A Poisonous Journey (33 page)
"I am Mrs. Farnham, and this is Miss Carlisle. You may remember me, I—"
The door swings open, and a tiny woman in a nun’s habit stands before us.
"Mrs. Farnham, how good to see you again!" She graces us with a welcoming smile. I am so surprised by her clear and fluent English, it takes a moment for this to register.
Briony has been here before.
Briony has been here before.
"Sister Sybil," Briony smiles broadly, "how good to see you again. How have you been?" She bends over slightly, though not particularly tall herself, and clasps the older woman’s hand in a familiar gesture.
"Oh, well enough. I cannot complain." Her eyes, a pale blue so striking in her deeply tanned brown face, drift over to me. "And this is your friend?" Her smile does not diminish, and I immediately feel included and accepted, a sensation so precious I can entirely understand why my cousin would visit here.
"Yes, Sister, my name is Evelyn Carlisle, Briony’s cousin."
"Wonderful! Family, it is so important. I have a large family here, all my children around. Please, come in, come in. You have journeyed here to meet some of them, of course. Follow me." With that, she steps aside, ushering us into the cool interior of the building. It is darker inside, and my eyes take a moment to adjust. The nun turns and leads us down the wide hallway. Our heels make faint tapping sounds on the worn tiles. The inside of the orphanage has a distinctly lived-in appearance, which is not to say it is lacking in comfort.
The walls are painted an earthy shade of orange, tiny bits of plaster crumbling here and there onto the floor. A spiral staircase of dark wood appears to our right. Sister Sybil passes it, and leads us toward the only significant source of light, a large set of doors thrown open at the end of the hall to reveal an inner courtyard.
As we approach, I can already hear the sound of high-pitched children’s voices mingling with the gurgle of water from a fountain nearby.
"Have you been here often?" I whisper to Briony, bending my head, but raising an eyebrow in a gesture of surprise.
"Only once," she whispers back, and before I can ask anything else, we step into the sun again.
For all the darkness of the building, the courtyard compensates with light and air. It is large and rectangular, with potted greenery and even a small herb garden in one corner. A group of children are engaged in various activities as we enter the little sanctum. Two of the small, black-haired heads look up upon spying us. Sister Sybil gives them a wave.
"Visitors," she says, turning halfway toward us, "are quite a treat, so please forgive their curiosity."
The two children, a girl and a boy, both around four or five years old, approach us cautiously. Big black eyes unblinking, they hold hands in a heart-wrenchingly sweet way until standing before us uncertain what to do.
"Please children, you must greet our visitors," Sister Sybil instructs. The children keep staring. It is the little girl who lets go of her companion’s hand and offers a tiny wave.
"Hello," Briony and I say almost at once. The girl smiles, twisting her little arms behind her back and rocking back and forth on the heels of her feet. The boy, having decided we are probably quite harmless, gives us a grin, one even more toothless than that of Sister Sybil.
"These two are Areta and Timon," the nun explains, nudging them forward.
"What lovely names!" Briony is glowing as if by some magic, their presence makes the sun reflect her skin more luminously.
"Ah, and here come the others." Sister Sybil waves at the three other children making their way towards our little group. Leading them is a thin girl, likely the eldest, with a long braid of thick dark hair cascading down her back. "Iona, Leah, and Deke." The three stand before us, curious expressions on their suntanned faces. The girl, Iona, is the first to speak.
"Hello." She does not shy away, her eyes meet mine as she takes my hand, and I observe the same confidence when she takes Briony’s.
Sister Sybil looks pleased. "Shall we have something to drink?"
We sit around a circular stone table at the edge of the herb garden where a lemon tree, its branches heavy and stretching towards the cloudless blue sky, provides some welcome shade.
Another nun, Sister Agatha, enters the courtyard, bearing a tray of glasses and a jug of lemonade, along with a small basket of oranges. Setting them down, she smiles at us, uttering not a word before disappearing again indoors.
"She speaks no English and is quite shy," Sister Sybil tells us, pouring lemonade into our glasses, the sunlight making it glimmer and glint crystalline as it runs from the wide lipped pitcher.
