Читать книгу Betwixt and Between - Jessica Stilling - Страница 8

LONDON, eNgLaND 1901

A nurse, the kind with a large bottom and bushy hair tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, who looked as if she should have been pushing a gigantic pram, what with her long black skirt, tattered at the ends, and white dress shirt that showed off her heavy arms and chest, moved through Regents Park in London followed by (although sometimes it looked as if she were following) three rambunctious children. It was a spring day, the kind of day that anyone, from the flower seller on the street to the businessman out for a stroll, would call “fine.” The weather was not too hot, not the sticky summer that would come in a few weeks, nor were there any inconvenient chills in the air. The flowers had been blooming in Kew Gardens and along the Strand and near the house in Bloomsbury where the children lived. The grass was green and neatly clipped, the trees reached out, some branches scattered with white flowers while others had the fresh green leaves that Netty had grown to admire about London parks in the spring when the children could go out.

“Winifred, Winifred, calm down,” Netty called as the children ran on ahead of her. They were racing over a path, the raised dirt blowing on Netty’s black shoes, the ones she had just had shined on her way to the butchers. Their play was too much for her, but it was better, Netty knew, to get these children out of the house. The yard was so small, and not only that, there were the Missus’ flowers in the back and that dog they were always playing with. And she couldn’t very well keep them inside and so after they’d had their lunch Netty had dressed the children and taken them out, though now, seeing how they were behaving, she was beginning to wonder about the logic behind her decision. “Winifred, don’t run so much, you simply mustn’t . . .” Netty called, raising her skirts and rushing after the three of them.

There was Winifred, a girl of fifteen, who for all intents and purposes should have been sitting politely making gentle conversation with other girls her age. She should have been learning to sew—sew better than she could, not just those buttons she could barely keep in place—she needed to study her times tables and her spelling, to go over the history books her father left her. But instead she was still playing around in the nursery, still off in fairyland with those brothers of hers. There was John, he was nine, a studious enough young man who listened to his father and his tutor, who would be going away to school soon, to Eton like his father before him and his father before him. There was also Paul, better known as Michael to the children because the Missus, though she liked the name well enough, had said there was something too serious about calling a child Paul. “We’ll see if he grows into it,” is what the Missus had said after little Paul, or was it little Michael, was born. Netty had felt sorry for the Missus, that name had obviously not been her idea and yet she’d carried the child for nine months, she’d gone through the pain of childbirth—and Netty could just picture the screaming—while her husband had sat in the den reading the paper, and still she couldn’t name him.

“Winifred, stay back, stay back, don’t run so far ahead,” Netty called, stumbling to keep up with them as she ran up a hill. The children had just sprung over the top and Netty struggled, though the sun was in her eyes, to see them, sweat accumulating rapidly on her brow.

“On guard,” John called, his arm pointing out as if it were in and of itself a very sharp and pointy sword. “On guard,” he called again and Winifred stood in front of him.

“It is not ‘on guard,’ John, it’s ‘en garde’, it’s French, you have to pronounce it right,” the girl corrected, her long light brown hair tied back in a flimsy blue ribbon. It had looked much nicer before; she knew that, when Netty had done it for her. And her dress had looked much nicer then as well, as had her leather shoes. But then she’d gotten to see the light of day and she never kept anything nice and she didn’t really understand why that had to bother anybody.

“Oh, what do you know about French? I’m going to Eton,” John called and Winifred pushed her brother until he stumbled. He might have lost his balance and fallen over, smack onto the dirty ground, but at the last second he started flailing his arms like a madman and that seemed to do the trick. “You silly girl, hook it, you, hook it,” he called, holding an arm-sword out again as Michael appeared. “On guard,” he called once more and Winifred stepped back, laughing. “I’m Captain Redhanded Jack, you dirty old. . .you dirty old pirate,” the boy cried at Michael, who also held out his arm as a weapon. “On guard you yellow-livered son of a. . . .”

“John!” Netty called, hustling over the hill, her skirts gathered in her hands.

“And I’ll get you, you slimy little snake,” the little one cried, his tiny arm “slicing” into John’s chest. “There you see, I got you. No one can get away from Captain Ghosthanded Bill you. . .you. . . .”

