The Peppermint Pig Page 5

  Someone said, ‘Noah!’ and the grin went from his face as if a curtain had fallen and covered it. He got up awkwardly and shuffled to the side of the pond, red hands dangling.

  Aunt Sarah said, ‘Get up, Poll. It’s time you went home, I think.’

  She waited, calm and aloof as a statue, while Poll scrambled up. Most of the boys seemed to have melted away; the few that were left stood in a group at the end of the slide, watching in silence. They were all scared of Aunt Sarah, Poll thought, and no wonder! There was something frightening about a person who never scolded, never even seemed to get angry, but who could make you feel just by the tone of her voice that you really had behaved very badly. ‘Get up, Poll,’ as Aunt Sarah said it, was worse than several hours of Aunt Harriet’s nagging.

  Aunt Sarah said nothing else all the way home. Theo didn’t speak either, until they were in the house and Aunt Sarah had gone through to the kitchen. Then he caught Poll by the arm, turned her to face him, and whispered softly and savagely, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll fight my own battles in future.’

  He marched upstairs and his bedroom door slammed. Poll would have liked to run and hide and cry privately, but she was too wet and shivery. She gulped down the tears in her throat, lifted her chin, and went to the kitchen where Mother had a good fire and water heating up ready. She gave Poll a look and said, to Aunt Sarah, ‘I thought Someone might need a bath!’

  Aunt Sarah said, ‘Poll has inherited one thing at least from our side of the family. Harriet’s temper!’

  Her smooth face was serious but there was a smile in her voice. She said, ‘Get those wet clothes off at once, Poll.’

  The hip bath from the back of Poll’s bedroom door was in front of the fire and a screen, made of thick cotton and stuck all over with picture postcards, stood round it to keep off the draughts. Poll’s skin was red and stinging in patches with the cold slush that had seeped through her clothes but after a minute or two in the lovely hot water she felt very comfortable and began to enjoy sitting in the little house the screen made, with the fire in front, the smell of bread cooking in the oven beside it, and the murmur of voices as Mother and Aunt Sarah sat over their tea. One of the postcards on the screen was a yellowing photograph of a fat old woman sitting on a donkey that Father and Mother had sent to Aunt Sarah when they went to Yarmouth on their honeymoon, and another, a coloured picture of Niagara Falls that had come from Uncle Edmund when he first went on his travels. All the Gaiety Girls were there, and Dan Leno, a comic face with fuzzy, gummed-on hair, but Poll’s favourite was a Christmas card of a snow-covered house, the roof sprinkled with frosting that sparkled beautifully in the light from the fire. The house had a paper front door that opened to show a red-carpeted hall with holly and a lit tree. Poll opened and closed the door and thought of Theo who had warned her not to do that too often in case it came off, and wondered if he were still angry with her. It didn’t seem fair if he was, she had only been taking his part, but nothing about Theo was simple.

  She said, ‘Mother, you know that gold Dad brought home for us to make Christmas cards with? Is it valuable?’

  There was a little pause. Mother and Aunt Sarah had been talking and Poll had broken into their conversation. Mother said, with a laugh, ‘Of course, Poll. All gold is valuable.’

  ‘Even tiny bits?’

  ‘You know how small a gold sovereign is!’

  Poll was pleased with this answer because it proved Theo was right. She would tell him so as a sort of peace offering and they could be friends again without her having to say she was sorry. She slipped low in the water and felt very settled and happy.

  Mother was saying, ‘… when all’s said and done, you can’t help but be sorry. Poor Old Rowland, he set so much store by that boy of his! A mistake to have only one child, all your eggs in one basket, and he admits that he’d spoiled him. Apparently there had been trouble before, though not on this scale. Just petty pilfering when he was no more than a bit of a lad, nothing serious.’

  ‘If Mr Rowland thought that, then he made a rod for his own back and I’ve no sympathy for him,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘Stealing is always wrong, even if it is only a sweet or a hair pin, and no child is too young to understand that. A lesson learned young is a lesson for life! I hope you agree with me, Emily.’

  ‘Yes, Sarah. Of course.’ Mother’s voice sounded humble but when she came round the screen to open the oven door, her face didn’t look it. She was smiling and her eyes danced as she tapped the bread with her knuckles to see if it was done.

