The Annam Jewel (6 page)

Rose Ellen stood in the pitch dark, the dark which she hated and feared. She kept on saying, “De—ah Peter. Oh, Peter de—ah,” to herself. And when she heard Ethel move away from the door she made a most desperate effort and ran on tiptoe to that other door, the inner one which led to the cloakroom passage.

If you have to do things, you can do them. Peter always said that. Rose Ellen knew that she must go down the cloakroom passage. It didn't matter if she was afraid, she had to do it. It had been bad enough when she went to unlock the outer door, but then the light from the classroom had followed her, and now there was not one scrap of light anywhere.

She went very slowly, touching the wall. Three cloakrooms opened into the passage. She thought of them as black caves, empty and cold. She dared not run lest Something should come out of one of those empty places and catch her. She came to the outer door. Her little hands shook so much that she could scarcely open it. She had to strain and tug. Then it swung inwards, and she slipped through the opening and shut it behind her. The passage had been quite dark, black dark, but the playground was a grey dusk full of shadows: you couldn't see anything, but it was only grey, not black.

Rose Ellen crept towards the left-hand wall. She wanted to get close to something that she could touch. The curtainless windows of St. Gunburga's stared at her. She reached the wall and leaned against it. All the windows were watching her. She could hear a rustling sound in the trees beyond the wall. She must go to Peter; she just had to. She went. It was at this moment that Ethel Dawkins opened the door of the classroom and, in a piercing whisper, called Rose Ellen's name. As there was no reply, she bounced into the room and struck a match. The empty room frightened her, but when the full gas-light failed to disclose Ellen Smith in a dead faint on the floor, she convinced herself that the dratted little Loony must have given her the slip either at the moment of her opening the door, or when she was putting out the lights. She put them out again now, grumbling to herself, locked up the classroom, and, meeting Miss Jones in the hall, handed her the keys. Subsequently she deposed with great fluency to having seen Ellen go upstairs.

Peter was waiting upon the top of the wall. He had spread a sweater over the broken glass, but the seat could not be described as a comfortable one. He hoped Rose Ellen would not be very long. When he heard her little, hesitating footsteps, he felt a certain glow of pride. He had told her to come and she came.

He said, “Hullo!” and heard her answer with a piteous catch of the breath:

“Peter?”

Peter had reached the top of the wall by dint of using a strong bough with cross-branches as a ladder.

He now hauled and tugged at this bough, got it on to the top of the wall and lowered it, butt-end first, until it rested in the angle formed by the corner. Next moment he had scrambled down into the playground, landing with a thud that drew a little gasp from Rose Ellen.

She did not speak when he got up, but clutched him very tight and trembled. Peter gave her a hug, told her she was a brick, and came at once to business.

“Now, Rose Ellen, I'm going to put you up on the top of the wall. You must climb on my back. I'll kneel down, and you must stand on my shoulders. Catch hold of this branch—feel, it's quite firm—and steady yourself whilst I get up. It won't be difficult, and you're not to be a little mug and get frightened. There's my coat and a sweater on the top of the wall, so you won't get cut. Now, come on!”

He got down on his knees, grasping the butt-end of the branch, and Rose Ellen climbed easily to a standing position on his shoulders. Then came the ticklish part of the job. Peter said, “Are you ready?” and began to get on to his feet, bearing down upon the branch and leaning forward so as to keep Rose Ellen well in the angle. There was one dizzy moment when he felt her swing backwards, but she caught at the wall and got her balance again. Now that Peter was standing, Rose Ellen could hold on to the coping, and her head was clear of the wall. Peter put his hands up.

“I'm going to push you on to the top of the wall with my hands under your feet. Right foot first. Feel for my hand and hold on all you can.”

Rose Ellen had stopped shaking. She did exactly as she was told. She was light, and Peter was strong. Lifting and straining, he pushed her up high enough to get her knee on to the place where his coat covered the glass. The rest was easy.

Peter swarmed up the branch, dropped it down on the other side, lowered Rose Ellen, and followed her, bringing his coat with him. He had two surface cuts, and was very much out of breath; but the thing was done. He picked up the sweater from the grass where it had dropped with Rose Ellen, and entered upon the next stage of the proceedings.

