knew all about Palm Sunday.
When the cart drew away she picked up a palm leaf and waved it. She was not boisterous, rather tentative in fact. She waved reverently, as if she were in Jerusalem on that day. There was a man-she could see him, would always see him-with a broad black beard and small jug ears, riding a little fat-bellied horse down Church Street.
All she meant to do was lay the palm beneath the horse's feet.
"Hosanna," she cried-afterwards her voice would sound shrill and silly in her memory-"Hosanna in the highest."
All her life she saw what happened: the horse rearing, the man's mouth open, the dreadful trajectory. The noise his head made was as definite as a walnut cracking. The doll was purchased from the jam jar, or one of the jam jars, for in the earth-floored hut in New South Wales in which Lucinda Leplastrier was born there were a great number of jam jars, some of them visible, some of them not. The less important ones-thick, dumpy, heavy with ha'pennies and farthings, squat toads, unkissed by silversat on the twisted mantel beside the heirloom clock. There were two of these, the bluish one for the plate at church, the scratched green one for stamps and jam and other luxuries; these jars were never full. But there were other taller jars tucked away behind the cast-iron stove, and several others inside the wattle and daub walls, their exact location hidden by the dried mud and one would think, looking at the place, that this particular piece of mud was a part of the daub, or, even if you arrived when it was fresh, that it was nothing but a draught hole her papa had filled as he had filled so many others, with old newspaper and mud.
There were jam jars hidden behind the handsome books her mother dusted-always in the middle of some other task (making white sauce, cutting up the soap into square cakes on the central table), a flick of a rag, whisk, whoosh-a lizard's tongue licking the white clay dust off Carlyle, Dostoevsky, Seneca, Dickens, Tolstoy, John Stuart Mill, and the novels of her old friend Marian Evans behind whose affectionately autographed books there lay an ash-smelling jar filled with pennies and even threepences. This was the birthday jar.
It was from this birthday jar that the doll had come, and sometimes it seemed it was against her mother's wishes-for she was often sharp with Lucinda when she held the doll against her breastand yet sometimes it seemed the doll must have been her mother's idea, for her father would, when he was tired or depressed about their lack of headway with the farm, or the ignorance of their neighbours, tease her mother about her love of luxury. This meant the doll. There had been no other luxury.
The doll was her ninth birthday present. It had come in a ship across the world, just as her mama and papa had. She was very pretty with bright blue eyes and corn-yellow hair. Her cheeks were as smooth as china, and cool against your neck on a hot day. The doll had been purchased by Marian Evans who had gone in a coach to a great exhibition, especially to buy it. And that time Lucinda-much impressed by what she called the "expedition"-did not know what an exhibition really was, but it later occurred to her that the doll must have come from the building she was to so admire in her adult life-the Crystal Palace.
On the day she took Dolly to play over on the back creek, she wrapped her in a white crocheted shawl that she took, without permission, from the Baby Drawer. She wrapped the doll in the shawl because she knew-although her brothers had all died before they were old enough for her to remember them clearly-how it was you should treat a babe in arms.
"There is a nasty wind blowing," she told the doll. Her mother did not approve of her speaking with dolls. Had she heard her, she would have said it was 'limiting." Her mother, however, was not therehad been called to help "the poor silly girl" (Mrs O'Hagen) have a baby, and Lucindawho clearly remembered the last occasion
When the cart drew away she picked up a palm leaf and waved it. She was not boisterous, rather tentative in fact. She waved reverently, as if she were in Jerusalem on that day. There was a man-she could see him, would always see him-with a broad black beard and small jug ears, riding a little fat-bellied horse down Church Street.
All she meant to do was lay the palm beneath the horse's feet.
"Hosanna," she cried-afterwards her voice would sound shrill and silly in her memory-"Hosanna in the highest."
All her life she saw what happened: the horse rearing, the man's mouth open, the dreadful trajectory. The noise his head made was as definite as a walnut cracking. The doll was purchased from the jam jar, or one of the jam jars, for in the earth-floored hut in New South Wales in which Lucinda Leplastrier was born there were a great number of jam jars, some of them visible, some of them not. The less important ones-thick, dumpy, heavy with ha'pennies and farthings, squat toads, unkissed by silversat on the twisted mantel beside the heirloom clock. There were two of these, the bluish one for the plate at church, the scratched green one for stamps and jam and other luxuries; these jars were never full. But there were other taller jars tucked away behind the cast-iron stove, and several others inside the wattle and daub walls, their exact location hidden by the dried mud and one would think, looking at the place, that this particular piece of mud was a part of the daub, or, even if you arrived when it was fresh, that it was nothing but a draught hole her papa had filled as he had filled so many others, with old newspaper and mud.
There were jam jars hidden behind the handsome books her mother dusted-always in the middle of some other task (making white sauce, cutting up the soap into square cakes on the central table), a flick of a rag, whisk, whoosh-a lizard's tongue licking the white clay dust off Carlyle, Dostoevsky, Seneca, Dickens, Tolstoy, John Stuart Mill, and the novels of her old friend Marian Evans behind whose affectionately autographed books there lay an ash-smelling jar filled with pennies and even threepences. This was the birthday jar.
It was from this birthday jar that the doll had come, and sometimes it seemed it was against her mother's wishes-for she was often sharp with Lucinda when she held the doll against her breastand yet sometimes it seemed the doll must have been her mother's idea, for her father would, when he was tired or depressed about their lack of headway with the farm, or the ignorance of their neighbours, tease her mother about her love of luxury. This meant the doll. There had been no other luxury.
The doll was her ninth birthday present. It had come in a ship across the world, just as her mama and papa had. She was very pretty with bright blue eyes and corn-yellow hair. Her cheeks were as smooth as china, and cool against your neck on a hot day. The doll had been purchased by Marian Evans who had gone in a coach to a great exhibition, especially to buy it. And that time Lucinda-much impressed by what she called the "expedition"-did not know what an exhibition really was, but it later occurred to her that the doll must have come from the building she was to so admire in her adult life-the Crystal Palace.
On the day she took Dolly to play over on the back creek, she wrapped her in a white crocheted shawl that she took, without permission, from the Baby Drawer. She wrapped the doll in the shawl because she knew-although her brothers had all died before they were old enough for her to remember them clearly-how it was you should treat a babe in arms.
"There is a nasty wind blowing," she told the doll. Her mother did not approve of her speaking with dolls. Had she heard her, she would have said it was 'limiting." Her mother, however, was not therehad been called to help "the poor silly girl" (Mrs O'Hagen) have a baby, and Lucindawho clearly remembered the last occasion
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