touching it, if that was possible.
Suddenly, my pillow-punching mood disappeared entirely and I looked at Mr. Henley and I said, “Have you been married very long, Mr. Henley?”
“I’m not married at all,” he said, and he slapped the side of his mail pouch. “Too busy, I suppose.”
“What a pity,” I said and I tried to look very sorrowful. “Well, thank you ever so much for the letter.”
I tore back up the steps as if I were a cannonball being propelled by a rubber band in one of Derek’s battles, which made me think of one of Derek’s soldiers, the broken one that reminded me of the sad little tin soldier in the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale.
When I got back up the long stairs, I went into the dining room, where Derek was sitting with a deck of cards. He loved to play hearts. All the Bathburns did. I slipped the thin letter up my sleeve and I sat at the other side of the table and looked at Derek. I tried to be very ho-hum and not act excited at all about the letter. I put my elbows on the table and leaned my chin in my hands and I just sat there watching Derek. He had such lovely posture. He would have made a tremendous knight, I thought just then, if he had lived long ago in England near, say, Goodrich Castle in Herefordshire.
Derek and I played a round of hearts. You can play with two people, but you have to make a dummy hand. And the whole time we played, I had the letter inside my sleeve. It felt very itchy and I was sure that’s why I lost the game. The day before, I lost because there was a fly buzzing round my head and I couldn’t think properly, and the day before that, I lost because I was hungry. In fact, I’d never won at hearts since I’d been in Bottlebay, Maine. I almost beat The Gram on Saturday. She appeared to be losing, but then at the very last, she had all the best cards. That’s when I had decided to lie down on the floor and pretend I was floating in the ocean. The Gram had said, “Oh, Flissy, don’t pout. You’ll get the hang of it. The Bathburns always win at hearts. The card game, that is.”
Derek was trying to prop several cards in his one miserable paralyzed hand now, but the cards just fell from his fingers and scattered about. Then Derek dropped his head and shoulders down so that his cheek was lying now on the tabletop. “It’s not fair,” he said. “How am I supposed to discard and draw when I am already holding a handful of cards? And I’m not going to go back to school either.”
“I should think you’d be feeling rather smug right now, having just won at hearts again,” I said. And while Derek was moaning and groaning, I pulled the letter slowly out of my sleeve and I set it on the table right near Derek’s nose.
Derek sat up. “Where did you get this, Flissy?” he asked.
“It came today in the mail,” I said. “Uncle Gideon must have gone to town with The Gram for groceries and missed it.”
“We’d better not open it,” said Derek, “but there’s no harm in holding it up to the light.” With his good arm, Derek held the envelope up to the window. But we couldn’t see through it. It seemed to stare back at us in silence. I traced my fingers over the address and Danny’s handwriting. It felt quite nice, really, to be so close to something Danny had written not long before. And then my heart got heavy again because he hadn’t written to me. It sank just as if it weighed six stones five, the very weight of Jillian Osgood before she even entered the fifth form.
“Let’s try leaving the letter here on the table and see what Uncle Gideon does about it. See if he goes anywhere, so we can follow him,” I said and I put my hands on my hips and I scrunched up my nose to show that I was quite serious.
And Derek said, “Flissy, if they had horses and cattle and cowboy boots and lassos and campfires and Wyoming in England, you’d be a true British cowgirl.”
We went into the hall and got into the closet to hide. I had said, “Shall
Suddenly, my pillow-punching mood disappeared entirely and I looked at Mr. Henley and I said, “Have you been married very long, Mr. Henley?”
“I’m not married at all,” he said, and he slapped the side of his mail pouch. “Too busy, I suppose.”
“What a pity,” I said and I tried to look very sorrowful. “Well, thank you ever so much for the letter.”
I tore back up the steps as if I were a cannonball being propelled by a rubber band in one of Derek’s battles, which made me think of one of Derek’s soldiers, the broken one that reminded me of the sad little tin soldier in the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale.
When I got back up the long stairs, I went into the dining room, where Derek was sitting with a deck of cards. He loved to play hearts. All the Bathburns did. I slipped the thin letter up my sleeve and I sat at the other side of the table and looked at Derek. I tried to be very ho-hum and not act excited at all about the letter. I put my elbows on the table and leaned my chin in my hands and I just sat there watching Derek. He had such lovely posture. He would have made a tremendous knight, I thought just then, if he had lived long ago in England near, say, Goodrich Castle in Herefordshire.
Derek and I played a round of hearts. You can play with two people, but you have to make a dummy hand. And the whole time we played, I had the letter inside my sleeve. It felt very itchy and I was sure that’s why I lost the game. The day before, I lost because there was a fly buzzing round my head and I couldn’t think properly, and the day before that, I lost because I was hungry. In fact, I’d never won at hearts since I’d been in Bottlebay, Maine. I almost beat The Gram on Saturday. She appeared to be losing, but then at the very last, she had all the best cards. That’s when I had decided to lie down on the floor and pretend I was floating in the ocean. The Gram had said, “Oh, Flissy, don’t pout. You’ll get the hang of it. The Bathburns always win at hearts. The card game, that is.”
Derek was trying to prop several cards in his one miserable paralyzed hand now, but the cards just fell from his fingers and scattered about. Then Derek dropped his head and shoulders down so that his cheek was lying now on the tabletop. “It’s not fair,” he said. “How am I supposed to discard and draw when I am already holding a handful of cards? And I’m not going to go back to school either.”
“I should think you’d be feeling rather smug right now, having just won at hearts again,” I said. And while Derek was moaning and groaning, I pulled the letter slowly out of my sleeve and I set it on the table right near Derek’s nose.
Derek sat up. “Where did you get this, Flissy?” he asked.
“It came today in the mail,” I said. “Uncle Gideon must have gone to town with The Gram for groceries and missed it.”
“We’d better not open it,” said Derek, “but there’s no harm in holding it up to the light.” With his good arm, Derek held the envelope up to the window. But we couldn’t see through it. It seemed to stare back at us in silence. I traced my fingers over the address and Danny’s handwriting. It felt quite nice, really, to be so close to something Danny had written not long before. And then my heart got heavy again because he hadn’t written to me. It sank just as if it weighed six stones five, the very weight of Jillian Osgood before she even entered the fifth form.
“Let’s try leaving the letter here on the table and see what Uncle Gideon does about it. See if he goes anywhere, so we can follow him,” I said and I put my hands on my hips and I scrunched up my nose to show that I was quite serious.
And Derek said, “Flissy, if they had horses and cattle and cowboy boots and lassos and campfires and Wyoming in England, you’d be a true British cowgirl.”
We went into the hall and got into the closet to hide. I had said, “Shall
Similar Books
