Oh we had to let her go. She got fat and lazy.
They all do! they’re all the same—Go on Miriam.
—Well, said Miriam from the midst of her second helping—they both listened, and the steps came shambling up their stairs—and they heard the man collapse with a groan against their door. They waited and, well, all at once the man, well, they heard him being violently ill—Oh Miriam—Yes; wasn’t it awful? and then a feeble voice like a chant—a-a-a-ah-oo—oo-oo-oo kom, and hailpemee—Oh Meester Bell, kom, oh, I am freezing to death, what a pity what a pity—and then silence. She fed rapidly, holding them all silently eager for her voice again to fill out the spaces of their room—For about half an hour they heard him break out, every few minutes, oh Meester Bell, dear pretty Mr. Bell kom. I am freezing to death whatta pity—whattapity. The Brooms sat breaking one against the other into fresh laughter. Miriam ate rapidly glancing from face to face. What-eh-pitie—what-eh-pitie she moaned. Can’t you hear him? Grace choked and sneezed and drank a little milk. They were all still slowly and carefully eating their first helping.—You do come across some funny people said Mrs. Philps mopping her eyes and dimpling and sighing upon the end of her laughter. I didn’t come across him. It was at Mag’s and Jan’s boarding house. Mrs. Philps had not begun to listen at the beginning. But Grace and Florrie saw the whole thing clearly. Mrs. Philps did not remember who Mag and Jan were. She would not unless one told her all about their circumstances and their parents. Florrie’s face was preparing a question. Then they must have—went on Miriam. There was a subdued ring at the front door bell.—There’s Christine shall we have her in to change the plates aunt, frowned Florrie.—No let ’er changer dress. We can put the plates on the sideboard—Then they must both have gone to sleep again, said Miriam when Florrie returned from letting Christine in—because they did not hear him go downstairs and he wasn’t there in the morning—A good thing I should think, observed Mrs. Philps. He wasn’t there said Miriam cheerfully—er—not in person. Oh Miriam, protested Grace hysterically. Oh—oh—cried the others. Miriam watched the second course appearing from the sideboard—she greeted the blancmange and jam with a soft shout, feeling as hungry as when supper had begun. Isn’t she rude chuckled Florrie, putting down a plate of bananas and a small dish of chocolates. Ooo-ooo squealed Miriam—Be quiet and behave yourself and begin on that said Grace giving her a plate of blancmange. Oh yes and then said Miriam inspired to remember more of her story—it all came out. He must have got down somehow to his room in the morning. But he lay on the floor—he told them at dinner—all of mee could not find thee bed at once!—Oh-oh-oh—He had been—she cried raising her voice above the tumult—to a birthday party; twenty-seex wheeskies and sodahs....—Why did he talk like that? Was he an Irishman? Oh, can’t you hear? He was a Hindu. They all talk like that. “I will kindly shut the door.” When they write letters they begin—Honoured and spanking sir, wept Miriam—they find spanking in the dictionary and their letters are like that all the way through, masses of the most amazing adjectives. Why did Mag and Jan leave that boarding house? asked Florrie into the midst of Miriam’s absorption with the solid tears on Mrs. Philps’s cheekbones. She was longing for Mrs. Philps to see the second thing, not only the funniness of spanking addressed to a civil servant, but exactly how spanking would look to a Hindu. If only they could see those things as well as produce their heavenly laughs. Oh, I don’t know, she said wearily; you see they never meant to go there. They wanted a place of their own. If only they could realise Mag and Jan. There was never enough time and strength to make everything clear. At every turn there was something they saw differently. They are a pair she breathed sleepily. No, thanks, she answered formally to an offer of more blancmange. She was beginning to feel strong and sleepy. No thanks she repeated formally as the heavy dish of bananas came her way. She wants a chocolate said Florrie from across the table. Miriam revived a little. Take two begged Mrs. Philps. They’re so huge, said Miriam obeying and leaving the chocolates on her plate while her mind moved heavily about seeking a topic. They were all beginning on bananas. It would be endless. By the time it came to sitting over the fire she would be almost asleep. She stirred uneasily. Someone must be seeing her longing and impatience.
