picture.
The photograph was tinted, professionally, so that she had, as was thought pretty then for a little girl, a rosy pursed-up little mouth and rounded cheeks the colour of ripe peaches. Looking closely for several minutes she recalled the voices from her childhood and knew that she did not hear them, only longed to hear them as she was, without acknowledging it, longing to be cherished again in the way she once had been by her father and her grandmother and, for a few years, by Hilde Herzfeld. A rush of remembered fondness for her grandmother was like a pain. This pain was followed quickly by another as she thought of her father. Latterly, before he died, she was always escaping from him as he became more of an invalid and an increasingly tiresome bore. Sure, she said to herself then, to drive even sheep away. Only Mr Bird was faithful perhaps because of being such a bore himself he did not notice. But as a child she accompanied him everywhere, her little crutch dot dotting fast to keep up with his long stride. In those far off days she wore a red woollen hat knitted by her grandmother. This hat with its tassel Hester still had. She still used it, darned several times, as her father used it after it was considered too childish for her. Like her father she kept her money in it. Bank notes and change, often a great deal, rolled up, hidden in the soft wool and placed on the top shelf of the kitchen dresser next to the spikes for bills and receipts, the cheque book and the pen and ink. Hester paid for everything with cash, keeping the cheque book for distant payments, the city shops and the selected few charities which, fortunately, did not have to survive on her meagre contributions.
Hester had never known her mother. Neither had Katherine. They did not talk of this as the word seemed to have very little meaning for either of them. Katherine, lacking a father too, had quickly learned while Hesterâs father was alive how to behave with him, how to answer him and when to avoid him. She was very adaptable Hester noticed at once. She thought this was probably because of the kind of people she had had to be with at the Orphanage.
The lame leg had not shown on the photograph even though the low-waisted dress was short. The skilful photographer had arranged her to sit in such a way that the little body and limbs looked perfect, the lame foot was tucked in behind the good one. Perhaps that was why, when she became older and painfully aware of the disfigurement, she had removed the photograph from its place and put it away. Perhaps her father realizing the reason had refrained from mentioning the disappearance of the touched-up little Hester. Or, as she rebuked herself now in this long night for taking out the photograph, perhaps he had never noticed that the picture had gone from its accustomed place. Nothing could have covered the pale space left on the wall because it had been in the sitting room, or drawing room as her grandmother called it, where it would not have been possible to pin up one of the poultry-feed or farm machinery calendars they received every year.
Hesterâs headache was accompanied by that total lack of dignity suffered during bouts of vomiting, not once or twice but several times, first undigested food, of which she was deeply ashamed and then painfully and with difficulty, bile. She wanted to tell Katherine how dreadfully sorry she was about it all but she could only groan and keep her eyes closed. She felt Katherineâs small hands as they patted her forehead gently and she felt the cold compresses which were dutifully laid across her pain. Katherine kept the room dark and emptied the basin repeatedly as she had learned to do during previous headaches. Bilious attacks, Hester called them if she had to explain an absence to anyone.
âWhat time is it,â Hester managed to ask in a weary voice in the darkened room.
âWhy Miss Harper dear, itâs four oâclock. Should you feel
The photograph was tinted, professionally, so that she had, as was thought pretty then for a little girl, a rosy pursed-up little mouth and rounded cheeks the colour of ripe peaches. Looking closely for several minutes she recalled the voices from her childhood and knew that she did not hear them, only longed to hear them as she was, without acknowledging it, longing to be cherished again in the way she once had been by her father and her grandmother and, for a few years, by Hilde Herzfeld. A rush of remembered fondness for her grandmother was like a pain. This pain was followed quickly by another as she thought of her father. Latterly, before he died, she was always escaping from him as he became more of an invalid and an increasingly tiresome bore. Sure, she said to herself then, to drive even sheep away. Only Mr Bird was faithful perhaps because of being such a bore himself he did not notice. But as a child she accompanied him everywhere, her little crutch dot dotting fast to keep up with his long stride. In those far off days she wore a red woollen hat knitted by her grandmother. This hat with its tassel Hester still had. She still used it, darned several times, as her father used it after it was considered too childish for her. Like her father she kept her money in it. Bank notes and change, often a great deal, rolled up, hidden in the soft wool and placed on the top shelf of the kitchen dresser next to the spikes for bills and receipts, the cheque book and the pen and ink. Hester paid for everything with cash, keeping the cheque book for distant payments, the city shops and the selected few charities which, fortunately, did not have to survive on her meagre contributions.
Hester had never known her mother. Neither had Katherine. They did not talk of this as the word seemed to have very little meaning for either of them. Katherine, lacking a father too, had quickly learned while Hesterâs father was alive how to behave with him, how to answer him and when to avoid him. She was very adaptable Hester noticed at once. She thought this was probably because of the kind of people she had had to be with at the Orphanage.
The lame leg had not shown on the photograph even though the low-waisted dress was short. The skilful photographer had arranged her to sit in such a way that the little body and limbs looked perfect, the lame foot was tucked in behind the good one. Perhaps that was why, when she became older and painfully aware of the disfigurement, she had removed the photograph from its place and put it away. Perhaps her father realizing the reason had refrained from mentioning the disappearance of the touched-up little Hester. Or, as she rebuked herself now in this long night for taking out the photograph, perhaps he had never noticed that the picture had gone from its accustomed place. Nothing could have covered the pale space left on the wall because it had been in the sitting room, or drawing room as her grandmother called it, where it would not have been possible to pin up one of the poultry-feed or farm machinery calendars they received every year.
Hesterâs headache was accompanied by that total lack of dignity suffered during bouts of vomiting, not once or twice but several times, first undigested food, of which she was deeply ashamed and then painfully and with difficulty, bile. She wanted to tell Katherine how dreadfully sorry she was about it all but she could only groan and keep her eyes closed. She felt Katherineâs small hands as they patted her forehead gently and she felt the cold compresses which were dutifully laid across her pain. Katherine kept the room dark and emptied the basin repeatedly as she had learned to do during previous headaches. Bilious attacks, Hester called them if she had to explain an absence to anyone.
âWhat time is it,â Hester managed to ask in a weary voice in the darkened room.
âWhy Miss Harper dear, itâs four oâclock. Should you feel
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