been wringing her hands in despair—the tall, thin postmaster, Hans-Peter, had fallen wildly and wonderfully in love with the some what mysterious and very meticulous foreign lady who had been rescued from the avalanche. She had already rearranged his postal boxes as well as his kitchen utensils. on this day they were being married in the village church at the foot of the forbidding mountain. The bride was wearing an edelweiss wreath in her neatly curled hair. Her young son, in his lederhosen, was acting as ring bearer.
Not only the post office but all of the local shops were closed for the afternoon. All of the villagers gathered, first for the ceremony and then for the lengthy celebration, which included yodeling, beer drinking, and many dances in which the dancers bumped their behinds together and clapped their hands.
A happy day, to be sure.
But not for the bride's son. For his mother's sake, he danced and yodeled and smiled. He was polite to the postmaster and called him Schtepfader. But beneath his pretense, the boy was deeply unhappy not just at the wedding, but in the little village. Nothing about Switzerland agreed with him. He was very clumsy on skis. The sound of cowbells hurt his ears. He was allergic to cheese, and cuckoo clocks made him very nervous. He had twice nicked his fingers with his Swiss army knife. His lederhosen itched, and his knees were always cold. And though the memories were blurred after such a long time, and though his mother had said again and again, "If he cared about us he would have written!" the boy did recall a kind and loving man with a thick mustache, a man he had called Papa, who had once read to him, animal or adventure stories usually, in a quiet voice while they sat together in a porch swing.
He wanted desperately to go home.
17. An Auspicious Change
It was surprising to the Willoughby children—and to Nanny—how difficult it was to plan their own futures, now that they were parentless and soon to be homeless as well.
"I think this would be easier if we were modern children," Tim said, "but we are old-fashioned. So our choices are limited. Jane?"
"Yes?" Jane asked. She was on the floor, playing with the cat again.
"I think you must develop a lingering disease and waste away, eventually dying a slow and painless death. We will all gather around your deathbed and you can murmur your last words. Like Beth in Little Women "
Jane scowled. "I don't want to," she said.
Tim ignored that. "Nanny?"
She was at the sink, rinsing the plates on which she had served the soufflé. She turned, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked at Tim curiously. "Yes?"
"You must renounce the world and enter a cloistered convent. We will visit once a year and talk to you through a grill. All but Jane, of course, because she'll be tragically dead, cut off in the flower of her youth."
"I told you. I'm Presbyterian. We don't enter convents."
Tim thought. "Missionary work, then. Prepare to go to darkest Africa and convert heathens."
Nanny scowled and picked up a dishtowel.
"What about us?" the twins asked together.
"A and B: you must run away and join the circus. Toby Tyler did that. Remember we read that book?"
"Yes," said Barnaby A. "I liked it. It was very old-fashioned. Toby was an orphan, very worthy—"
"—and his pet monkey died," finished Barnaby B.
"But we don't like the circus," Barnaby A said, "except for occasional elephants."
"And we're allergic to hay," his brother pointed out.
"Old-fashioned children do not have allergies," Tim announced. "If you don't like the running-away-to-the-circus idea, then you can build a raft and sail down the Mississippi like Huckleberry Finn."
"We can't swim!" the twins wailed.
"That makes it even more of an old-fashioned adventure. Now, as for me—"
"Yes, what about you? We're all off dying of obsolete diseases and sneezing with allergies and drowning in whirlpools and getting lost in the jungle looking for heathens, and you're probably
Not only the post office but all of the local shops were closed for the afternoon. All of the villagers gathered, first for the ceremony and then for the lengthy celebration, which included yodeling, beer drinking, and many dances in which the dancers bumped their behinds together and clapped their hands.
A happy day, to be sure.
But not for the bride's son. For his mother's sake, he danced and yodeled and smiled. He was polite to the postmaster and called him Schtepfader. But beneath his pretense, the boy was deeply unhappy not just at the wedding, but in the little village. Nothing about Switzerland agreed with him. He was very clumsy on skis. The sound of cowbells hurt his ears. He was allergic to cheese, and cuckoo clocks made him very nervous. He had twice nicked his fingers with his Swiss army knife. His lederhosen itched, and his knees were always cold. And though the memories were blurred after such a long time, and though his mother had said again and again, "If he cared about us he would have written!" the boy did recall a kind and loving man with a thick mustache, a man he had called Papa, who had once read to him, animal or adventure stories usually, in a quiet voice while they sat together in a porch swing.
He wanted desperately to go home.
17. An Auspicious Change
It was surprising to the Willoughby children—and to Nanny—how difficult it was to plan their own futures, now that they were parentless and soon to be homeless as well.
"I think this would be easier if we were modern children," Tim said, "but we are old-fashioned. So our choices are limited. Jane?"
"Yes?" Jane asked. She was on the floor, playing with the cat again.
"I think you must develop a lingering disease and waste away, eventually dying a slow and painless death. We will all gather around your deathbed and you can murmur your last words. Like Beth in Little Women "
Jane scowled. "I don't want to," she said.
Tim ignored that. "Nanny?"
She was at the sink, rinsing the plates on which she had served the soufflé. She turned, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked at Tim curiously. "Yes?"
"You must renounce the world and enter a cloistered convent. We will visit once a year and talk to you through a grill. All but Jane, of course, because she'll be tragically dead, cut off in the flower of her youth."
"I told you. I'm Presbyterian. We don't enter convents."
Tim thought. "Missionary work, then. Prepare to go to darkest Africa and convert heathens."
Nanny scowled and picked up a dishtowel.
"What about us?" the twins asked together.
"A and B: you must run away and join the circus. Toby Tyler did that. Remember we read that book?"
"Yes," said Barnaby A. "I liked it. It was very old-fashioned. Toby was an orphan, very worthy—"
"—and his pet monkey died," finished Barnaby B.
"But we don't like the circus," Barnaby A said, "except for occasional elephants."
"And we're allergic to hay," his brother pointed out.
"Old-fashioned children do not have allergies," Tim announced. "If you don't like the running-away-to-the-circus idea, then you can build a raft and sail down the Mississippi like Huckleberry Finn."
"We can't swim!" the twins wailed.
"That makes it even more of an old-fashioned adventure. Now, as for me—"
"Yes, what about you? We're all off dying of obsolete diseases and sneezing with allergies and drowning in whirlpools and getting lost in the jungle looking for heathens, and you're probably
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