3
Miriam lost threads while Christine cleared away supper, pondering the thick expressionless figure and hands and the heavy sallow sullen face. She was very short. The Brooms watched her undisturbed, from their places by the fire, now and again addressing instructions in low frowning voices from the midst of conversation—Do sit down said Mrs. Philps at intervals—I’ve been sitting down all day said Miriam swaying on her toes—I think we did half believe it she pursued with biting heartiness, aching with the onset of questions, speaking to make warmth and distraction for Christine. She had never thought about it. Had they half believed it? Had anyone ever put it to them in so many words? Giving an opinion opened so many things. It was impossible to show everything, the more opinions you expressed the more you misled people and the further you got away from them—Because she continued with a singing animation; Christine glanced;—we never heard anyone come in—although—(the room enclosed her even more happily with Christine there, everything looked even more itself)—we stayed awake till what seemed almost morning, always till long after the ser-m- our domestic staff had gone to bed. Their rooms were on the same floor as the night nursery—Christine was padding out with a tray, her back to the room; she had a holiday every year and regular off times and plenty of money to buy clothes and presents; probably she had some sort of home. When she had taken away the last of the supper things and closed the door Grace patted the arm of the vacant armchair. I like this best, said Miriam drawing up a little carved wooden stool—oh don’t sit on that cried Mrs. Philps.—I’m all right said Miriam hurriedly, looking at no one and drawing herself briskly upright with her eyes on the clear blaze. Grace and Florrie were close on either side of her in straight chairs, leaning forward towards the fire. Mrs. Philps sat back in the smaller of the armchairs, its unyielding cushion sending her body forward, her small chest crouched, her head bent and propped on her hand, half facing their close row and gazing into the fire. There was a silence. Florrie cleared her throat and glanced at Miriam. Miriam half turned with weary resentment.—Did you used to hang up stockings Miriam said Florrie quickly. Miriam assented hastily, staring at the fire. Florrie patiently cleared her throat. With weary animation Miriam dropped phrases about the parcels that were too big for the stocking, the feeling of them against one’s feet when one moved in the morning. Shy watchful glances came to her from Florrie. Grace took her hand and made encouraging sympathetic sounds. How secure they were, sitting with all the holiday ahead over the fire which would be lit again for them in the morning. This was only the fag-end of the first evening and it was beginning to be like the beginning of a new day. Things were coming to her out of the fire, fresh and new, seen for the first time; a flood of images. She watched them with eyes suddenly cool and sleepless, relaxing her stiff attitude and smiling vaguely at the fire-irons. She’s tired; she wants to go to bed said Mrs. Philps turning her head. The two heads came round—Do you my sweet asked Grace pressing her hand.—You shall have breakfast in bed if you like—Miriam grimaced briskly in her direction.—Did you have a Noah’s ark she asked smiling at the fire. Yes; Florrie had one. Uncle George gave it to her.—They began describing.—Didn’t you love it? broke in Miriam presently.—Do you remember—and she recalled the Noah’s ark as it had looked on the nursery floor, the offended stiffness of the rescued family, the look of the elephants and giraffes and the green and yellow grasshoppers and the red lady bird, all standing about alive amongst the little stiff bright green trees—We had a farm-yard too, pigs; and ducks and geese and hens with feathers—We used to stand them all out together on the floor, and the grocer’s shop and all our dolls sitting round against the nursery wall. It used to make me perfectly happy. It would still—Everyone laughed—It would. It does only to think of it. And there was a doll’s house with a door that opened and a staircase