“Take off that dress,” he said, and Rose Ellen obeyed. “Now put this on.”

He handed her the sweater.

“Am I going to be a boy?”

“I expect so.”

“But my petticoat shows, Peter de—ah.”

Peter felt in the dusk. The petticoat, of the same old-fashioned make as the discarded dress, stood out below the sweater in a deep, stiff frill.

Peter was in a dilemma. If she took the petticoat off, Rose Ellen would be cold. If she kept it on, she would certainly attract attention. It was at this moment that the rhyme of “The Little Old Woman” came to his assistance—the little old woman who went to sleep upon the King's highway, and

By there came a pedlar whose name was Stout,

He cut her petticoats all round about,

He cut her petticoats up to her knees …

Peter extracted a clasp-knife from his pocket and began to cut Rose Ellen's petticoats all round about, only he went one better than the pedlar, and took them off, not up to her knees, but a good two inches above them. Then he groped in the grass, until he found a heavy fish-basket. He had purchased it in Parberry for threepence, and it contained a German sausage, a loaf of bread, half a pound of cheese, eight penny buns, six bananas, and two oranges. On the top of the bananas and oranges there was a cheap serge cap and a pair of dark-blue shorts.

Peter assisted Rose Ellen to stuff the remains of her petticoats into the shorts, and put the cap firmly on her head. They had cut her hair very short, but it still curled. The cap fitted very well. Peter then rolled the cut-off pieces of petticoat inside the coarse woollen dress, pushed the bundle well down between the ivy and the trunk of the nearest tree, put on his coat, picked up the fish-basket and his own handbag, and led the way back to the road.

CHAPTER VI

Rose Ellen followed him like a little dog. Peter's sweater felt warm and light. Every now and then she patted the new shorts approvingly. It was frightfully nice to be a boy. She came out on to the high road with the feeling of having come home. It was home because Peter was there, and because she was Rose Ellen again. She caught Peter up and nuzzled her head against his arm.

“Augustabel—” she said.

“What about Augustabel?”

“Oh, Peter de—ah, she's in a apple tree.”

“Why on earth—”

“Because of not being allowed to take her
there
.” Rose Ellen nodded mournfully in the direction of St. Gunburga's.

“Where is she?”

“In a apple tree—in a garden—belonging to a cottage.”

“Where?” said Peter again.

“It's the third cottage,” said Rose Ellen. “I always look at the tree when we go to church on Sunday.”

“How did she get there?”

“I was in the cottage, waiting to go—there.” Again the nod indicated St. Gunburga's. “There was a woman there and she was nice. She said she would like to keep me, and then I could have Augustabel, but she had a husband, and he said no. I don't like husbands very much, Peter de—ah.”

“How did Augustabel get in the tree?”

“There's a hole. I put her in when no one wasn't looking. You'll get her out, won't you, Peter?”

Peter said he would. He hoped it wouldn't take very long, for at any moment there might be a hue and cry after Rose Ellen. It never entered his head, however, that they should abandon Augustabel. He knew Rose Ellen too well.

They stopped outside the wall of the cottage garden, and Peter climbed it, directed in breathless whispers by Rose Ellen, who remained in the road. The tree was the nearest tree but two; and it had a waggly branch that you could play see-saw on; and last year there was a nest in it; and the hole was a little way up, just about as high as Rose Ellen's shoulder; and would Peter mind telling Augustabel that it was only him, because she might think it was a robber and be most dreadfully frightened.

Peter kept saying “S-s-h” at intervals, but he found the tree and the hole, fished out Augustabel, and rejoined Rose Ellen without much difficulty. They walked on in silence. Rose Ellen had no words; her heart was much too full. She clasped a damp and draggled Augustabel tight, tight in her arms, and trotted beside Peter in a state of fervent happiness.

Peter had used his afternoon to some advantage. He did not take her through Parberry, but struck off to the left amongst the first scattered houses, coming at last by devious ways to the fence which guarded the railway embankment. They climbed over this, and proceeded along the bank until they came to the shunting-yard. Peter seemed to know his way. He dropped down upon the track, passing several vans, and finally came to a standstill beside a truck which was covered with a tarpaulin.