“Michael!” Netty called and both boys finally turned to her.

“But none of you can have me,” the girl called, flopping dreamily every which-way, her hand on her head as if she were a suffering damsel. “I’m Tiger Lily, Princess of the Indian Chiefs.”

“You can’t be the Princess of an Indian Chief,” Michael cried. “They don’t have Princesses.”

“Well I’m an Indian Princess,” the girl argued. “And my Indian Prince is going to come and get rid of all you silly pirates.”

“They are not,” both boys cried in unison.

“They can’t do that, that’s not allowed, Indians can’t even cross the sea. There are no Indians in England,” John countered.

“Who said we were in England?” the girl asked and both her brothers began chasing her. She ran in her delicate white shoes, and Netty closed her eyes, she couldn’t look, she just couldn’t look at them.

“Children,” she called once they’d run ahead of her. “Children behave!” she cried out. And it wasn’t fair. Her friend Katy was a nurse to four children over in Little Britain and they were perfect dears, Katy said, they barely gave her a lick of trouble and here she was with these three, and one of them was old enough to be a grown woman, still running around pretending to be an Indian Princess. And didn’t they have princesses in England, weren’t English Princesses good enough for that one? “Children, come back, be good now, d’you hear? Act your age,” Netty cried as she stumbled after them.

She could see them running; they didn’t even bother to stay on the path. The boys with their arms out, “swords” displayed. John had the correct posture at least, one hand behind his back, forward knee pointed out. That one at least knew how to pose, but the other young lad, he was flailing all over the place.

“On guard,” John called, eyes tense as he rushed toward his brother.

“And I’m Tiger Lily,” Winifred said, standing between them. “You have to rescue me, Captain Redhanded Jack, rescue me from that one,” she declared.

“What makes you think we’re going to do that?” John asked, stopping the game to glare at her. “Go on and shoo, girl,” he called, sticking his tongue out at her as Michael moved in. The boys ran sideways down the path between the trees like little chipmunks scuffling over a fallen nut.“Children, children, calm down!” Netty called, though she had no chance of catching up with them, not going so slowly, her skirts nearly tripping her.

Winifred watched Netty try to reach them. She had never understood the way women dressed as if they needed to remain still all day. What was the fun in that?

She watched her brothers run down the path. Two men were coming, decked out in black; they seemed as if they were dressed for one of those parties Papa attended sometimes, when he took Mother and she wore her nicest dress, the pink one that went with her pearl earrings. One of the men was wearing a tall top hat that shone in the sun, and he carried a cane, swinging it from side to side as if it had no other purpose. The other man, when he got closer, looked younger; he did not wear a hat, but had on the same nice black suit, as if the two of them were in some kind of uniform. Winifred, as she watched them, could just hear their conversation, “And then my good man, we must go to the club, and after that maybe we’ll look again at those numbers. Stocks and bonds and cricket and tea and biscuits and then the office, yes, of course, the office, we mustn’t forget the office.”

Winifred ran up to her brothers while they were playing, just as Michael crashed into the man with the cane. The older gentleman stumbled for a moment, arm shooting into the air as he nearly tumbled, and he would have if his younger companion hadn’t grasped his arm and helped him keep his balance. Michael tumbled at the man’s feet, but neither of them bothered to help him up.

“Look out, little brats,” the man with the top hat cried, and John rushed to Michael, helping him up. “Hasn’t anyone taught you manners?” the man seethed and John looked at the ground. Winifred, witnessing the scene, ran to her brother’s aide.

“Don’t you yell at my brother,” she cried at them, looking the offending man right in the eye. He had a completely shaven face and his big, blackish pupils were round like a cow’s. “You have no right to scold children.”

“Winifred!” Netty called and the girl turned her head. “Winifred, stop that,” the nurse cried, having just caught up to them. Her face was bright red and sweating, her hair damp as she breathed deep and heavily. “I’m very sorry gentleman,” Netty went on, embarrassed.

“As you should be,” the man with the top hat declared, straightening himself as if he were doing a little dance.

“You should not be,” Winifred interjected.