I observe Iona looking at the nun and then at the basket of oranges. Sister Sybil nods slightly. The girl takes one and begins to peel it, filling the air with its unmistakeable fragrance. Once peeled, she splits the fruit into exact segments, and places them into to the eager hands of the other four children. At ten, she is probably too old to be adopted, people preferring an infant to a child whose character and life have already been molded without the new parent’s influence and guidance. I reflect again, how fortunate I was to have had people willing to take me in after I lost my parents. I really ought to write Agnes another card. She is a difficult woman, or perhaps we simply never understood one another, for surely she thought of me in much the same way. I was a child she could not comprehend, from a sister she did not connect with. We were incompatible from the start. Still, I had a home, and I was safe and well looked after.
Seeing these children though, much the same can be said. They appear healthy and happy, even educated to a certain extent. Sister Sybil and her order have done good work, and I resolve to make a generous donation, whatever Briony decides to do.
"Why have you come here?" Iona asks, her face revealing the openess of youth, mingled with suspicion born of hardship.
Before either of us can reply, little Timon, making big eyes at Briony answers, "They came to visit me, didn’t they?"
The adults at the table smile at his cheek, and Briony bends down. "Yes, of course, we did. We wanted to see all of you."
Taking an orange she hands it to him, an offering he acceps eagerly, his small pudgy hands enveloping the fruit and drawing it to him possessively.
"Do you live here?" Again, the older girl makes herself heard, her voice clear and surprisingly low for such a young child. Her face betrays nothing beyond distance and indifference. This hardness toward us outsiders saddens me. I want to reassure her, to breathe ease and laughter into her. Childhood is over much too quickly as it is. I believe she is treated well here. Whatever armor she is wearing, she has carried it for a long time and will be loath to part with it.
"Yes, I live here with my husband. My cousin, Evelyn," Briony gestures at me, "is here on a visit. I am hoping she will decide to stay longer."
We sit together peacefully, the slender branches of the lemon tree sway and rustle above our heads, and more than once I fear one of the fat and juicy lemons will drop on our heads. After a while, Sister Agatha returns, fetching Deke and Leah who have been yawning impressively, to come inside for a nap. Sister Sybil excuses herself to help, and we are left alone with the three remaining children.
"I like your hat," comments Areta, her head bent to one side, masses of glossy curls tumbling over her shoulder.
Oh, to have hair like that!
I would never wear a hat again. She evidently thinks otherwise, so I take mine off and place it gently on her head.
Oh, to have hair like that!
I would never wear a hat again. She evidently thinks otherwise, so I take mine off and place it gently on her head.
"Don’t you look lovely, although you have such beautiful hair, you should never cover it." As I say this, the odd thought strikes me, should she stay here and become a nun, she would most certainly have to cover it, or cut it even.
"Do I look like a fancy lady?" She asks, sitting up straight and folding her hands elegantly in her lap.
"Like a princess," I reply, gratified to see her mouth widen in a toothy grin.
"It’s too big for you!" Timon points a stubby finger. "Iona, you try, you have a bigger head."
Ah, the honesty of youth.
Areta is reluctant to part with the hat, so Briony unpins hers and hands it to Iona. The girl hesitates at first, then even she cannot prevent a hint of childish glee to flash across her pretty features as she settles it reverently on her head. It suits her.
Ah, the honesty of youth.
Areta is reluctant to part with the hat, so Briony unpins hers and hands it to Iona. The girl hesitates at first, then even she cannot prevent a hint of childish glee to flash across her pretty features as she settles it reverently on her head. It suits her.
"Very nice."
"Are you going to take us home with you?" Timon has been oncorked and will not be stopped. Briony shoots me wide-eyed, amused look, which I counter with raised a brow.
"Well, not today. We wanted to visit and meet you all." "I am a good boy."
"Of course you are," Briony beams at him.
Before Timon can so much as open his mouth again, Iona intervenes, "Timon, Areta, why don’t you tell Mrs. Farnham and Miss Carlisle what you have been doing today." The youngsters perk up, apparently their day has been a fruitful one.
