 INTRODUCTORY NOTE To Something Childish and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rob Marland INTRODUCTORY NOTE Most of the stories and sketches in this collection were written in the years between the publication of Catherine Mansfield's first book in a German pension in 1911 and the publication of her second, Bliss and Other Stories in 1920. There are a few exceptions. The first story, The Tiredness of Roosevelt, was written in 1908 when Catherine Mansfield was 19 years old and the three stories following also were written before in a German pension was published while Sixpence and Poison were written after Bliss had appeared. Sixpence was excluded from The Garden Party and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield because she thought it sentimental. Poison was excluded because I thought it was not wholly successful. I have since changed my mind. It now seems to me a little masterpiece. I have no doubt that Catherine Mansfield, were she still alive, would not have suffered some of these stories to appear. When she was urged to allow in a German pension to be republished, she would always reply, Not now, not yet, not until I have a body of work done and it can be seen in perspective. It is not true of me now. I am not like that anymore. When the time for a collected edition comes, she would end laughing. The time has come. The stories are arranged in chronological order. End of introductory note. Section number one of Something Challenge and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Fractal Pariah. The Tiredness of Roosevelt by Catherine Mansfield At the corner of Oxford Circus, Roosevelt bought a bunch of violets and that was practically the reason why she had so little tea. For a scone and a boiled egg and a cup of jog-goid lions are not ample sufficiency after a hard day's work in a millinery establishment. As she swung onto the step of the Alice Boss, grabbed her skirt with one hand and clung to the railing with the other, Roosevelt thought that she would have sacrificed her soul for a good dinner. Roast duck and green peas, chestnut stuffing, pudding with brandy sauce, something hot, strong and filling. She sat down next to a girl very much her own age who was reading Anna Lombard in a cheap, paper-covered edition and the rain had adhered to the pages. Roosevelt looked out of the windows to the street was blurred and misty. The light striking on the panes turned their dullness to opal and silver and the jeweler's shops seen through this were fairy palaces. Her feet were horribly wet and she knew the bottom of her skirt and petticoat would be coated with black, greasy mud. There was a sickening smell of warm humanity. It seemed to be oozing out of everybody in the bus and everybody had the same expression, sitting so still, staring at front of them. How many times had she read these advertisements? Sepulio saves time, saves labor. Heinz tomato sauce and the inane annoying dialogue including doctor and judge concerning the superlative merits of Lamplos pyritex saline. She glanced at the book which the girl read so earnestly, mouthing the words in a way that Roosevelt detested, licking her first finger and thumb each time that she turned the page. She could not see very clearly. It was something about a hot, voluptuous night and a band playing and a girl with lovely white shoulders. Oh heavens! Roosevelt stirred suddenly and unfastened the top two buns of her coat. She felt almost stifled. Through her half-closed eyes, the whole row of people on the opposite seat seemed to resolve into one fatuous, staring face. And this was her corner. She stumbled a little on her way out and lurched against the girl next to her. I beg your pardon, said Roosevelt, but the girl did not even look up. Roosevelt saw that she was smiling as she read. Westburn Grove looked as she had always imagined Venice to look at night. Mysterious, dark, even the handsomes were like gondolas dodging up and down in the lights trailing luredly, tongues of flame licking at the west street, fangirling fish swimming in the grand canal. She was more than glad to reach Richmond Road, but from the corner of the street until she came to number 26, she thought of those four flights of stairs. Oh, why four flights? It was really criminal to expect people to live so high up. Every house ought to have a lift, something simple and inexpensive, or else an electric staircase like the one at Earl's Court. But four flights. When she stood in the hall and saw the first flight ahead of her and the stuffed albatross had on the landing, glimmering ghostlike in the light of the little gas jet, she almost cried. Well, they had to be faced. It was very like bicycling up a steep hill, but there was not the satisfaction of flying down the other side. Her own room at last. She closed the door, lit the gas, took off her hat and coat, skirt, blouse, unhooked her old flannel dressing gown full behind the door, pulled it on, then enlaced her boots. On consideration, her stockings were not wet enough to change. She went over to the wash stand. The jug had not been filled again today. There was just enough water to soak the sponge and the enamel was coming off the basin. That was the second time she had scratched her chin. It was just seven o'clock. If she pulled the wind up and put out the gas, it was much more stressful. Those well did not want to read. So she knelt down on the floor, pillowing her arms on the windowsill. Just one little sheet of glass between her and the great wet world outside. She began to think of all that had happened during the day. Would she ever forget that awful woman in the grey Macintosh would wanted a trimmed water cap? Something purple with something rosy each side. Or the girl who had tried on every hat in the shop and then said she would call in tomorrow and decide definitely. Roosevelt could not help smiling. The excuse was worn so thin. But there had been one other. A girl with beautiful red hair and a white skin and eyes the color of that green ribbon shot with gold that they had got from Paris last week. Roosevelt had seen her electric berm at the door. A man had come in with her. Quite a young man and so well dressed. What is it exactly that I want, Harry? She had said as Roosevelt took the pins out of her hat, untied her veil and gave her a hand mirror. You must have a black hat, he had answered. A black hat with a feather that goes right round it and then round your neck and ties a bow under your chin and the ends tuck into your belt. A decent sized feather. The girl glanced at Roosevelt laughingly. Have you any hats like that? They had been very hard to please. Harry would demand the impossible and Roosevelt would almost in despair. Then she remembered the big untouched box upstairs. Oh, one moment, madam, she had said. I think perhaps I can show you something that will please you better. She had run up breathlessly, cut the cords, scattered the tissue paper, and yes, there was the very hat, rather large, soft, with a great curled feather and a black velvet rose, nothing else. They had been charmed. The girl then put it on and then handed it to Roosevelt. Let me see how it looks on you, she had said, frowning a little and very serious indeed. Roosevelt turned to the mirror and placed it on her brown hair and faced them. Oh, Harry, isn't it adorable? The girl cried. I must have that. She smiled again at Roosevelt. It suits you beautifully. A sudden, ridiculous feeling of anger had seized Roosevelt. She longed to throw the lovely, perishable thing in the girl's face and bent over the hat, flushing. It's exquisitely finished off on sight, madam. She said, the girl swept out to her burrow and left Harry to pay and bring the box with him. I shall go straight home and put it on before I come out to lunch with you," Roosevelt heard her say. The man leaned over to her as she made out the bill. Then, as he counted the money into her hand. Ever been painted, he said. No, said Roosevelt shortly, realizing the swift change in his voice, the slight tinge of insolence, of familiarity. Oh, well, you ought to be, said Harry. You've got such a damned pretty little figure. Roosevelt did not pay the slightest attention. How handsome he had been. She had thought of no one else all day. His face fascinated her. She could clearly see his fine, straight eyebrows, and his hair grew back from his forehead with just the slightest suspicion of Chris Pearl. His laughing, disdainful mouth. She saw again his slim hands counting the money to hers. Roosevelt suddenly pushed the hair back for her face. Her forehead was hot. If those slim hands could rest one moment, the lock of that girl. Suppose they changed places. Roosevelt would drive home with him. Of course they were in love with each other, but not engaged very nearly. She would say, I won't be one moment. He would wait in the burrow while her maid took the hat box upstairs. Following Roosevelt, then the great white and pink bedroom with roses everywhere in dull silver vases. She would sit down before the mirror, and the little finch maid would fasten her hat and find her a thin, fine veil and another pair of white suede gloves. A button had come off the gloves she had worn that morning. She had scented her furs and gloves and handkerchief, taken a big muff, and run downstairs. The butler opened the door. Harry was waiting. They drove away together. That was life, thought Roosevelt. On the way to the Carlton, they stopped at Gerard's. Harry bought her great sprays of Parma violets, filled her hands with them. Oh, they are sweet, she said, holding them against her face. It is as you always should be, said Harry, with your hands full of violets. Roosevelt realized that her knees were getting stiff. She sat down on the floor and meet her head against the wall. Oh, that lunch! The table covered with flowers, a band hidden behind a grove of palms, playing music that fired her blood like wine, the soup and oysters and pigeons and creamed potatoes and champagne, of course, and afterwards, coffee and cigarettes. She would lean over the table, fingering her glass with one hand, looking with a charming gady which Harry so appreciated. Afterwards, a matinee, something that gripped them both, and then tea at the cottage. Sugar, milk, cream? The little homely questions seemed to suggest a joyous intimacy. And then home again, in the dusk, and the scent of Parma violets seemed to drench the air with their sweetness. I'll call for you at nine, he said as he left her. The fire had been lighted in her roudoir. The curtains drawn, and there was a great pile of letters waiting her. Invitations for the opera, dinners, balls, a weekend on the river, a motor tour. She glanced through them listlessly as she went upstairs to dress. A fire in her bedroom, too, and her beautiful, shining dress spread on the bed. White tulle over silver, silver shoes, silver scarf, and a little silver fan. She knew that she was the most famous woman at the ball that night. Men paid her homage, a foreign prince desired to be presented at this English wonder. Yes, it was a voluptuous night, a band playing at her lovely white shoulders. But she became very tired. Harry took her home and came in with her for just one moment. The fire was out in the drawing room, but the sleepy maid waited for her in her roudoir. She took off her cloak, dismissed the servant, and went over to the fireplace, and stood peeling off her gloves. The firelight shone in her hair. Harry came across the room and caught her in his arms. Roosevelt, Roosevelt, Roosevelt. Oh, the haven of those arms. And she was very tired. The real Roosevelt, the girl crouched on the floor in the dark, laughed out loud, and put her hand up to her hot mouth. Of course, they rode together and worked the next morning. The engagement had been announced in the court circular. All the world knew. All the world was shaking hands with her. They