Part 11 (1/2)

The last word was drowned in a concerted splutter, and their heads fell together. Then their arms flung round each other, their laughter burst high, crackling, almost hysterical.

Mary Ann stood as if glued to the spot, the whole of her body twitching, but especially her face. Her eyebrows jerked, her eyes blinked, her compressed lips rotated in a circle, and then she burst out, ”You-you rotten cheeky beasts 1 I'll tell me ”

no She shut down on the word in time. But Beatrice supplied it for her. Stopping in her laughter, she cried, ”Me da! You'll tell me da, won't you?”

Mary Ann stared up at her. The words on Beatrice's tongue sounded strange to her-she would not give them the stigma of ”common” and she told herself that wasn't how she said them at all.

”I hate you!”

”Do you? Thank you very much, it is reciprocated.” Beatrice was beginning to enjoy herself. She had at last got this foreign being on the raw.

”Mary Ann, there ces a letter for you.”

Lola had come hurrying round the corner and she delivered her message while looking at the group facing Mary Ann. Now she pushed her hand out to Mary Ann and continued : ”Go on, Mother St. Francis is waiting, go on.” It was an order and for Mary Ann it carried more authority than if it had come from a prefect, for Lola had said it. And so she turned, still raging with her anger, and went away, leaving someone much more capable of dealing with Beatrice than she was.

The letter was from Michael-she recognised that by the writing on the envelope-and the relief it brought soothed away her anger and humiliation, and hugging it to her, she went into the recreation room-empty on this blazing hot noon-to read it.

Swiftly she opened it, and when she saw three whole pages with writing on both sides, she said ”Coo!” and wriggled with excited antic.i.p.ation further on to the window sill. But after reading the first paragraph her body became still and her expression fixed. What was the matter with their Michael? what was the matter with their da and ma? What did Michael mean? What's he getting at? she thought.

She was up to page five before light began to dawn on her, and by the time she had reached page six she was thinking : Mrs. Polinski! and her old fears were back, swamping her in great waves. They were the fears that had filled her when her da thought her ma was going off with Mr. Quinton, and although Michael hadn't put the thing in actual writing, she was seeing it happening again, but with her da this time, and Mrs. Polinski.

in Michael ended his letter again by saying, ”I wish you were here.”

As with the last trouble between her ma and da, iviichael, in spite of his four extra years, was in no way fitted to deal with it-he could only be hurt by it. Mary Ann knew thds, as she also knew that something was up, there was trouble. . . . That's why he hadn't written last week. And now, although this letter from his point of view, was actually giving nothing away, he had told her everything as plainly as if he had stood before her and said it-that her mother was unhappy-that her da and her had had a row, and ail over Mrs. Polinski, who. he said, was causing trouble on the farm an' all, for her da., as well as Mr. Lord, had gone for Tony for wasting time, and it wasn't his fault. Mrs. Polinski, when she couldn't: talk to their da, would talk to Tony, and Mr. Lord didn't like Tony at all.

Back was the weight of the family on her shoulders. 11 brought a pinched look to her face and a wildness to her eyes. Folding the letter up, she went slowly out of the room and up the stairs and put it in the bottom drawer of the chest by her bed, forgetting that the domitorf was out of bounds except for ten minutes following prayers. Sister Catherine, finding her there and adding anotlM black mark to her list, did not throw her into tHe depths of despair, for black marks had suddenly lost their potency. What did black marks matter anyway-there was something wrong at home, something drastically wrong. What could she do? If she wrote to their Michael and asked him, Mother St. Francis would have to see the letter, and then she'd want to see the letter she had received.

When she reached the hall again she was waylaid by Marian.

”What's the matter? I've been looking for you.”

”Nothing.”

Marian accepted this without comment; then after staring hard at her friend for a moment, she said, ”Come on out and play and tell me about that hickaty-pickaty.”

”Oh, I don't want to.” Mary Ann shrugged her off.

Marian's face fell, and Mary Ann, seeing the suggestion of tears, tossed her head impatiently and went out and into the larger of the playing fields. And in a corner, with only a small portion of her mind applied to it, she began to instruct Marian further into the mysteries of North Country games.

Pointing first at herself and then at Marian, she began to chant half-heartedly, ”HicJ{aty-picJ{aty, 1-sill licaty, b.u.mberrara jig; Every man that has no hair Generally wears a wig.

One-two-three- ^

Out goes she!”

Of course, as previously arranged, it meant that out went Marian, leaving Mary Ann the first to have a go with the ball. This she did in a most desultory fas.h.i.+on; and she was on the point of giving up altogether when she saw Lola. Although there were many girls playing she knew that Lola was running towards her.

So sure was she of this that she stopped her play and went to meet her. Lola was out of breath from her

running and could not for the moment speak. She stood over Mary Ann, gazing at her, her eyes wide.

And Mary Ann, drawn out of her apathy, muttered, ”What's up?”

”You leetle fool.” * '

”What!”

”Why do you write such things?”

”Me?” Mary Ann's mouth fell open. ”What have I writed -written?”

”What have you wrote? You know that. But do you know that'Beatrice found eet and gave eet to Sister

Catherine?”

”Give what? She couldn't-I tore it up.” Mary Ann's now clear conscience was pointing to her particular effort of last night.

”You might have thought you tore eet up, but eet is now in the hands of Sister Catherine, and she wants

you. Go on-go on.” She pushed Mary Ann away with an angry gesture.

Mary Ann, no fear in her, for the same conscience told her she had done nothing, went towards the main door, up the steps, across the hall and to the office.

”3.

She had no need to knock on the door for it was open, and inside she saw standing round the table, and all looking at a piece of paper, Sister Catherine, Mother St. Bede and Sister Alvis.

Her presence made known by the diligent wiping of her feet, although perfectly dry, Mary Ann was not bidden to enter in the usual way; instead, Mother St. Bede, pointing a long finger at the floor, indicated what she should do, and Mary Ann, in spite of her clear conscience and feeling that here an' all something was up, walked slowly into the room.

The three nuns looked at her, but it was Sister Catherine who spoke first. ”You are a wicked child,” she said, ”and you will go to h.e.l.l. There is no doubt about that.”

”Wait a minute.” Sister Alvis's thick voice interrupted her, and promised something of a reprieve from so final a destination as she said, ”Let us go into this. . . . Mary Ann, you've been writing poetry lately?” ”Yes, Sister.”

”Funny poetry?” These words of Sister Alvis's brought the heads of Sister Catherine and Mother St. Bede quickly upwards. But Sister Alvis we^Tt on, ”When did you write your last funny poem?”

'test night, Sister.” ”Where is it?”

Mary Ann's eyes darted from one to the other. It was no use telling lies. Although all those pieces were now floating down some main sewer she felt that the three dark-robed figures would know all about them. ”I tore it up.”

”Not all of it-definitely.” Sister Catherine's hand swept to the table, and taking up the piece of paper she thrust it before Mary Ann's eyes, so close that Mary Ann could see nothing but squiggles. ”You recognize this piece of paper?”