A Jest of God - Margaret Laurence [1]
I don’t have to concern myself yet for a while, surely. Thirty-four is still quite young. But now is the time to watch out for it.
The bell rings for end of recess. Quickly, I have to gather my children in. I must stop referring to them as my children, even to myself. It won’t do. We all say it, of course. Even Calla says of the Grade Fives, “Want to see the poster my kids painted today?” But the words are no threat to her. She feels only a rough amused affection and irritation towards any or all of them, equally.
“Come along, Grade Twos. Line up quietly now.”
Am I beginning to talk in that simper tone, the one so many grade school teachers pick up without realizing? At first they only talk to the children like that, but it takes root and soon they can’t speak any other way to anyone. Sapphire Travis does it all the time. Rachel, dear, would you be a very very good girl and pour me a weeny cup of tea? Poor Grade Ones. How do they endure it? Children have built-in radar to detect falseness.
“Come along, now. We haven’t got all day. James, for goodness’ sake, stop dawdling.”
Now I’ve spoken more sharply than necessary. I have to watch this, too. It’s hard to strike a balance. It’s so often James I speak to like this, fearing to be too much the other way with him.
Why didn’t I put my coat on, to come out? The spring wind is making me shiver. My arms, wrapped around myself for warmth, seem so long and skinny. The days are fine and mild lately, but the wind is still northern and knifing. I’m susceptible to colds, and when I get one it hangs on and on, and really pulls me down.
James is the very last inside, as usual. That boy is the slowest thing on two feet when he’s going into the room. Leaving, he always seems about to take off like a sparrow and miraculously fly. Looking at his wiry slightness, his ruffian sorrel hair, I feel an exasperated tenderness. I wonder why I should feel differently towards him? Because he’s unique, that’s why. I oughtn’t to feel that way. They are all unique. What a pious sentiment, one which Willard Siddley would endorse. Certainly they’re all unique, but like the animals’ equality, some are more unique than others.
Calla Mackie is in the hall as I go in. I shouldn’t try to avoid her eyes. She’s kind and well-meaning. If only she looked a little more usual, and didn’t trot off twice a week to that fantastic Tabernacle. She bears down, through the noisy shoal of youngsters pushing upstairs like fish compelled upstream. Calla is stockily built, not fat at all but solid and broad. She says she ought to have been Ukrainian, and in fact she has that Slavic squareness and strong heavy bones. Her hair is greying and straight, and she cuts it herself with nail scissors. I’ll bet she’s never even set foot inside a hairdresser’s. She combs it back behind her ears but chops it into a fringe like a Shetland pony’s over her forehead. She wears long-sleeved smocks for school, not for neatness but so she can wear the same brown tweed skirt and that dull-green bulky-knit sweater of hers, day after day without anyone noticing. Maybe she washes the sweater in the evenings from time to time, and dries it on the radiator in her flat. I wouldn’t know. She drenches herself with Lemon Verbena cologne. Her smock today is the fawn chintz that looks like the kitchen curtains. Well, poor Calla – it isn’t her fault that she has no dress sense. I look quite smart in comparison.
Oh God. I don’t mean to be condescending. How can it happen, still, this echo of my mother’s voice? My navy wool dress is three years old and much longer than they’re being worn now. I haven’t had the energy to take up the hem. Now it seems like sackcloth, flapping around my knees. And the ashes, where are they? I dramatize myself. I always did. No one would ever know it from the outside, where I’m too quiet.
“Rachel – oh Rachel – come here a sec, will you?”
“What is it?”
“Wait for me after school,” Calla