were married shortly afterwards at St. George's Handover Square, and motored down to Harry's old ancestral home for the honeymoon. The peasants in the village curtsied to them as they passed. Under the folds of the rug, he pressed her hands convulsively. In her white and silver frock, she was tired after the journey and went upstairs to bed quite early. The real Roosevelt got up from the floor and dressed slowly, folding her clothes over the back of a chair. She slipped over her head, her coarse calico nightdress, and took the pins out of her hair. The soft brown flood of it fell ground her warmly. Then she blew out the candle and groped her way to bed, in a cold quilt closely around her neck, cuddling down in the darkness. She slept and dreamed and smiled in her sleep, and once throughout her arm to feel for something that was not there, dreaming still. And the night passed. Presently, the cold fingers of dawn closed over her uncovered hand. Gray light flooded the dull room. Roosevelt shivered, drew a little gasping breath, sat up, and because her heritage was that of tragic optimism, which is all too often the only inheritance of youth, still have a sleep, she smiled, with a little nervous tremor round her mouth. End of section one. Section two of Something Childish and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Phil Shempf. Something Childish and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Chapter 2 How Pearl Button Was Kidnapped Pearl Button swung on the little gate in front of the house of boxes. It was the early afternoon of a sun-shiny day, with little winds playing hide-and-seek in it. They blew Pearl Button's pinafore drill into her mouth, and they blew the street dust all over the house of boxes. Pearl watched it, like a cloud, like when Mother peppered her fish and the top of the pepper pot came off. She swung on the little gate all alone and sang a sol song. Two big women came walking down the street. One was dressed in red, and the other was dressed in yellow and green. They had pink handkerchiefs over their heads, and both of them carried a big flax basket of ferns. They had no shoes and stockings on, and they came walking along slowly because they were so fat and talking to each other and always smiling. Pearl stopped swinging, and when they saw her, they stopped walking. They looked and looked at her, and then they talked to each other, waving their arms and clapping their hands together. Pearl began to laugh. Two women came up to her, keeping close to the hedge, and looking in a frightened way towards the house of boxes. Hello, little girl, said one. Pearl said, hello. You all alone by yourself? Pearl nodded. Where's your mother? In the kitchen, ironing because it's Tuesday. The women smiled at her, and Pearl smiled back. Oh, she said, haven't you got very white teeth indeed? Pearl again. The dark women laughed, and again they talked to each other with funny words and wavings of the hands. What's your name? They asked her. Pearl Button. You coming with us, Pearl Button? We got beautiful things to show you, whispered one of the women. So Pearl got down from the gate and she slipped out into the road, and she walked behind the two dark and wondering what they had in their house of boxes. They walked a long way. You tired? asked one of the women, bending down to Pearl. Pearl shook her head. They walked much further. You not tired? asked the other woman, and Pearl shook her head again, but tears shook from her eyes at the same time, and her lips trembled. One of the women gave over her flax-basket of ferns, and caught Pearl Button up in her arms, with Pearl Button's head against her shoulder, and her dusty little legs dangling. She was softer than a bed, and she had a nice smell, a smell that made you bury your head and breathe and breathe it. They set Pearl Button down in a log room, full of other people the same color as they were, and all these people came close to her and looked at her, nodding and laughing and throwing up their eyes. The woman who had carried Pearl took off her hair ribbon and shook her curls loose. There was a cry from the other women, and they crowded close, and some of them ran a finger through Pearl's yellow curls, very gently, and one of them, a young one, lifted all Pearl's hair and kissed the back of her little white neck. Pearl felt shy but happy at the same time. There were some men on the floor smoking with rugs and feather mats round their shoulders. One of them made a funny face at her and pulled a great big peach out of his pocket and set it on the floor and flicked it with his fingers as though it were a marble. It rolled right over to her. Pearl picked it up. Please, can I eat it? She asked. At that they all laughed and clapped their hands and the man with the funny face made another at her and pulled a pair out of his pocket and sent it bobbling over the floor. Pearl laughed. After Pearl sat down too, the floor was very dusty. She carefully pulled up her pinafore and dress and sat on her petticoat as she had been taught to sit in dusty places, and she ate the fruit, the juice running all down her front. Oh, she said in a very frightened voice to one of the women, I've spilt all the juice. That doesn't matter at all, said the woman, patting her cheek. A man came into the room with his hand. He shouted something. They all got up, shouting, laughing, wrapping themselves up in rugs and blankets and feather mats. Pearl was carried again, this time into a great cart and she sat on the lap of one of her women with the driver beside her. It was a green cart with a red pony and a black pony. It went very fast out of the town. The driver stood up and waved the whip round his head. Pearl looked over the shoulder of her woman. Other carts were behind like a procession. She waved at them. Then the country came. First fields of short grass with sheep on them, and little bushes of white flowers and pink briar rosebaskets. Then big trees on both sides of the road and nothing to be seen except big trees. Pearl tried to look through them but it was quite dark. Birds were singing. A big lap. The woman was warm as a cat and she moved up and down when she breathed just like purring. Pearl played with a green ornament round her neck and the woman took the little hand and kissed each of her fingers and then turned it over and kissed the dimples. Pearl had never been happy like this before. On the top of a big hill they stopped. The driving man turned to Pearl with a big whip and down at the bottom of the hill was something perfectly different. A great big piece of blue water was creeping over the land. She screamed and clutched at the big woman. What is it? What is it? Why said the woman? It's the sea. Will it hurt us? Is it coming? No, it doesn't come to us. Pearl looked. You sure it can't come? She said. I ye know, it stays in its place. Said the big woman. Waves with white tops came leaping over the blue. Pearl watched them break on a long piece of land covered with garden path shells. They drove round a corner. There were some little houses down close to the sea with wood fences round them and gardens inside. Pearl looked at her pink and red and blue washing hung over the fences and as they came near more people came out and five yellow dogs with long thin tails. All the people were fat and laughing with little naked babies holding on to them or rolling about in the gardens like puppies. Pearl was lifted down and taken into a tiny house with only one room in a veranda. There was a girl there she was setting the dinner on the floor. It is a funny place said Pearl watching the pretty girl while the women unbuttoned her little drawers for her. She was very hungry. She ate meat and vegetables and fruit and the woman gave her milk out of a green cup. And it was quite silent except for the sea outside and the laughs of the two women watching her. Haven't you got any houses of boxes? She said. Don't you all live in a row? Don't the men go to offices? Aren't there any nasty things? They took off her shoes and stockings, her pinafore and dress. She walked about in her petticoat and then she walked outside with the grass pushing between her toes. The two women came out with different sorts of baskets. They took her hands over a little paddock, through a fence and then on warm sand with brown grass in it they went down to the sea. Pearl held back when the sand grew wet but the women coaxed. Nothing to hurt. Very beautiful. You come. They dug in the sand and found some shells which they threw into the baskets. The sand was wet as mud pies. Pearl forgot her fright and began digging too. She got hot and wet and suddenly over her feet broke a little line of foam. Oh, oh, she shrieked dabbling with her feet. Lovely. Lovely. She paddled in those shallow water. It was warm. She made a cup of her hands and caught some of it but it stopped being blue in her hands. She was so excited that she rushed over to her woman and flung her little thin arms round the woman's neck, hugging her, kissing. Suddenly the girl gave a frightful scream. The woman raised herself and Pearl slipped down on the sand and looked towards the land. Little blue coats, little blue men came running, running towards her with shouts and whistlings, a crowd of little blue men to carry her back to the house of boxes. 1910 End of Chapter 2 How Pearl Button Was Kidnapped Section 3 Of Something Childish and Other Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Marcia Epic Harris. The Journey to Bruges by Catherine Mansfield You got three quarters of an hour, said the porter. You got an hour mostly, put it in the cloakroom, lady. A German family, their luggage neatly buttoned into what appeared to be odd canvas trouser legs, filled the entire space before the counter and a homeopathic young clergyman, his black dickey flapping over his shirt, stood at my elbow. We waited and waited, for the cloakroom porter could not get rid of the German family who appeared by their enthusiasm and gestures to be explaining to him the virtue of so many buttons. At last the wife of the party seized her particular packet and started to undo it. Shrugging his shoulders, the porter turned to me. Where for? he asked. Austin, why are you putting it in year four? I said, because I have a long time to wait. He shouted. Trains in at 2.20. No good bringing it here. Hi, you there, lump it off. My porter lumped it. The young clergyman who had listened and remarked, smiled at me radiantly. The train is in, he said, really in. My sensitiveness glimpsed a symbol in his eye. I ran to the bookstore. When I returned I had lost my porter. In the teasing heat I ran up and down the platform. The whole traveling world seemed to possess a porter and glory in him, except me. Savage and wretched I saw them watch me with that delighted relish of the hot in the very much hotter. One could have a fit running in weather like this, said a stout lady eating a farewell present of grapes. Then I was informed that the train was not yet in. I had been running up and down the Folkstone Express. On a higher platform I found my porter sitting on the suitcase. I knew you'd be doing that, he said, eerily. I nearly come and stop you. I seen you from here. I went to a smoking compartment with four young men, two of whom were saying goodbye to a pale youth with a cane. Well, goodbye, old chap. It's frightfully good of you to have come down. I knew you. I knew the same old slouch. Now, look here. When we come back, we'll have a night of it. What, ripping of you to have come, old man? This from an enthusiast rightfully nice chap, but Lord, what a bore. His companion, who is dressed entirely in mole, even unto his socks and hair, smiled gently. I think his brain must have been the same color. He proved so gentle and sympathetic a listener. In the opposite corner to me sat a beautiful young Frenchman with curly hair and a watch chain from which dangled