Chime

I noticed particularly.

I had, so far, withstood the courtroom and the eel-sick. But after Eldric had finished, the reflection-slices returned. I saw Stepmother and the white pillow and the black hair and blood and spit. I saw myself too, saw my own bird hands holding a spoon. My hands were feeding Stepmother. My hands were feeding her soup.

And then the sick-sandy smell of eel saturated the courtroom. I tore my hand from Tiddy Rex’s, I pushed through the courtroom door. But the smell followed me down the courthouse steps, round the side alley, where only the dogs could see me heave my breakfast onto the cobbles.

14 Nineteen Chimes

The village children were playing on the railroad tracks, which reminded me that the maiden run of the London-Swanton line had been delayed for want of a permit. But I wouldn’t think about it. I wouldn’t let myself slide into that Möbius strip of worry, where I remind myself that once Mr. Clayborne’s men have finished rebuilding the pumping station, the Boggy Mun will re-infect Rose with the swamp cough. That it will then be too late to run away to London because Rose will only bring the swamp cough along with her.

See how I’m not thinking about it?

Eldric was playing with the children. He rose from a clot of boys tossing horseshoes and waved me over.

I waved back. I’m coming!

This was the fourth Friday afternoon we were to meet at the Alehouse. Friday is an exciting day. It’s payday, and market day, and bad-luck day, and Pearl-looking-after-Rose day, so you never know what’s going to happen.

Eldric said that my education had been sadly neglected. How, he asked, could a girl grow up in Swanton never knowing that the close of market meant the beginning of Two-Pint Friday? That customers and merchants alike simply slid a few feet north, into the Alehouse, where two beers could be had for the price of one, and the fish and chips were always hot and steaming.

I settled my hat (the ribbon is a very pale pink), I smoothed my gloves (pink monogram on white). Father must have suffered quite a shock when he finally noticed that Rose and I went about in a state of acute ventilation, for he’d ordered up more new clothes. I know it’s only that Father doesn’t want to appear mingy, but I confess, I like new clothes. I adore new clothes.

Perhaps I’m shallow. Yes, I’m shallow, I don’t mind admitting it. Perhaps I should admit that there’s no end to the depths of my shallowness.

Off I went, into the bustle of Friday market, which on this particular Friday was all squashed with oilcloth tents: A storm was blowing in from the north.

Tiddy Rex detached himself from the horseshoe-tossing boys and trotted toward me. He passed a group of girls skipping rope, grubby pinafores flapping, voices rising thin and high.

Tie the baby to the track.

Look! The one oh one!

The train goes click, the train goes clack,

Look, the baby’s done,

For,

Five,

Six,

Seven . . .

Tiddy Rex touched my hand. “Mister Eldric, he brung that rhyme all the way from London.”

All about us, life carried on in its disordered way. A donkey passing, carrying spices and flies. Mad Tom, poking his umbrella into rubbish bins and rabbit holes, looking for his lost wits. Petey Todd, pinching an apple from the greengrocer’s bin.

Petey has a spacious view of what belongs to him.

“Mister Eldric!” called one of the skip-rope girls. “I maked ninety-four, I did.”

“Ninety-four!” Eldric pounced to her side. “You should get a blue ribbon or a gold medal! But I haven’t either.”

He paused, as though considering. “Could you make do with a blue-ribbon bit of fish?”

How the girls laughed!

“Or a fish fried like a medal?”

“I found milady at last!” said Cecil’s voice from behind. He turned me about by my shoulders and looked me up and down—at my skirt (four pleats, checkered in two tones of white), at my shirtwaist (dusted with glinting beads), at the netting (placed strategically across the chest).

“Staring is rude.” I suddenly wished the netting hadn’t so many holes.

“You don’t mind when he stares at you.” Cecil jerked his head toward Eldric.

“He doesn’t stare,” I said. “He looks.”

“I’m desperate to talk to you,” said Cecil. “We’ve never even mentioned it.”

“It?” I said.

“You know,” said Cecil. “It.”

But I didn’t know.

“What are you playing at, Briony?” Cecil stared with his flat, fishy eyes. “I don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”

I stared back. I’m not jolly enough to play at anything.

“You want to pretend it didn’t happen?” said Cecil. “That’s what you always wanted; I see it all now. You putting me off after she died. First, Oh, but there’s the inquest! And then, Oh, but there’s the burial! And then, Oh, but we’re in mourning! I never thought you’d betray me.”

Tiddy Rex squeezed my hand. “What be the betrayment you done, Miss Briony?”

“I’ve no idea,” I said, although I hated to admit it. Even if Cecil doesn’t know what he’s talking about, I usually do.

“That’s the worst of all,” said Cecil. “If you’re going to betray me, at least be honest about it.”

“Let’s talk about this another time, shall we?” I said.

“Oh, but there’s the inquest!” said Cecil, in a squeaky female voice. “Oh, but we’re in mourning.”

“Is that the way I sound, Tiddy Rex?”

Tiddy Rex shook his head. “No, miss.”

I never thought I’d be glad to see Petey Todd. A person like Petey can only have so much fun stealing apples and must perforce increase his enjoyment by clipping Tiddy Rex on the shoulder and circling round to see the tears in Tiddy Rex’s eyes.

“Cry, baby, cry!” said Petey.

Yer mam is going to die.

Hitch yer sister to the plough,

She don’t matter anyhow . . .

“Never mind.” I put my arm around Tiddy Rex’s shoulder. “Petey can’t help himself. Poor thing. You know what they say about him?”

“They doesn’t say nothing!” said Petey.

“They say he’s soft in the head. They say he eats worms for breakfast.”

“Doesn’t!”

“Did you know, he can’t learn his letters?”

“I got me my letters,” said Petey.

“You do?” I made a clown face of amazement, big eyes, dropped jaw. “Can you make the first letter of your name?”