and furniture in the rooms. I can smell the smell of the inside at this moment. But the thing I liked best and never got accustomed to was a little alabaster church with coloured glass windows and a place inside for a candle. We used to put that out on the floor too. I wish I had it now.... The kaleidoscope. Do you remember looking at the Kaleidoscope? I used to cry about it sometimes at night; thinking of the patterns I had not seen. I thought there was a new pattern every time you shook it, forever. We had a huge one with very small bits of glass. They clicked smoothly when the pattern changed and were very beautifully coloured.... Oh and do you remember those things—did you have a little paper theatre? They were all looking at her, not at the little theatre. She wished she had not mentioned it. It was so sacred and so secret that she had never thought of it or even mentioned it to herself all these years. She rushed on to the stereoscope, her eyes still on the little cardboard stage, hearing the sound of the paper scraping over the little wooden roller as the printed scenes came round backwards or forwards, and plunged into descriptions of deep views of the insides of cathedrals in sharp relief in a clear silver light, mountains, lakes, statuary in clear light out of doors and came back to the dolls, pressing alone wearily on through the dying interest of her hearers to discover with sleepy enthusiasm the wisdom and indifference and independence of Dutch dolls, the charm of their wooden bodies, the reasons why one never wanted to put any clothes on them, the dear kind friendliness of dolls with composition heads—I don’t believe I’ve ever loved anyone in the world as I loved Daisy—Yes, I know—we had one too; it belonged to Eve, it was enormous and had real hair and a leather trunk for its clothes and felt huge and solid when you carried it; but it was as far away from you as a human being—yes, the rag dolls were simply funny—I never understand all that talk about the affection for rag dolls. We used to scream at ours and hold them by the skirts and see which could bang their heads hardest against the wall. They were always like a Punch and Judy show. The composition dolls I mean were painted a soft colour, very roundly moulded heads, with a shape, just a little hair, put on in soft brown colour, and not staring eyes but soft bluey grey with an expression; looking at something, looking at the same thing you looked at yourself—.... Mrs. Philps yawned and Florrie began making a move—I suppose it’s bed time—said Miriam. They were all looking sleepy.—Have a glass of claret Miriam before you go said Mrs. Philps. No thank you, said Miriam springing up and dancing about the room. Giddy girl, chuckled Mrs. Philps affectionately. Grace and Florrie fetched dust sheets from the hall cupboard and began spreading them over the furniture. Miriam pulled up in front of a large oil-painting over the sofa; its distances where a meadow stream that was wide in the foreground with a stone bridge and a mill-wheel and a cottage half hidden under huge trees, grew narrow and wound on and on through tiny distant fields until the scene melted in a soft toned mist, held all her early visits to the Brooms in the Banbury Park days before they had discovered that she did not like sitting with her back to the fire. She listened eagerly to the busy sounds of the Brooms. Someone had bolted the hall door and was scrooping a chair over the tiles to get up and put out the gas. Dust sheets were still being flountered in the room behind her. Grace’s arm came round her waist.—I’m so glad you’ve come sweet she said in her low steady shaken tones—So’m I said Miriam.—Isn’t that a jolly picture—Yes. It’s an awfully good one you know. It was one of papa’s—What’s O’Hara doing in the kitchen?—Taking Grace by the waist Miriam drew into the passage trying to prance with her down the hall. The little kitchen was obscured by an enormous clothes-horse draped with airing linen. She’s left a miserable fire, said Mrs. Philps from behind the clothes-horse—She hasn’t done the saucepans aunt scolded Florrie from the scullery—Never mind, we can’t have er down now. It’s neely midnight.