  The loaves rang with a hollow sound. Poll saw that one of them had run over the edge of its tin. ‘Please, Mother, can I have run-over and butter?’

  Aunt Sarah said, ‘New bread is indigestible. Very bad for children.’

  Mother winked at Poll and held up a warm towel. Poll got out of the bath. Mother dried her, pulled her nightgown over her head and put an old shawl round her shoulders. She folded the screen and Aunt Sarah helped her lift the bath and pour the water away down the sink in the scullery.

  Aunt Sarah said, ‘I’m glad Mr Rowland came, anyway. It showed respect for James.’

  ‘That wasn’t his only reason for coming.’ Mother put the bath on the floor of the scullery and wiped it out energetically. She straightened up, very pink in the face. ‘He asked me if I was in need of money. Of course I said no.’

  Aunt Sarah didn’t answer for several minutes. Mother went on polishing the inside of the hip bath and Aunt Sarah put on her outdoor clothes. She finished smoothing her gloves on and then said, speaking quickly and a bit breathlessly as if she felt she should have said this at once and not waited, ‘Yes, of course. There is no reason why he should help.’

  ‘Except that it’s hard on you, having to pay for my pride?’

  Mother came into the kitchen, eyes on Aunt Sarah, and Aunt Sarah smiled at her, not her normal pained and dutiful smile but an open and happy one that made her look very much younger and prettier. She said, ‘Nonsense, Emily dear,’ and kissed Mother’s cheek.

  When she had gone, Poll said, ‘Why didn’t Aunt Sarah ever get married?’

  ‘Too much sense.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I mean, really.’

  Mother cut the crisp, run-over bread from the side of the tin, spread it with butter and gave it to Poll. ‘Well, it’s true in a way. You won’t find many women clever as Sarah in a long day’s march and even fewer men. If you did find one who measured up to her, I dare say she’d frighten him off! But that’s not the whole of it. Sarah had only just started teaching when Granny Greengrass got paralysed and Sarah had to look after her as well as putting in long hours at school. And Mrs Greengrass was a lot of work, let me tell you, a huge big woman, going on for six foot and nearly as wide and with a voice like a gong. She ruled the house from her bed – you could hear her from the end of the street, shouting out orders! But it was Sarah who carried them out, kept the house going, saw her young brothers through school. So what chance had she to get married? They needed her money, there was nothing much else coming in except what Harriet got, pupil-teaching, which wasn’t enough to feed a bird, really. Not that Sarah minded, mark you! She said it was her duty and pleasure to care for her mother who’d worked hard enough in her time. Old Granny Greengrass had been chief pastry cook at the baker’s and a bit of a slave driver to those under her, but she drove herself, too. Worked hard and died hard, people said.’

  ‘How old were you when her finger got chopped off?’

  ‘Oh, just a little thing. But I heard about it, of course, and when she died it got me into a nice bit of trouble. Did I never tell you that tale?’ Mother looked at Poll and, when Poll shook her head, sat down on the other side of the fire. ‘Well, let me see, Sarah was about twenty-six then, so I’d be going on twelve. Old enough to know better, anyway. My mother had been helping Sarah with the old lady – there’s always a lot of work at a death bed – and when I came along to the house after school they were sitting down with a cup of tea in the
parlour. So seeing the coast clear, I nipped upstairs. I’d never managed to get a good look at that chopped-off finger and I thought, now’s my chance! But I’d never seen anyone dead before either, and when I pulled the sheet back I got more than I bargained for. Her face was quite peaceful but when I touched her she was cold and stiff as a board and that scared me! I left her uncovered and ran down into the garden and stayed there until it began to get dark. Then I went in as if nothing had happened. I don’t know where Mother was, but Sarah was sewing in the kitchen. She said, “Have you been upstairs, Emily?” I said, “No.” She asked me again, “Are you quite sure?” and when I said yes, she gave me a straight look and went back to her sewing. I thought I’d creep out but as I was going she said, “Emily, would you go and get my silver thimble? I left it upstairs on the chest in the front room.” Well, that was where old Mrs Greengrass lay dead, and it was dark now. I thought I would die of fright, but I was no match for Sarah, and upstairs I went…’

  Poll felt her skin creep. ‘That was mean of Aunt Sarah.’

