đ The Railway Children (day 1)
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joi, 16 mai, 01:53 (acum 3 zile)
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The Railway Children
I
The Beginning of Things
They were not railway children to begin with. I donât suppose they had ever thought about railways except as a means of getting to Maskelyne and Cookâs, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and Madame Tussaudâs. They were just ordinary suburban children, and they lived with their father and mother in an ordinary redbrick-fronted villa, with coloured glass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a hall, a bathroom with hot and cold water, electric bells, French windows, and a good deal of white paint, and âevery modern convenience,â as the house-agents say.
There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, mothers never have favourites, but if their mother had had a favourite, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished to be an engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well.
Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her. She was almost always there, ready to play with the children, and read to them, and help them to do their home-lessons. Besides this she used to write stories for them while they were at school, and read them aloud after tea, and she always made up funny pieces of poetry for their birthdays and for other great occasions, such as the christening of the new kittens, or the refurnishing of the dollâs house, or the time when they were getting over the mumps.
These three lucky children always had everything they needed: pretty clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys, and a Mother Goose wallpaper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid, and a dog who was called James, and who was their very own. They also had a father who was just perfectâ ânever cross, never unjust, and always ready for a gameâ âat least, if at any time he was not ready, he always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt sure he couldnât help himself.
You will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so they were, but they did not know how happy till the pretty life in the Red Villa was over and done with, and they had to live a very different life indeed.
The dreadful change came quite suddenly.
Peter had a birthdayâ âhis tenth. Among his other presents was a model engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other presents were full of charm, but the engine was fuller of charm than any of the others were.
Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days. Then, owing either to Peterâs inexperience or Phyllisâs good intentions, which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the engine suddenly went off with a bang. James was so frightened that he went out and did not come back all day. All the Noahâs Ark people who were in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except the poor little engine and the feelings of Peter. The others said he cried over itâ âbut of course boys of ten do not cry, however terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot. He said that his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned out to be true, though Peter did not know it was when he said it, the next day he had to go to bed and stay there. Mother began to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat up in bed and said:
âI hate gruelâ âI hate barley waterâ âI hate bread and milk. I want to get up and have something real to eat.â
âWhat would you like?â Mother asked.
âA pigeon-pie,â said Peter, eagerly, âa large pigeon-pie. A very large one.â
So Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was cooked, Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was, then it went on:
He had an engine that he loved
With all his heart and soul,
And if he had a wish on earth
It was to keep it whole.One dayâ âmy friends, prepare your minds;
Iâm coming to the worstâ â
Quite suddenly a screw went mad,
And then the boiler burst!With gloomy face he picked it up
And took it to his mother,
Though even he could not suppose
That she could make another;For those who perished on the line
He did not seem to care,
His engine being more to him
Than all the people there.And now you see the reason why
Our Peter has been ill:
He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie
His gnawing grief to kill.He wraps himself in blankets warm
And sleeps in bed till late,
Determined thus to overcome
His miserable fate.And if his eyes are rather red,
His cold must just excuse it:
Offer him pie; you may be sure
He never will refuse it.
Father had been away in the country for three or four days. All Peterâs hopes for the curing of his afflicted engine were now fixed on his father, for Father was most wonderfully clever with his fingers. He could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as veterinary surgeon to the wooden rocking-horse; once he had saved its life when all human aid was despaired of, and the poor creature was given up for lost, and even the carpenter said he didnât see his way to do anything. And it was Father who mended the dollâs cradle when no one else could; and with a little glue and some bits of wood and a penknife made all the Noahâs Ark beasts as strong on their pins as ever they were, if not stronger.
Peter, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his engine till after Father had had his dinner and his after-dinner cigar. The unselfishness was Motherâs ideaâ âbut it was Peter who carried it out. And needed a good deal of patience, too.
At last Mother said to Father, âNow, dear, if youâre quite rested, and quite comfy, we want to tell you about the great railway accident, and ask your advice.â
âAll right,â said Father, âfire away!â
So then Peter told the sad tale, and fetched what was left of the engine.
âHum,â said Father, when he had looked the engine over very carefully.
The children held their breaths.
âIs there no hope?â said Peter, in a low, unsteady voice.
âHope? Rather! Tons of it,â said Father, cheerfully; âbut itâll want something besides hopeâ âa bit of brazing say, or some solder, and a new valve. I think weâd better keep it for a rainy day. In other words, Iâll give up Saturday afternoon to it, and you shall all help me.â
âCan girls help to mend engines?â Peter asked doubtfully.
