Anna’s favourite retreat was the shrubbery of lauristinus that, within a high flint wall, enclosed the Grey estate, like an evergreen oasis in the chalk desert of the North Foreland. Shining dead leaves of lauristinus made a floor like tortoiseshell in this dark green world; the thin naked branches covered with pale green dust stretched up into the dense roof where birds nested. Fairies moved about in the fluttering silence, and Anna often saw them, but they were about their own business and never seemed to notice her.
There she stood, scraping the shiny floor with the little ash stick she had cut for herself; her father had brought her a new knife yesterday from the town. Walking into the town two miles away was rather an event, because nobody liked it much. It was a watering place, and now in August was full of what the Grey family considered dreadful people. Whenever Mr Grey went in he always brought something for Anna, and it was generally a knife because he knew she liked them better than anything. This one was large and smooth and brown with silver looking ends; not so manly as that rough horn one Phipps the gardener had given her, but at any rate not a girl’s knife, because her brother John had borrowed it and had to be reminded to give it back. So that was all right.
She stood there, scraping up the pudding that lay under the tortoiseshell crust, and thinking of those presents up at the house. Mrs Grey was always trying to think of something new and original to amuse her large family. She was so bored herself, now that she had given birth to them all and brought them up quite beautifully and forgotten to make any friends for herself meanwhile, that she was at her wits’ end to devise something that might mark the holidays as not too ordinary.
It was a long family. Mary and Laura were grown up and used to spend the spring in Italy for Laura’s health. They always brought back something for everybody — little jugs and mugs with Bevi poco and sometimes even Bevi bene on them, olive wood boxes with swallows flying over them, and, once, an enormous rosary for Anna, made of eucalyptus buds, which smelt strongly of cats. They stayed in Bordighera with a Scottish writer, whose imaginative tales were most fascinating of all when told by Mary on a walk.
Mary was small, brown and beautiful, like a little Spanish grandee. Her eyes shone with something that was more than intelligence. Everyone worshipped her, but to Laura, who had been guided from the moment she was born, through nursery and schoolroom, by those wonderful eyes, Mary was the whole world.
Two enormous brothers who were at Cambridge came after these two — so enormous that they scarcely belonged to Anna’s life. Then Christine and Prue, who were fifteen and sixteen, wrapped up in their brothers and still fond of dressing dolls. Then John and Peter, and, after a gap of four years, Anna, who was eight. Booboo came after Anna, and attracted a lot of attention because he had curly Titian hair, red-brown eyes, and appealing ways. Anna had straight dark hair and a pale face; people seldom noticed her when Booboo was about, and, even if they did, she was silent and dull.
That was the family, so self-sufficient that it scarcely wanted a friend outside those flint walls; the family that Mrs Grey continually but quite unnecessarily, racked her brains to divert. She had a new idea in London just before the holidays. She amused herself by buying some really lovely and expensive presents to distribute. Then, to make it more exciting she had decided that lots should be drawn for these presents — that it should be a sort of raffle, only of course, there would be no money involved.
The presents were on view before the raffle, and it was the sight of these that had driven Anna to her dusky retreat. She was going to ask the fairies, who seemed so indifferent to her existence, to intervene in the matter. The mere thought of that pig-skin writing-case sent her blood surging. It was a huge man’s writing-case which folded in three, was full of capacious pockets, and was smartly confined in a belt as solid and effective as the belts John and Peter wore when they played games.
There was no reason, if the fairies were kind, why she should not become the owner of this case, though she knew that her mother was not thinking of her when she chose it. No, mother, alas! was still obstinately set on the idea that all little girls must like dolls, and Anna had shied as a pony might at something threatening when she saw a large wax baby doll in elaborate clothes, which lay with closed eyes between a set of Shakespeare and a terrestrial globe. She liked the look of the globe but did not dare to inspect it too closely because of the menacing proximity of that doll, and she passed with eyes averted. Then they lit on the writing-case and remained fixed, while her hands, trembling, explored the interior. Besides the vast pockets there was a book of blotting-paper bound in pig-skin and a yellow pen with a gold nib—a J. There were little pockets too, for stamps, and a pen-wiper. Anna could look no more and left the drawing-room in a yellow dream.