  ‘Not really. I only had to tell her the truth and she would have let me off, but since I had stuck to my lie I had to be punished. You know your Aunt Sarah! She’d die rather than do a wrong thing herself and she expects the same standards in others. A bit hard to live up to, but we’ll all have to do our best, living next door and under her eye.’ She looked at Poll grimly. ‘What made you get in a fight?’

  Poll was taken aback: she had thought that was forgotten. ‘What did Sarah say?’

  ‘Just you’d been scrapping but you’d been provoked.’

  ‘They laughed at Theo.’ Poll flushed with anger. ‘That Noah Bugg! He called him a runt!’

  Mother sighed.

  ‘Will Theo ever grow, do you think? It makes him so miserable.’

  Mother said, ‘If that’s the only cross he ever has to bear in his life, he’ll be lucky’ and although she often made forbidding remarks of this kind, meaning nothing much by them, Poll felt scared suddenly. Perhaps it was the thought of a little girl being sent up, in the dark, to where a dead woman was lying, or perhaps it was just the growing dark in the kitchen, but it seemed to Poll, as her mother got up to light the oil lamp, that the world was full of unknown dangers, shapeless but menacing, like the shadows in the corners of the room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A WEEK PASSED – and something much worse did happen to Theo than being teased by Noah Bugg. Aunt Sarah knitted him a pink woollen vest and he had to wear it to school.

  It was made of thick, soft wool and knitted in a pretty, lacy pattern. Mother said, ‘Sarah must have sat up till all hours, it is good of her. She says she’ll have another one ready time this one needs to be washed.’ She saw Theo’s sickly grin and added in a coaxing voice, ‘Your Aunt Sarah is worried about you getting a chill, this bitter cold weather.’

  ‘I’d rather get a chill than wear that,’ Theo said. ‘It’s a girl’s vest. I’d rather die.’

  He meant it: he felt really desperate. Mocking laughter filled his dreams; tormenting boys danced round him, gimlet-eyed. We can see what you’re wearing, Baby Theo Greengrass! He prayed for a miracle – for the house to burn down and the hateful vest with it while they were all safely out – but his prayers were not answered. The first day of school, the humiliating garment was laid out on the chair at the end of his bed. He put it on and came down to breakfast wishing the earth would open and swallow him.

  Poll tried to comfort him. ‘No one will see the vest under your clothes. No one will know.’

  ‘I’ll know!’ He pushed the porridge round his plate, the tears springing.

  Mother looked at him helplessly. She said, ‘Sarah’s so good to us, Theo. I can’t tell her you wouldn’t wear it.’

  ‘All right, all right. I’m wearing the beastly thing, aren’t I?’ Tears fell into his uneaten porridge and Poll began to cry too, in sympathy.

  Mother said, ‘Oh, you two!’ She got up from the table, went to the scullery and began to throw dirty pots into the sink, making more noise than seemed necessary. George, off to school early, hitched his satchel up on his shoulder and said, ‘For Heaven’s sake, Theo, can’t you see you’re upsetting her? Don’t be so childish.’

  ‘I am a child,’ Theo said, sullenly hiccuping, but George had already gone. He went out of the front door, calling back, ‘Mother, the milkman’s here.’

  She came from the scullery, drying her hands and muttering under her breath. She forgot to pick up the blue and white jug from the table and when she reached the door, she called Poll to bring it.

  The milkman was saying, ‘… so the old sow farrowed early. D’you want a peppermint pig, Mrs Greengrass?’

  Poll looked at him, thinking of sweets, but there was a real pig poking its snout out of the milkman’s coat pocket. It was the tiniest pig she had ever seen. She touched its hard little head and said, ‘What’s a peppermint pig?’

  ‘Not worth much,’ Mother said. ‘Only a token. Like a peppercorn rent. Almost nothing.’

  ‘Runt of the litter,’ the milkman added. ‘Too small for the sow to raise. He’d only get trampled on in the rush.’

  Mother took the pig from him and held it firmly while it kicked and squealed piercingly. She tipped it to look at its stomach and said, ‘Well, he seems strong enough. And even runts grow.’

  The milkman took the jug from Poll and went to his cart to ladle milk out of his churn.