4
Miriam emerged smoothly into the darkness and lay radiant. There was nothing but the cool sense of life pouring from some inner source and the deep fresh spaces of the darkness all round her. Perhaps she had awakened because of her happiness... clear gentle and soft in a melancholy minor key a little thread of melody sounded from far away in the night straight into her heart. There was nothing between her and the sound that had called her so gently up from her deep sleep. She held in her joy to listen. There was no sadness in the curious sorrowful little air. It drew her out into the quiet neighbourhood ... misty darkness along empty roads, plaques of lamplight here and there on pavements and across house fronts ... blackness in large gardens and over the bridge and in the gardens at the backs of the rows of little silent dark houses, a pale lambency over the canal and reservoirs. Somewhere amongst the little roads a group of players hooting gently and carefully slow sweet notes as if to wake no one, playing to no one, out into the darkness. Back out of fresh darkness came the sweet clear music ... the waits; of course. She rushed up and out heart foremost, listening, following the claim of the music into the secret happy interior of the life of each sleeping form, flowing swiftly on across a tide of remembered and forgotten incidents in and out amongst the seasons of the years. It sent her forward to to-morrow sitting her upright in morning light telling her with shouts that the day was there and she had only to get up into it ... the little air had paused on a tuneful chord and ceased ... It was beginning again nearer and clearer. She heard it carefully through. It was so strange. It came from far back amongst the generations where everything was different; telling you that they were the same.... In the way those people were playing, in the way they made the tune sound in the air neither instrument louder than the others there was something that knew. Something that everybody knows.... They show it by the way they do things, no matter what they say.... Her heart glowed and she stirred. How rested she was. How fresh the air was. What freshness came from everything in the room. She stared into the velvety blackness trying to see the furniture. It was the thick close-drawn curtains that made the perfect velvety darkness ... Behind the curtains and the Venetian blinds the windows were open at the top letting in the garden air. The little square of summer garden showed brilliantly in this darkest winter blackness. It was more than worth while to be wakened in the middle of the night at the Brooms. The truth about life was in them. She imagined herself suddenly shouting in the night. After the first fright they would understand and would laugh. She yawned sleepily towards an oncoming tangle of thoughts, pushing them off and slipping back into unconsciousness.
5
Miriam picked up the blouse by its shoulders and danced it up and down in time to the girls’ volleys of affectionate raillery—Did you sleep well broke in Mrs. Philps sitting briskly up and superciliously grasping the handle of the large coffee-pot with her small shrivelled hand. Christmas Day had begun. The time for trying to say suitable things about the present was over. All the six small hands were labouring amongst the large things on the table. The blouse hung real, a blouse, a glorious superfluity in her only just sufficient wardrobe.—Yes, thank you, I did she said ardently, lowering it to her knees. The rich strong coffee was flowing into the cups. In a moment Grace would be handing plates of rashers and Florrie would have finished extracting the eggs from the boiler. She laid the blouse carefully on the sofa and heard in among the table sounds the greetings that had followed her arrival downstairs. The brown and green landscape caught her eye, old and still, holding all her knowledge of the Brooms back and back, fresh with another visit to them. She turned back to the table with a sigh. Someone chuckled. Perhaps at something that was happening on the table. She glanced about. The fragrant breakfast had arrived in front of her—Don’t let it get cold laughed Florrie drawing the mustard-pot from the cruet-stand and rapping it down before her. There was something that she had forgotten, some point that was being missed, something that must be said at this moment to pin down the happiness of everything. She looked up at Shakespeare and Queen Victoria. It was going away—Mustard—said Florrie tapping the table with the mustard-pot.—Did you hear the waits? asked Mrs. Philps with dreary acidity. That was it. She turned eagerly. Mrs. Philps was sipping her coffee. Miriam waited politely with the mustard-pot in her hand until she had put down her cup and then said anxiously, offering it to Mrs. Philps—they played—Help yourself—laughed Mrs. Philps—a most lovely curious old-fashioned thing she went on anxiously. Florrie was watching her narrowly. That was the Mistletoe Bough—bridled Mrs. Philps accepting the mustard.