Free The Little Girls by Elizabeth Bowen Page A

chops.”
    “Then that should be just right, shouldn’t it?”
    “No. Two are for Mumbo.”
    “Yes, my heavens!” Frank, on his way out, loomed over Dinah’s chair. “Two for ‘Mumbo,’ by all means. ‘Mumbo’ for ever! Who and what is ‘Mumbo’—if I may ask one question?”
    “No, dear,” she pleaded, looking up at him fondly. “Not about anything more. Not now.”

    The hall through which Frank strode was, being principally lit by the staircase window, darker in summer than in winter: outside the window grew the copper beech, and the tree when in foliage was a curtain. It still was in foliage, black-crimson. But something further, foreign, not there till now, intercepted the light dusked by the branches— on the halfway landing, someone or something stood looking out. Like anything at a height it appeared to float, though manifestly it was solid. The apparition (for such in effect it was) not so much scared the man as angered his nerves. If ever he saw a ghost, he had often said, he would stand no nonsense. He was not required, however, to stand anything: the impervious non-ghost affronted him by turning round. It remained in backview, its thick, overpowering stillness giving it an air not only of regardlessness of all time but of being in possession of this place. Loose about the house… . “Mumbo-jumbo!” he shouted to himself, internally, silently and violently. It had been his intention to track down Francis and ask him for a couple of eggs, but that he abandoned—he fled out through the porch out into the sun. And once out there, in the clear, he gave a shake of the shoulders and found himself all but mopping his brow.
    The tree itself did not keep Clare at the window, beautiful though a copper beech is in its late tarnish. What she beheld, by looking down, was the swing—which she watched as she might have done if it were in motion, though it had no occupant. Under it, a small bald patch had been kicked in the grass. But no ground-kicking, from whatever angle, with whatever force, can steer an unevenly hung swing out of the twirl. Higher you go, the crookeder —leaning, lurching. Great it is to master a crooked swing: greater than straighter swinging. There were three masters. Sheilcie a firework in daylight. Dicey upside down, hooked on by the knees, slapping instead of kicking at the earth as it flew under. Mumbo face down, stomach across the seat, flailing all four limbs. Pure from the pleasures of the air, any of them could have shot into Kingdom Come. But they had not.
    Those were the days before love. These are the days after. Nothing has gone for nothing but the days between… . Clare now recollected having heard somebody, by the sound a man, leaving the house hurriedly— just now, was it? Or if not, when?
    “There you are! Have you had a whole bath?” Dicey, at the bottom of the stairs, looked up as though from the bottom of a well. She beckoned Mumbo down, into closer hearing. “Now, I’ll give you three guesses …”
    “I shall only need one. It’s Shiekie?”
    “Yes, and indeed.”
    “Aha.”
    “I don’t think,” Dinah admitted, “I was really surprised, either. Anyway, come on. She’s into the drink.”
    “How does that take her?”
    “So far, butter wouldn’t melt.—She’s inclined, though, I think, to be sore with you.”

    An eight-egg omelette, portugaise, had been contrived in the kitchen, the idea being that it should stun appetite before the chops (which were cutlet-size) took the field. The idea had been Francis’s, on the strength of which he personally handed the omelette round.
    “Does your butler speak English?” Sheila wanted to know when Francis had reluctantly left them.
    “Oh yes. He can do almost everything.”
    “Do you have other help?”
    “Alternate widows. They clean. But the one here today, by fortunate chance, can cook—at least, I think so, don’t you?” said Dinah, forking away at her share of omelette. “Otherwise, I do. But