âOf course they can. Girls are just as clever as boys, and donât you forget it! How would you like to be an engine-driver, Phil?â
âMy face would be always dirty, wouldnât it?â said Phyllis, in unenthusiastic tones, âand I expect I should break something.â
âI should just love it,â said Robertaâ ââdo you think I could when Iâm grown up, Daddy? Or even a stoker?â
âYou mean a fireman,â said Daddy, pulling and twisting at the engine. âWell, if you still wish it, when youâre grown up, weâll see about making you a fire-woman. I remember when I was a boyâ ââ
Just then there was a knock at the front door.
âWho on earth!â said Father. âAn Englishmanâs house is his castle, of course, but I do wish they built semidetached villas with moats and drawbridges.â
Ruthâ âshe was the parlourmaid and had red hairâ âcame in and said that two gentlemen wanted to see the master.
âIâve shown them into the Library, Sir,â said she.
âI expect itâs the subscription to the Vicarâs testimonial,â said Mother, âor else itâs the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them quickly, dear. It does break up an evening so, and itâs nearly the childrenâs bedtime.â
But Father did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen at all quickly.
âI wish we had got a moat and drawbridge,â said Roberta; âthen, when we didnât want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge and no one else could get in. I expect Father will have forgotten about when he was a boy if they stay much longer.â
Mother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy story about a princess with green eyes, but it was difficult because they could hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in the Library, and Fatherâs voice sounded louder and different to the voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds.
Then the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief.
âTheyâre going now,â said Phyllis; âheâs rung to have them shown out.â
But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she looked queer, the children thought.
âPleaseâm,â she said, âthe Master wants you to just step into the study. He looks like the dead, mum; I think heâs had bad news. Youâd best prepare yourself for the worst, âmâ âpâraps itâs a death in the family or a bank busted orâ ââ
âThatâll do, Ruth,â said Mother gently; âyou can go.â
Then Mother went into the Library. There was more talking. Then the bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then Mother came in. Her dear face was as white as her lace collar, and her eyes looked very big and shining. Her mouth looked like just a line of pale redâ âher lips were thin and not their proper shape at all.
âItâs bedtime,â she said. âRuth will put you to bed.â
âBut you promised we should sit up late tonight because Fatherâs come home,â said Phyllis.
âFatherâs been called awayâ âon business,â said Mother. âCome, darlings, go at once.â
They kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an extra hug and to whisper:
âIt wasnât bad news, Mammy, was it? Is anyone deadâ âorâ ââ
âNobodyâs deadâ âno,â said Mother, and she almost seemed to push Roberta away. âI canât tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go, dear, go now.â
So Roberta went.
Ruth brushed the girlsâ hair and helped them to undress. (Mother almost always did this herself.) When she had turned down the gas and left them she found Peter, still dressed, waiting on the stairs.
âI say, Ruth, whatâs up?â he asked.
âDonât ask me no questions and I wonât tell you no lies,â the redheaded Ruth replied. âYouâll know soon enough.â
Late that night Mother came up and kissed all three children as they lay asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss woke, and she lay mousey-still, and said nothing.
âIf Mother doesnât want us to know sheâs been crying,â she said to herself as she heard through the dark the catching of her Motherâs breath, âwe wonât know it. Thatâs all.â
When they came down to breakfast the next morning, Mother had already gone out.
âTo London,â Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast.
âThereâs something awful the matter,â said Peter, breaking his egg. âRuth told me last night we should know soon enough.â
âDid you ask her?â said Roberta, with scorn.
âYes, I did!â said Peter, angrily. âIf you could go to bed without caring whether Mother was worried or not, I couldnât. So there.â
âI donât think we ought to ask the servants things Mother doesnât tell us,â said Roberta.
âThatâs right, Miss Goody-goody,â said Peter, âpreach away.â
âIâm not goody,â said Phyllis, âbut I think Bobbieâs right this time.â
âOf course. She always is. In her own opinion,â said Peter.
âOh, donât!â cried Roberta, putting down her egg-spoon; âdonât letâs be horrid to each other. Iâm sure some dire calamity is happening. Donât letâs make it worse!â
âWho began, I should like to know?â said Peter.
Roberta made an effort, and answered:â â
âI did, I suppose, butâ ââ
âWell, then,â said Peter, triumphantly. But before he went to school he thumped his sister between the shoulders and told her to cheer up.
