Читать книгу House-at-the-Corner - Enid blyton - Страница 5

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The household soon settled down to having Aunt Grace in their midst. For the first day or two the children were more or less on their best behaviour. Pam did not give herself quite so many airs and graces. Tony was a little more polite than usual. Lizzie ran round Aunt Grace and waited on her as much as she could. The twins included her in their conversation, and even took her round the garden, being pleasantly surprised at all the things she knew about it.

“You forget I was a child here too, like you,” said the old lady. “Why, I remember the time before that railway bridge was over there—and do you see that hill? In my day it was covered with trees. But they’ve been cut down now.”

The twins listened politely. They had heard all this before. Aunt Grace saw their faces and stopped.

“I’ve told you all that before, haven’t I?” she said. “Well, well—you’re at least polite enough to listen, which is more than I can say for your brother Tony. He’s put on a few party manners for me, hasn’t he—but they’re wearing off now. Soon he’ll be making faces behind my back, and imitating my funny little ways.”

The twins said nothing. They knew quite well that was exactly what Tony would do. He would make all the boys at school scream with laughing, when he imitated his Great-aunt Grace. When Tony was funny he was very, very funny. But he was sometimes funny about the wrong things.

It was easy to be funny about Great-aunt Grace. Very easy. She had so many queer little ways. She always had a hair-pin or two falling out and she was always patting her hair to find these, and putting them back safely. She left her handkerchief behind her, and was always going back for it, saying, “Dear, dear, my memory! Where have I put my hanky this time?”

She couldn’t bear any crumb, hair or fleck of dust on her dress, and she was always flicking away real or imaginary ones with her finger and thumb. Tony could imitate all these things to perfection, and even Lizzie had to laugh when he began. To see Tony patting about for falling hair-pins in his short dark hair, suddenly pretending to find one and push it back, beaming, was too much for any of the children. But it was dreadful when he began to do it just behind Aunt Grace.

Delia was a terrible giggler when once she began. She would begin to giggle and that would set the others off, too. Mother would look up in surprise, and wonder what there was that was so funny in Tony patting his head. But Aunt Grace knew. She didn’t think it was funny. She thought it was bad manners, and she was hurt.

“Do shut up, Tony, doing those things in front of Aunt Grace herself,” said Lizzie. “Honestly, it’s awful of you.”

“You laughed like anything,” said Tony. “Humbug!”

“I know I did—because I simply couldn’t help it,” said Lizzie. “But I hated myself for laughing. Don’t do it, Tony.”

“Little goody-goody,” said Tony. He picked up a pair of his mother’s glasses and put them on, peering through them just like Lizzie. He fastened a piece of string round his front teeth, and began to look coy and shy, trying to squeeze himself into a corner. Pam roared.

“Oh Tony—you look just like old Lizzie does! You’re a scream. Lizzie, that’s how you behave, exactly!”

Lizzie looked and went red. Yes, she did behave like that—she did try to efface herself and fade away into corners. But how silly it looked when Tony imitated her—and anyhow she couldn’t help wearing glasses and a wire round her teeth!

“Don’t,” she said. “You’re unkind, Tony. You’re always unkind. You’re so good-looking and clever that you don’t know what it’s like not to be—you shouldn’t make fun of people who are not.”

“Our Liz!” said Tony, going all serious again, and pretending to be Lizzie fussing round Aunt Grace. “Our ministering angel! Aunt Grace, can I get you a cushion? Oh no, Aunt Grace, I don’t mind fetching your hanky. I’ve nothing else to do! Shall I give Sukie some water?”

Tears came into Lizzie’s eyes. “You’re mean!” she cried. “I don’t want to be like that. I’d like to be—to be pretty like Pam. I hate being called Lizzie when my name is Elizabeth. Why can’t you call me Elizabeth? I’ve asked you all to heaps of times. Who can help being plain and gawky if they’re called Lizzie?”

“Don’t blame it on your name,” said Pam, spitefully. “You’d be just as awful if we called you Elizabeth. Elizabeth Farrell—Lizzie Farrell—you’re just the same person, whatever we call you.”

“Elizabeth Farrell—it’s a nice name,” said Lizzie. “I’d like to be called that. I should feel different, whatever you say.”

“If you were a writer or an actress you could change you name to Elizabeth at once, if you wanted to,” said Delia’s clear voice.

When she was alone again, Lizzie sat and thought about it. One day she would change her name to Elizabeth. She couldn’t be an actress, because she wasn’t a bit of good at acting. But she might be a writer, perhaps.

“But that’s years and years ahead,” she thought and looked sadly out of the window. “Years and years. And I’m growing now into a Lizzie person. I shan’t be able to change into an Elizabeth when I really get the chance!”

Aunt Grace came into the room to look for her handkerchief. “A penny for your thoughts, Lizzie,” she said.

“Oh, well—they’re not worth a penny!” said Lizzie. “I was just wishing something, that’s all.”

“Then they’re worth a shilling,” said Aunt Grace and put a shilling down beside Lizzie. “I love to know what people are wishing. Go on, child, tell me!”

“It wasn’t anything much,” said Lizzie. “I was just wishing I was old enough to be something—a writer, for instance—and call myself Elizabeth Farrell instead of Lizzie. I hate being called Lizzie. Elizabeth is such a lovely name. I’m sure I shouldn’t feel so silly and shy and awkward if I was called Elizabeth.”

