Free The Ballad and the Source by Rosamond Lehmann Page B

enthusiasm.
    â€œIt’s the middle of September now,” she said. “Father told me he’d send for us as soon as he could. I wonder when he will. … He told me to write once a week, and of course I have. But I’m a hopeless letter writer—I never can think what to say. I just say we’re all well and having a nice time. … Because we are. I said Harry was kind and the house and garden were very nice. I haven’t said anything at all about her. As a matter of fact, it all seemed so difficult, I didn’t know what to say… I told him about you.”
    â€œDid you honestly? What did you say?”
    â€œOh—what you’re called, and you came to play, and you were nice.”
    The indistinct figure of Mr. Thomson appeared to me for a moment, fitted with the head of a plain sort of horse, receiving news of me in a hospital bed. Hitherto, my impression of him had been a gloomy, unsympathetic one, but now I began to warm towards him.
    â€œHe only writes back a few lines,” said Maisie. “It’s ten days now since I had a letter at all. … ” She rolled over on to her stomach, and stretched herself out along the branch with her head laid sideways on her arms. “You know,” she said, “we can make anything happen if we want it to. Do you know that, or don’t you?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I didn’t know.” I hesitated. “Do you mean—praying?”
    â€œNo, I don’t mean praying. I mean yourself! If you want something with every scrap of you, you’ll get it.”
    The moment she had said it, the idea seemed my own. It had the simplicity of all great revelations. A megalomaniac certitude coursed through me like draughts of ginger beer. Of course!—I could, I would have everything I wanted! I had only to want it.
    â€œFor instance,” said Maisie, “I know Father will get better.”
    She lay perfectly still along the bough for another few moments, then sat up. She was still holding the miniature in her hand, but now she thrust it into her pocket.
    â€œI must put this back,” she said. “Cherry said she had toothache, so she’s taken her to the dentist in the car, but they’ll be back soon. Come on.”
    We lowered ourselves from the tree and walked together over the lawn.
    â€œI heard her tell Harry our teeth had been shockingly neglected and we ought all to be taken to a proper dentist immediately. There’s nothing wrong with our teeth.”
    â€œWe’re made to brush ours night and morning. Are you?”
    I hoped my tone did not imply how unlikely, judging from appearances, this seemed.
    â€œI brush them quite often enough,” she said. “Anyway, this everlasting brushing’s all rot. Natives never brush theirs. She’s not going to take me to have all my teeth pulled out by any of her dentists—with her standing over me and gloating.”

Part Two
    It was not long after this conversation that Tilly came for her pre-autumnal visit. She had suddenly grown much thinner—even we noticed this—and her face was as shrivelled and yellow as the dried kernel of a walnut. The sickly smell of age that always hung about her was more than ever noticeable. She was so light now, we could lift her round the room as easily as we could our giant baby brother; but when we told our mother what fun this was, she forbade it, saying that Tilly had not been very well and we were not to bother her. After that we realised that everything pointed to Tilly’s imminent death, and we avoided her for a bit, feeling that she emanated some nameless infection. Then, a few days having passed during which we saw her trotting up and down stairs to meals as usual, and kneeling to cut out a new cover for the schoolroom ottoman, the miasma that enveloped her faded away, and we mounted to her magnetic room to sit with her as usual. Never had her flood of reminiscences