  ‘Oh,’ Poll said. ‘Oh, Mother.’ She stroked the small, wriggling body. Stroked one way, its skin felt silky to touch; the other way, stiff little hairs prickled her fingers. He was a pale apricot colour all over.

  The milkman came back. Mother said, ‘Will you take a shilling?’ and he nodded and grinned. Poll took the milk to the kitchen and flew upstairs for her mother’s purse. ‘Theo,’ she shouted, ‘look what we’ve got!’

  An old pint beer mug stood on the dresser. Mother laughed suddenly and popped the pig in it. He made such a fearsome noise that they put their hands over their ears. Poll picked him out and said, ‘Whatever made you do that?’

  ‘I just thought he would fit, and he did!’

  Poll put him down and he scampered desperately round the kitchen, dainty feet skittering on slippery lino. He shot into the scullery and went to ground in the little hole under the copper.

  Mother said, ‘Leave him now, poor little fellow, he’s scared to death. He’ll settle down while you’re at school.’

  Poll groaned tragically. ‘Must we go? Oh, I can’t bear it, I can’t bear to leave him.’

  ‘He’ll be here when you come home dinner time,’ Mother said.

  Poll counted the hours. Not just that day, but the next and the next, the thought of the baby pig, waiting at home, distracted her attention so she had no time left to be naughty: by the end of the first week, she had not once been rapped over the knuckles or stood in the corner. She made a best friend called Annie Dowsett who was older than she was and who told her how babies were born. ‘The butcher comes and cuts you up the stomach with his carving knife,’ Annie said. ‘But don’t tell your mother I told you.’ Poll didn’t really believe this, because if it were true, women would never have more than one baby but it was an interesting idea all the same and she began to feel she quite liked this new school. She even liked her teacher, Miss Armstrong, who had a long, mild sheep’s face, and was proud that her aunt was Headmistress with her name on a brass plate on the outside of the building. Everyone was a little scared of Aunt Sarah but not of Aunt Harriet, who was called Miss Harry to her face and Old Harry behind her back, who romped in the playground with the little ones until her wispy hair came down under her hat, and always brought potatoes to school to bake in the stove for the children who lived too far away to go home for their dinner.

  Even Theo was happier because of the pig. The excitement of its arrival carried him through the first day, and although after that the horrible shame of the pink, girlish vest hidden under his clothes still haunted him sle
eping and waking, especially when he caught Noah Bugg’s rolling, gooseberry eye in the classroom, he managed to live with it. No one, he told himself, was likely to fall upon him and tear his clothes off, and even if he was sometimes tormented because of his size, he was used to that, and it was a comfort to run home and pick up the pig and whisper in his floppy ear, ‘Peppermint pig, peppermint pig, I’m a peppermint boy, so there’s two of us, runts in this family.’

  Mother called the pig Johnnie, saying (rather oddly, the children thought) that he reminded her of her grandfather, and it wasn’t long before he answered to his name, grunting and running whenever they called him. At night, he slept in the copper hole on a straw bed; during the day he trotted busily round behind Mother or sat on the hearth rug staring thoughtfully into the fire.

  Lily said, ‘You can’t keep a pig indoors, Mother!’

  ‘Oh, we had all sorts of animals in the house when I was young,’ Mother said. ‘Jackdaws, hedgehogs, newly hatched chicks. I remember times you couldn’t get near our fire.’

  ‘But not pigs,’ Lily said.

  ‘I can’t see why not. You’d keep a dog and a pig has more brains than a dog, let me tell you. If you mean pigs are dirty, that’s just a matter of giving a pig a bad name to my mind. Why, our Johnnie was housetrained in a matter of days and with a good deal less trouble than you gave me, my girl!’

  Poll giggled and Lily went pink.

  Mother said, ‘Give a pig a chance to keep clean and he’ll take it, which is more than you can say of some humans. You tell me now, does Johnnie smell?’

  If he did, it was only a mixture of bran and sweet milk, which was all he ate to begin with, although as he grew older, Mother boiled up small potatoes and added scraps from the table. She said there was no waste in a house with a pig and when the summer came they would go round the hedgerows and collect dandelions and sow thistle so he would have plenty of fresh food and grow strong and healthy ‘What he eats is important,’ she said. ‘Pigs are a poor person’s investment.’