“I’LL take you round the house,” said Sister Agnes. In her black habit with a narrow white starched coif and veil, she was just a nun to Lovejoy. As with postmen, bus conductors, policemen, her uniform made her anonymous.
“This is the dining room.” Lovejoy stared at the blue and white oilcloth-covered tables, the red beakers, the small chairs.
“The playroom.” A doll’s house, a rocking horse, toys . . .
“Did you bring your toys?” asked the Sister.
“Do I have to have toys?” asked Lovejoy, startled.
“The playground.”
“Don’t we play in the Street?”
“Of course not,” said Angela, and, “Our children are not allowed in the street,” said Sister Agnes.
“Why not?”
“We’re responsible for them,” said the Sister gently. “They might get lost or into trouble.” Lovejoy was too polite to say that she thought they must be little duffers, but a fearful thought struck her. “Won’t I go in the Street? Will I have to stay there too?” And she pointed to the netted enclosure where the sound of balls on rackets and cricket bats rose with children’s voices in the air. “You’re one of our children now,” said the Sister.
“This will be your bedroom.”
Small beds, with white covers, a locker by each bed, more toys, dolls and teddy bears on the pillows. “Delightfully friendly,” said Angela, “and only five beds. In some homes,” she told Lovejoy, “you sleep in a dormitory.”
“But I’ve always had a room to myself.”
If Lovejoy had been asked how she was behaving she would have said she was being good and sensible; she did not know that to Angela it seemed she had fought all the way—“About the clothes, for instance,” said Angela. One of Angela’s committees had given the money for the clothes. “It will save twelve pounds out of the Poor Box,” she had said.
“Are these my clothes?” Lovejoy had asked Miss Dolben when Miss Dolben had fitted her out.
“Your very own,” said Miss Dolben. She was well used to the vanity of girls, the difficulty of buying clothes for them, but she had never seen anything like the silent disdain of this small Lovejoy. She was pleased to see her coming round.
“The raincoat, the gym dress, the flannel blouses, the walking shoes? And that brown—frock?” Lovejoy could not bring herself to call it a dress.
“Your very own.”
It was two days later that Miss Dolben had brought Lovejoy into Angela’s office. “Do you know what she has done?” Even good quiet-tempered Miss Dolben was indignant. “Do you know what she has done? Sold them,” cried Miss Dolben.
“Sold them!” Olivia, who had seen Miss Dolben and Lovejoy come in and had stolen downstairs, was shamelessly eaves-dropping. “Sold them where? Why? To whom?” Angela’s voice was shrill. “To whom?”
“Mr. Dwight,” said Lovejoy in surprise. Where else could she have sold them?
“For three pounds fifteen!” moaned Miss Dolben. “The raincoat alone cost four pounds.”
“Then it was cheating,” said Lovejoy sharply. “That raincoat was very badly cut.”
“Be quiet,” said Angela even more sharply, but the next moment she asked, “What did you do with the money?”
“Bought clothes,” said Lovejoy with dignity.
Olivia had no business to interfere, she had had no intention of betraying herself, but now she was moved to come down the last stairs and ask, “What did you buy?”
Lovejoy’s face lit up. “A little box coat like a reefer,” she said, speaking to Olivia, not to Angela or Miss Dolben, “not a real reefer, of course, but quite good cloth and good turnings; it was forty-three shillings, but you have to pay quite that,” said Lovejoy seriously. “Then a navy cotton skirt, not much stuff in it, but well cut; it’s on a bodice and the buttons will let down; that was nine shillings. I bought two of those American woven shirts, one is white and one white with navy stripes, they were three shillings each, that makes two pounds eighteen; and two pairs of white ankle socks for three-and-six. And these plain pumps,” said Lovejoy, showing them. “They’ll do for winter if I’m careful to keep out of puddles. They were fourteen shillings, second-hand, at Dwight’s. I think I was lucky to find them, don’t you? And with the shilling over and two of the half-crowns Tip gave me—after I’d paid for the pansies—I bought this little cap. It has a touch of the sailor about it,” said Lovejoy. “Sailors are fashionable this year”—but that made her think about Tip, and she was silent.
Angela had taken the clothes away. “I had to,” she said when Olivia protested. “Even if we buy everything twice, that spirit must be broken.” She had given the money again—“Out of her own pocket,” said Miss Dolben—and the raincoat, the gym dress, the flannel blouses, walking shoes, and brown frock had been bought back.
“You must learn to do as you’re told,” Angela told Lovejoy. “You’re far too cocksure and independent.”