Timon immediately embarks upon a vivid tale regarding the orphanage’s cat, Dionysous, which Areta considers too long a name for such a little cat. As it happens, Dionysous climbed into the lemon tree and would not come down.
"I stood there," Timon says, getting up and demonstrating most effectively, "and I called, ‘Dionysous! Dionysous!’" He shouts the name, and I observe, with some amusement, the score of terrified birds lifting themselves from the branches and taking flight. "But," the boy continues, wearing an incredulous expression, "the cat did not come. Then I threw lemons at it." He picks up one of the lemons from the ground to show us how this may be done and is fortunately prevented by Iona from pursuing this wild endeavour. "Still, the stupid cat—"
"Timon!" Iona shakes her head.
"The cat," he corrects himself, "it did not come!"
Briony and I are a rapt audience.
"Then Sister Sybil came and she said we had to stop throwing things at the cat," complains Areta.
"Oh dear," Briony shakes her head, and I do not know whether her reaction is prompted by the intervention of the kindly nun or the actions of these rather wild children.
"She said we scared Dionysous." Timon looks unconvinced. "We only wanted to play!"
I imagine all to well what "play" can mean. Presumably it involved either tying the poor creatures tail in a knot or painting it with honey. Childhood games sometimes verge on the cruel.
"Did he come down?" Briony looks up to the leafy canopy, expecting the frightened creature to be cowering somewhere above us still.
"Yes," Areta nods, "Iona got him down."
"Did you?" I turn to the girl, who has remained quiet the whole time, allowing the younger children to sop up all of the attention.
She nods, the brim of the hat she is still wearing bobbing gently up and down.
"How did you do it?" Briony smiles reassuringly, and I see how deeply at ease my cousin is in this setting. She is made for a family.
"I brought a fishbone from supper last night, and climbed on the table." Thankfully Iona is less inclined than her small friends to demonstrate this. "I waved it about, and he jumped down."
"Straight into her arms," Timon adds with reverence.
"Quite impressive. Have you ever had a cat before?" Briony asks, and the engery shifts immediately as Iona pales under her wide hat.
"I had one once. When I was little." She falls silent, and neither Briony nor I know what to say. Fortunately, Areta and Timon have no sensitivity for such things as yet.
"I want to have a dog." Timon announces, puffing out his small chest, "a big black dog. Like a wolf." Startling us all, he lets out a loud howl. "Like a wolf," he repeats.
"Oh, no, a puppy, a little puppy!" Areta calls out excitedly, jiggling her head, making the curls bounce, reflecting her joviality.
"Do you have a dog?" Timon asks Briony.
"No, I am afraid I do not." Noticing his disappointment, she is quick to add, "But when I was younger my family had many dogs. Big ones and small ones." The children are hers again.
"Really?"
"How many"
"Did they bark?"
"Did they bite?"
"Oh no, they were very good. They belonged to my father. He liked to go hunting, and he always took the dogs along." Timon and Areta stare at Briony, who is basking in their attention.
"Did they have big teeth?" Timon bares his tiny ones in a growl.
"Well, yes, but they didn’t hurt us."
"Only the animals they killed?" Iona suggests wisely.
"Er …indeed." Briony shrugs, and Iona takes another orange, this time for herself.
Conversation veers about from favorite sweets to games, to mice (
yes, mice!
), making it both hard to follow and oddly amusing. Iona keeps mostly silent, adding only an occasional comment here and there. She is a clever girl with a wild sort of energy beneath her placid surface. Areta and Timon stumble over their words, constantly interrupting and contradicting one another in their impulsive need to get out all that can be said, as though keeping parts untold will cause physical discomfort.
yes, mice!
), making it both hard to follow and oddly amusing. Iona keeps mostly silent, adding only an occasional comment here and there. She is a clever girl with a wild sort of energy beneath her placid surface. Areta and Timon stumble over their words, constantly interrupting and contradicting one another in their impulsive need to get out all that can be said, as though keeping parts untold will cause physical discomfort.
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