Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [54]
In her sleep, the girl made hoarse cries, and threw even the gentlest hand off her forehead. "There was a girl in Dublin used to sleep in her stays," Dot remarked, "that died from compunction of the organs." The governess heaved a breath and knocked on the parlour door. "Most dangerous in her state of health, your Ladyship ... eminent medical gentlemen agree..." The stays came off. Margaret tossed still, picking at invisible ribbons across her chest.
The girl woke one February twilight to find that her lie had come true. She could not bear to let the governess out of her sight. Her puzzled eyes followed every movement, and her voice was cracked and fractious. She insisted that she could not remember how to sew. There was nothing comfortable about this love.
Scrawny children plucked at Margarets skirts as she walked between the burnt cottages, wheezing. She shared her pocketful of French grapes among them. Their ginger freckles stood out bold on transparent skin.
Hungry for the familiarity of words, the girl stole into the library. She knelt on the moving steps and pressed her face against the glass cases, following their bevelled edges with her lips. One of the cases would be left unlocked, if she had prayed hard enough the night before. Tides in winking gold leaf reached for her fingers. At first she looked for storybooks and engravings, but by March she had got a taste for books of words about words: dictionaries and lexicons and medical encyclopaedias. One strange fish of a word leapt into the mouth of another and that one into another, meanings hooked on each other, confusing and enticing her, until, after the hour or so she could steal from each day, Margaret was netted round with secret knowledge.
"There was a farmer went for the bailiff with a pitchfork last month," Dot said. "When they hanged him in Cork town his bit stuck up." Margaret knew about bits and the getting of babies and the nine months; Mistress Mary, flushing slightly, said that every girl should know the words for things.
"Why was I not born a boy," Margaret asked her governess while walking in the orchard, "or why was I born at all?" Mistress Mary was bewildered by the question. Margaret explained: "Girls are good for nothing in particular. In all the stories, boys can run and leap and save wounded animals. My mother says I am a mannish little trull. Already I am taller than ladies like you. So why may I not be a boy?"
"There is nothing wrong," began Mistress Mary cautiously, "with being manly, in the best sense. Manly virtues, you know, and masculine fortitude. You must not be afraid. No matter what anyone says. Even if they say things which, no doubt unintentionally, may seem unkind."
Margaret kicked at a rotten apple.
"You must stand tall, like a tree," explained the governess, gathering confidence. "No matter how tall you grow you will be my little girl, and your head will always fit on my shoulder. Tall as a young tree," she went on hurriedly, "and you should move like one too. Why do you not romp and bound when I say you may; why do you cling to my side like a little doll?"
"My mother forbids it."
"She cannot see through the garden wall. I give you permission."
"She may ask why we spend so long in the orchard."
"We are studying the names of the insects."
And the governess tagged her on the shoulder and, picking up her skirts, hared off down a damp grassy path. Margaret was still considering the matter when she found her legs leaping away with her.
In the April evenings, Mistress Mary entertained the household with recitations and English country dances. Her Ladyship looked on, her hair whiter by the day. They argued over the number of buttons on the girls' boots.
When she grew up, Margaret had decided, she would make the bailiffs give all the rent back. The redheaded children would grow fat, and clap their hands when they saw her coming.
By May the air was white with blossom. Margaret could not swallow when she looked at her governess. Their hairs were mingled