Earlier in the afternoon he had hung about the yard and asked a number of intelligent questions. The truck contained sacks of grain, and it would be attached to the goods train which left Parberry at ten-fifteen.

He loosened the tarpaulin and lifted Rose Ellen up. The sacks were standing in rows, and between the rows were valley-like depressions, not deep, but deep enough for Rose Ellen to lie full length in one, and Peter in another. The tarpaulin covered them. Peter stood his bag on end on the top of one of the sacks; this lifted the tarpaulin and let in some air. They lay in the dark, and ate German sausage and bananas.

Later on Rose Ellen's hand came feeling softly between the sacks until it touched Peter's shoulder.

“Peter de—ah,” said a very small voice.

“S-s-h, you mustn't talk!” said Peter.

“I won't, if you hold my hand just for a little, Peter de—ah.”

“All right,” said Peter, in a gruff whisper.

He held the hand that first clung to his and presently relaxed; it was a very little hand. By and by they were both asleep.

It was many hours before Peter woke. He was one of those people who come broad awake at once. One minute he was sailing the Caribbean Sea in a pirate ship, and the next instant there he was, very stiff, lying between sacks of grain with a tarpaulin over his head, and realizing that what had waked him was a sharp jerk which meant that their truck was being shunted. The shunting went on for some time, and then ceased.

After listening for a while Peter very cautiously raised the tarpaulin at the end of the truck and looked out. It was light, but not very light. The sun had not risen. Everything looked odd and grey. There were trucks, and railway lines, and a fence. Peter slipped to the ground, extracted his bag and the fish-basket, and woke Rose Ellen.

It was getting lighter every minute. This was quite a strange place, flat and green, not a bit like Parberry. The name of the station was Hastney Mere. They left it behind them and took the road. The sun was rising as they crossed a little bridge and came to a path that led through water-meadows golden with kingcups. The sky looked very new and clean. They sat by the side of the path and ate bread and cheese and oranges. Then they walked on again.

“Where are we going?” said Rose Ellen.

Peter frowned at the sunrise. He had really no idea, but he wasn't going to tell Rose Ellen that. He said:

“You'll see,” and then added grandly, “I'm going to find a home for you.”

Rose Ellen repeated the information to Augustabel in a whisper. Presently she said:

“Peter de—ah.”

Peter turned on her.

“Rose Ellen, you're saying Petah. You've been saying it every time.”

“I haven't, Petah.”

“You have. You're doing it now.”

She nuzzled her head against him.

“I like doing it, Petah.”

“You're a little mug, Rose Ellen. What is it?”

“I wanted to know—”

“What did you want to know?”

Rose Ellen stood quite still, and fixed serious brown eyes upon Peter's face. There was already a little more colour in her cheeks.

“I wanted to know what is my name.”

“Rose Ellen Waring,” said Peter stoutly. “What else should it be?”

Rose Ellen put a finger in her mouth. Her eyes were wet and round.

“They said it wasn't—they said it was Ellen Smiff—they said it wasn't never Waring at all—they said I wasn't your sister, Peter.”

“What does it matter what they say? No, you're not to cry. Your name is Rose Ellen Waring. Have you got that?”

Rose Ellen nodded. They began to walk again.

“I didn't like Ellen Smiff. I hated Ellen Smiff.”

“You're a first-class little mug,” said Peter cheerfully.

“I don't want my name to be Smiff,” said Rose Ellen. “Ethel Dawkins said it would have to be Smiff f'r ever and ever unless I got married, and she said nobody wouldn't ever want to marry me,” She ended with a piteous little sniff, and Peter's heart was melted within him.

“I'll marry you,” he declared in a spirit of true self-sacrifice. “That is, I'll marry you if you buck up and don't cry.”

Rose Ellen winked very hard and turned her adoring gaze upon Peter.

“And then,” she said, “would my name be really Waring? Truly, and really, and f'r ever and ever?”

“Of course it would.”

The path wound among the water-meadows, and presently, finding a little valley, climbed with it to a wood where beeches spread their leafless branches over drifts of last year's leaves.