The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [210]
One tear rolled out of Griselda’s blue eye.
“Grisel, you don’t have to cry.”
“We aren’t cousins,” said Griselda. “If it’s true, we aren’t cousins.” Dorothy had not thought of that. They looked at each other.
“We’re even more best friends,” said Dorothy. “Help me. Where can I go?”
Griselda was thinking furiously. “Would you consider telling Charles?”
“He isn’t my cousin either,” said Dorothy, with a brittle cackle of laughter.
“No—but—he keeps going on these cultural trips to Germany with Joachim Susskind. He goes to Munich, where he—Herr Stern—is. Do you think—just possibly—we could go, too? With Charles, and Herr Susskind, and maybe even with—with—Toby—do you think a grown-up brother and two tutors would be chaperone enough? Charles is good at secrets. He has lots. He does all sorts of secret things with Joachim Susskind who looks so respectable and gentle. He gets up to all sorts of things—revolutionary things, avant-garde art things—the parents would die if they knew. We could both go. I could speak German and study there. And if the tutors went, you could go on working for your exams. I’m sure they have classes in Munich we could go to. And you could think about seeing him—Herr Stern—your father. I liked him. I liked him very much. He’s gentle.”
Dorothy sprang out of the bed and flung her arms round Griselda. They hugged each other. Griselda considered the bloodstains on the nightdress.
“That was a voluminous nosebleed. Buckets of blood. You must have had a frightful shock.”
“I did.”
“Are you all right now?”
“I’m all right as long as I keep doing something. I shall have to lurk here, for a bit. I’m not going back to Todefright.”
“Won’t your parents be upset? Will they let you go to Munich?”
“I need to make them frightened of what I will do if they don’t. Tell everybody. Run away altogether. Kill myself. Waste away. Shout and shout at them. They wouldn’t like any of those. Which do you think?”
“I think you should lurk here and be stormy and intimidating. Whereas I shall be persuasive and charming, and say if I can go and study in Munich for a bit, I will let them give a sumptuous ball for me when I get back.”
“I don’t think I shall ever enjoy another ball.”
“Well, if I fix this for you, you’ll have to promise me to come to that one. As moral support. We shall have to tell Charles or he’ll never agree. But if we do tell him, I think he might, because he does love secrets and subversive things.”
29
Elsie’s child was born in an attic in Dymchurch, from which you could see the sea. It belonged to a semi-retired midwife, who was a friend of Patty Dace. The labour was long and terrible, and the bruised child—a very small child—was slapped and shaken into a quavering howl, just as the dawn rose over the Channel.
“It’s a girl,” said Mrs. Ball. “She’s little, but she’ll live.” Elsie swam in and out of consciousness, like a mermaid in the sea.
“Do you want to see her?” asked Mrs. Ball, who had attended births where the mother turned away a grim, resolute face, and would not look. Elsie swam. Elsie floated. She heard a voice say
“Give me her. Let me see.”
Mrs. Ball put the bundle in the crib, and raised Elsie’s pillow, on the cast-iron bed.
“You must stay awake then, you mustn’t drop her.” The sea poured in and retreated. “Give me her.”
The baby was swaddled in a piece of towelling, like a peg doll. Mrs. Ball put her in Elsie’s arms. She had a creased little face, like an ancient wise monkey. She opened a tiny mouth, and mewed. Hair, of an indeterminate colour, was plastered to her head. She opened dark, dark eyes under bruised lids, and blinked, and then stared, letting light flow over them.
“Oh” said Elsie, catching her breath. Her breasts swelled and hurt. She said
“Her name’s Ann.”
“Did you think she might be a girl? Did you have a name ready?”
“No.” Elsie gave a kind of sobbing laugh. “I can see her name’s Ann. She’s so small, it’s a small