The Marble Staircase by Elizabeth Fair

Author:Elizabeth Fair
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2022-07-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter XII

People who remembered Mrs. Field in her active years had often remarked on the resemblance between her and Alison. When Alison was growing up Charlotte used to explain that they meant it as a compliment, that they were all very fond of Granny and naturally noticed any little likenesses and made the most of them. For at that time she thought a schoolgirl might not care to be told she looked like her grandmother. And there was another reason for minimizing the proclaimed resemblance; she did not want Alison to be forced into a mould, or encouraged to think of herself as ‘her grandmother over again’.

But it was much too late by then. Alison had been moulded long ago, by association as well as by heredity.

She was Mrs. Field’s pupil as well as her grand-daughter, and from babyhood she had shown herself marvellously responsive. (“So different from you at that age,” Mrs. Field used to say as Alison’s capacities revealed themselves.) She did all the proper things at the proper time, from enjoying being read aloud to (and never having nightmares afterwards), right through learning to read to herself and learning to swim and opening a bazaar. It was a bazaar Mrs. Field should have opened, but she was imprisoned by a sudden attack of lumbago and since it was in aid of a children’s charity she was inspired to send little Alison as her deputy. Alison managed beautifully; sympathetic visitors assured Mrs. Field she could be heard all over the hall and was word-perfect although she had had only that morning in which to learn her speech. She had been managing beautifully ever since.

She resembled Mrs. Field more in character than in appearance, Charlotte thought, or rather, though the physical likeness existed, it was at present least obvious. As a plump child she had had something of her grandmother’s solid dignity, but it was gone now – she was shorter than Mrs. Field and the plumpness was a thing of the past, and perhaps of the future when middle-age would bring out the latent resemblance.

“When she’s as old as I am,” Charlotte thought, but the idea seemed fantastic.

It was impossible to imagine Alison any older than she looked now, sitting in the window with her fair hair shining, her young body so pliantly adapting itself to the angular seat. It was typical of her that she should be up and dressed; less typical that she had waited there instead of coming to see whether her mother was awake.

Charlotte was still in her dressing-gown, but this too was passed over by Alison. She had been passing over things ever since her arrival yesterday, treating everything to the same cheerful smile and deliberate avoidance of comment.

She had talked about Marston, about Evelyn, about the journey, even when she was being shown round the house. Charlotte had realised in the end that Alison meant to say nothing until the time came to discuss things properly.

Which wasn’t just yet, obviously. Alison ignored the dressing-gown until Charlotte apologised for it and then she brushed the apology aside.

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