“Winifred, quiet,” Netty hissed. “I’m truly sorry, gentlemen, the children are in a state today.”

“Well perhaps you should make sure that the children are not in a state before you take them out in public. That’s your job, isn’t it?” the man asked, turning around and not bothering with the scene anymore. They walked away, in the opposite direction, and though John and Michael hung their heads and walked slowly toward the bridge in the middle of the park, Winifred stuck her tongue out at their backs.

“Why I never. . . ,” Winifred started and Netty gave her own “humph.”

“You children need to learn to behave, do you want people to think your parents don’t take good care of you? Do you want to get me fired, the way you go carrying on like that, it’s as if. . .” Netty shook her head, but it was too late, the incident was forgotten, the children had learned nothing and all three of them were running toward the stone bridge.

“On guard,” John called, sword arm out as he and Michael fought each other. Michael, who had discovered a long stick sitting near the edge of the path, held that out, whacking John’s arm with it as the older brother cried “ah-ouch” and ran after him.

Winifred, meanwhile, stood at the very edge of the bridge, looking down from it and into the water. It was clear, as clear as could be and she could see the sun shining off of it, shimmering in a twinkling light like little fairies dancing about a bed of rocks and long grasses. “Look down there,” Winifred cried as her brothers leaned over the edge. They all gazed down as Netty, still holding up her skirts, tried to catch up to them.

“On guard,” John called and Michael, still holding that stick, whacked his brother, this time over the head.

“I’ll get you, Captain, no Pirate makes a fool out of me,” John cried as Winifred still stood looking over the edge of the bridge.

“And I’m Princess Tiger Lily, soon to be Queen of all the Indians, and look, look,” she said, pointing down, “there’s my kingdom.”

“On guard,” both boys cried to each other at once, just as Netty called out, “Be careful you three. Get off that bridge before someone gets hurt!”

Then John pushed Michael, who bumped into Winifred, whose feet were just at the very edge of the slippery stone bridge. She fell face down, tumbling off the bridge. There wasn’t much of a splash—not when she fell in, nor when she hit the stream. London had gone without rain for a week and so there wasn’t much water, just a slight trickle over the rocks. Netty came running, nearly tripping over the skirts that she’d forgotten to pick up. “What’s this! What’s going on?” she cried. “Winifred, oh, Winifred !” Netty screamed, stopping at the edge of the stream.

All three of them looked down. Winifred was there, face in the water. Blood trickled down the side of her head and she wasn’t moving, she didn’t get up, not even when Netty screamed, “Winifred, oh Winifred, wake up, wake up Winifred!” The little girl in her blue cloth dress simply lay there, face in the water. John climbed from the bridge, moving to wade into the stream to retrieve his sister, but before he could, and he wasn’t sure just what he would have done once he’d gotten her, a man appeared as if from nowhere.

“I’m a doctor,” he said. “Let me help her.” John stepped to the side and let the man go in.

“Winifred, Winifred!” Netty continued to cry, her face as red as rare roast beef as she paced next to the stream.

The man waded in and carefully pulled Winifred from the water, holding her draped across his arms. More people had come, nine or ten of them, women in long skirts holding umbrellas, men in top hats with canes, a few more children with nurses who were lucky enough not to be made hysterical that day. The man placed Winifred carefully on the ground; he examined her head, touching the spot that was bleeding. He touched her lips and put his face to hers before lifting her head to check her neck.

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding very sorry. “I don’t know if she’s breathing.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Netty cried, pacing back and forth, arms in the air as if she herself were fighting off pirates. John and Michael watched Winifred, looking down at the soft, sad face of their sister. They’d never looked at her before, not like this, not when she’d been so still. Winifred was always playing with them, always running around and now she wasn’t. They saw her as if she were a grownup, lying on the grass, her hair wet, her dress stained, blood on her face as if this is how it was once you grew up.

“Police!” Netty cried, running frantically back and forth in front of all these people. Two men ran away from the crowd, which had gotten bigger with Netty’s screaming. “Police, police, help, help,” Netty cried and the boys watched the crowd grow. They saw the man who’d said he was a doctor lean over Winifred, trying, they assumed as he examined her head, to save her.