a silver fish, a ring, a silver shoe, and a medal. Stared out of the window the whole time, faintly twitching his nose. Of the remaining member, there is nothing to be seen from behind his luggage, but a pair of tan shoes and a copy of the Snarks Summer Annual. Look here, old man, said the enthusiast. I want to change all our places. You know those arrangements you've made. I want to cut them out all together. Do you mind? No, said the mole faintly. But why? Well I was thinking it over in bed last night and I'm hanged if I can see the good of us paying fifteen bob if we don't want to. You see what I mean? The mole took out his pincenese and breathed on them. Now I don't want to unsew you, went on the enthusiast, because after all it's your party. You asked me. I wouldn't upset it for anything, but there you are, you see what? Suggested the mole. I'm afraid people will be thrown on me for taking you abroad. Straight away the other told him how sought after he had been. From far and near, people who were full up for the entire month of August had written and begged for him. He rung the mole's heart by enumerating those longing homes and vacant chairs dotted all over England, until the mole deliberated between crying and going to sleep. He chose the latter. They all went to sleep except the young Frenchman, the little pocket edition out of his coat and nursed it on his knee while he gazed at the warm, dusty country. At Schoencliffe the train stopped, dead silence. There was nothing to be seen but a large white cemetery, fantastic it looked in the late afternoon sun, its full length marble angels appearing to preside over a cheerless picnic of the Schoencliffe departed on the brown field. One white butterfly flew over the railway lines. As we crept out of the station I saw a poster advertising the Anthanaeum. The enthusiast grunted and yawned, shook himself into existence by rattling the money in his trouser pockets. He jabbed the mole in the ribs. I say we're nearly there. Can you get down these beastly golf clubs of mine from the rack? My heart yearned over the mole's immediate future, but he was tearful and offered to find me a lighter at Dover, and strapped my parasol in with my rugs. We saw the sea. It's going to be beastly rough, said the enthusiast. Gives you a head, doesn't it? Look here, I know a tip for sea sickness, and it's this. You lie on your back, flat, you know, cover your face, and eat nothing but biscuits. Dove, uh, shouted a guard. In the act of crossing the Gainway we renounced England. And British female produced her might of French. We si vous plaît, one another on the deck, merci, one another on the stairs, and pardoned to our heart's content in the saloon. The stewardess stood at the foot of the stairs, a stout, forbidding female, pockmarked, her hands hidden under a business-like looking apron. She replied to our salutations with studied indifference, mentally taking off her prey. She handed to the cabin to remove my hat. One old lady was already established there. She lay on a rose and white couch, a black shawl tucking round her, fanning herself with a black feather fan. Her gray hair was half covered with a lace cap, and her face gleamed from the black draping and rose pillows with charming old-world dignity. There is about her a faint rustling in the sense of camphor and lavender. I watched her, thinking of Rembrandt, and for some reason, and told France, the stewardess bustled up, placed a canvas stool at her elbow, spread a newspaper upon it, and banged down a receptacle, rather like a baking tin. I went up on deck. The sea was bright green with rolling waves. All the beauty and artificial flower of France had removed their hats and bound their heads in veils. A number of young German men, displaying their national bulk in light-colored suits cut in the pattern of pajamas, promenaded. French family parties, the female element in chairs, the male and graceful attitudes against the ship's sides, talked already with that brilliance which denotes friction. I found a chair in a corner against a white partition, but unfortunately this partition had a window set in it for the purpose of providing endless amusement for the curious who peered through it, watching those bold and brave spirits who walked forward and were drenched and beaten by the waves. The first half hour, the excitement of getting wet and being pleaded with, and rushing into dangerous places to return and be rubbed down was all absorbing. Then it polled. The parties drifted into silence. You had catched them staring intently at the ocean and yawning. They grew cold and snappy. Suddenly a young lady in a white woollen hood with cherry bows got up from her chair and swayed over to the railings. We watched her, vaguely sympathetic. The young man with whom she had been sitting called to her, are you better? Negative expressed. He sat up in his chair. Would you like me to hold your head? No, said her shoulders. Would you care for a coat round you? Is it over? Are you going to remain there? Look to her with infinite tenderness. I decided never again to call men unsympathetic and to believe in the all-conquering power of love until I died, but never put it to the test. I went down to sleep. I lay down opposite the old lady and watched the shadows spinning over the ceilings and the wave drops shining on the portholes. In the shortest sea voyage there was no sense of time. You have been down in the cabin hours or days or years. Nobody knows or cares. You know all the people to the point of indifference. You do not believe in dry land any more. You are caught in the pendulum itself and left there, idly swinging the light faded. I fell asleep to wake to find the stewardess shaking me. We are there in two minutes, said she. For Lorne ladies, free from the embrace of Neptune, knelt upon the floor and searched for their shoes and hairpins. Only the old and dignified one lay passive, fanning herself. She looked at me and smiled. Grace de Dieu, Saphigny! She quavered in a voice so fine it seemed to quaver on the thread of lace. I lifted up my eyes. Oui, Saphigny? Vous allez à Strasbourg, madame? No, I said Bruges. That is a great pity, she said, closing her fan and the conversation. I could not think why, but I had visions of myself perhaps traveling in the same railway carriage with her, wrapping her in the black shawl of her falling in love with me and leaving the unlimited quantities of money and old lace. These sleepy thoughts pursued me until I arrived on deck. The sky was indigo blue and a great many stars were shining. Our little ship stood black and sharp in the clean air. Have you tickets? Yes, they want the tickets. Produce your tickets. We were squeezed over the gangway shepherded into the custom house where porters heaved our luggage onto the long wooden slabs and an old man wearing horn spectacles checked it without a word. Follow me! shouted the villainous looking creature whom I had endowed with my worldly goods. He leapt onto a railway line and I leapt after him. He raced along the platform dodging the passengers and fruit wagons with the security of a synatomograph figure. I reserved a seat and went to buy fruit at a little stall displaying grapes and green gauges. The old lady was there leaning on the arm of a large blond man in white with a flowing tie, we nodded. By me, she said in her delicate voice three harm-sanwishes more share. And some cakes, said he. Yes, and perhaps a bottle of lemonade. Romance is an imp, thought I, climbing up into the carriage. The train swung out of the station. The air, blowing through the open windows, smelled of fresh leaves. There were sudden pools of light in the darkness. When I arrived at Bruges, the bells were ringing and white and mysterious shone the moon over the grand plos. End of section 3, recording by Marcia Epic Harris. Section 4 of Something Childish and Other Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Trish Thompson. Something Childish and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. A truthful adventure. The little town lies spread before the gaze of the eager traveler like a faded tapestry threaded with the silver of its canals made musical by the great chiming belfry. Life is long since asleep in Bruges. Fantastic dreams alone breathe over tower and medieval house front and chanting the eye inspiring the soul and filling the mind with the great beauty of contemplation. I read this sentence from a guide book while waiting from Adam in the hotel sitting room. It sounded extremely comforting and my tired heart tucked away under a thousand and one gray city wrappings woke and exalted within me. I wondered if I had enough clothes to last for at least a month. I shall dream away whole days I thought. Take a boat and float up and down the canals or tether it to a green bush tangling the water side and absorb medieval house fronts. At even song I shall lie in the long grass of the biggy nage meadow and look up at the elm trees their leaves touched with gold light and quivering in the blue air listening the wild to the voices of nuns at prayer in the little chapel and growing full enough of grace to last me the whole winter. While I soared magnificently upon these very new feathers, Madame came in and told me that there was no room at all for me in the hotel not a bed, not a corner. She was extremely friendly and seemed to find a fund of secret amusement in the fact. She looked at me as though expecting me to break into delighted laughter. Tomorrow, she said, there may be. I am expecting a young gentleman who has suddenly taken ill to move from number eleven. He is at present at the chemist. Perhaps you would care to see the room? Not at all, said I. Neither shall I wish tomorrow to sleep in the bed of an indisposed young gentleman. But he will be gone, cried Madame, opening her blue eyes wide and laughing with that French cordiality so enchanting to English hearing. I was too tired and hungry to feel either appreciative or argumentative. Perhaps you can recommend me another hotel? Impossible! She shook her head and turned up her eyes, mentally counting over the blue bows painted on the ceiling. You see, it is the season in Bruges, and people do not care to let their rooms for a very short time. Not a glance at my little suitcase lying between us, but I looked at it singly, and it seemed to dwindle before my desperate gaze become small enough to hold nothing but a collapsible folding toothbrush. My large box is at the station, I said coldly buttoning my gloves. Madame started. You have more luggage than you intend to make a long stay in Bruges, perhaps? At least a fortnight, perhaps a month, I shrugged my shoulders. One moment, said Madame. I shall see what I can do. She disappeared, I am sure not further than the other side of the door, for she reappeared immediately and told me I might have a room at her private house, just round the corner, and kept by an old servant whom, although she has a wall-eye, has been in our family for fifteen years, the porter will take you there and you can have supper before you go. I was the only guest in the dining room. A tired waiter provided me with an omelette coffee, then leaned against a side board and watched me while I ate. The limped table napkin over his arm, seeming to symbolize the very man. The room was hung with mirrors reflecting unlimited empty tables, and watchful waiters and solitary ladies finding sad comfort in the omelettes, and sipping coffee to the rhythm of Mendelssohn's spring song, played over three times by the great chiming belfry. Are you ready, Madame? Ask the waiter. It is I who carry your luggage. Quite ready. He heaved the suitcase on to his shoulder and strode before me, past the little pavement cafes where men and women, senting our approach, laid down their beer and their postcards to stare after us, down a narrow street of shuttered houses, through the place Van