The Child Lives On

Chapter Three

Lovely in a white cotton dress, Clara drifted through the sitting room, brushed aside the curtains and gazed through the window. "How nice," she said. "The sun is out."

Skipping over beside her, I stood on tiptoes to see over the sill. After weeks of rain, our little London neighborhood was sparkling. The leaves on the trees were wet and dripping. Puddles lay on the ground, reflecting the sun. Neighborhood children, free from the confinement of their respective homes, were out in force on the cobblestone street. Laughter and screams of delight filled the air.

"Why don't you go outside and play?" asked Clara.

"I have things to do," was my answer.

"You have to leave the house sometime."

"I do leave the house, often."

"I'm not talking about the backyard and garden." Raising a fine, delicate hand, she pointed out the window. "See those children? They're just waiting for you to come out to play."

"I have tonics to mix. Mr. Hammer is expecting..."

"Emily, my darling, relax. He still has plenty in stock. Go outside and have some fun. You're only a child once."

Shaking my head, I sighed. She so loves to tease me.

Ruthie began to cry. Clara hurried to her bedroom to tend to her baby. I stared out the window, watching the children play. After living in London for a year, the farthest I had ventured on my own was the front stoop. Yes, I admit it, I'm a scaredy-cat. "Clara is right," I said to myself. "It's too nice to stay indoors." A half an hour later, I stepped out through the front door, breathing in the fresh summer air.

Now I was in a quandary. How does one introduce oneself to strangers? Where I came from, introductions were made for you. Maybe if I stood on the side of the street, someone would approach me. The children were playing rounders with a stick and a leather ball. It wasn't a proper game of rounders, with only three players on each side. Most of the time was spent chasing the ball or dodging horses, carts and carriages.

The ball rolled up close to me. I picked it up and tossed it to the bowler. A boy held the stick out. "Wanna try?" he asked.

I stepped gingerly onto the street, mindful of my skirt, and took the stick from his hand. The bowler lobbed one nice and easy. I whacked it and ran to first base, which was an old shirt or something lying in the street. The boy seemed pleased. "Not bad for a girl," he said. His name was Nigel. He lived across the street.

The next day, with the weather still pleasant, I took a seat on the front stoop and pulled out my knitting. I love knitting. Knitting is both relaxing and invigorating, and keeps my mind focused. Nigel appeared in front of me. From where, I don't know. "What you doin'?" he asked.

I answered his question with a question. "Can you not tell?"

"I seen me mum do that."

"It's called knitting."

"Why do it?"

"I like to make nice things."

"Why?"

"Just because."

His eyes were bright blue, his hair was blond and wavy, and his face was pretty, which I think embarrassed him. He smeared it with mud to cover it up.

"Wanna come over?" he asked.

This was something new. In Glastonbury, you didn't just come over. "To do what?"

"Play games."

"Would it be proper for a grown woman to play games with a little boy?"

He bristled. "Who you calling a little boy? I'm bigger 'n you."

"I'm not talking about size. I'm talking about age."

"By the looks of it, I'm older 'n you too."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Huh?"

"If you must know, I'm twenty two years old, much too old to play with you."

"Listen, girly, if you don't wanna play, just say so. Don't make stuff up."

He stormed off in a huff.

Behind me, Clara was snickering. "You'll never make any friends that way," she said.

"He's a hothead," was my response.

"Why did you tell him your age?"

"I wanted to hear what he would say."

"And…?"

"He said just what I thought he would say."

"Come inside and get your things, old woman. We're going to the market."

The next day, around the same time, I was sitting on the front stoop reading a story about a little girl named Rosamond. While I was absorbed in the story, some shadows appeared on the walkway in front of me. I looked up from my book. Nigel was standing before me. A tall, thin man stood next to him. I could tell they were related.

"This is the girl I was telling you about," said Nigel, gesturing with his hand.

"Pretty little thing," said the man.

"She makes up stories."

"So you said." The man leaned over and looked me in the eye. "Do you want to be an author, little lady?"

"I think he means I'm a liar," I said.

"Same thing."

"I've never heard it put that way."

He reared back and laughed - a laugh big and hearty, which echoed off the nearby houses.

"Are you an author?" I asked.

"Why yes," he said.

"Anything I might have read?"

