THE CURIOSITIES WILL SAVE US

There are things one thinks will never be forgotten, but one tries to remember them, only to find that all one can recall are bits and pieces. Take Papa, for example. I thought I would always remember what Papa looked like, but when I try to conjure up an image of him now all I can remember are fragments—his thin, dark hair, his high forehead, his pale blue eyes, but not his entire face; his fine hands with their long fingers as they worked on the feathery head of a sea lily, but not his entire self. That is the way I remember the time after he died, in patches. I do not remember going to the cemetery or burying Papa, except that it was cold and raining. Oddly enough, I do remember a lot about the gathering at our house when we came back.

Fearing that Mama would be in no state to provide for the mourners, the neighbors brought cakes and ale. Mama, who had been crying and pacing the house in a daze since Papa was brought home from the beach, managed to compose herself and to listen as Uncle Philip recalled how Papa had wandered on the beach when he was a little boy. “He read in a book that nature was God’s handiwork and whenever we asked him what he was doing down there, he would say he was investigating God’s wonders,” Uncle Philip said. He bit his lip, shook his head, and turned away so we would not see him wipe his eye.

Captain Locke, whom Papa had been visiting when he was brought back to the house that last time, consumed several glasses of ale and his red face became redder than usual, especially his nose. He stood somewhat shakily, grabbed hold of the table, and proceeded to make a speech about Papa. “He was quick, Anning was,” he said, “once he set his mind to finding curiosities, he learned everything there is to know. I showed him where they were and what I knew, but he knew more than I did in no time at all. Finding things I never seen before.” He shook his head sadly, paused for a second, and lifted his glass, saying, “To Richard Anning,” before gulping down its contents.

Mr. Littlejohn, the stonemason, made a long rambling speech, saying how Papa was a fine craftsman, but that English craftsmen and workingmen were being squeezed and starved because of the war with Napoleon, while people of the upper classes with their land and their speculations were making money on the war. He went on at great length about the war and the French. The bit I like best came at the end of the speech. He said that Papa was an honest man who was forced by the times to turn from his original trade to another. And to that other, the curiosities, he brought all the craftsmanship and honesty with which he had practiced furniture making.

Not everyone who came approved of Papa. As I was laying out the platters of food, I heard Aunt Bea, whom I’ve always thought looked like a witch with her pale face, long, thin nose, and high forehead, whisper to Mrs. Cruikshanks, “It was the curiosities that killed him.” She looked over to Ann and John, who were standing in their Sunday clothes with black crepe wrapped around their sleeves, staring with bewilderment at all the people. “If he hadn’t insisted on going down to the beach, his family wouldn’t be left fatherless. But that was all he ever thought about.” Then seeing me and realizing that I had heard her, she turned away.

She was not the only one who blamed Papa’s death on the curiosities. Later, when Lizzie and I were helping Mrs. Cruikshanks clear up, I heard Aunt Letty Hunnicutt say to Hannah Moore, “The beach is no place for a body. Damp, cold, and dangerous, it is. I don’t understand why Molly agreed to his going down there. She should have put a stop to it. But she was always soft, easy to sway. She never could go up against him. He would always have his way, no matter what a body said. Well now, see what it’s brought. Him dead and her left with all those children to raise by herself.”

“You might as well try to keep a lark from singing as keep Mr. Anning from the beach,” Lizzie said loudly to no one in particular, silencing the two women.

“Pay no heed to those old sharp-tongued busybodies, Mary. They are spiteful and wicked, speaking of your poor dead papa that way,” she said, when the two of us were alone in the scullery later. “Everyone knows it was the sea air that kept your papa going for so long.” She put her hand on my arm and gazed at me with her serious gray eyes. “Poor, poor Mary. How awful for you.” Suddenly I was crying and so was she.

We heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. Our guests were leaving. I hurriedly wiped away my tears with my handkerchief and, giving it to Lizzie so she could wipe hers, went to see them out.

Uncle Philip and Aunt Bea stayed after everyone else left to talk to Mama and Joseph about what was to become of us. I could tell that Mama was upset by the way she rushed around, pushing chairs back around the table, ordering John upstairs to bed, and Ann and I downstairs to the scullery to wash up.

Ann insisted that it was my turn to go to the pump for water, but I wanted to hear what was being said upstairs. When I reminded her that I had fetched water that morning, she said, “You’re bigger and stronger, Mary, and can bring more back.” Which is what she always said. I was bigger and stronger. Ann was a weak little thing, with honey-colored curls and soft brown eyes. She was a smaller version of Mama, while I look more like Papa with my dark hair, blue eyes, and high forehead. Her shy, doubtful manner always made everyone come to her aid, including me.

“It’s your turn, Ann, you are big enough now,” I replied. But when she did not go, I took pity on her as usual and made the trip to the pump despite my desire to hear what was being decided.

When I came back, I heard Uncle Philip say, “All there are in the shop are his tools and a few pieces of veneer, which you can sell, Molly.”

