Part 34

“... And when Tim Brenahan was on his way home that evening, wasn’t it round by the wall he went, and didn’t he see two great cats sitting on the top of it with their tails hanging over? And didn’t one cat say to the other, as plain as can be, and didn’t he hear it, just as you do be hearing me:

“Says one, ‘And what’s the news this evening?’ And says the other, ‘No news at all,’ says he. ‘Only that the widdie Moloney’s old tabby’s gone at last,’ says he, ‘and it’s the great funeral will be to-night,’ says he.

“And when Tim Brenahan came home to his wife, says she to him, ‘And what’s the news this evening, Tim, asthore?’

“And says he to her, ‘Faith, no news at all,’ says he, ‘save as I was coming home by the long wall beyont, there was two great fellers of cats sitting on the top of it. And says one to the other, “The widdie Moloney’s tabb’s goney at last,” says he, “and it’s the grand burying on her there’ll be to-night.”’

“And no sooner were the words out of his mouth when his own tom-cat ups with him and shakes himself where he was sittin’ starin’ at the turf, and says he ‘Then it’s time for me to be off,’ says he, ‘or I’ll be late for the funeral.’ And out of the door with him, with his tail all of a bristle....”

I was rather awed by that story, which, to my infant mind, bore the stamp of unmistakable veracity; but nothing that proceeded from the linen room ever really distressed me. Its ruling spirit was too benign and too perfectly in harmony with us.

* * * * *

The terror of those days to me was the fragile-looking, soft-voiced, mincing widow who became our nurse after the death of the fine old martinet by whom we had been ruled before. It was not surprising that our mother should have imagined she was passing us over to a much gentler authority; but as a matter of fact—indolent, ignorant, peevish—the new nursery autocrat was given to enforcing her orders by threats of a ghastly and impossible description.

“I’ll cut your tongue out,” was a favourite menace, which, if defied, would be supplemented by—“Wait, now, till I run and get my scissors.”

Stronger of body, more enlightened in mind, my co-nurseryites treated these remarks with the scorn they deserved. But I cannot describe the agony with which they pressed upon me. It is peculiar to all children that these terrors are never communicated to others. Not even to my brothers and sisters would I breathe one word of my apprehensions. But the misery took shape in horrible dreams and sleepless nights. And when matters became too intolerable, I would creep out of my little bed, and patter across the bare boards into the adjoining room where the housekeeper slept. On no single occasion did she show the smallest severity or even annoyance at being disturbed.

“Mobie,” I would pipe, “I’m afraid!... May I get into your bed?”

“Come in, Alanna,” was the invariable response.

Oh! the comfort of snuggling against her!

Whether she promptly fell asleep again, or whether she watched and talked loving nonsense one felt equally safe, equally blessedly happy. If she slept, it was lightly enough, like all old people; and each time she turned or moved in the bed, the small bed-fellow would hear her murmur:

“The Lord have mercy on me!”

It was not a deliberate prayer, scarcely even a conscious thought, but the natural movement of the soul.

Little wonder that, being what she was, she who had lain down every night, as it were, in the very arms of Providence, should pass to her last sleep as simply and fearlessly.

“Are you frightened, mother?” cried her daughter, bending over her at the very end. She opened her eyes and smiled.

“Frightened? How could I be frightened? Am I not going to my best friend?”

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XXXIV

Looking back now, it seems to me that the whole of my childhood was pursued by one phantom or another. The smell of the woods through the open nursery window on a hot summer’s night turned me sick with an unspeakable apprehension. Believers in reincarnation would attribute this peculiarity to some sylvan tragedy in a previous existence. No doubt there must have been a physical explanation. I have come to the conclusion that most things in life are capable of a double interpretation; which is the same thing as saying that there are two aspects to every question!

* * * * *

Is it usual for children, I wonder, to see such marvellous colours, shapes, and appearances in the dark as both I and a sister did, between the ages of five and eight? Kaleidoscopic colours running one into the other, and an odd, very frequently recurrent vision of a cushion covered with gold pieces which poured down on the bed.

My husband, as a small child, would behold complete scenes in the corner of his nursery, and would pull his nurse on one side impatiently when she impeded his view. And let me here note a curious incident connected with his juvenile imaginings. All his life, as far back as he could remember, he had a recurrent dream of terror—at fairly rare intervals—of an immense wave rising up before him like a mountain and curling over at the top, about to overwhelm the land. He told me of this dream after we were married, adding that though it was so distinct that he could draw it, he knew it for a purely fantastic nightmare; knew that no such tall and steep wave as he beheld in his sleep could exist in nature. A few years ago—we were at Brighton, I remember—he brought up to me from the hotel room an illustrated paper, and, laying it on the table before me, said: “Look—there is my dream!”

I looked. It was an illustration that held the whole page. I saw a huge wall of water, rising sheer black, with a toppling crest of white—an awful, threatening vision! I read underneath: “Photograph of the recent tidal wave in Japan.”

Who can explain the mystery? He had had that dream first as a baby boy in Paris, some forty-five years before. No such sight, no such picture had ever come across his waking consciousness.

A tidal wave in Japan ... so far has my discursive mind led me from garden ghosts!