Angela had brought Lovejoy to the home herself. “You should do that, I know,” she said to Miss Dolben, “but perhaps you will let me; as I recommended her, I feel responsible. I hope the Sisters will be able to cope.”
“She needs understanding,” said Miss Dolben, which was generous, for she had found Lovejoy oddly difficult. Angela was less forbearing, “She needs a firm hand,” she said.
This scene in the home was proving her right. “I’ve always had a room to myself.”
There was a pause; then, “Lovejoy, do you know why this house is called the House of Compassion?” asked Angela.
“It shouldn’t be called that,” Olivia had said.
“Why not? It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful feeling.”
“If you are outside it, not in,” said Olivia. She hesitated, then said, “Angela, I should so much like to do something for that little girl. Couldn’t I be her guardian? Some sort of guardian?” She stopped again, blushed darkly, then said with a defiant rush, “Angela, I want to adopt that little girl.”
“What did you say?” Angela was so amazed that she—gaped, thought Olivia. She had not known that she could make Angela look like that. “After all she’s done!” said Angela.
“Because of all she’s done,” said Olivia.
“Because of all she’s done?” Angela sounded as if she were—could floundering be the word? asked Olivia, fumbling again. Floundering out of her depth? But how could anything she, Olivia, said be out of Angela’s depth? It was only for a moment. Angela recovered. “It’s very magnanimous of you, Ollie,” she said, amused, and Olivia knew she would tell people; “Olivia’s efforts with the sparrows,” Olivia could hear Angela saying that to Mr. Wix.
She blushed more painfully still but she persisted. “Why not, Angela?”
“Poor old Ollie. She’d make rings round you.”
“Well, why not?”
“They don’t let old maids adopt children, for one thing,” said Angela cuttingly, “and you’d be totally unsuitable as a foster-mother. Besides—Oh, Olivia, why are you so exaggerated?”
“I talked to that Father, Father Lambert. He approves.”
“Catholics are exaggerated people.”
“Angela, I’m serious.”
“Then don’t be,” said Angela.
“I know it wouldn’t be easy but Ellen understands, I’m sure Ellen would help me,” said Olivia earnestly. “I’ve spoken to her about Lovejoy. We would take all responsibility.”
“Which means I should have to take it in the end,” said Angela, and Olivia knew she could not contradict her; for that one brief moment Olivia had forgotten what Doctor Wychcliffe had said.
“Compassion is pity,” Angela told Lovejoy now. “This home is called that because it’s a home for children who are to be pitied.” The Sister made a quick movement and Angela said, “I’m afraid, Sister, this sometimes needs to be said. Lovejoy is far too opinionated. Do you know why they are to be pitied?” she asked Lovejoy.
“No,” said Lovejoy.
“Because they are destitute, which means they have nothing. Nothing at all,” said Angela, “except what some kind person chooses to give them. You should be grateful and not criticize,” said Angela.
“But I can think?” said Lovejoy. She meant it as a question but it sounded bald and rude.
“You had better think,” said Angela with an edge on her voice. “Think. If there were no kind people, what would you do?”
“I’d—” Lovejoy’s face was far more expressive than Angela had thought. She looked, not masked, shut in, but eager and happy, like another child. I wonder if Olivia could have done something with her, thought Angela suddenly. “I’d—” said Lovejoy. Then her eyes came back to Angela and the eagerness died.
“You see,” said Angela.
“Yes. I have to have kind people,” said Lovejoy.
•
When Angela had gone Sister Agnes took Lovejoy by the hand. “I want to show you something,” she said. In the passage and on the stairs they passed nuns, to whom Lovejoy was introduced—“This is our new girl, Lovejoy Mason”—and other children—“Wendy, come here and say hello to Lovejoy.” In that moment Lovejoy would have given anything to see even Cassie. Then the Sister opened the door of a room off the entrance hall, a room Lovejoy had not seen before.
“This is our chapel,” said Sister Agnes. “If ever you find things difficult and don’t feel very happy, you can come in here.”
She had expected Lovejoy would find the chapel strange, even bewildering, but Lovejoy walked past her as if it were familiar, then stood as if she had been struck still. “Hello!” It was a greeting, not an exclamation. On her papers had been written Sunday school, church, nil, but she slid into a pew and knelt down.
After a moment Sister Agnes came and sat beside her.
“She was in a church I knew,” whispered Lovejoy.
“The statue?” Lovejoy nodded, her breath held.
Angela had thought it wiser not to tell the Sisters the story of the smashing. Angela had had to know because Olivia had been taken ill, there in the church, and Father Lambert had had to go for help, but Sister Agnes could not fathom the import of Lovejoy’s words. “The statue, the very same!” breathed Lovejoy.