Eyck to a red brick house. The door was opened by the wall-eyed family treasure who held a candle like a miniature frying pan in her hand. She refused to admit us until we had both told the whole story. Cissa! Cissa! said she. Jean! Number five! She shuffled up the stairs, unlocked a door, and lit another miniature frying pan upon the bed table. The room was papered in pink, having a pink bed, a pink door, and a pink chair. On pink mats, on the mantelpiece, obese young cherubs burst out of pink eggshells with trumpets in their mouths. I was brought a can of hot water. I shut and locked the door. Bruges at last! I thought, as I climbed into a bed so slippery with fine linen that one felt like a fish endeavoring to swim over an ice pond. And this quiet house with the old, typical servant, the place Van Eyck with the white statues surrounded by those dark and heavy trees, there was almost a touch of verlaine in that. Bang! went a door. I started up in terror and felt for the frying pan, but it was the room next to mine suddenly invaded. Ah! Home at last! cried a female voice. Monde, my feet! Would you go down to Marie Montchère and ask her for the tin bath and some hot water? No, that is too much! I have washed them three times today already. But you do not know the pain I suffer. They are quite inflamed. Look only! I have looked three times already. I am tired. I beg of you, come to bed. It would be useless. I could not sleep. Monde, Monde, how a woman suffers! A masculine snored accompanied by the sounds of undressing. Then, if I wait until the morning will you promise not to drag me to a picture gallery? Yes, yes, I promise. But truly? I have said so. Now can I believe you? A long groan. It is absurd to make that noise for you know yourself the same thing happened last evening and this morning. There was only one thing to be done. I coughed and cleared my throat in that unpleasant and obtrusive way of strange people in next door bedrooms. It acted like a charm. Their conversation sifted into a whisper for female voice only. I fell asleep. Barcats for hire. Visit the Venice of the North by boat. Explore the little known and fascinating byways. With the memory of the guidebook clinging about me I went into the shop and demanded a boat. Have you a small canoe? No, mademoiselle. But a little boat very suitable. I wish to go alone and return when I like. Then you have been here before? No. The boatman looked puzzled. It is not safe for mademoiselle to go without a guide for the first time. Then I will take one on a condition that he is silent and points out no beauties to me. But the names of the bridges? cried the boatman. The famous housefronts? I ran down to the landing stage. Pierre, Pierre! A burly young Belgian, his arms full of carpet strips and red velvet pillows, appeared and tossed his spoils into an immense craft. On the bridge above the landing stage, a crowd collected, watching the proceedings and, just as I took my seat, a fat couple, who had been hanging over the parapet, rushed down the steps and declared they must come too. Certainly, certainly! said Pierre, handing in the lady with charming grace. Mademoiselle will not mind at all. They sat in the stern, the gentleman held the lady's hand, and we twisted among these silver ribbons, while Pierre threw out his chest and chanted the beauties of Bruget's with the exultant abandon of a Latin lover. Turn your head this way! To the left! To the right! Now! Wait one moment! Look up at the bridge! Observe this housefront! Mademoiselle, do you wish to see Lac de Amour? I looked vague. The fat couple answered for me. Then we shall disembark! We rode close into a little parapet. We caught hold of a bush, and I jumped out. Now Monsieur, who successfully followed and, kneeling on the bank, gave Madame the crook of his walking stick for support. She stood up, smiling invigorous, clutched the walking stick, strained against the boat side, and the next moment had fallen flat into the water. Ah! What has happened? What has happened?" Screamed Monsieur, clutching her arm, for the water was not deep reaching only to her waist mark. Somehow or other we fished her up onto the bank where she sat and gasped, wringing her black alpaca skirt. It is all over! A little accident, said she, amazingly cheerful. But Pierre was furious. It is the fault of Mademoiselle for wishing to see the Lac de Amour, said he. Madame had better walk through the meadow and drink something hot at the little café opposite. No, no, said she. But Monsieur seconded Pierre. You will await our return, said Pierre, losing me. I nodded and turned my back for the sight of Madame flopping about on the meadow-grass like a large ungainly duck was too much. One cannot expect to travel in upholstered boats with people who are enlightened enough to understand laughter that has its wellspring and sympathy. When they were out of sight, they ran as fast as I could, over the meadow, crawled through a fence, and never went near the Lac de Amour again. They may think me as drowned as they please, thought I. I have had quite enough of canals to last me a lifetime. In the biginage meadow at Evensong, little groups of painters are dotted about in the grass with spindle-legged easels which seem to possess a separate individuality and stand rudely defying their efforts and returning their long, long gaze with an unfinished stare. English girls wearing flower-wreathed hats and the promise of young American manhood give expression to their souls with a gaiety and camaraderie, a sort of the world as our shining playground spirit, theoretically delightful. They call to one another and throw cigarettes and fruit and chocolates with youthful naivety, while parties of tourists who have escaped the clutches of an old woman lying in wait for them in the shadow of the chapel door pause thoughtfully in front of the easels to see and remark and say who's. I was lying under a tree with the guilty consciousness of no sketchbook, watching the swifts wheel and dip in the bright air and wondering if all the brown dogs resting in the grass belonged to the young painters when two people passed me, a man and a girl, their heads bent over a book. There was something vaguely familiar in their walk. Suddenly, they looked down at me. We stared, opened our mouths. She swooped down upon me and he took off his immaculate straw hat and placed it under his left arm. Catherine, how extraordinary! How incredible after all these years, cried she, turning to the man. Guy, can you believe it? It's Catherine in berges of all places in the world. Why not? said I, looking very bright and trying to remember her name. But, my dear, the last time we met was in New Zealand. Only think of the miles. Of course. She was Betty Sinclair. I'd been to school with her. Where are you staying? Have you been here long? Oh, you haven't changed a day, not a day. I'd have known you anywhere. She beckoned to the young man and said, blushing as though she were ashamed of the fact, but it had to be faced. This is my husband. We shook hands. He sat down and chewed a grass twig. Silence fell while Betty recovered breath and squeezed my hand. I didn't know you were married, I said stupidly. Oh, my dear, got a baby, said Betty. We live in England now. We're frightfully keen on the suffrage, you know. Guy removed the straw. Are you with us? He asked intensely. I shook my head. He put the straw back again and narrowed his eyes. Then here's the opportunity, said Betty. My dear, how long are you going to stay? We must go about together and have long talks. Guy and I aren't a honeymoon couple, you know. We love to have other people with us sometimes. The belfry clashed into, see the conquering hero comes. Unfortunately, I have to go home quite soon. I've had an urgent letter. How disappointing. You know, Bruget's is simply packed with treasures and churches and pictures. There's an outdoor concert tonight in the grand place and a competition of bell ringers tomorrow to go on for a whole week. Go I must. I said so firmly that my soul felt imperative marching orders stimulated by the belfry. But the quaint streets and the continental smells and the lace makers, if we could just wander about, we three and absorb it all. I sighed and bit my underlip. What's your objection to the vote? asked Guy, watching the nuns wending their way in sweet procession among the trees. I always had the idea you were so frightfully keen on the future of women, said Betty. Come to dinner with us tonight. Let's thrash the whole subject out. No, after the strenuous life in London, one does seem to see things in such a different light in this old world city. Oh, a very different light indeed, I answered, shaking my head at the familiar guidebook emerging from Guy's pocket. End of section four. Section five of Something Childish and Other Stories. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shrikla Sivakumar. Something Childish and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Section five, New Dresses. Mrs. Carsfield and her mother sat at the dining room table, putting the finishing touches to some green cashmere dresses. They were to be worn by the two Mrs. Carsfield at church on the following day, with apple-green sashes and straw hats with ribbon tails. Mrs. Carsfield had set her heart on it, and this being a late night for Henry, who was attending a meeting of the political league, she and the old mother had the dining room to themselves and could make a peaceful litter, as she expressed it. The red cloth was taken off the table, where stood the wedding-present sewing machine, a brown workbasket, the material and some torn-fashioned journals. Mrs. Carsfield worked the machine slowly, for she feared the green thread would give out and had a sort of tired hope that it might last longer, if she was careful to use a little at a time. The old woman sat in a rocking chair, her skirt turned back and her felt-slippered feet on a hazelock, tying the machine threads and stitching some narrow lace on the necks and cuffs. The gas jet flickered. Now and again, the old woman glanced up at the jet and said, This water in the pie pan, that's what's the matter, then was silent to say again a moment later, there must be water in that pie pan. And again, with quite a burst of energy, now there is, I'm certain of it, Anne frowned at the sewing machine. The way mother harps on things, it gets frightfully on my nerves, she thought, and always when there's no earthly opportunity to better a thing, I suppose it's old age, but most aggravating. Allowed, she said, Mother, I'm having a really substantial hem in this dress of roses. The child has got so leggy lately. And don't put any lace on Helen's cuffs, it will make a distinction. And besides, she's so careless about rubbing her hands on anything rubby. Oh, there's plenty, said the old woman. I'll put it a little higher up. And she wondered why Anne had such a down on Helen, Henry was just the same. They seemed to want to hurt Helen's feelings. The distinction was merely an excuse. Well, said Mrs. Carseville, you didn't see Helen's clothes when I took them off tonight, black from head to foot after a week. And when I compared them before her eyes with roses, she merely shrugged. You know that habit she's got, and began stuttering. I really shall have to see Dr. Malcolm about her stuttering if only to give her a good fright. I believe it's merely an affectation she's picked up at school that she can help it. Anne, you know she's always stuttered. You did just the same when you were her age. She's highly strung. The old woman took off her spectacles, breathed on them, and rubbed them with a corner of her sowing apron. Well, the last thing in the world to do her any good is to let her imagine that. And, said Anne, shaking out one of the green frocks and pricking at the pleats with her needle. She's treated exactly like Rose, and the boy hasn't a