At lunch Mary sat quivering between Mamma and Aunt Bella. The squeezing and dragging under her waist had begun again. There was a pattern of green ivy round the dinner plates and a pattern of goats round the silver napkin rings. She tried to fix her mind on the ivy and the goats instead of looking at Aunt Bella to see whether she were going to be ill. She would be if you left mud in the hall on the black and white marble tiles. Or if you took Ponto off the chain and let him get into the house. Or if you spilled the gravy.
Aunt Bella’s face was much pinker and richer and more important than Mamma’s face. She thought she wouldn’t have minded quite so much if Aunt Bella had been white and brown and pretty, like Mamma.
There—she had spilled the gravy.
Little knots came in Aunt Bella’s pink forehead. Her face loosened and swelled with a red flush; her mouth pouted and drew itself in again, pulled out of shape by something that darted up the side of her nose and made her blink.
She thought: “I know—I know—I know it’s going to happen.”
It didn’t. Aunt Bella only said, “You should look at your plate and spoon, dear.”
After lunch, when they were resting, you could feel naughtiness coming on. Then Pidgeon carried you on his back to the calf-shed; or Mrs. Fisher took you up into her bedroom to see her dress.
In Mrs. Fisher’s bedroom a smell of rotten apples oozed through the rosebud pattern on the walls. There were no doors inside, only places in the wallpaper that opened. Behind one of these places there was a cupboard where Mrs. Fisher kept her clothes. Sometimes she would take the lid off the big box covered with wallpaper and show you her Sunday bonnet. You sat on the bed, and she gave you peppermint balls to suck while she peeled off her black merino and squeezed herself into her black silk. You watched for the moment when the brooch with the black tomb and the weeping willow on it was undone and Mrs. Fisher’s chin came out first by the open collar and Mrs. Fisher began to swell. When she stood up in her petticoat and bodice she was enormous; her breasts and hips and her great arms shook as she walked about the room.
Mary was sorry when she said goodbye to Uncle Edward and Aunt Bella and Mrs. Fisher.
For, always, as soon as she got home, Roddy rushed at her with the same questions.
“Did you let Uncle Edward kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you talk to Pidgeon?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kiss Mrs. Fisher?”
“Yes.”
And Dank said, “Have they taken Ponto off the chain yet?”
“No.”
“Well, then, that shows you what pigs they are.”
And when she saw Mark looking at her she felt small and silly and ashamed.
II
It was the last week of the midsummer holidays. Mark and Dank had gone to stay for three days at Aunt Bella’s, and on the second day they had been sent home.
Mamma and Roddy were in the garden when they came. They were killing snails in a flowerpot by putting salt on them. The snails turned over and over on each other and spat out a green foam that covered them like soapsuds as they died.
Mark’s face was red and he was smiling. Even Dank looked proud of himself and happy. They called out together, “We’ve been sent home.”
Mamma looked up from her flowerpot.
“What did you do?” she said.
“We took Ponto off the chain,” said Dank.
“Did he get into the house?”
“Of course he did,” said Mark. “Like a shot. He got into Aunt Bella’s bedroom, and Aunt Bella was in bed.”
“Oh, Mark!”
“Uncle Edward came up just as we were getting him out. He was in an awful wax.”
“I’m afraid,” Dank said, “I cheeked him.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him he wasn’t fit to have a dog. And he said we weren’t to come again; and Mark said that was all we had come for—to let Ponto loose.”
Mamma put another snail into the flowerpot, very gently. She was smiling and at the same time trying not to smile.
“He went back,” said Mark, “and raked it up again about our chasing his sheep, ages ago.”
“Did you chase the sheep?”
“No. Of course we didn’t. They started to run because they saw Pidgeon coming, and Roddy ran after them till we told him not to. The mean beast said we’d made Mary’s lamb die by frightening its mother. When he only gave it her because he knew it wouldn’t live. Then he said we’d frightened Aunt Bella.”
Mary stared at them, fascinated.
“Oh, Mark, was Aunt Bella ill?”
“Of course she wasn’t. She only says she’s going to be to keep you quiet.”
“Well,” said Mamma, “she won’t be frightened any more. He’ll not ask you again.”
“We don’t care. He’s not a bit of good. He won’t let us ride his horses or climb his trees or fish in his stinking pond.”
“Let Mary go there,” said Dank. “She likes it. She kisses Pidgeon.”
“I don’t,” she cried. “I hate Pidgeon. I hate Uncle Edward and Aunt Bella. I hate Mrs. Fisher.”
Mamma looked up from her flowerpot, and, suddenly, she was angry.
“For shame! They’re kind to you,” she said. “You little naughty, ungrateful girl.”
“They’re not kind to Mark and Dank. That’s why I hate them.”
She wondered why Mamma was not angry with Mark and Dank, who had let Ponto loose and frightened Aunt Bella.
Chapter IV
I
That year when Christmas came Papa gave her a red book with a gold holly wreath on the cover. The wreath was made out of three words: The Children’s Prize, printed in letters that pretended to be holly sprigs. Inside the holly wreath was the number of the year, in fat gold letters: 1869.
Soon after Christmas she had another birthday. She was six years old. She could write in capitals and count up