“Not the very same, the same,” the Sister corrected. “That statue must have been made in hundreds—thousands, I expect. If you saw it somewhere else it was another one.” Her brisk voice was intended to shatter all untruths, but Lovejoy continued to gaze in a tranced way. Then Sister Agnes distinctly heard her whisper, “Hail Mary.”
“We don’t teach you to pray to Mary,” said the Sister gently.
Lovejoy did not know the difference between Anglican and Roman Catholic; even she had not fathomed all the vagaries of grown-ups; she wondered why there were no candles, she missed their warmth and the live sounds of the clicking of beads—she understood beads now—the pattering prayers.
Tip taught me and I’ll do what Tip taught me forever and ever, said Lovejoy silently.
“And we don’t cross ourselves.”
I do, said Lovejoy silently.
“You can honour her as the mother of Our Lord but you must not give her supernatural powers.”
Supernatural powers, supernatural babies, and lions with wings. A wave of such homesickness came over Lovejoy for the Street, the church, the garden, Jiminy Cricket, that she could not speak.
The last day, in the restaurant, Mrs. Combie had served ham and peaches and ice cream for midday dinner. “Well, really, Ettie!” said Cassie.
“It’s Lovejoy’s last day.”
“It’s she who ought to be giving them to you,” said Cassie. “Do you know your mother owes Mrs. Combie thirty pounds? Thirty pounds,” said Cassie. She had looked at Mr. Dwight’s labels. “Dad’s furniture,” she said with a little sob. “Dad’s house!” She turned to where Vincent sat. “I’d give my soul if Ettie had never seen you,” said Cassie.
Mrs. Combie sat up. “Nonsense, Cassie,” she said. It was the first time she had ever said “Nonsense” to anyone. “What’s all this song and dance about?” Vincent and Lovejoy sat up too. “A man like Vincent, with all he does, must be expected to fail now and then. Next time—” said Mrs. Combie.
“You think there’ll be a next time?” asked Cassie jeeringly.
“There will be a next time,” said Mrs. Combie. “You’ll be hearing from us, Cassie.”
When Cassie had gone Vincent got up from the table. He went into the pantry and presently came back, carrying a plate. He took it to the sink and washed it and polished it carefully; then he brought it to the table, put a helping of ice cream on it, and set it in front of Mrs. Combie. It was an Angelica Kauffman plate.
Mrs. Combie put her head down on the table and cried.
Lovejoy thought it better not to think about Vincent and Mrs. Combie. I meant to bring Jiminy Cricket, she thought. He’s probably dying with no one to water him—or is he smashed up?
She shut her eyes. She had meant to bring Jiminy Cricket but—I broke the statue to bits, thought Lovejoy, and I couldn’t go back into the church. It’s queer, she thought, when you’re kind to people you can forget them but when you’re not, you can’t. When she had stolen the candle money the statue had been hooded up in purple but this was evidently worse, because all these days Lovejoy had felt that it was she, Lovejoy, who was swathed. “I didn’t mean it,” she said, still hearing the crash. “If I didn’t mean it, then it shouldn’t count,” she argued, but it counted and she had felt muffled, hidden in sorrow and grief, and now the statue was here again, with the sky-blue robe, white veil, pink hands and face, lilies, and gilt plate on the back of her head.
“No supernatural powers,” said Sister Agnes firmly. Lovejoy dropped her lids.
A nun came to the chapel door, and Sister Agnes got up. “Wait here a moment,” she said.
Outside a bell clanged, and presently Lovejoy heard a sound like school, the sound of children’s feet marching. She leaned her head against the pew rail and shut her eyes. Even her sharp little brain could see no way out of it. She had to have kind people.
The feet were coming nearer, the din of voices; then there was a clap of hands and complete obedient silence.
Steps came towards the chapel—to fetch me, thought Lovejoy in a panic. In a moment someone would say, “Come along.”
All the things said to children rose in her mind. “Do as you’re told.” “Don’t answer back.” “Come along.” “Be quiet.” Lovejoy ground her teeth. Quiet, obedient, grateful. All the detestable things children should be, and all the lovely free things, thought Lovejoy, that they must not, opinionated, cocky—she hadn’t Angela’s word “cocksure.” Cocky, thought Lovejoy longingly.
The door opened. “Come along,” said Sister Agnes, but Lovejoy was praying.
“Hail Mary,” prayed Lovejoy between her teeth, “Mary, make me cocky and independent.”