"Probably not. I write political pamphlets."

"Do you have one with you?"

"As a matter of fact." He pulled a pamphlet out of his coat pocket and gave it to me. I marked my place in the book with it.

"Are your parents at home?" asked the man.

"I don't have any parents," I said.

"An orphan?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

The door opened behind me. Clara stepped out, holding Ruthie in her arms. "Oh!" she said. "I didn't…"

I rose to my feet, slipping the book into my cloth-bag. "Clara," I said, "this is Nigel and…"

"Kenneth Kittridge," said the man, doffing his cap and bowing.

"A pleasure to meet you," said Clara.

"The pleasure is mine, I'm sure."

"Are you going somewhere?" I asked.

"Aunt Celia asked us to lunch," said Clara. "Go in and fetch your things."

That evening, the Kittridges came over to our house for a visit. After the initial greeting, I escaped to a back room, searching for solitude. Much to my chagrin, Nigel and his sisters were ushered in. Picking up the two year old, I held her in my lap and played 'peek-a-boo'. The three year old sat on the floor, talking with her doll. Nigel stood in front of me, hands on hips. "Well, well, well," he said, "If it ain't the little girl what thinks she's grown up."

"For your information," I said. "I am grown up."

"Don't look like it to me."

"No point in arguing, I suppose. Now that you're here, what do you want to do?"

"Nothin', with you."

Plopping down on the floor, he fiddled with some trinkets he kept in his pockets. After a while he departed, leaving me alone with his sisters. An hour of so later, Clara entered the room with Beverly Kittridge (Nigel's mother). "Where's Nigel?" they asked.

"I don't know," I said with a shrug.

"I need to have a talk with that boy," said Beverly. "He was supposed to be watching his sisters." She knelt down in front of me. "How long ago did he leave, sweetie?"

"I don't know," I said. "An hour?"

"Should we send the men out to look for him?" asked Clara.

"That won't be necessary," said Beverly. "He'll find his way home. And when he does… Well, never mind."

From that day on, whenever Nigel saw me, he would turn up his nose. He told his friends, "Don't bother with 'Little Miss Snobby'. She's too grown up for us." Too busy for such childishness, I simply shrugged it off.

Then one day, while I was knitting on the front stoop, I noticed a fancy carriage speeding recklessly down the narrow cobblestone street toward Nigel and his friends. Jumping to my feet, I shouted, "Watch out!" but couldn't make myself heard. The carriage plowed into Nigel, sending him sprawling, and kept on going. Dropping my knitting, I ran to him, and knelt down, folding my skirt under my knees. His friends gathered around, chattering. "Nigel," I said, patting his face, "can you hear me?"

"It'll take more than an old nag to do me in," he muttered.

"I think your leg is broken."

"Is that why it hurts?"

Beverly and some men came running. The men carried Nigel to his home. Nigel's friends ran to get a doctor. I went home and told Clara all about it.

The next day, in the early afternoon, I walked across the street and knocked on the Kittridge's front door. The knock was answered by Beverly. "Have you come to see Nigel, sweetie?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

She called out, "Nigel, you have a visitor."

"Who?" he yelled.

"Little Emily."

"I don't want to see her."

"Nigel, be nice."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Oh, alright."

She said to me, "He's in the sitting room, sweetie," and ushered me inside, leaving me alone in the foyer.

When I entered the sitting room, which looked a lot like every other sitting room I had ever seen, Nigel was lounging on a couch with his broken leg stretched out. I climbed into the chair next to him, adjusting my skirt. "Hello, Nigel," I said. "How are you feeling?"

"How do you think I'm feeling?" he muttered.

"I brought a book, thought you might like to hear a story."

"Not some kind of girly book, is it?"

"It's an adventure book."

"I suppose that would be alright."

I read a chapter of Robinson Crusoe. He seemed mildly interested. When I returned the next day, he was anxious for more. "Read more than one chapter," he said. "I want to know what happens."

"A chapter a day is plenty," I said. "It helps to build the excitement."

"Always has to be your way, doesn't it?"

"I'll leave if you like."

"No, no, please stay."

After Robinson Crusoe, we moved on to Gulliver's Travels. By this time, he was by my side reading along with me, making comments and asking questions. We formed a friendship where there once was discord. It just goes to show, books can bring people together.