Mary Olivier: A Life

I

The curtain of the big bed hung down beside the cot.

When old Jenny shook it the wooden rings rattled on the pole and grey men with pointed heads and squat, bulging bodies came out of the folds on to the flat green ground. If you looked at them they turned into squab faces smeared with green.

Every night, when Jenny had gone away with the doll and the donkey, you hunched up the blanket and the stiff white counterpane to hide the curtain and you played with the knob in the green painted iron railing of the cot. It stuck out close to your face, winking and grinning at you in a friendly way. You poked it till it left off and turned grey and went back into the railing. Then you had to feel for it with your finger. It fitted the hollow of your hand, cool and hard, with a blunt nose that pushed agreeably into the palm.

In the dark you could go tip-finger along the slender, lashing flourishes of the ironwork. By stretching your arm out tight you could reach the curlykew at the end. The short, steep flourish took you to the top of the railing and on behind your head.

Tip-fingering backwards that way you got into the grey lane where the prickly stones were and the hedge of little biting trees. When the door in the hedge opened you saw the man in the nightshirt.

Something lay on the floor wrapped in a piece of dirty blanket. When Uncle Edward pushed back the blanket a bad smell came out. He said, “Here’s your lamb, Mary. You’re just in time.”

She saw a brownish grey animal with a queer, hammer-shaped head and long black legs. Its body was drawn out and knotted like an enormous maggot. It lay twisted to one side and its eyes were shut.

“That isn’t my lamb.”

“It’s the lamb I always said Miss Mary was to have, isn’t it, Pidgeon?”

“Yes, Squoire, it’s the lamb you bid me set asoide for little Missy.”

“Then,” said Mary, “why does it look like that?”

“It’s very ill,” Mamma said gently. “Poor Uncle Edward thought you’d like to see it before it died. You are glad you’ve seen it, aren’t you?”

“No.”

Just then the lamb stirred in its blanket; it opened its eyes and looked at her.

She thought: “It’s my lamb. It looked at me. It’s my lamb and it’s dying. My lamb’s dying.”

The bad smell came again out of the blanket. She tried not to think of it. She wanted to sit down on the floor beside the lamb and lift it out of its blanket and nurse it; but Mamma wouldn’t let her.

When she got home Mamma took down the toy lamb from the chest of drawers and brought it to her.

She sat quiet a long time holding it in her lap and stroking it.

The stiff eyes of the toy lamb stared away over its ears.

Mary jumped up and down with excitement. She knew how it would be. In another minute Aunt Charlotte would come in, dressed in her black lace shawl and crinoline, and Aunt Lavvy would bring her Opinions. And something, something that you didn’t know, would happen.

III

Aunt Charlotte came in first with a tight, dancing run. You knew her by the long black curls on her shoulders. She was smiling as she smiled in the album. She bent her head as she bent it in the album, and her eyes looked up close under her black eyebrows and pointed at you. Pretty⁠—pretty blue eyes, and something frightening that made you look at them. And something queer about her narrow jaw. It thrust itself forward, jerking up her smile.

No black lace shawl and no crinoline. Aunt Charlotte wore a blue and black striped satin dress, bunched up behind, and a little hat perched on the top of her chignon and tied underneath it with blue ribbons.

She had got in and was kissing everybody while Aunt Lavvy and Uncle Victor were fumbling with the hat stand in the hall.

Aunt Lavvy came next. A long grey face. Black bands of hair parted on her broad forehead. Black eyebrows; blue eyes that stuck out wide, that didn’t point at you. A grey bonnet, a grey dress, a little white shawl with a narrow fringe, drooping.

She walked slowly⁠—slowly, as if she were still thinking of something that was not in the room, as if she came into a quiet, empty room.

“Mary, did you hear your mother say I bullied you?”

Her father had come back into the room.

“Yes,” she said.

“Have I ever bullied you?”

She looked at him steadily.

“No. You would have done if Mamma had loved me as much as she loves Mark. I wish you had. I wish you’d bullied the life out of me. I shouldn’t have cared. I wish you’d hated me. Then I should have known she loved me.”

He looked at her in silence, with round, startled eyes. He understood.

II

“Ubique⁠—”

The gunner’s motto. Mark’s motto, stamped on all the letters he would write. A blue gun on a blue gun-carriage, the muzzle pointing to the left. The motto waving underneath: “Ubique.”

I

The French nephew was listening. He had been listening for quite a long time, ten minutes perhaps; ever since they had turned off the railway bridge into Ley Street.

They had known each other for exactly four hours and seventeen minutes. She had gone to the Drapers for tea. Rodney had left her on their doorstep and he had found her there and had brought her into the dining-room. That, he declared, was at five o’clock, and it was now seventeen minutes past nine by his watch which he showed her.

It had begun at teatime. When he listened he turned round, excitedly, in his chair; he stooped, bringing his eyes level with yours. When he talked he tossed back his head and stuck out his sharp-bearded chin. She was not sure that she liked his eyes. Hot black. Smoky blurs like breath on glass. Old, tired eyelids. Or his funny, sallowish face, narrowing to the black chin-beard. Ugly one minute, nice the next.

It moved too much. He could say all sorts of things with it and with his shoulders and his hands. Mrs. Draper said that was because he was half French.

He was showing her how French verse should be read when Rodney came for her, and Dr. Draper sent Rodney away and kept her for dinner.

The French nephew was taking her home now. They had passed the crook of the road.

“And all this time,” she said, “I don’t know your name.”

“Maurice. Maurice Jourdain. I know yours⁠—Mary Olivier. I like it.”

“You wouldn’t if you were me and your father kept on saying, ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,’ and ‘Mary had a little lamb.’ ”