nerve. Did you see him when I put him on the rocking horse today for the first time? He's simply gurgled with joy. He's mowed the image of his father every day. Yes, he certainly is a thorough cosfield that centred the old woman nodding her head. Now that's another thing about Helen, said Anne. The peculiar way she treats boy, staring at him and frightening him as she does. You remember when he was a baby, how she used to take away his bottle to see what he would do? Rose is perfect with the child, but Helen? The old woman put down her work on the table. Her little silence fell, and through the silence the loud ticking of the dining room clock. She wanted to speak her mind to Anne, once and for all about the way she and Henry were treating Helen, ruining the child, but the ticking noise distracted her. She could not think of the words and sat there stupidly, her brain going tick-tick to the dining room clock. How loudly that clock ticks is all she said. Oh, there's mother after subject again, giving me no help or encouragement, thought Anne. She glanced at the clock. Mother, if you finish that frock, would you go into the kitchen and heat up some coffee, and perhaps cut a plate of ham? Henry will be in directly. I was practically through with the second frock by myself. She held it up for inspection. Aren't they charming? They ought to last the children a good two years, and then I expect they'll do for school, lengthened and perhaps died. I'm glad we decided on the more expensive material, said the old woman. Left alone in the dining room, Anne sprung deep in, and her mouth drooped. A sharp line showed from nose to chin. She breathed deeply and pushed back her hair. There seemed to be no air in the room. She fell stuffed up, and it seemed so useless to be tiring herself out with fine sewing for Helen. One never got through with children, and never had any gratitude from them, except Rose, who is exceptional. Another sign of old age in mother was her absurd point of view about Helen and her touchiness on the subject. There was one thing Mrs. Castfield said to herself. She was determined to keep Helen apart from boy. He had all his father's sensitiveness to unsympathetic influences. A blessing that the girls were at school all day. At last the dresses were finished and folded over the back of the chair. She carried the sewing machine over to the bookshelves, spread the tablecloth, and meant over to the window. The blind was up. She could see the garden quite plainly. There must be a moon about, and then she caught sight of something shining on the garden seat. A book, yes. It must be a book, left there to get soaked through by the dew. She went out into the hall, put on her galoshes, gathered up her skirt, and ran into the garden. Yes, it was a book. She picked it up carefully, damp already, and the cow bulging. She shrugged her shoulders in the way that her little daughter had caught from her. In the shadowy garden that smelled of grass and rose leaves, Anne's heart hardened. Then the gate clicked, and she saw Henry striding up the front path. Henry, she called. Hello, he cried. What on earth are you doing down there? Moon gazing Anne? She ran forward and kissed him. Oh, look at this book, she said. Helen's been leaving it about again. My dear, have you smell of cigars? Said Henry, you've got to smoke a decent cigar when you're with these other chaps. Look so bad if you don't. But come inside, Anne. You haven't got anything on. Let the book go hang. You're cold, my dear. You're shivering. He put his arm round her shoulder. See the moon over there by the chimney? Fine night. Bye, Jove. I had the fellows roaring tonight. I made a colossal joke. One of them said, life is a game of cards, but I was out. Henry paused by the door and held up a finger. I said, well, I've forgotten the exact words, but they shouted, my dear. Simply shouted. No, I'll remember what I said in bed tonight. You know I always do. I'll take this book into the kitchen to dry on the stove rack, said Anne. And she thought as she banged the pages. Henry has been drinking beer again. That means indigestion tomorrow. He was mentioning Helen tonight. When Henry had finished the supper, he lay back in his chair, picking his teeth and patting his knee for Anne to come and sit there. Hello, he said, jumping her up and down. What's the green fantangles on the chair back? What have you and mother been up to, eh? Said Anne, airily casting a most callous glance at the green dresses. Only some frocks for the children. Remnants for Sunday. I'll go to bed, she said cheerfully. Oh, dear me. How unwise of mother, thought Anne. She makes Henry suspect by going away like that, as she always does if there's any unpleasantness brewing. No, don't go to bed yet, mother, cried Henry jovially. Let's have a look at the things. She passed him over the dresses, faintly smiling. Henry rubbed them through his fingers. So these are the remnants, are they, Anne? No, they're not. So these are the remnants, are they, Anne? Don't feel much like the Sunday trousers my mother used to make me out of an ironing blanket. How much did you pay for this, a yard, Anne? Anne took the dresses from him and played with a button of his waistcoat. Forget the exact price, darling. Mother and I rather skimmed them, even though they were so cheap. What can great big men bother about loads? Was Lumley there tonight? Yes, he says their kid was a bit bandy-legged at just the same age as boy. He told me of a new kind of chair for children that the draper has just gotten, makes them sit with their legs straight. By the way, have you got this month's draper's bill? She had been waiting for that, had known it was coming. She slipped off his knee and yawned. Oh, dear me, she said, I think I'll follow mother. That's the place for me. She stared at Henry wakently. Bill, Bill, did you say, dear? Oh, I'll look it out in the morning. No, Anne, hold on. Henry caught up and went over to the cupboard where the bill was kept. Tomorrow's no good, because it's Sunday. I want to get that account off my chest before I turn in. Sit down there in the rocking chair. You needn't stand. She dropped into the chair and began humming. All the while her thoughts coolly busy and her eyes fixed on her husband's broad back as he bent over the cupboard door. He dawdled over finding the file. He's keeping me in suspense on purpose, she thought. We can afford it. Otherwise why should I do it? I know our income and our expenditure. I'm not a fool. They are hell upon earth every month, these bills. And she thought of her bed upstairs, yawned for it, imagining she had never felt so tired in her life. Here we are, said Henry. He slammed the file onto the table. Drop your chair. Clayton seven yards green cashmere at five shillings a yard, 35 shillings. He read the item twice, then folded the sheet over and bent towards Anne. He was flushed and his breath smelled of beer. She knew exactly how he took things in that mood, and she raised her eyebrows and nodded. Do you mean to tell me, stormed Henry that lot over there cost 35 shillings? That stuff you've been mucking up for the children? Good God! Anybody would think you're married a millionaire. You could buy your mother a trusel with that money. You're making yourself a laughing stock for the whole town. How do you think I can buy boy a chair or anything else if you chuck away my earnings like that? Time and again you impress upon me the impossibility of keeping Helen decent. And then you go taking her out the next moment 35 shillings worth of green cashmere? On and on stormed the voice. He'll have calmed down in the morning when the beers worked off, thought Anne, and later as she toiled up to bed, when he sees how they last, he'll understand. A brilliant Sunday morning, Henry and Anne quite reconciled sitting in the dining room waiting for church time to the tune of Cassville, Jr., who steadily thumped the shelf of his high chair with a gravy spoon given him from the breakfast table by his father. That beggar's got muscles, said Henry, proudly. I've timed him by my watch. He skipped that up for five minutes without stopping. Extraordinary, said Anne, buttoning her gloves. I think he's had that spoon almost long enough now, dear. Don't you? I'm so afraid of him putting it into his mouth. Oh, I've got an eye on him. Henry stood over his small son, going to Old Anne. Tell mother boys like to kick up a row. Anne kept silence. At any rate, it would keep his eye off the children when they come down in those cashmere's. She was still wondering if she had drummed into their minds, often enough the supreme importance of being careful and of taking them off immediately after church before dinner and why Helen was fidgety when she was pulled about at all. When the door open and the old woman ushered them in, complete to her hats with ribbon tails, she could not help thrilling. They looked so very superior. Rose carrying her prayer book in a white case, embroidered with a pink ulland cross. But she feigned indifference immediately and the lateness of the hour. Not a word more on the subject from Henry, even with the 35 shillings worth walking hand in hand before him all the way to church. Anne decided that was really generous and noble of him. She looked up walking with his shoulders thrown back. How fine he looked in that long black coat with a white silk tie just showing. And the children looked worthy of him. She squeezed his hand in church, conveying by that silent pressure. It was for your sake I made the dresses. Of course you can understand that, but really Henry and she fully believed it. On their way home, the castle family met Dr. Malcolm out walking with a black dog carrying his stick in his mouth. Dr. Malcolm stopped and asked after boy so intelligently that Henry invited him to dinner. Come and pick a bone with us and see boy for yourself, he said. And Dr. Malcolm accepted. He walked beside Henry and shouted over his shoulder. Helen, keep an eye on my boy baby, will you? And see he doesn't swallow that walking stick. Because if he does a tree will grow right out of his mouth or it will go to his tail and make it so stiff that a pack will knock you into kingdom come. Oh Dr. Malcolm laughed Helen, stooping over the dog. Come along doggie, give it up. There's a good boy. Helen, your dress won Anne. Yes indeed, said Dr. Malcolm. They are looking top-notchers today, the two young ladies. Well, it really is Rose's collar, said Anne. Her complexion is so much more vivid than Helen's. Rose blushed. Dr. Malcolm's eyes twinkled and he kept a tight train on himself from saying she looked like a tomato in a lettuce salad. That child wants taking down a peg, he decided. Give me Helen every time. She'll come to her own yet and lead them just the dance they need. Boy was having his mid-day sleep when they arrived home and Dr. Malcolm begged that Helen might show him round the garden. Henry, repenting already of his generosity, gladly assented and Anne went into the kitchen to interview the servant girl. Mama, let me come to and taste the gravy, begged Rose. Ah, muttered Dr. Malcolm. Good riddance. He established himself on the garden bench, put up his feet and took off his hat to give the son a chance of growing a second crop, he told Helen. She asked so bully, Dr. Malcolm, do you really like my dress? Of course I do, my lady, don't you? Oh yes, I'd like to be born and die in it. But it was such a fuzz, trying's on, you know, and pullings and don'ts. I believe mother would kill me if it got hurt. I even knelt on my petticoat all through church because of dust on the hazard. Bad as that. As Dr. Malcolm rolling his eyes at Helen. Oh, far worse, said the child. Then burst into laughter and shouted, hellish, dancing over the lawn. Take care, they'll hear you, Helen. Oh, boo! It's just dirty old cashmere. Serve them right. They can't see me if they're not here to see, and so it