The children came home to one oâclock dinner, but Mother was not there. And she was not there at teatime.
It was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and tired that the children felt they could not ask her any questions. She sank into an armchair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her hat, while Roberta took off her gloves, and Peter unfastened her walking-shoes and fetched her soft velvety slippers for her.
When she had had a cup of tea, and Roberta had put eau de cologne on her poor head that ached, Mother said:â â
âNow, my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men last night did bring very bad news, and Father will be away for some time. I am very worried about it, and I want you all to help me, and not to make things harder for me.â
âAs if we would!â said Roberta, holding Motherâs hand against her face.
âYou can help me very much,â said Mother, âby being good and happy and not quarrelling when Iâm awayââ âRoberta and Peter exchanged guilty glancesâ ââfor I shall have to be away a good deal.â
âWe wonât quarrel. Indeed we wonât,â said everybody. And meant it, too.
âThen,â Mother went on, âI want you not to ask me any questions about this trouble; and not to ask anybody else any questions.â
Peter cringed and shuffled his boots on the carpet.
âYouâll promise this, too, wonât you?â said Mother.
âI did ask Ruth,â said Peter, suddenly. âIâm very sorry, but I did.â
âAnd what did she say?â
âShe said I should know soon enough.â
âIt isnât necessary for you to know anything about it,â said Mother; âitâs about business, and you never do understand business, do you?â
âNo,â said Roberta; âis it something to do with government?â For Father was in a Government Office.
âYes,â said Mother. âNow itâs bedtime, my darlings. And donât you worry. Itâll all come right in the end.â
âThen donât you worry either, Mother,â said Phyllis, âand weâll all be as good as gold.â
Mother sighed and kissed them.
âWeâll begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning,â said Peter, as they went upstairs.
âWhy not now?â said Roberta.
âThereâs nothing to be good about now, silly,â said Peter.
âWe might begin to try to feel good,â said Phyllis, âand not call names.â
âWhoâs calling names?â said Peter. âBobbie knows right enough that when I say âsillyâ, itâs just the same as if I said Bobbie.â
âWell,â said Roberta.
âNo, I donât mean what you mean. I mean itâs just aâ âwhat is it Father calls it?â âa germ of endearment! Good night.â
The girls folded up their clothes with more than usual neatnessâ âwhich was the only way of being good that they could think of.
âI say,â said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore, âyou used to say it was so dullâ ânothing happening, like in books. Now something has happened.â
âI never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy,â said Roberta. âEverythingâs perfectly horrid.â
Everything continued to be perfectly horrid for some weeks.
Mother was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The between-maid was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt Emma was much older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a governess. She was very busy getting her clothes ready, and they were very ugly, dingy clothes, and she had them always littering about, and the sewing-machine seemed to whirâ âon and on all day and most of the night. Aunt Emma believed in keeping children in their proper places. And they more than returned the compliment. Their idea of Aunt Emmaâs proper place was anywhere where they were not. So they saw very little of her. They preferred the company of the servants, who were more amusing. Cook, if in a good temper, could sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she happened not to be offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid an egg, a bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats fighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news was that the gentlemen had brought to Father. But they kept hinting that they could tell a great deal if they choseâ âand this was not comfortable.
One day when Peter had made a booby trap over the bathroom door, and it had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, that red-haired parlourmaid caught him and boxed his ears.
âYouâll come to a bad end,â she said furiously, âyou nasty little limb, you! If you donât mend your ways, youâll go where your precious Fatherâs gone, so I tell you straight!â
Roberta repeated this to her Mother, and next day Ruth was sent away.
Then came the time when Mother came home and went to bed and stayed there two days and the Doctor came, and the children crept wretchedly about the house and wondered if the world was coming to an end.
Mother came down one morning to breakfast, very pale and with lines on her face that used not to be there. And she smiled, as well as she could, and said:â â
âNow, my pets, everything is settled. Weâre going to leave this house, and go and live in the country. Such a ducky dear little white house. I know youâll love it.â
A whirling week of packing followedâ ânot just packing clothes, like when you go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables, covering their tops with sacking and their legs with straw.
All sorts of things were packed that you donât pack when you go to the seaside. Crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets, bedsteads, saucepans, and even fenders and fire-irons.
The house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the children enjoyed it very much. Mother was very busy, but not too busy now to talk to them, and read to them, and even to make a bit of poetry for Phyllis to cheer her up when she fell down with a screwdriver and ran it into her hand.