The menace of that doll! Why, why did mother try to make her like them? She had always tried to impress upon her that they were only useful for games like ‘House’, when they were put in chairs as visitors, or ‘School’, when they were set in rows. And a baby doll was more hopeless than anything. What could be done with a thing that lay with closed eyes in long embroidered clothes? Let Prue have that baby doll, or Christine. They would love dressing and undressing it and putting it to bed. Yes, even at their age. Anyway, she was not going to have it. If she drew it she would kill herself. Yes, kill herself, with that writing-case belonging to another. All she wanted in the world was the writing-case. She wanted it with passion. The smell of it still hung in her nostrils.
Pale and still she stood in that breathless shade, her small, fine hand clutching the ashen stick. No fairies stirred in the silence today, but peace stole over her as she stood, and she knew they had heard.
Everyone entered into the spirit of Mrs Grey’s raffle. The elders realised how disappointed she would be if they were not excited, and the younger ones were excited. The lots were drawn out of Mr Grey’s top-hat. Numbers were on the slips of paper, so that when Anna drew ‘5’ she was no wiser.
It seemed hours before all the tickets were drawn. There was a great deal of chatter and laughter. Such a delicious idea of darling mother’s in the middle of the summer holidays! But Anna sat tensely waiting. The presents were still on the table as she had seen them that morning.
‘Mary, what’s your number? Eldest first!’ cried Mrs Grey. And, as Mary held it up, ‘Why, you’ve got the baby doll. How absurd!’
Anna caught her breath with relief as the doll was given to Mary. Then Laura — the Shakespeare. How lovely! So pleased. The big brothers drew a horse and cart, intended for Booboo, and the terrestrial globe. Christine’s ticket brought her a sketch of Taormina meant for Laura, Prue’s a pair of masculine brushes in a morocco case. John drew Beethoven’s Sonatas, meant for Christine, and Peter a fitted work-basket.
The writing-case was still unclaimed, with only Anna and Booboo left.
‘Anna has the writing-case!’’
It was put into her lap. She clasped it to her in silence. She did not open it. She knew every feature of it by heart already. Besides, she felt there was danger even now.
There were roars of laughter when Booboo was given a smoking cabinet.
‘Here, Booboo, my dear, let’s make an exchange.’
The big brother led the horse and cart over to Booboo, who gladly relinquished the smoking cabinet.
A general exchange of presents began. Anna sat there watching, in a fearful state of apprehension. Then the dreaded moment came.
Mary crossed the room with the doll and put it on Anna’s lap.
‘For you, my little Anna,’ she said, and kissed her.
Under the doll lay the writing-case. Anna could not speak. Then she looked up and caught Laura’s eye.
Laura was sitting on the arm of a chair glaring contemptuously at Anna. The writing-case creaked under the doll, which lay with an insipid smile and closed eyes. Anna’s lap was terribly full.
‘Well?’ Laura’s eyes were baleful.
‘What?’
‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’
Mary’s back was turned and she was admiring someone else’s present as though to hide the fact that her own hands were empty. Anna knew that she had given her the doll because she wanted her to have it, not because she wanted the writing-case herself. She had turned away so quickly after putting the doll on Anna’s lap. But even so — no one else had two presents —
Yet — she had drawn the writing-case. It was hers. The fairies had answered. No one would love it as she did. That doll! If Mary liked to give it to her, that was her affair. Of course she didn’t want it herself, nor indeed, thought Anna, would she really want the writing-case, which wouldn’t suit her a bit. Why should Anna sacrifice herself in this great moment — the very greatest moment she had ever known in her life?
‘Mary, look at Anna. She’s sticking to both. The greedy little beast. Can’t somebody do something?’ Laura was exasperated.
Mary turned and smiled at Anna.
‘Why shouldn’t she? I gave her the doll.’
‘Little beast, little beast!’ There was hatred in Laura’s eyes.
The doll slid to the floor. Anna held the writing-case against her heart. She didn’t care what Laura or anyone thought.
It was her own beloved — manly, with an honest smell, her dear, dear possession.