doesn't matter. It's only with them I feel funny. Haven't you got to remove your finery before dinner? No, because you're here. Oh, my prophetic soul, groaned Dr. Malcolm. Coffee was served in the garden. The servant girl brought out some cane chairs and a rug for boy. Children were told to go away and play. Leave of worrying Dr. Malcolm, Helen, said Henry, you mustn't be a plague to people who are not members of your own family. Helen pouted and dragged over to the swing for comfort. She swung high and thought Dr. Malcolm was a most beautiful man and wondered if his dog had finished the plate of bones in the backyard, decided to go and see. Slower she swung, then took a flying leap. Her tight skirt caught on her nail. There was a sharp tearing sound. Quickly she glanced at the others. They had not noticed, and then at the frock, at a hold big enough to stick her hand through. She felt neither frightened nor sorry. I'll go and change it, she thought. Helen, where are you going to? Called Anne. Into the house for a book. The old woman noticed that the child held her skirt in a peculiar way. Her petticoat string must have come untied, but she made no remark. Once in the bedroom, Helen unbuttoned the frock, slipped out of it and wondered what to do next. I did somewhere. She glanced all around the room. There was nowhere safe from them, except the top of the cupboard, but even standing on a chair she could not throw so high. It fell back on top of her every time. The horrid, hateful thing. Then her eyes lighted on her school satchel, hanging on the end of the bed post. Wrapped in her school pinnifo, put it in the bottom of the bag with a pencil case on top. They would never look there. She returned to the garden in the everyday dress, but forgot about the book. Aha! said Anne, smiling ironically. What a new leaf for Dr. Malcolm's benefit. Look, mother, Helen has changed without being told to. Come here, dear, and be done up properly. She whispered to Helen. Where did you leave your dress? Left it on the side of the bed where I took it off, sang Helen. Dr. Malcolm was talking to Henry of the advantages derived from public school education for the sons of commercial men. But he had his eye on the scene and watching Helen, he smelt a rat, smelt a hamlin tribe of them. Confusion and consternation reigned. One of the green cashmere had disappeared. Spirited off the face of the earth during the time that Helen took it off and the children's tea. Show me the exact spots called in Mrs. Carseville for the twentieth time. Helen, tell the truth. Mama, I swear I left it on the floor. Well, it's no good swearing if it's not there. It can't have been stolen. I did see a very funny-looking man in a white cap walking up and down the road and staring in the windows as I came up to change. Sharply, Anne eyed her daughter. Now, she said, you are telling lies. She turned to the old woman in her voice something of pride and joy satisfaction. You hear, mother, this cock-in-bull story. When they were near the end of the bed, Helen blushed and turned away from them. And now and again she wanted to shout. I tore it. I tore it. And she fancied she had said it and seen their faces just as sometimes in bed she dreamed she had caught up and dressed. She grew quite careless, glad only of one thing. People had to go to sleep at night. Viciously she stared at the sun shining through the window-space and making a pattern of the curtain on the bare nursery floor. And then she looked at Rose painting a text at the nursery table with a whole egg-cup full of water to herself. Henry visited their bedroom the last thing. She heard him come creaking into their room and hid under the bed-clothes. But Rose betrayed her. Helen's not asleep, piped Rose. Henry sat by the bed-side pulling his moustache. If it were not Sunday, Helen, I would whip you. As it is, and I must be at the office early tomorrow, I shall give you a sound smacking after tea in the evening. Do you hear me? She grunted. You love your father and mother, don't you? No answer. Rose gave Helen a dig with her foot. Henry signed deeply. I suppose you love Jesus? Rose has scratched my leg with her toenail and said, Helen. Henry strode out of the room and flung himself onto his own bed with his outdoor boots on the starched boldster. Anne noticed, but he was too overcome for her to venture a protest. The old woman was in the bedroom too, idly combing the hairs from Anne's brush. Henry told him the story about Anne's tears. It is Rose's turn for her toenails after the bath next Saturday commented the old woman. In the middle of the night, Henry dug his elbow into Mrs. Castfield. I've got an idea, he said. Malcolm's at the bottom of this. No, how? Why? Where? Bottom of what? Those damn green dresses. Wouldn't be surprised she managed to get him an idiotic thing like that. Is Mrs. Castfield at home as Dr. Malcolm? No, sir, she's out visiting and said the servant girl. Is Mr. Castfield anywhere about? Oh, no, sir, he's never home midday. Show me into the drawing room. The servant girl opened the drawing room door, cocked her eye at the doctor's bag. She wished he would leave it in the hall even if she could only feel the outside without opening it. The doctor kept it in his hand. The old woman sat in the drawing room, a roll of knitting on her lap. Her head had fallen back. Her mouth was open. She was asleep and quietly snoring. She started up at the sound of the doctor's footsteps and straightened her cap. Oh, doctor, you did take me by surprise. I was dreaming that Henry had bought Anne five little canneries. Please sit down. I just popped in on the chance of catching you alone. You see this bag? The old woman nodded. Now, are you any good at opening bags? Well, my husband was a great traveller and once I spent a whole night in a railway train. Well, have a go at opening this one. The old woman knelt on the floor. Her fingers trembled. There's nothing startling inside? She asked. Well, it won't bite exactly, said the cat sprang open. The bag yawned like a toothless mouth and she saw folded in its steps green cashmere with narrow lays on the neck and sleeves. Fancy that, said the old woman mildly. May I take it out, doctor? She professed neither astonishment nor pleasure and Malcolm felt disappointed. Helen's dress, he said, and bending towards her raised his voice. That young spark's Sunday rig out. I'm not deaf, doctor, answered the old woman. Yes, I thought it looked like it. I told Anne only this morning it was bound to turn up somewhere. She shook the crumpled frock and looked it over. Things always do if you give them time. I've noticed that so often. It's such a blessing. You know Lindsay, the postman? Gastric ulcers called there this morning. Saw this brought in by Lena to school. Said the kid fished it out of her satchel rolled in a pinafore and said her mother had told her to give it away because it did not fit her. When I saw the tear I understood yesterday's new leaf, as Mrs. Castfield put it, was up to the dodge in a jiffy, got the dress bought some stuff at Clayton's and made my sister Bertha sew it while I had dinner. I knew what would be happening this end of the line and I knew you would see Helen through for the sake of getting one in at Henry. How thoughtful of you doctor said the old woman. I'll tell Anne I found it under my dolmen. Yes that's your ticket said Dr. Malcolm. But of course Helen would have forgotten the whipping by tomorrow morning and I had promised her a new doll. The old woman spoke regretfully. Dr. Malcolm snapped his back together. It's no good talking to the old bird he thought. She doesn't take in half I say. Don't seem to have got any farther than doing Helen out of a doll. End of section 5 Section 6 of Something Childish and Other Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Marcia Epic Harris The Woman at the Store by Catherine Mansfield All that day the heat was terrible. The wind blew close to the ground. It rooted among the tussock grass slithered along the road so that the white pumice dust swirled in our faces settled and sifted over us and was like a dry skin itching for growth on our bodies. The horses stumbled along coughing and chuffing. The pack horse was sick with a big open sore rubbed under the belly. Then again she stopped short threw back her head, looked at us as though she were going to cry and winnied. Hundreds of larks shrilled. The sky was slate color and the sound of the larks reminded me of slate pencils scraping over its surface. There was nothing to be seen but wave after wave of tussock grass patched with purple orchids and Monica bushes covered with thick spider webs. Joe wrote ahead he wore a blue Galatea shirt corduroy trousers and riding boots. A white handkerchief spotted with red it looked as though his nose had been bleeding on it was knotted round his throat. Wisps of white hair straggled from under his white awakes his mustache and eyebrows were called white. He slouched in the saddle grunting not once that day had he sung I don't care for don't you see my wife's mother was in front of me. It was the first day we had been without it for a month and now there seemed something uncanny in his silence. Jim rode beside me white as a clown his black eyes glittered and he kept shooting out his tongue and moistening his lips. He was dressed in a Jaeger vest and a pair of blue duck trousers fastened round the waist with a plotted leather belt. We had hardly spoken since dawn. At noon I saw fly biscuits and apricots by the side of a swampy creek. My stomach feels like the crop of a hen said Joe. Now then Jim, you're the bright boy of the party. Where's this your store you kept on talking about? Oh yes you says. I know a fine store with a paddock for the horses and a creek run it through owned by a friend of mine who will give you a bottle of whiskey before he shakes his hand with you. I like to see that place merely as a matter of curiosity not that I'd ever doubt your word as you know very well but... Jim laughed don't forget there's a woman too Joe with blue eyes and yellow hair who will promise you something else before she shakes hands with you put that in your pipe and smoke it. The heat's making you balmy said Joe but he dug his heels into the horse we shambled on I half fell asleep it was an uneasy dream that the horses were not moving forward at all then that I was on a rocking horse and my old mother was scolding me for raising such a fearful dust from the drawing room carpet even entirely worn off the pattern of the carpet I heard her saying and she gave the reins a tug I sniveled and woke to find Jim leaning over me maliciously smiling that was a case of all but he said I just caught you what's up Ben bye bye no I raised my head thank the Lord we are arriving somewhere we are on the brow of the hill and below us there was a were roofed with corrugated iron it stood in a garden rather far back from the road a big paddock opposite and a creek and a clump of yellow willow trees a thin line of blue smoke stood up straight from the chimney of the were and as I looked a woman came out followed by a child and a sheep dog the woman carried what appeared to me a black stick she made gestures at us the horses put on a final spurt Joe took off his white awake, shouted throughout his chest and began singing I don't care for don't you see the sun pushed through the pale clouds and shed a vivid light over the scene it gleamed on the woman's yellow hair over her flapping pinafore the rifle she was carrying the child hid behind her and the yellow dog a mangy beast scuttled back into the were his tail between his legs we drew rain and dismounted hello screamed the woman I thought you is three ox my kid comes running into me mama says she there's three bound things coming over the hill says she and I comes out smart I can tell ya there be ox I says oh the ox about here you wouldn't believe the kid gave