The Little Girls by Elizabeth Bowen

Author:Elizabeth Bowen [Bowen, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Anchor
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

A sort of victory wreath surrounded the words—glaces cherries, crystallized green angelica set like jewels into the icing. Twelve candles rose from the sugar in a coloured, grove.

“Olive,” said the first to speak, “this is your cake?”

“Yes.”

“When are you going to light the candles?”

“Soon,” Olive said, looking apprehensive.

“Twelve…” said another, who, having re-counted the candles, looked at Olive across them not yet with hostility but across a gulf.

“Yes,” Olive said. “Isn’t it extraordinary?” She licked a finger and held it up to the wind.

Turning away, in response to a call to sit down to tea, the children made determinedly for places on the more eligible rugs. The grown-up servitors threw themselves into action. Successful search having been made for tea cloths wherewith to grip the now white-hot handles of metal teapots, a brimming cup, or for juniors a mug of milk, soon found its way into every hand. One of the licences of this feast was that it was to be possible to begin with jam: Mrs. Piggott, entrusted by Mrs. Pocock with the jam jar, dealt out dollops on to split buttered scones extended towards her by many applicants, doing so equitably and beautifully. The uncle conjured into existence a mandoline and went on to strum on it, though for some time given no great encouragement. He began to hum, in a manner which made it clear he would later sing—under cover of the uncertain music an almost complete marquee of held-up coats came into existence round Olive and the cake. Ceremonially handed a box of matches, she stretched forth a royal, un-trembling hand: she succeeded not only in lighting all twelve candles but in blowing them out again before the wind could. One whiff came from the charred wicks.

Something about the destruction (for so it seemed) of the moment of the candles let loose not exactly disorder but an element of scrimmage about the party. Outcasts upon an outlying rug, the St. Swithin’s boys started punching each other cautiously but repeatedly. A Marsh girl by sticking a foot out suddenly kicked in the kidneys Muriel, seated in front of her. Diana Piggott, singled out by a sand flea, bumped down her cup and began to scratch— the cup heeled over, partially scalding Trevor, who made away on all fours to a safer rug. The uncle incurred the scorn of Clare Burkin-Jones—in vain he trailed cheery choruses: not a voice took up. “Fool,” snorted the child.

“If you call anybody a fool, you go to Hell, I may as well tell you,” said Sheila Beaker crisply, over her shoulder.

“Where did you pick up that information?”

“Sunday school.”

“You never went to—”

“Oh yes I did. Till I took up toe-dancing.”

The birthday cake made its rounds as something to eat. Shattered pink writing clung to the icing tops of the slices. This was a cherry cake, very rich in fruit.— “Olive,” quoth one of the fathers, helping himself, “this is a day we shall long remember.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so,” Olive returned, with her usual composure.

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