One morning in April, Miss Ambrose handed back my essay on the Battle of Hastings and said, “I think you’re ready to move up to the top class, Anna.”
I glowed with pride as I carried my things to the empty desk next to Dorothy’s at the back of Miss Marshall’s classroom. I was in the top class at last!
But then I glanced at Molly and saw the frown on her face. She caught my eye and gave me a smile and a thumbs-up sign. But I had seen her real reaction, and the warm feeling had disappeared.
After tea that evening, Aunty Rose went to get ready for her WI meeting, and Uncle Bert and Frank went out to work in the garden. Molly sat at the kitchen table to do her homework. I fetched the broom from the scullery to sweep the kitchen.
“Oh, you are good, Anna,” said Aunty Rose, as she pulled her coat off the peg in the hall. “Thank you so much.”
The front door closed behind her. Molly looked up from her book and said, “I wish you’d stop being such a goody-goody.”
I stopped sweeping and looked at her.
“What do you mean? What is a goody-goody?”
Molly gave an impatient sigh. “You know, always helping around the house, doing everything you’re told the second you’re asked to do it.” She put on a silly voice. “‘Let me do that, Aunty Rose. How can I help you, Aunty Rose?’ It’s really annoying. You’re showing me up.”
“Showing you up?”
“Making me look lazy. I do all my chores, but now you come along and start doing all this extra stuff, actually offering to do more jobs all the time. And on top of that, working really hard at school, and playing the piano, and everyone knows you’re Miss Marshall’s favourite. I can see Mum and Dad looking at me like they’re disappointed with me. Like now they’ve got a perfect new daughter and I’m not good enough for them any more.”
“Oh, no!” I said, horrified. “I just like to help your parents, because they’re so good to me. It’s the only way I can repay them for their kindness. And also…”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to say it.
“Also what?” asked Molly irritably.
“Also, because I like to be busy. It helps me not to think about … things.”
“Oh,” said Molly, looking slightly ashamed. “Well, just be a bit less eager to please, can’t you? It’s annoying.”
I nodded dumbly. “All right.”
“Well, don’t look so upset. It’s nothing to get upset about.”
And she turned back to her homework.
I felt as though she’d hit me. The last thing I’d wanted to do was upset her. I wanted to shout: I don’t want to be their daughter! I have my own parents! I didn’t want to live with a strange family in a strange country. I’m just trying to make the best of it!
But that would sound ungrateful and rude.
How would I feel if I were in Molly’s position? If my parents had taken in a refugee child and showered them with such generous love and affection? I’d probably have felt exactly the same as she did.
So after that I tried to help a bit less around the house. It was horrible. Whenever Aunty Rose mentioned a job that needed doing, I would instinctively say, “I’ll do it,” and then I would catch Molly’s glare from the other side of the table. I’d either do the job and face her annoyance, or make up a reason why I couldn’t do it after all, and feel terrible. It felt like walking a tightrope, and it gave me a permanent stomach ache.
But though I might try to do a bit less housework to spare Molly’s feelings, there was no way I was going to try less hard with my schoolwork. In my next Red Cross letter, I told my parents I was now in the top class. I knew how happy that would make them. I had promised them I’d make the most of every opportunity I was given, and there was no way I was going to break that promise.