us the benefit of one eye from behind the woman's pinafore then retired again where's your old man asked Jim the woman blinked rapidly screwing up her face away sheeran been away a month I suppose you're not going to stop are you there's a storm coming up you bet we are said Joe so you're on your lonely missus she stood pleading the frills of her pinafore and glancing from one to the other of us like a hungry bird I smiled at the thought of how Jim had pulled Joe's leg about her certainly her eyes were blue and what hair she had was yellow but ugly she was a figure of fun looking at her you felt there was nothing but sticks and wires under her pinafore her front teeth were knocked out she had red pulpy hands and she wore on her feet a pair of dirty blutters I'll go and turn out the horses said Jim, got any embrication poise rub yourself to hell off a mow the woman stood silent a moment her nostrils expanding as she breathed then she shouted violently I'd rather you didn't stop you can't and there's the end of it I don't let out the paddock anymore you'll have to go on I ain't got nothing while I'm blessed said Joe heavily he pulled me aside gone a bit off her dot he whispered too much alone you know very significantly turn this sympathetic tap on her she'll come round alright but there was no need she had come round by herself stop if you like she muttered shrugging her shoulders to me I'll give you the implication if you're coming along I'll take it down to them we walked together up the garden path it was planted on both sides with cabbages they smelled like stale dishwater of flowers there were double poppies and sweet williams one little patch was divided off by poa shells presumably it belonged to the child for she ran from her mother and began to grub in it with a broken clothes peg the yellow dog lay across the doorstep biting fleas the woman kicked him away garg go away you beast the place ain't tidy I haven't had time to fix things today been ironing come right in it was a large room the walls plastered with old pages of English periodicals Queen Victoria's Jubilee appeared to be the most recent number a table with an ironing board and wash tub on it some wooden forms a sofa and some broken cane chairs pushed against the walls the mantelpiece above the stove was draped in pink paper further ornamented with dried grasses and ferns and a colored print of Richard Sedun there were four doors one judging from the smell led into the store one onto the backyard through a third I saw the bedroom flies buzzed in circles around the ceiling and treacle papers and bundles of dried clover were pinned to the window curtains I was alone in the room she had gone into the store for the embarkation I heard her stamping about and muttering to herself I got some now where did I put that ball it's behind the pickles no it ain't I cleared a place on the table and sat there swinging my legs down in the paddock I could hear Joe singing in the sound of hammer and the tent pegs it was sunset there is no twilight in our New Zealand days but a curious half hour when everything appears grotesque it frightens as though the savage spirit of the country walked abroad and sneered at what it saw sitting alone in the hideous room I grew afraid the woman next door was a long time finding that stuff what was she doing in there once I thought her bang hands down on the counter and once she half moaned turning it into a cough and clearing her throat I wanted to shout buck up but I kept silent good lord what a life I thought imagine being here day in day out with that rat of a child and a mangy dog imagine bothering about ironing mad but of course she's mad wonder how long she's been here wonder if I could get her to talk at that moment she poked her head around the door what was it she wanted she asked imbrication I got it it was in front of the pickle jars she handed me the bottle my you do look tired you do shall I knock you up a few scones for supper there's some tongue in the store too and I'll cook you a cabbage if you fancy it righto come down to the paddock and bring the kid for tea she shook her head cursing up her mouth oh no I don't fancy it I'll send the kid down with the things and a billy of milk shall I knock up a few extra scones to take with you tomorrow thanks she came and stood by the door how old is the kid six come next Christmas I had a bit of trouble with her I had another I had any milk till a month after she was born and she's sick and like a cow she's not like you takes after her father just as a woman has shouted her refusal at us before she shouted at me then no she don't she's the dead spit of me any fool could see that come on now else you stop missing in the dirt I met Joe climbing over the paddock fence what's the old bitch got in the store he asked don't know didn't look well of all the fools Jim's slanging you what have you been doing all the time she couldn't find the stuff oh my shakes you're smart Joe had washed combed his wet hair and a line across his forehead and buttoned a coat over his shirt he grinned Jim snatched the invocation from me I went to the end of the paddock where the willows grew deep within the creek the water was clear and soft as oil along the edges held by the grass and rushes white foam tumbled and bubbled I lay in the water and looked up at the trees there were still a moment and quivered lightly and again were still the air smelt of rain I forgot about the woman and the kid until I came back to the tent Jim lay by the fire watching the billy boil I asked where Joe was and if the kid had brought our supper poo said Jim rolling over and looking up at the sky didn't she see how Joe had been titivating he said to me before he went up to the where dang it she'll look better by night light at any rate my buck she's female flesh you had Joe about her looks you had me too no look here I can't make it out it's four years since I came this way and I stopped here two days the husband was a pal of mine once down the west coast a fine big chap with a voice on him like a trombone she'd been barmaid down the coast as pretty as a waxed doll the coach used to come this way then once a fortnight that was before they opened the railway up Napier Way and she had no end of a time told me once in a confidential moment that she knew 125 different ways of kissing oh come on Jim she isn't the same woman of course she is I can't make it out what I think is the old man cleared out and left her that's all my eye about shearing sweet life the only people who come through now are Maori's and sundowners through the dark we saw the gleam of the kid's pinafore she trailed over to us with a basket in her hand the milk billy and the other I unpacked the basket the child standing by come over here said Jim snapping his fingers at her she went the lamp from the inside of the tent cast a bright light over her a mean undersized brat with whitish hair and weak eyes she stood legs wide apart and her stomach protruding what do you do all day asked Jim scraped out one tear with her little finger looked at the result and said draw huh what do you draw leave yours alone pictures what on bits of butter paper and a pencil on my mummas oh what a lot of words at one time Jim rolled his eyes at her ba lam zed moog cows know everything I draw all of you when you're gone and your horses in the tent and that one she pointed to me with no clothes on in the creek I looked at her where she couldn't see me from thanks very much how ripping of you said Jim where's dad the kid pouted I won't tell you because I don't like your face she started operations on the other ear here I said take the basket get along home and tell the other man suppers ready I don't want to I'll give you a box on the ear if you don't said Jim savagely hi I'll tell mama I'll tell mama the kid fled we ate until we were full and had arrived at the smoke stage before Joe came back very flushed and jaunty a whiskey bottle in his hand have a drink you too he shouted carrying off matters with a high hand here shove along the cups 125 different ways I murmured to Jim what's that oh sto it said Joe why have you always got your knife into me you gas like a kid at a Sunday school bino she wants us to go up there tonight and have a comfortable chat I, he waved his hand got her round trust you for that left Jim where the old man's got to Joe looked up shearing you heard are you fool the woman have fixed up the room even to a light bouquet of sweet Williams on the table she and I sat one side of the table Joe and Jim the other an oil lamp was set between us the whiskey bottle in glasses and a jug of water the kid knelt against one of the forms drawing on butter paper I wondered grimly if she was attempting a creek episode but Joe had been right about night time the woman's hair was tumbled two red spots burned in her cheeks her eyes shone and we knew they were kissing feet under the table she had changed the blue pinafore for a white calico dressing jacket and a black skirt the kid was decorated to the extent of a blue satin hair ribbon in the stifling room with the flies buzzing against the ceiling and dropping on to the table we got slowly drunk no listen to me shouted the woman banging her fist on the table it's six years since I was married in four miscarriages I says to him I says what do you think I'm doing up here he was back at the coast I'd have you lynched for child murder over and over I tells him you've broken my spirit and spoiled my looks and what for what are you driving at she clushed her head with her hands and stared round at us speaking rapidly oh some days and months of them I heard them two words knocking inside me all the time what for but sometimes I'll be cooking the spuds and I lifts the lid off to give them a prong and I hear it's quite sudden again what for I don't mean only the spuds and the kid I mean she hiccuped you know what I mean Mr. Joe I know said Joe scratching his head trouble with me is she leaned across the table he left me too much alone when the coach stopped coming sometimes he'd go away days sometimes he'd go away weeks and leave me to look after the store back he'd come please this punch oh hello he'd say how are you getting on come and give us a kiss sometimes I'd turn a bit nasty alright a wait till he could twist me round his figure then he'd say well so long I'm off and do you think I could keep him not me mama pleaded the kid I made a picture of them on the hill you and me and the dog down below shut your mouth said the woman a vivid flash of lightning played over the room we heard the mutter of thunder good thing that's broke loose said Joe I've had it in me for three days where's your old man now asked Jim slowly the woman blubbered and dropped her head onto the table Jim he's gone sharing and left me alone again she wailed yeah look out for the glasses said Joe Cheerio have another drop no good crying over spilled husbands you Jim you blasted cuckoo Mr. Joe so the woman drying her eyes on her jacket frill you're a gent and if I was a sacred woman I'd place any confidence in your hands I don't mind if I do have a glass on that every moment the lightning grew more vivid and the thunder sounded nearer Jim and I were silent the kid never moved from her bench she poked her tongue out and blew on her paper as she drew loneliness said the woman addressing Joe he'd made sheep eyes at her and being shot up here like a broody end he reached his hand across the table and held hers and though the position looked most uncomfortable when they wanted to pass the water and whiskey their hands stuck together as though glued I pushed back my chair and went over to the kid who immediately sat flat down on her autistic achievements and made a face of me you're not to look said she oh come on don't be nasty Jim came over to us and we were just drunk enough to weedle the kid into showing us and those drawings of hers were