she sat on her bed, reading and looking from time to time at the brooch, unwrapping and wrapping it carefully each time.
The sound of her motherâs quick, foreboding tread made her push the box in a panic under her pillow. Now, she remembered: she had been told not to tell, and she had told. She had told Caroline, who had told Mr Mansell, and retribution was coming, as her mother advanced with set face and luminous glare and began to slap her, muttering, âDonât you dare to cry. Ungrateful little bitch. Donât you-dare-to-cry. You little swine, thankless little swine, you couldnât say thank you, couldnât even say thank you.â Slap, slap. âDonât open your mouth, donât you dare to cry.â
There was not much to cry about, for her motherâs intentions were far more violent than her blows. Her hands flapped weakly as if she was fighting against a cage of air. She straightened up and drew breath. âMr Mansell rowed right across the lake to get you that brooch and you couldnât take the trouble to say thank you. Itâs no use going anywhere with you; you bring disgrace on us wherever we go. Ah, itâs no use. Words are wasted on you, gawping there like an idiot.â She put her hands to her head and walked out in despair.
Isobel took the box from under the pillow, took out the brooch and looked at it while she rubbed her stinging legs. Why hadnât her mother taken the brooch? It would have been so easy. Isobel could even supply the words she had dreaded to hear: âGive me that, you donât deserve to have it. Come on, give it to me.â Why hadnât she said them? Could it be that there were things her mother couldnât do?
That idea was too large to be coped with. She put it away from her, but she took the brooch and pinned it carefully to the neck of her dress. It was hers now, all right. She went and looked at it in the glass and stood admiring it. In one way or another, she would be wearing it all her life.
2 ⢠FALSE IDOLS AND A FIREBALL
Isobel could honestly swear that she did see a fireball once. It was long ago, when she was quite small. Coming from school she was caught in a thrashing rainstorm and when she reached the house she found it locked and empty, so she was standing in the yard ankle-deep in water when the sky cracked and this pink ball came streaking past and then the water she was standing in turned rosy red. She could swear to that, although fireball became another word for lie and the rosy water was dammed up forever behind a wall of derisive laughter. In the days before she conquered enthusiasm she would sometimes come running in crying, âGuess what I saw!â and her mother would say, âA fireball?â, sliding a glance of sophisticated amusement towards any other occupant of the room, for it was a well-known joke.
In another mood, Mrs Callaghan would say shortly, âThought you saw,â and sometimes she would hear Isobel out, then begin to question her: âWhere did this happen? When? What happened then? Now I thought you saidâ¦â, ending always, âYou donât know, do you? You donât know whether youâre telling the truth or not,â with a sigh of resignation.
It was well established that Isobel was a liar. When asked, âDid you spend your mission money on chocolate, Isobel?â she would say no, though she had, and Mrs Callaghan would send a contemptuous knowing glance towards her elder daughter Margaret, who had brought home the information, while Margaret would look back with her mouth sagging and her eyes full of misery, then turn on Isobel the same look, a real blackout curtain of sorrow. Isobel did not expect to be believed, but she felt that a lie was the only contribution she could make to the respectability of the occasion. She lived well enough herself with her cowardice, her dishonesty and her greed, but others had to be protected from the shock