After Such Kindness by Gaynor Arnold

‘Are you drawing us ?’ she said eagerly.
    ‘Indeed not. The four young ladies in this picture are busy killing time and I’m sure that none of you well-brought-up children would dream of such an act of homicide.’
    ‘But “killing time” is a metaphor,’ I told him, pleased to be able to show off my knowledge. ‘Or maybe it’s just an expression. At any rate, you can’t really do it.’
    He raised his eyebrows. ‘Can’t you?’ he said. ‘Maybe you’ve never tried hard enough. Supposing Time was stopped in his tracks right this minute? Just think – you’d never have to go to Miss Prentiss’s lessons ever again or learn about simile or syntax, précis or parsing, superlatives or subjunctives, let alone the capital of Hindustan and the theorem of Pythagoras.’
    ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I suppose it would be nice.’ Although, secretly, I liked school and learning all about history and geography.
    ‘But on the other hand,’ he said, ‘it would always be your birthday, which might not be so nice.’
    ‘I think that would be very nice,’ Annie said, butting in as usual. ‘I like birthdays.’
    ‘You wouldn’t like them so much if you had one every day,’ he said. ‘Just think – you’d have to eat that immense picnic luncheon over and over again, starting with the sandwiches and chicken; and working through the salmon and shrimps. And then, as soon as you finish with the jellies and cake, you have to start again with the sandwiches, and so ad infinitum.’
    ‘We’d be sick,’ said Emma, making a face. ‘My brother Ralph was horribly sick after eating too much at his birthday party.’
    ‘But he’s a little boy,’ said Mr Jameson with a shudder. ‘And boys are full of snips and snails as you very well know.’
    ‘What are little girls full of, then?’ Enid asked shyly.
    ‘Well, don’t you know the song? Sugar and spice and all things nice ?’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I wouldn’t wish you to get swell-headed, little Enid, because it would hurt too much – but girls, in my opinion, are the most delightful creatures in the world.’
    ‘Not always, Jameson.’ My father came up behind us. ‘Girls always have a lot to say for themselves.’
    ‘Well, it would be strange if they had a lot to say for other people .’ Mr Jameson laughed.
    ‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘Because you’d have to get inside other people’s brains first. You’d have to coil up really small, and be squashed against the sides of their heads.’
    ‘Ugh, that’s horrid,’ said Emma.
    ‘Quite horrid. But there’s no need for such bodily contortions,’ said Mr Jameson. ‘Try using your imagination, little ladies. That’s the best way to get into someone else’s head. There’s space for everything there – whole countries and universes if you have a mind to it.’
    I couldn’t help thinking about this, and how you can carry so many pictures in your mind even though your actual head is so small in size, and I thought Mr Jameson was very clever and not at all like the rest of the grown-up people I knew.
    I am astonished at how much I remember, now my mind has jumped back to that time. But did Daisy remember that day as I do now? And did she remember John Jameson the same way? I lift the journal from my lap and turn the page. The next entry is very long, and I’m obscurely cheered at her diligence. If she writes as much for every other day, I’ll be here for hours. But I must take every word and paragraph in the strictest of order.
Sunday 8th June
    I am writing my journal very early, while it is still a bit dark. I think I am what Nettie calls Overtired which means I can’t sleep and the same things keep going round and round in my head, so I thought I would write them down before I forget. I’ve taken the old bit of candle from Nettie’s bedside. I don’t think she’ll wake up yet. She’s snoring a little bit which she always does when she’s worn out, which she is of course, after all that