Read Online Running to Paradise by Virginia Budd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Virginia Budd
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passage that led to the night nursery and there was a funny hospital smell everywhere.
‘ Well, lovey, you have a dear little sister to play with,’ Nanny informed me next morning. ‘When you’ve finished your breakfast you may see her, but you must be very good and quiet, because it’s been a terrible ordeal for your poor mother and she’s very weak and tired.’
‘ I don’t want to see a stupid little sister and what’s an ordeal, Nan?’ I smashed in the top of my boiled egg with a teaspoon: it was all runny inside and I hated boiled eggs anyway.
‘ Of course you want to see your little sister. You must love her, because Jesus sent her. Now, eat up your egg, dear, and stop asking questions.’
‘ What’s an ordeal, Ma?’ I stood beside my mother’s big bed. Ma lay on her back, her sandy hair, usually so neatly coiled, tumbling on her shoulders, her face grey with fatigue and her big, green, slightly myopic eyes sad. The curtains were drawn across the windows shutting out the bright sunlight that had followed last night’s storm. A subdued Pa sat on a red velvet chair by the window smoking a cigarette.
‘ An ordeal is a bad time, darling,’ Ma said and her voice lacked its usual authority.
‘ Like when Pa and Miss Bellingham fell in the river—?’
‘ Ach!’ Pa made a noise that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a groan.
‘ No, not like that; that was what is known as farce.’ Ma’s voice was acid. ‘An ordeal is a bad time you go through to test how strong you are. Like Christian in the Pilgrim’s Progress , when he journeys through the Vale of Tears. Why do you want to know?’
‘ Nanny said you’d had one.’
‘ It was not pleasant, not pleasant...’ Ma closed her eyes. The darkened room smelled of hospitals and Pa’s cigarettes. Outside on the lawn, Rags, the fox terrier, barked raucously at the stable cat as it picked its supercilious way across the neatly swept gravel.
‘ Come and see your sister. Ma must rest now.’ Pa took my hand and led me into the little room next door. The monthly nurse, a gaunt lady in starched blue and white, sat sewing beside a cradle; she rose to her feet.
‘ Ah, you’ve come to see Baby, dear. She’s such a pretty little soul.’ I ran to the cradle and peered inside. A red, pointed head topped by a fuzz of dark hair lay on the snow-white pillow. The eyes were fast shut and one tiny, clenched hand, like a pink sea anemone, rested on the blue satin coverlet.
‘ She’s not pretty; she looks like a lobster.’
Pa snorted again. ‘That’s no way to talk of your new sister, Scamp. One day she will be as pretty as you and what will you do then?’
‘ Push her under a railway engine so she gets squashed like strawberry jam, then—’
‘ Be quiet, dear, we don’t want to wake Baby, now do we?’ said the monthly nurse, and I was led away.
The looked-for boy had turned out to be a girl after all. The doctor said there could never be another child. Ma and Pa hid their disappointment, but the rift between them widened.
There was a grand christening, of course, and the new baby was named Mary Rose, although throughout her short life she was always known as Rosie. She was a lovely child, who rarely cried and Pa, after his initial disappointment at her being the wrong sex, doted on her. Ma, however, had reservations: somehow she could not forget the ordeal of the child’s birth, or the events that had led up to it.
And me? I had a new governess to contend with, or to be more accurate, a succession of governesses, for none of them stayed long. Some were French, some English, some old, some young, but they all had two things in common: they were extremely plain and none of them seemed to be able to cope with me.
5
‘Tell me about Aunt Beth; some of her diaries are in my pile for pre-1914.’
‘ Guy, you’re so organised.’ Sophia gazed in mock amazement at the neatly labelled bundles ranged about us. ‘What happens if
‘ Well, lovey, you have a dear little sister to play with,’ Nanny informed me next morning. ‘When you’ve finished your breakfast you may see her, but you must be very good and quiet, because it’s been a terrible ordeal for your poor mother and she’s very weak and tired.’
‘ I don’t want to see a stupid little sister and what’s an ordeal, Nan?’ I smashed in the top of my boiled egg with a teaspoon: it was all runny inside and I hated boiled eggs anyway.
‘ Of course you want to see your little sister. You must love her, because Jesus sent her. Now, eat up your egg, dear, and stop asking questions.’
‘ What’s an ordeal, Ma?’ I stood beside my mother’s big bed. Ma lay on her back, her sandy hair, usually so neatly coiled, tumbling on her shoulders, her face grey with fatigue and her big, green, slightly myopic eyes sad. The curtains were drawn across the windows shutting out the bright sunlight that had followed last night’s storm. A subdued Pa sat on a red velvet chair by the window smoking a cigarette.
‘ An ordeal is a bad time, darling,’ Ma said and her voice lacked its usual authority.
‘ Like when Pa and Miss Bellingham fell in the river—?’
‘ Ach!’ Pa made a noise that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a groan.
‘ No, not like that; that was what is known as farce.’ Ma’s voice was acid. ‘An ordeal is a bad time you go through to test how strong you are. Like Christian in the Pilgrim’s Progress , when he journeys through the Vale of Tears. Why do you want to know?’
‘ Nanny said you’d had one.’
‘ It was not pleasant, not pleasant...’ Ma closed her eyes. The darkened room smelled of hospitals and Pa’s cigarettes. Outside on the lawn, Rags, the fox terrier, barked raucously at the stable cat as it picked its supercilious way across the neatly swept gravel.
‘ Come and see your sister. Ma must rest now.’ Pa took my hand and led me into the little room next door. The monthly nurse, a gaunt lady in starched blue and white, sat sewing beside a cradle; she rose to her feet.
‘ Ah, you’ve come to see Baby, dear. She’s such a pretty little soul.’ I ran to the cradle and peered inside. A red, pointed head topped by a fuzz of dark hair lay on the snow-white pillow. The eyes were fast shut and one tiny, clenched hand, like a pink sea anemone, rested on the blue satin coverlet.
‘ She’s not pretty; she looks like a lobster.’
Pa snorted again. ‘That’s no way to talk of your new sister, Scamp. One day she will be as pretty as you and what will you do then?’
‘ Push her under a railway engine so she gets squashed like strawberry jam, then—’
‘ Be quiet, dear, we don’t want to wake Baby, now do we?’ said the monthly nurse, and I was led away.
The looked-for boy had turned out to be a girl after all. The doctor said there could never be another child. Ma and Pa hid their disappointment, but the rift between them widened.
There was a grand christening, of course, and the new baby was named Mary Rose, although throughout her short life she was always known as Rosie. She was a lovely child, who rarely cried and Pa, after his initial disappointment at her being the wrong sex, doted on her. Ma, however, had reservations: somehow she could not forget the ordeal of the child’s birth, or the events that had led up to it.
And me? I had a new governess to contend with, or to be more accurate, a succession of governesses, for none of them stayed long. Some were French, some English, some old, some young, but they all had two things in common: they were extremely plain and none of them seemed to be able to cope with me.
5
‘Tell me about Aunt Beth; some of her diaries are in my pile for pre-1914.’
‘ Guy, you’re so organised.’ Sophia gazed in mock amazement at the neatly labelled bundles ranged about us. ‘What happens if
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