with a few left-over sobs, and then her face cleared. She bashed her bloody old egg, got shell into it, dribbled bits onto her plate. Dora finished hers primly, laid down her spoon.
“Can I get down?” Isobel asked, having done so.
“And wash your hands and face,” said Amy.
“Mummy never makes us.”
“I do.”
“Did she wash her hands when she was a little girl?” asked Dora.
Isobel lingered by the door for the reply.
“I am sure she did.”
“She doesn’t now,” Dora said gravely.
“Did Daddy wash his hands?” Isobel asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“You seem more certain about him than Mummy,” Dora said.
“Well, I didn’t know Mummy when she was a little girl.”
“Didn’t know her. Whatever next?” Isobel took a grip of the door knob with her sticky hands. “Where was I, then?” she asked, coming back into the room with a look of concern on her face.
“You weren’t there,” Dora said.
It was beyond belief to Isobel, an outrage, that sometime, somewhere, she had not existed.
“Rude pig,” she screamed, and then she fled to wash her hands and think of answers.
Dora spread honey on bread-and-butter. When Isobel returned, a change seemed to have come over her. With her finger-tips under the gushing tap, she hadtried to sort out the problem of her own identity and of the limits of its being. She was disturbed, as many children and all egoists are (and she was both), by the idea of a non-existence at any time with relation to the present. She knew of cavemen with clubs dragging women along by their hair. She had seen them on television cartoons, and she could accept the fact, and be glad of it, that in those days she had not been born. She came by most of her theories from the television, and was ready, most ready, to believe that when children slept in air-raid shelters she was not among them, that she had been missing from scenes of antique carnage she had viewed: but to think that her own parents had been alive when she was not was disturbing to her, as were her mother’s references to a school she had gone to without her little child. “Who stayed with me?” she had asked. Torrents of tears met any sort of answer.
She came back quietly into the room, sidled towards Amy, lifted her arms to be lifted, and when she was, sank her head and began to suck her thumb. Her eyelids wavered slowly. I will carry her up to bed, Amy thought.
But no. Dora took a biscuit and bit little scallops round its edge, looked menacing. As if continuing a conversation, she said, “Yes, I did love that house where we lived before Isobel was born. There was a magic well in the garden.”
Isobel pushed her head quite hurtfully into Amy’s bosom and let scalding tears soak through her blouse. Amy rocked her gently, amazed at all the tears inside the child, and the ready manufacturing of them. If thetears went on strike, Isobel, she supposed, would burst. “Would you like another biscuit?” she asked Dora, to change the conversation. But the conversation, apparently, having done its work, had been completed.
“I haven’t finished this one yet, thank you,” Dora said politely, nibbling daintily at her chocolate Wheat-meal Dairy Crisp.
Isobel, worn out, and no wonder, dozed heavily against Amy, who was astonished at a rapture she felt at this. She hadn’t so touched or held anyone for a long time, and hadn’t, until now, realised what she had missed. She thought that other people go through half a lifetime without touching or being touched.
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