“Well, I will call you Elizabeth, if you like,” said Aunt Grace, at once.

“Oh no,” said Lizzie, hastily. “The others would laugh like anything. But wouldn’t it be nice to see a book I had written, with my name across it—Elizabeth Farrell—just like that. I’d know I was somebody then, instead of the stupidest person in my family.”

“I don’t see any reason at all why you shouldn’t write a book some day,” said Aunt Grace. “You always write me extremely good letters. Why don’t you write a story, and sign it Elizabeth Farrell, just to see what it feels like?”

“Oh—I couldn’t write a story!” said Lizzie, laughing. “I can write essays for school—and letters, of course—but you have to be awfully clever to write a story, don’t you?”

“Well, perhaps you are awfully clever, and we don’t know it!” said Aunt Grace. “I heard you telling the twins the other day about somebody’s cats. It sounded most amusing to me. Why don’t you write the story of the cats?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Lizzie, shying away at the thought. “I’m not clever enough. Really I’m not.”

“How do you know?” cried Aunt Grace, getting suddenly exasperated. “How do you know till you TRY? Bless the child, she’s scared of everything, even herself! Elizabeth Farrell, if you want to stop being Lizzie, take hold of yourself and DO something. Always running away from things and people! Elizabeth Farrell would be full of dignity and charm, she’d hold her own with anyone, she’d be worth while. Now, where did I put my handkerchief?”

Aunt Grace found her handkerchief, and then, hearing Sukie the parrot squawking, went off to see what was the matter. Lizzie stared out of the window again. A little core of excitement began to grow in her mind.

“ ‘The Thirteen Cats,’ by Elizabeth Farrell,” she said, under her breath. “ ‘Tales of my Great-Great-Granny,’ by Elizabeth Farrell. ‘Fairy Tales from Austria,’ by Elizabeth Farrell. Doesn’t it sound lovely? Lizzie might not be able to do things like that—but Elizabeth could. I shall be Elizabeth part of the time—and write the stories I’ve heard—and even ones I haven’t heard, ones I can make up myself. Elizabeth Farrell can do anything!”

She stood up, her face glowing. She felt that she must begin that very instant. Then she heard Tony’s voice in the distance. How he would laugh if he knew! How they would all laugh. To them she was plain, gawky Lizzie, with her spectacles and the wire across her front teeth, spoiling her smile—they would never admit she was Elizabeth Farrell, writer of tales!

“Well, I’ll do it in secret then,” thought Lizzie. “I shan’t tell anyone. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ll write the first story, and when I’ve finished I’ll sign my name at the end—Elizabeth Farrell. And nobody, nobody shall ever know!”

But it wasn’t so easy to write a story after all. To begin with, it had to be done in secret, and it was difficult to do anything really privately in the House-at-the-Corner. People always seemed to be rushing in and out of everybody else’s rooms. Lizzie had never minded before, but she got very cross about it now.

First Mother would come and open the door. “Oh, Lizzie dear, are you there? It’s such a nice afternoon, don’t sit indoors. Come along out.”

Or the twins would come bursting in. “Oh, sorry, Liz. Could you lend us a copying-ink pencil? We want to write some garden labels.”

Or Greta the maid would come bustling in, singing her usual little Viennese air, flapping a duster as she came. “Oh Miss Lizzie, I distairb you! I go very soon. What are you doing here, so lonely and quiet?”

Or Tony would barge in, whistling, and then stop in surprise. “Hallo, are you here? I keep forgetting you’re in the spare-room now instead of in your own room. I want something out of the cupboard.”

“I wish you’d let me have a little peace and quiet!” Lizzie would say at last, getting tired of quickly covering up her writing. “Anyone would think this was the play-room or something!”

“What do you want peace and quiet for?” demanded Tony. “Got a secret? Ha, Lizzie’s got a secret!”

“Shut up, Tony,” Lizzie would say. “As if anyone could have secrets in this house!”

But in spite of all the interruptions and disturbances Lizzie did at last manage to finish writing her first story. There it was, in her desk—“The Thirteen Cats. A story for Children, by Elizabeth Farrell.” She signed her name at the end, proudly and slowly.

“Elizabeth Farrell.” It looked fine. And, as she signed it, Lizzie felt changed. She had done something. She had written a good story, a story no one else had written. She could be Elizabeth as much as Lizzie. In fact Elizabeth was a much finer person than Lizzie—nicer altogether, Lizzie thought. She longed to show her story to somebody.

“But not to Tony or the others,” she thought. “I simply couldn’t bear them to laugh at it—and they would. They’ve always made fun of me. They can’t help it now. Whatever I do will be funny to them. I can never be Elizabeth Farrell to them. But I will be to myself.”

She took off her glasses and the wire from her front teeth. She pushed back her heavy dark hair and looked at herself in the glass. Her eyes shone because she was happy over her story. Her cheeks were red. She looked quite different already, she thought—not pretty, like Pam, but not plain or homely any more.

“That’s Elizabeth in the mirror now,” she said to herself. “I can always be Elizabeth when I want to. And I shan’t tell anyone, then nobody can laugh and spoil it all!”