âArenât you going to pack this, Mother?â Roberta asked, pointing to the beautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtleshell and brass.
âWe canât take everything,â said Mother.
âBut we seem to be taking all the ugly things,â said Roberta.
âWeâre taking the useful ones,â said Mother; âweâve got to play at being poor for a bit, my chickabiddy.â
When all the ugly useful things had been packed up and taken away in a van by men in green-baize aprons, the two girls and Mother and Aunt Emma slept in the two spare rooms where the furniture was all pretty. All their beds had gone. A bed was made up for Peter on the drawing-room sofa.
âI say, this is larks,â he said, wriggling joyously, as Mother tucked him up. âI do like moving! I wish we moved once a month.â
Mother laughed.
âI donât!â she said. âGood night, Peterkin.â
As she turned away Roberta saw her face. She never forgot it.
âOh, Mother,â she whispered all to herself as she got into bed, âhow brave you are! How I love you! Fancy being brave enough to laugh when youâre feeling like that!â
Next day boxes were filled, and boxes and more boxes; and then late in the afternoon a cab came to take them to the station.
Aunt Emma saw them off. They felt that they were seeing her off, and they were glad of it.
âBut, oh, those poor little foreign children that sheâs going to governess!â whispered Phyllis. âI wouldnât be them for anything!â
At first they enjoyed looking out of the window, but when it grew dusk they grew sleepier and sleepier, and no one knew how long they had been in the train when they were roused by Motherâs shaking them gently and saying:â â
âWake up, dears. Weâre there.â
They woke up, cold and melancholy, and stood shivering on the draughty platform while the baggage was taken out of the train. Then the engine, puffing and blowing, set to work again, and dragged the train away. The children watched the taillights of the guardâs van disappear into the darkness.
This was the first train the children saw on that railway which was in time to become so very dear to them. They did not guess then how they would grow to love the railway, and how soon it would become the centre of their new life, nor what wonders and changes it would bring to them. They only shivered and sneezed and hoped the walk to the new house would not be long. Peterâs nose was colder than he ever remembered it to have been before. Robertaâs hat was crooked, and the elastic seemed tighter than usual. Phyllisâs shoelaces had come undone.
âCome,â said Mother, âweâve got to walk. There arenât any cabs here.â
The walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little on the rough road, and once Phyllis absently fell into a puddle, and was picked up damp and unhappy. There were no gas-lamps on the road, and the road was uphill. The cart went at a footâs pace, and they followed the gritty crunch of its wheels. As their eyes got used to the darkness, they could see the mound of boxes swaying dimly in front of them.
A long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through, and after that the road seemed to go across fieldsâ âand now it went down hill. Presently a great dark lumpish thing showed over to the right.
âThereâs the house,â said Mother. âI wonder why sheâs shut the shutters.â
âWhoâs she?â asked Roberta.
âThe woman I engaged to clean the place, and put the furniture straight and get supper.â
There was a low wall, and trees inside.
âThatâs the garden,â said Mother.
âIt looks more like a dripping-pan full of black cabbages,â said Peter.
The cart went on along by the garden wall, and round to the back of the house, and here it clattered into a cobble-stoned yard and stopped at the back door.
There was no light in any of the windows.
Everyone hammered at the door, but no one came.
The man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs. Viney had gone home.
âYou see your train was that late,â said he.
âBut sheâs got the key,â said Mother. âWhat are we to do?â
âOh, sheâll have left that under the doorstep,â said the cart man; âfolks do hereabouts.â He took the lantern off his cart and stooped.
âAy, here it is, right enough,â he said.
He unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the table.
âGot eâer a candle?â said he.
âI donât know where anything is.â Mother spoke rather less cheerfully than usual.
He struck a match. There was a candle on the table, and he lighted it. By its thin little glimmer the children saw a large bare kitchen with a stone floor. There were no curtains, no hearthrug. The kitchen table from home stood in the middle of the room. The chairs were in one corner, and the pots, pans, brooms, and crockery in another. There was no fire, and the black grate showed cold, dead ashes.
As the cart man turned to go out after he had brought in the boxes, there was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come from inside the walls of the house.
âOh, whatâs that?â cried the girls.
âItâs only the rats,â said the cart man. And he went away and shut the door, and the sudden draught of it blew out the candle.
âOh, dear,â said Phyllis, âI wish we hadnât come!â and she knocked a chair over.
âOnly the rats!â said Peter, in the dark.
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