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Authors: Barbara Comyns
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beautiful corpse as much as anyone; but there is something about a suicide, especially one with his throat cut!” she chattered in her sad little voice, and Norah felt that, even if Fig saw her home, the afternoon was ruined.
Eunice at Willoweed House was glad Norah was out of the way and she could lie on their bed and feel sick and grieve for herself. She had been very sick in the sink that morning—fortunately before Norah came down—and she thought she knew why she felt this way. She remembered the afternoon in the hayfield and another evening in an orchard when the blossom was still on the apple trees—and now little apples had already formed. “And I know what has formed inside me,” the poor girl cried, “it’s a baby as sure as fate”; and she felt her breasts and already they seemed to be enlarged. Then she put her hand on her stomach; but that remained quite flat. Slightly reassured she whispered, “Please God, don’t let me have a baby, even if I deserve one, don’t let it come.” She remembered her mother in her coffin with the little waxen baby lying beside her—and Norah had cried and called it a poor little thing, but she had hated it because it had killed her mother. Perhaps she would die too if she had a baby; “but I’m young and I don’t want to die yet. Oh, why is it so hard to be good when you are young?” she asked herself.
She left the bed and sat on the window-sill; and through the fir trees she could see glimpses of the village street and remembered how she had watched from that window so often just to get a sight of the top of Joe’s cap as he drove past with the hay cart. And sometimes on Sunday she had seen him pushing his ailing wife in a borrowed wicker bath-chair. She could tell he was shy of pushing the chair, because he only used one hand and kept laughing and joking with his wife in a self-conscious manner. But it was kind of him to take his wife out like that—he was a kind man—but his kindness could be little help to her now.
Emma had taken the children on the river, and they had been fishing with the grubs from a wasp’s nest Ives had given them. They ate cherries from a basket as they fished, and spat the stones into the water and watched their progress out of sight. “Perhaps even the cherries are contaminated,” thought Emma, “but they wouldn’t have enjoyed them if they had been boiled first.” Since she had heard of the two children in the village who were suffering from the madness Emma had been in an agony of mind in case it came to Hattie and Dennis. Dennis in particular, whom she loved so dearly and who was so dependent upon her. Although Hattie was younger, she was such a cheerful, independent child, Emma had not such strong feelings for her; she was her father’s favourite, and Emma almost hated her father and was disgusted and terrified of her grandmother. The only person she had to love was Dennis—and the dim lovers of her imagination.
That evening the baker’s wife ran down the village street in a tattered pink nightgown. She screamed as she ran.
- CHAPTER X -
T HE BAKER and Old Toby pursued the demented woman through the village street; but the baker was small and Toby old and she kept far ahead of them, swearing and shouting as she ran. All day she had been behaving strangely, saying she had pains in her stomach, and then drinking and muttering to herself and vomiting. Eventually the baker had persuaded her to go to bed and she had seemed a little calmer, so the worried man returned to his baking of funeral meats and rye bread, for the great joint funeral for the butcher and miller, which was taking place the following day. Toby was standing by his master admiring an enormous pie he was painting with egg yoke when the screams started, and the men exchanged startled glances and ran to the bakery door just in time to see a figure in a pink nightdress running through the open front door. The baker made a grab at his wife who gave him a
Eunice at Willoweed House was glad Norah was out of the way and she could lie on their bed and feel sick and grieve for herself. She had been very sick in the sink that morning—fortunately before Norah came down—and she thought she knew why she felt this way. She remembered the afternoon in the hayfield and another evening in an orchard when the blossom was still on the apple trees—and now little apples had already formed. “And I know what has formed inside me,” the poor girl cried, “it’s a baby as sure as fate”; and she felt her breasts and already they seemed to be enlarged. Then she put her hand on her stomach; but that remained quite flat. Slightly reassured she whispered, “Please God, don’t let me have a baby, even if I deserve one, don’t let it come.” She remembered her mother in her coffin with the little waxen baby lying beside her—and Norah had cried and called it a poor little thing, but she had hated it because it had killed her mother. Perhaps she would die too if she had a baby; “but I’m young and I don’t want to die yet. Oh, why is it so hard to be good when you are young?” she asked herself.
She left the bed and sat on the window-sill; and through the fir trees she could see glimpses of the village street and remembered how she had watched from that window so often just to get a sight of the top of Joe’s cap as he drove past with the hay cart. And sometimes on Sunday she had seen him pushing his ailing wife in a borrowed wicker bath-chair. She could tell he was shy of pushing the chair, because he only used one hand and kept laughing and joking with his wife in a self-conscious manner. But it was kind of him to take his wife out like that—he was a kind man—but his kindness could be little help to her now.
Emma had taken the children on the river, and they had been fishing with the grubs from a wasp’s nest Ives had given them. They ate cherries from a basket as they fished, and spat the stones into the water and watched their progress out of sight. “Perhaps even the cherries are contaminated,” thought Emma, “but they wouldn’t have enjoyed them if they had been boiled first.” Since she had heard of the two children in the village who were suffering from the madness Emma had been in an agony of mind in case it came to Hattie and Dennis. Dennis in particular, whom she loved so dearly and who was so dependent upon her. Although Hattie was younger, she was such a cheerful, independent child, Emma had not such strong feelings for her; she was her father’s favourite, and Emma almost hated her father and was disgusted and terrified of her grandmother. The only person she had to love was Dennis—and the dim lovers of her imagination.
That evening the baker’s wife ran down the village street in a tattered pink nightgown. She screamed as she ran.
- CHAPTER X -
T HE BAKER and Old Toby pursued the demented woman through the village street; but the baker was small and Toby old and she kept far ahead of them, swearing and shouting as she ran. All day she had been behaving strangely, saying she had pains in her stomach, and then drinking and muttering to herself and vomiting. Eventually the baker had persuaded her to go to bed and she had seemed a little calmer, so the worried man returned to his baking of funeral meats and rye bread, for the great joint funeral for the butcher and miller, which was taking place the following day. Toby was standing by his master admiring an enormous pie he was painting with egg yoke when the screams started, and the men exchanged startled glances and ran to the bakery door just in time to see a figure in a pink nightdress running through the open front door. The baker made a grab at his wife who gave him a
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