Part 3 (2/2)
Again Mary Ann found nothing to say; so she ate the second chocolate.
”Do you know it's only four and a half years ago since I left school?”
Mary Ann stopped munching. ”Only four and a half?”
”Yes, and oh, how I wish I was back.” Mrs. Polinski sat down heavily; then leant towards Mary Ann.
”Make school last as long as possible.”
Her voice sounded hard, and Mary Ann said, ”I don't want to; I don't like school.”
”No, not now you don't, no one ever does, but one day you'll
look back and long for school again. How old do you think I am?” She pressed herself back against the couch, giving Mary Ann room for scrutiny.
Mary Ann looked at the round, smooth face, the blonde hair that wasn't like her ma's, and she thought, I don't know; but she's married so she must be old. ”Twenty,” she said.
”You're nearly right.”
Mary Ann gave no congratulatory exclamation at this, and Mrs. Polinski sighed and, pulling a bundle of sewing towards her, said somewhat dispiritedly, ”I'm making myself a frock. Do you like the colour?” She held the dress up.
Politely Mary Ann looked at the dress, and politely she said, ”Yes, it's nice.” But in her head she was saying, quite distinctly, ”I don't like it. Why does she have everything red?”
”Your mother's going to miss you.”
”Yes,” Mary Ann nodded. ”So's me da.”
”Your da.” The hands became still on the material, and Mrs. Polinski looked at Mary Ann, a smile on her lips now. ”You like your da, don't you?”
”Yes.”
”Yes.” Again Mrs. Polinski sighed; and her hands began to move once more. ”Who'd blame you; he's a fine man is your father-your da.” She laughed softly now, as if to herself.
As Mary Ann stared at the girl aimlessly fumbling with the material, she had a strong and urgent desire to get up from the couch and run away, to fly away. This was odd, for anyone who spoke highly of her da commanded her whole attention. Yet this feeling urged her not to listen to Mrs. Polinski, but to dash off and not to her da, but to her mother. And she knew what she-'d say to her mother . . . she'd say, ”I don't like Mrs. Polinski, I don't.” And if her mother asked why, she'd say, ” 'Cos she wants to go back to school.” But she knew that wasn't really why she didn't like her. Then, why didn't she? She shook her head. Swiftly she rose now, saying, ”Eeh! I've got to go, I forgot something. Thanks for the sweets.”
”Oh.” Mrs. Polinski pulled herself out of her reverie. ”Oh, all right. . . . Well, goodbye, Mary Ann. Be a good girl, and remember what I told you.”
There was no interest in her tone at all now, and its lack was expressed finally, when she added, ”You can let yourself out. Bye-bye.”
”Bye-bye.”
Once outside, Mary Ann began to run, not caring very much where she was bound for; and her thoughts ran with her, jumping when she jumped. Mrs. Polinski was awful. The thought was high in her head.
Look at her house, all red and dirty. She skipped over the gra.s.s verge. She didn't like her, she didn't.
On and on she ran, her thoughts swirling around Mrs. Polinski until, when in sight of the main road, she was brought to a sudden stop by a st.i.tch in her side.
She stood groaning. ”Oh ! ... Oh ! By gum . . . Ooh ! Crikey Moses!” It was the worst of the many st.i.tches she had experienced, it brought her over double. ”Oh! Lordy! Lordy!”
”Are you hurt?”
She glanced up sideways at the young man bending above her.
”Oh! I've got a st.i.tch. Oh! it's awful.”
”Rub it.” His face was serious and a little twisted, as if he, too, was feeling the* st.i.tch, and she did as he bid her, and rubbed her side vigorously.
PlaOw ! As she straightened up she was actually sweating, and the young man's voice was sympathetic as he said, ”Yes, I know what diat is. it can be awful.”
Mary Ann looked at him. ”It's gone now.”
”Good.”
She continued to stare at the stranger as she rubbed her side. Who was he? He looked nice, and he talked sw.a.n.ky. Like Mr. Lord, only different. He was looking now across the field, to where stood the skeleton of die new barn.
”That barn,” he said. ”Whose is it?”
”Me da's.”
When his eyes quickly came to hers, she added quickly and in a somewhat offended tone, ”Well, he's
manager, it's the same thing.”
”I'm looking for Mr. Lord's farm.”
She blinked twice, before saying, ”That's it.”
He was turning his gaze to the field again, when he hesitated and looked down at her once more, and there was the faintest trace of a smile on his sombre countenance, and it told Mary Ann that he understood things without a lot of explaining, and she thought again, He's nice.
”What's your name?””Mary Ann Shaughnessy; and me da's Mike Shaughnessy. He's a grand farmer, me da.””Yes, I'm sure he is.””He knows everything.” She stressed this point, smiling broadly up at him.”Does he? I'm glad of that.” : . . .”What's your name?””Tony. Tony Brown.” . * *She didn't think much of Brown as a name, but he was nice, and not old-well, not very. She did not ask, ”How old are you?” because her mother had said she hadn't to ask people that. But she tried to gain her information by putting her question on a more friendly basis : ”I'm eight, goin' on for nine. Are you very old?”
”Yes, pretty old.”
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