—Oh that’s The Mistletoe Bough mused Miriam thrilling. Then Mrs. Philps had heard, and felt the same in the night. Nothing was missing. Everything that had happened since she had arrived on the doorstep came freshly back and on into to-day, flowing over the embarrassment of the parcels. There was nothing to say; no words that could express it; a tune.... That’s the Mistletoe Bough ... she said reflectively. Florrie was sitting very upright exactly opposite, quietly munching, her knife and fork quiet on her plate. Grace’s small hands and mouth were gravely labouring. She began swiftly on her own meal, listening for the tune with an intelligent face. If Florrie would take off her attention she could let her face become a blank and recover the tune. Impossible to go on until she had recalled it. She sought for some distracting remark. Grace spoke. Florrie turned towards her. Miriam radiated agreement and sipped her hot coffee. Its strong aroma flowed through her senses. She laughed sociably. Someone else laughed.—Of course they don’t said Florrie in her most grinding voice and laughed. Two voices broke out together. Miriam listened to the tones, glancing intelligence accordingly, umpiring the contest, her mind wandering blissfully about. Presently there was a silence. Mrs. Philps had bridled and said something decisive. Miriam guiltily re-read the remark. She could not think of anything that could be made to follow it with any show of sincerity and sat feeling large and conspicuous. Mrs. Philps’ face had grown dark and old. Miriam glanced restively at her meaning.... Large terrible illnesses, the doctor coming, trouble amongst families, someone sitting paralyzed; poverty, everything being different....—D’you like a snowy Christmas, Miriam? asked Florrie shyly. Miriam looked across. She looked very young, a child speaking on sufferance, saying the first thing that occurs lest someone should remark that it was time to go to bed. Hilarious replies rushed to Miriam’s mind. They would have re-awakened the laughter and talk, but there would have been resentment in the widowed figure at the head of the table, the figure that had walked with arch dignity into the big north London shop and chosen the blouse. The weight in the air was dreadful—There don’t seem to be snowy Christmases nowadays she said turning deferentially to her hostess with her eyes on Florrie’s child’s eyes—Christmas is a very different thing to what it was breathed Mrs. Philps sitting back with folded hands from her finished meal.—Oh, I don’t know aunt corrected Grace anxiously—aren’t you going to have your toast and marmalade? You lived in the North all your young Christmases. It’s always colder there. Take some toast aunt——We used to burn Yule logs flickered Mrs. Philps, plaintively refusing the toast. Miriam waited imagining the snow on the garden where the frilled shirts used to hang out to bleach in the dew ... the great flood, the anxiety in the big houses—Yule logs would look funny in this grate, laughed Florrie—Oh, I don’t know, pressed Grace.—We had some last year. Haven’t we got any this year aunt?——I ordered some wood; I don’t know if it’s come—Miriam could not imagine the Brooms with burning logs. Yes, she could. They were nearer to burning logs than anyone she knew. It would be more real here; more like the burning logs in the Christmas numbers. The glow would shine on to their faces and they would see into the past. But it was all in the past. Yule logs and then, no yule logs. Everyone even the Brooms were being pushed forward into a new cold world. There was no time to remember—they don’t build grates for wood nowadays, ruled Mrs. Philps. Who could stop all this coming and crowding of mean little things? But the wide untroubled leisure of the Brooms breakfast-table was shut away from the mean little things.... Are you coming to church Miriam?—Miriam looked across the doomed breakfast-table and met the watchful eyes. Behind Florrie very upright in her good, once best stuff dress, two years old in its features and methodically arrived at morning wear, the fire still blazed its extravagant welcome, the first of Christmas morning was still in the room. When they had all busied themselves and gone, it would be gone. She glanced about to see that everyone had finished and put her elbows on the table.—Well she said abundantly. There was an expectant relaxing of attitudes—I should like to go very much. But—Grace fidgeting her brooch had flung her unrestrained burning affectionate glance—when I saw Mr. La Trobe climbing into the pulpit—Florrie’s eyes were downcast and Mrs. Philps was blowing her nose her eyes gazing wanly out above her handkerchief towards the little curtained bow-window—Miriam dimpled and glanced sideways at Grace catching her shy waiting eyes—I should stand up on my seat ... give one loud shriek—the three laughters broke forth together—and fall gasping to the ground——Then you’d certainly better not go chuckled Florrie amidst the general wiping away of tears——I saw the Miss Pernes at Strudwick’s on Friday; Miss Perne and Miss Jenny——oh, did you responded Miriam hurriedly. The room lost something of its completeness. There was a coming and a going, the pressing grey of an outside world—How are they?