Ivy Compton-Burnett - A God and His Gifts

“Ring-a-ring-a-roses,

A pocket full of posies,

A-tish-a, a-tish-a,

All fall down.”

Sir Michael Egerton sank to the ground, and assisted his wife to do the same, an example that was followed by their three grandsons, with mirth in inverse proportion to their age.

“Galleon fall down too,” said the third, observing that the butler was at leisure.

“No, Master Reuben, I have other things to do.”

“No,” said Reuben, as if seeing this was not the case.

“You can do them afterwards,” said the second grandson.

“No, Master Merton, I have no time to waste.”

“It seems as if you have,” said the eldest.

“I know what I am doing, Master Salomon. You are not old enough to understand.”

“I am not, if you are really doing something.”

“Galleon fall down too!” said Reuben, more insistently.

Sir Michael made a sign to Galleon, who complied with openly simulated liveliness, resorting to the aid of a chair, as if unconsciously.

“That is not falling,” said Merton.

“Poor Galleon!” said Reuben, looking at him.

“It must be easy to be a butler,” said Salomon. “It would make other things seem hard.”

“Nuts in May!” said Reuben, suddenly.

“Yes, that is an idea,” said Sir Michael. “We must choose our sides.”

“Do we have to fall down?” said Joanna.

“No, my lady. Merely move forward and backward to the jingle,” said Galleon, his choice of word shedding its light.

“Oh, what a good game! I wonder who invented it.”

“I cannot say, my lady. Or to what purpose.”

“There are not enough of us for sides,” said Salomon.

“Yes, I think there are,” said his grandfather. “You and I and Galleon on one, and Grandma and the little ones on the other.”

“Salomon little too,” said Ruben, at once.

“Not as little as you,” said Merton.

“Yes, all the same,” said Reuben, shrilly.

“Yes, all the same,” said Salomon, in a pacific tone.

“Always all the same,” said Reuben, sighing.

Salomon was a short, solid boy of seven, with a large, round head, a full, round face, wide, grey eyes and features resembling Sir Michael’s. Merton, two years younger and nearly the same height, was a dark-eyed, comely boy with a likeness to Ada’s father, whose name he bore. Reuben at three was puny for his age, with a pinched, plain face surprisingly like Emmeline’s, considering the vagueness of feature of both.

“There are Father and Mother,” said Merton.

“And Aunt Zillah, if Father is there,” said Salomon.

“Well, that will swell our numbers,” said Sir Michael. “And I hear your Aunt Emmeline too. It will give us a good game.”

“Why are things called games?” said Salomon.

“I don’t know,” said Joanna. “It is not the right word.”

“What would you call them?” said her husband.

“They are a kind of dance,” said Merton.

“Something handed down,” said his brother.

“Yes, they are old games,” said Sir Michael. “Handed down to us from the past. I don’t know their history.”

“I am glad of that,” said Joanna. “So no one else need know.”

“Play again,” said Reuben.

“Yes, in a minute,” said his grandfather. “The others are on their way.”

“All unknowing, my lady,” said Galleon, with a smile for Joanna. “Or they might be disposed to divert it.”

Hereward and his wife and sister entered, followed by the group from the other house. Alfred looked disturbed, Penelope grave, and Emmeline sober and aloof.

“Grandpa Merton play,” said Reuben, laughing at the idea. “One, two grandpas play. Galleon grandpa too.”

“No, Master Reuben. I have no little grandsons.”

“He means you are old,” said Salomon.

Galleon did not reply.

“No, Hereward, I can’t put it off any longer,” said Ada, in a tone that did not only address her husband. “I have tried to shut my eyes, but the time is past. I can’t go on being blind and deaf and silent. I have eyes and ears, and now you will find I have words as well. You can feel you are finding it late. My father and aunt see the truth. Your father and mother see it. You and my sister know it in your hearts. Emmeline, my sister! To think what has come between us!”

“There need be nothing between you. No change has come to her or me. If there is a change, it is in you.”

“It is true. No change has come. It was there from the first, the feeling between you. The change in me is that I see it. It is strange that I did not before. But I thought of her as a child.”

“Of course the feeling was there. You were anxious that it should be. You put it in my heart. It was a thing we shared.”

“No, something else is the truth. It helped your feeling for me. It went through everything. I see it now. I should have seen it then. You hardly hid it. It could not have been hidden from yourself.”

“Why should I hide it? From myself or anyone else? I cared for you both. I do so now. What is there wrong about it?”

“We need not say,” said Alfred. “But there is something that must be said. We know our world. We know its limits and its laws. We know they must be followed. We do not make our own.”

“You need not think of me,” said Emmeline. “I shall not be with you any longer. I am going away. I shall live at a distance from you all. Father and Aunt Penelope have arranged it. I see myself that I must go. I believe everyone would like me to stay. It is only that someone would like it too much.”

“Oh, there it is!” said Ada, with a sigh. “As it has been, so it will always be. It is no good to talk of it. It must simply be accepted.”

“I fear it must be,” said her father, in the same grave tone. “And dealt with for the threat it carries, for the harm it does.”

“Play game,” said Reuben, as if matters had left their course.

“Yes, let us blow the cobwebs away,” said Sir Michael.

“Cobwebs are light things,” said Salomon, as though the word was not in place.

“And some things are not,” said Ada. “Out of the mouth of babes! What would my sons say, if it was twenty years hence?”

“I know what to say now,” said Salomon. “Father ought to love you, and not Aunt Emmeline.”

“And I do love her,” said Hereward. “And I love Aunt Emmeline too. And I love you and your brothers, and your aunt and your grandparents and others. So many people are dear to me, that I don’t always judge between them.”

“I think you will have to now. Mothers can’t be quite the same. And you did judge in a way.”

“Do you want to join in the game?” said Sir Michael, as if recognising evidence to the contrary.

“I would rather read. The game isn’t a real one. It is only meant to hide something.”

“Oh, we are all younger than he is,” said Hereward. “Come, my three generations. We will leave our elder to himself.”

“I want to hold Salomon’s hand,” said Reuben.

Salomon put down his book and went to his side.

“‘Here we come gathering nuts in May, nuts

in May, nuts in May.

Here we come gathering nuts in May, on a

cold and frosty morning’.”

Sir Michael rendered the words with abandon, and paused for Alfred to take him up on the other side.

“Whom will you have for your nuts in May?”

“We will have Ada for nuts in May—”

“Whom will you send to fetch her away—?”

“We will send Hereward to fetch her away,

on a cold and frosty morning.”

Hereward and Ada came into the centre to engage in the contest. Hereward was the victor and drew his wife to his own side. She fell against him and broke into tears, and her second son observed them and was disposed to add his own.