have the right of it.’
She smiles at that, and for a tiny instant we are not teacher and pupil or child and grown-up, but just two people talking to one another, and I see the young girl who loved the soldier and saw him go off to France all those years ago.
But more than that. For some reason her words go straight to the deep, calm part of me and sting me there.
And I am almost dizzied by a sudden knowledge, as cold as snow down my spine; that I, too, will grow up one day like everyone else, and look back and miss the years gone by, and the things I could have done, should have done. And growing up is suddenly not something to be impatient for, not all jam and buns and doing as one pleases. It is precisely the opposite. And Miss Hawcross is trying to tell me that, even as the moment passes and the lines settle heavy in her face again and she returns to the here and now and the stupid little words in stupid French.
So I turn my face from the window, and block out the sounds of the skylarking children outside. And the words I speak are still meaningless, but I no longer have any problem recalling them.
‘Quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt…’
S O SHORT, THESE days, the sun hardly to be seen between dawn and dusk. When I finally manage to get out of the house the lamplighters are at work though it is not half past four in the afternoon, and all up and down Walton Street the gas is flickering yellow, and the snow is still falling in the arc of the gaslights. It is ankle-deep now, and it has laid a hush over the city. It creaks underfoot, a sound I love, and I have one of father’s old woollen scarves wrapped round my neck many times over and a wool Monmouth cap which flops down over my ears and neck. I am quite comfortable. And the magic of the snow has driven Miss Hawcross’s words to the back of my mind. But it has brought other things back to the fore.
I have left Pie indoors, because I want my hands free, and I am alone in the street but for the lamplighters, and the snow has fallen so thick and fast that already the footprints of the children have become mere dents in it, fuzzy and misshapen. It is almost a silent world, and above the city the sky is blank as frosted glass, and the flakes coming down are as big as feathers loosed from a pillow.
And I am not afraid, not in this white, soft night, not even though Pie is all toasty inside and I am quite alone. I will not be afraid. I have been up to the attic in the dark, and faced down the rats, and the pale faces in the photographs, and I am still a girl, no matter what Miss Hawcross might say, and I want so much just to leave my footprints in the snow and taste the flakes as they fall upon my face, soft as kisses.
Father has relented, after I pleaded with him, hopping from foot to foot in his dark old study. He had been drinking Scotch, and was elbow deep in Committee papers when I made my move. I am becoming quite cold blooded about it.
So I am allowed outside again, but under strict rules. Father has given me one hour, and he will be timing me with his Breguet watch, he says. I did not even point out to him that I have no timepiece of my own. He wrapped me in his scarf and set the shapeless old hat on my head, and watched me in a spill of lamplight as I left the house – but he is gone now, and I am unwatched and free. And I know where I am going.
There is a Committee meeting at five, and I know that father will get caught up in it, and the time will pass and he will not pull the beautiful Breguet out of his waistcoat pocket because he will be talking and talking and talking. And so my single hour will be longer, and as long as I can be mouse-quiet when I come back, I am sure that I can swing half as much again. More perhaps. And if I get a belt out of it for being late, then what does it matter?
That is what I tell myself as I stand there in the softly falling snow. Because I have decided to return to Port Meadow, and I do not
She smiles at that, and for a tiny instant we are not teacher and pupil or child and grown-up, but just two people talking to one another, and I see the young girl who loved the soldier and saw him go off to France all those years ago.
But more than that. For some reason her words go straight to the deep, calm part of me and sting me there.
And I am almost dizzied by a sudden knowledge, as cold as snow down my spine; that I, too, will grow up one day like everyone else, and look back and miss the years gone by, and the things I could have done, should have done. And growing up is suddenly not something to be impatient for, not all jam and buns and doing as one pleases. It is precisely the opposite. And Miss Hawcross is trying to tell me that, even as the moment passes and the lines settle heavy in her face again and she returns to the here and now and the stupid little words in stupid French.
So I turn my face from the window, and block out the sounds of the skylarking children outside. And the words I speak are still meaningless, but I no longer have any problem recalling them.
‘Quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt…’
S O SHORT, THESE days, the sun hardly to be seen between dawn and dusk. When I finally manage to get out of the house the lamplighters are at work though it is not half past four in the afternoon, and all up and down Walton Street the gas is flickering yellow, and the snow is still falling in the arc of the gaslights. It is ankle-deep now, and it has laid a hush over the city. It creaks underfoot, a sound I love, and I have one of father’s old woollen scarves wrapped round my neck many times over and a wool Monmouth cap which flops down over my ears and neck. I am quite comfortable. And the magic of the snow has driven Miss Hawcross’s words to the back of my mind. But it has brought other things back to the fore.
I have left Pie indoors, because I want my hands free, and I am alone in the street but for the lamplighters, and the snow has fallen so thick and fast that already the footprints of the children have become mere dents in it, fuzzy and misshapen. It is almost a silent world, and above the city the sky is blank as frosted glass, and the flakes coming down are as big as feathers loosed from a pillow.
And I am not afraid, not in this white, soft night, not even though Pie is all toasty inside and I am quite alone. I will not be afraid. I have been up to the attic in the dark, and faced down the rats, and the pale faces in the photographs, and I am still a girl, no matter what Miss Hawcross might say, and I want so much just to leave my footprints in the snow and taste the flakes as they fall upon my face, soft as kisses.
Father has relented, after I pleaded with him, hopping from foot to foot in his dark old study. He had been drinking Scotch, and was elbow deep in Committee papers when I made my move. I am becoming quite cold blooded about it.
So I am allowed outside again, but under strict rules. Father has given me one hour, and he will be timing me with his Breguet watch, he says. I did not even point out to him that I have no timepiece of my own. He wrapped me in his scarf and set the shapeless old hat on my head, and watched me in a spill of lamplight as I left the house – but he is gone now, and I am unwatched and free. And I know where I am going.
There is a Committee meeting at five, and I know that father will get caught up in it, and the time will pass and he will not pull the beautiful Breguet out of his waistcoat pocket because he will be talking and talking and talking. And so my single hour will be longer, and as long as I can be mouse-quiet when I come back, I am sure that I can swing half as much again. More perhaps. And if I get a belt out of it for being late, then what does it matter?
That is what I tell myself as I stand there in the softly falling snow. Because I have decided to return to Port Meadow, and I do not
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