——They seemed very well—They don’t seem to change—Oh; I’m so glad—They asked for you—Oh——I didn’t say we were expecting you—Oh, it’s such an age——We always say you’re very busy and hard-worked smiled Grace—Yes, that’s it....—You didn’t go often even when Miss Haddie was alive—No; she was awfully good; she used to come down and see me in the west-end when I first came to town.—How they like the west-end—Aunt, I don’t blame them.—She used to write to you a lot didn’t she Miriam?—She used to come and talk to me in a tea-shop at six-fifteen ... yes she wrote regularly said Miriam irritably—You were awfully fond of Miss Haddie weren’t you?—Miriam peered into space struggling with a tangle of statements. Her mind leapt from incident to incident weaving all into a general impression—so strong and clear that it gave a sort of desperation to her painful consciousness that nothing she saw and felt was visible to the three pairs of differently watchful eyes. Poured chaotically out it would sound to them like the ravings of insanity. All contradictory, up and down backwards and forwards, all true. The things they would grasp here and there would misrepresent herself and the whole picture. Why would people insist upon talking about things—when nothing can ever be communicated.... She felt angrily about in the expectant stillness. She could see their minds so clearly; why wouldn’t they just look and see hers instead of waiting for some impossible pronouncement. Yes would be a lie. No would be a lie. Any statement would be a lie. All statements are lies. I like the Pernes better than I like you. I like all of you better than the Pernes. I hate you. I hate the Pernes. I, of course you must know it, hate everybody. I adore the Pernes so much that I can’t go and see them. But you come and see us. Yes; but you insist. Then you like us only as well as you like the Pernes; you like all sorts of people as well perhaps better than you like us. I have nothing to do with anyone. You shall not group me anywhere. I am everywhere. Let the day go on. Don’t sit there worrying me to death....—They always send you their love and say you are to go and see them—Oh yes, I must go; some time——They are wonderfully fond of their girls.... It’s one of the greatest pleasures of their lives keeping up with the old girls—Fatigue was returning upon Miriam; her face flushed and her hands were large and cold. She drew them down on to her unowned knees. A mild yes would bring the sitting to an end.—But you see I’m not an old girl she said impatiently. No one spoke. Florrie’s mind was darkly moving towards the things of the day. Perhaps Mrs. Philps and Florrie had been thinking of them for some minutes.—You know it does make a difference she pursued, obsequiously collecting attention,—when people are your employers. You can never feel the same—Everyone hovered,—and Mrs. Philps smiled in triumphant curiosity.—I shouldn’t have thought it made any difference to you Miriam said Florrie flushing heavily.—I think I know what Miriam means said Grace gently radiating—I always feel a pupil with them much as I like them—Grace, d’you know you’re my pupil said Miriam leaping out into laughter.—I can see Grace—she drove on carrying them all with her, ignoring the swift eyes upon the dim things settling heavily down upon her heart—gazing out of the window in the little room where I was supposed to be holding a German class—Yes I know Miriam darling, but now you know me you know I could never be any good at languages——You’re my pupil——It seems absurd to think of you as a teacher now we know you chuckled Florrie.—Aren’t you glad it’s over, Miriam?——I loved the teaching. I’ve never left off longing to go back to school myself yawned Miriam absently.—You won’t get much sympathy out of Florrie——I was a perfect fool beamed Florrie. Everyone laughed.—I often think now—chuckled Florrie rosy and tearful—when I open the front door to go out how glad I am there’s no more school—Miriam looked across laughing affectionately.—Why did you like your school so much Miriam?—I didn’t like it except now and again terrifically in flashes. I didn’t know what it was. I hadn’t seen other schools. I didn’t know what we were doing—It wasn’t—a—a genteel school for young ladies, there was nothing of that in it—You never know when you’re happy reproved Mrs. Philps—Oh, I don’t know aunt, I think you do appealed Grace, her eyes full of shy championship.—I’m very happy, thank you,—aren’t we all happy dear brethren? chirped Miriam towards the cruet-stand.—Silly children——Now aunt you know you are. You know you enjoy life tremendously.—Of course I do cried Mrs. Philps beaming and bridling. In a devout low tone she added—it’s the little simple things that make you happy; the things that happen every day—For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the fire flickering in the beamy air.—Hadn’t we better have her in aunt, muttered Grace? Florrie got up briskly and rang the bell.