The Happy Prisoner by Monica Dickens Page A

still held her book up on her lap. She would read for a while, then a long time would go by without a page being turned and her chest would start to appear beyond the sides of the chair. Waking in a few minutes, she would go on reading as if nothing had happened, until she dozed off again, to wake and read and doze and wake all through the afternoon. Sometimes, when they had been talking, she would throw out an idea on the instant of waking, as if she had been planning still in her dreams. She was napping thus one November afternoon, while Oliver played the wireless softly and watched Evelyn and a pigtailedfriend, in scarves and gumboots, raking leaves on the lower lawn under a red and rayless sun.
    â€œPerhaps, after all,” said Mrs. North suddenly, “the little green room might be better. It’s warmer, being over the kitchen.”
    Oliver could not remember what they had been talking about half an hour ago. “Sure,” he said.
    â€œOf course, there’s a better bed in the big spare room. She’s probably used to a good bed.”
    â€œYou mean Anne? Oh, don’t worry about her. Put her in a loose-box.”
    â€œWhere do you figure she’d like to sleep?”
    â€œIn here, I should think, judging by the tone of her letter. Look at those silly kids out there. They haven’t a chance in this wind. Evie!” he shouted. “You’ll never do it! Why don’t you give up?” Evelyn turned towards the house, spilling most of her armful of leaves. “We can do it,” came her shrill, breathless cry. “We must. Cowlin said—” The rest was smothered as the wind blew the leaves she held into her face and away before she could put them in the wheelbarrow. She grabbed the rake from her friend and began to work with desperate energy. She was always pitting herself against tasks that were far beyond her, convinced that she could do them, and battling on to the point of tears before she would give up. Oliver had watched her yesterday, building a jump in the hill field with Violet, struggling to get a heavy pit-prop into position across the uprights and thrusting Violet away when she ambled up to help.
    â€œSweep them with the wind, not against it!” he shouted, making passes which she could not see, as people make gestures while telephoning.
    â€œYou oughtn’t to shout, darling,” said Mrs. North, waking up. She read for a moment, and when she woke again Oliver asked: “Good sleep?”
    â€œI wasn’t asleep.”
    â€œYou were—ten solid minutes.”
    â€œI can’t have been. I’m reading. I maybe just nodded for a second. I’m not crazy about this book, but the girl at the library said everyone was reading it, so I suppose I should.”
    When Elizabeth had brought Oliver’s tea, she came back again in a few moments with another tray for Mrs. North.
    â€œIsn’t that darling of you!” she exclaimed, taking her feet off the stool with a grunt so that Elizabeth could put down the tray. “You shouldn’t have bothered; I was just coming along. What about the children?” She always thought everyone would starve if she were not about.
    â€œHeather and I are having it with them in the nursery.”
    â€œHot scones!” Mrs. North lifted the lid of the muffin dish. “Did you make these? You are a dear.” Elizabeth was a disconcertingly difficult person to thank. She simply said: “You said this morning you wanted the sour milk used up.”
    â€œYes, but I don’t want you to cook in your off-duty time.”
    â€œOh, I’ve been out,” said Elizabeth. “I went down to the village. I got your stamps and envelopes, and I took your shoes to Mr. Betteridge. He says they’ll take a week.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have bothered. I could have taken them. But it was darling of you to think of it.” But Elizabeth would not have it so. “I had to go