extraordinary and repulsively vulgar the creations of a lunatic with a lunatic's cleverness there was no doubt about it the kid's mind was diseased while she showed them to us she worked herself up into a dramatic excitement laughing and trembling and shooting at her arms mama she yelled now I'm going to draw them well you told me I was never to now I am the woman rushed from the table and beat the child's head with the flat of her hand I'll smack you with your clothes turned up if you dare say that again she bowled Joe was too drunk to notice but Jim caught her by the arm the kid did not utter a cry and began picking flies from the treacle paper we returned to the table Gemini sitting one side the woman and Joe touching shoulders the other we listened to the thunder saying stupidly that was a near one there it goes again and Joe at a heavy hit now we're off steady on the break until rain began to fall sharp as cannon shot on the iron roof the woman that's right, assented Joe evidently in the know about this move bring up your things from the tent you two can dozen the store along with the kid she's used to sleeping there and won't mind you oh mama I never did interrupted the kid shut your lies and Mr. Joe can have this room it sounded a ridiculous arrangement but it was useless to attempt to cross them they were too far gone while the woman sketched the plan of action Joe sat abnormally solemn and red his eyes bulging and pulling at his mustache give us a lantern said Jim I'll go down to the paddock we two went together rain whipped in our faces the land was light as though a bushfire was raging we behaved like two children let loose in the thick of an adventure laughed and shouted to each other and came back to the where to find the kid already bedded in the counter of the store the woman brought us a lamp Joe took his bundle from Jim the door was shut denied all shouted Joe Jim and I sat on two sacks of potatoes for the life of us we could not stop laughing strings of onions and half-hams dangled from the ceiling wherever we looked there were advertisements for camp coffee and tinned meats we pointed at them tried to read them aloud overcome with laughter and hiccups the kid in the counter stared at us she threw off her blanket and scrambled to the floor where she stood in her gray flannel nightgown rubbing one leg against the other we paid no attention to her what are you laughing at she said uneasily you shouted Jim the red tribe of you my child she flew into a rage and beat herself with her hands I won't be laughed at you curse you he swooped down upon the child and swung her onto the counter go to sleep miss smarty or mega drawing here's a pencil you can use mum as a count book through the rain we heard Joe creak over the boarding of the next room the sound of a door being opened then shut too it's the loneliness whispered Jim 125 different ways alas my poor brother the kid tore out a page and flung it at me there you are now I've done it to spite mama for shutting me up here with you too I've done the one she told me I never ought to I've done the one she told me she'd shoot me if I did don't care don't care the kid had drawn the picture of the woman shooting at a man with a rook rifle and then digging a hole to bury him in she jumped off the counter and squirmed about on the floor biting her nails Jim and I sat till dawn with a drawing beside us the rain ceased the little kid fell asleep breathing loudly we got up stole out of the ware down into the paddock white clouds floated over a pink sky a chill wind blew the air smelled of wet grass just as we swung into the saddle we came out of the ware he motioned to us to write on I'll pick you up later he shouted abandoned the road and the whole place disappeared end of section 6 recording by Marsha Epicaris section 7 of something childish and other stories this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Rob Marland something childish and other stories by Catherine Mansfield All Underwood to Anne Estelle Rice down the windy hill stalked All Underwood he carried a black umbrella in one hand in the other a red and white spotted handkerchief knotted into a lump he wore a black peaked cap like a pilot gold rings gleamed in his ears and his little eyes snapped like two sparks like two sparks they glowed in the smolder of his bearded face on one side of the hill grew a forest of pines from the road right down to the sea on the other side short tufted grass and little bushes of white manuka flower the pine trees roared like waves in their topmost branches their stems creaked like the timber of ships in the windy air flew the white manuka flower shouted All Underwood shaking his umbrella at the wind bearing down upon him beating him half strangling him with his black cape shouted the wind a hundred times as loud and filled his mouth and nostrils with dust something inside All Underwood's breast beat like a hammer one two one two never stopping, never changing he couldn't do anything it wasn't loud no it didn't make a noise only a thud one two like someone beating on an iron in a prison someone in a secret place bang trying to get free do what he would fumble at his coat throw his arms about spit swear he couldn't stop the noise stop stop stop All Underwood began to shuffle and run away below the sea heaving against the stone walls and the little town just out of its reach close packed together the better to face the grey water and up on the other side of the hill the prison with high red walls over all bulged the grey sky with black web like clouds streaming All Underwood slackened his pace as he neared the town and when he came to the first house he flourished his umbrella like a herald staff and threw out his chest his head glancing quickly from right to left ugly little houses leading into the town built of wood two windows and a door a stumpy veranda and a green mat of grass before under one veranda yellow hens huddled out of the wind shoo shouted All Underwood and laughed to see them fly and laughed again at the woman who came to the door and shook a red soapy fist at him a little girl stood in another yard untwisting some rags from a clothes line when she saw All Underwood she let the clothes prop fall and rushed screaming to the door beating it screaming mama mama that started the hammer in All Underwood's heart mama mama he saw an old face with a trembling chin and grey hair nodding out of the window as they dragged him past mama mama mama mama he looked up at the big red prison perched on the hill and he pulled a face as if he wanted to cry at the corner in front of the pub some carts were pulled up and some men sat in the porch of the pub drinking and talking All Underwood wanted a drink he slouched into the bar it was half full of old and young men in big coats and top boots stock whips in their hands behind the counter a big girl with red hair pulled the bear handles and cheeked the men All Underwood sneaked to one side, like a cat nobody looked at him only the men looked at each other one or two of them nudged the girl nodded and winked at the fellow she was serving he took some money out of his knotted handkerchief and slipped it onto the counter his hand shook he didn't speak the girl took no notice she served everybody went on with her talk and then as if by accident shoved a mug towards him a great big jar of red pinks stood on the bar counter All Underwood stared at them as he drank and frowned at them red red red red beat the hammer it was very warm in the bar and quiet as a pond except for the talk and the girl she kept on laughing ha ha that was what the men liked to see for she threw back her head and her great breasts lifted and shook to her laughter in one corner sat a stranger he pointed at All Underwood cracked, said one of the men when he was a young fellow 30 years ago a man had done in his woman and he found out and killed her got 20 years in quad up on the hill came out cracked he would don her in asked the man he don't know nor nobody he was a sailor till he married her cracked the man spat and smeared the spittle on the floor shrugging his shoulders he's armless enough All Underwood heard he did not turn but he shot out an old claw and crushed up the red pinks ah ha you old beast you old swine screamed the girl leaning across the counter and banging him with a tin jug get out don't you never come here no more somebody kicked him he scuffled like a rat he walked past the Chinaman shops the fruit and vegetables were all piled up against the windows bits of wooden cases straw and old newspapers were drawn over the pavement a woman flounced out of a shop and slushed a pail of slops over his feet he peered in at the windows at the Chinaman sitting in little groups on old barrels playing cards they made him smile he looked and looked pressing his face against the glass and sniggering they sat still with their long pigtails bound round their heads and their faces yellow as lemons some of them had knives in their belts and one old man sat by himself on the floor plotting his long crooked toes together the Chinaman didn't mind all Underwood when they saw him they nodded he went to the door of a shop and cautiously opened it in rushed the wind with him scattering the cards yah yah yah yah screamed the Chinaman and all Underwood rushed off the hammer beating quick and hard yah yah he turned a corner out of sight he thought he heard one of the chinks after him and he slept into a timber yard there he lay panting close by him under another stack of yellow shavings as he watched them they moved and a little grey cat unfolded herself and came out waving her tail she trod delicately over to all Underwood and rubbed against his sleeve the hammer in all Underwood's heart beat madly it pounded up into his throat and then it seemed to half stop and beat very very faintly kit kit kit he called the little cat he brought her off the ship kit kit kit and stooped down with the saucer in her hands ah my god my lord all Underwood sat up and took the kitten in his arms and rocked to and fro crushing it against his face it was warm and soft and it mewed faintly he buried his eyes in its fur my lord he took the little cat in his coat and stole out of the woodyard and slouched down towards the wharves as he came near the sea all Underwood's nostrils expanded the mad wind smelled of tar and ropes and slime and salt he crossed the railway line he crept behind the wharf sheds and along a little cinder path that threaded through a patch of rank fennel stone drain pipes carrying the sewage into the sea and he stared up at the wharves and at the ships with flags flying and suddenly the old old lust swept over all Underwood I will I will he muttered he tore the little cat out of his coat and swung it by its tail and flung it out to the sewer opening the hammer beat loud and strong he tossed his head he was young again he walked onto the wharves passed the wool bales passed the loungers and the loafers to the extreme end of the wharves the sea sucked against the wharf poles as though it drank something from the land one ship was loading wool he heard a crane rattle in the shriek of a whistle so he came to the little ship lined by herself with a bit of a plank for a gangway and no sign of anybody anybody at all old Underwood looked once back at the town at the prison perched like a red bird at the black webby clouds trailing then he went up the gangway and onto the slippery deck he grinned and rolled in his walk carrying high in his hand the red and white handkerchief his ship mine beat the hammer there was a door latched open on the lee side labelled state room he peered in a man lay sleeping on a bunk his bunk a great big man in a seaman's coat with a long fair beard and hair on the red pillow and looking down upon him from the wall there shone her picture his woman's picture smiling and smiling big sleeping man 1912 end of section 7