Pointing upstairs, I shushed Ann, who was chattering about the buns our neighbors had brought. “You forgot the curiosities, Uncle Philip,” Joseph said. “We can sell them.”

“But that’s not enough to keep you, Molly,” Uncle Philip said, paying no heed to Joseph. “You’ll have to find steady work, and I’m afraid that Joseph will have to leave Hale’s and find some work that pays.”

“I’d be nothing but a common workman if I left Hale’s,” Joseph broke in. He sounded as if he was about to burst into tears. “I would have no trade.… Papa said …”

Mama interrupted him. “I do not want Joseph to leave Hale’s. Richard wanted him to have a trade. He worked and saved to have him apprenticed, paid Hale thirty pounds. I will not see it lost.”

“The boy cannot continue with Hale,” Uncle Philip responded calmly. “You don’t have the money, and another thirty pounds is due Hale at the end of Joseph’s term. Better that Joseph leave sooner and begin to shoulder the burden of the family than later when you have nowhere to turn but the parish.”

But Mama refused to be reasonable. “A thirteen-year-old lad cannot make enough to feed a family. We will come up with the thirty pounds for Hale. I will sell the sideboard Richard made to become a master craftsman. I will sell everything if need be so that Joseph can finish the apprenticeship. You heard the lad. If he quits Hale’s, all he will be is a common laborer, and there are enough of those starving around here already. If he does not learn a trade, he will not be able to provide for himself, let alone me and the children. Don’t you see, Philip, the only hope we have is for Joseph to have a real trade. Otherwise we will not be able to hold up our heads. We shall be paupers.”

“Molly, even if you can find the money to pay Hale at the end of Joseph’s training, you need to feed the children and pay for the roof over your heads for six long years until then. How will you do that?” Uncle Philip asked.

“With the lace I make. And when there are no orders for lace, I will make whatever else I can. Ann is learning and she’s a good knitter as well. We can sell her work. John will soon be able to work, too. He will be able to make himself useful somewhere. Mary has the curiosities. It was you who saw to that. We will rent out the attic to people who come to take the waters in summer, we will rent out Richard’s shop, we will make out,” she replied. “I trust in the Lord, and I know he will care for us. Is it not written, ‘Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof’?”

There was nothing Uncle Philip could reply to this.

The next morning Ann and I walked with Uncle Philip and Aunt Bea to the top of the town before parting. On the way past the marketplace Aunt Bea stopped to buy some ribbon. Uncle Philip, Ann, and I continued on our own up Broad Street past the fine houses with their tall windows. Ann skipped ahead and Uncle Philip put his arm around my shoulder. “I am afraid, Mary, my dear,” he said, “that a heavy burden has been placed upon you; too heavy, perhaps. Your brother’s fate depends upon your ability to find and sell curiosities. Indeed the fate of all of your family depends on that. It is foolishness to place such a burden on a lass your age. But I wish you well, my dear. I wish you well, for your sake, for your poor Mama’s, and for little Ann and John’s.”

Despite Uncle Philip’s misgivings, I was not afraid of my new responsibility, probably because I did not understand what it would mean. I was proud that everyone was depending on me, especially Joseph. I would not let him down. I had no doubt that the curiosities would provide for us.

In the days following Papa’s burial Mama kept us shut up in the house. As soon as I had permission to leave the house again, I went out to look for curiosities. I did not find many that day, but as I was returning from the beach, I met a beautiful lady in a black jacket with small brass buttons who asked if she might see what I found. Attracted by her, several boys who were playing nearby gathered around us.

“Where did you find it?” she asked me, admiring a large ammonite with a fernlike pattern etched on its surface.

“In the Lias over there.” I pointed down the beach to the cliffs.

“Do you find many?” she asked me.

“She makes her living selling them,” Adam Garrison answered for me. “She’s the Stone Girl.”

“A curious curiosity,” William Trowbridge added. The boys laughed.

“I shall give you a half a crown for it,” said the lady, holding the ammonite up to look at it more closely.

Adam Garrison let out a long whistle.

“I’ll go down to the beach and find you a dozen more for that,” William Trowbridge offered.

There were other rude remarks, but I paid them no heed because I knew that despite their brave talk they were unlikely to find anything as good. She gave me the coin, which I accepted with a curtsy.

I ran all the way to Mama with the half crown. It was more than anyone ever paid Papa for an ammonite. It was enough money to pay for bread, butter, and even tea and sugar for a week.

Mama cried for joy and hugged me hard, holding me for a long time. Recovering herself, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and began to scurry around the kitchen, putting things away. Then stopping abruptly, she ordered Ann to fetch some buns from the baker’s. When we were eating them at supper that evening, she asked me to tell her again about the lady in the black spencer and how she gave me a half crown for a curiosity, which I did, except for the part about the boys and their rude remarks. She repeated the story herself every time a neighbor asked how we were getting on in the days that followed. With every telling, Mama and I grew more convinced that we could manage.