Unfinished Portrait

‘Nannie, what’s that word there—on that poster—the big one?’

‘“Comforting”, dear. “Make yourself a comforting cup of tea.”’

This went on every day. Celia displayed an insatiable curiosity about words. She knew her letters, but her mother had a prejudice against children being taught to read too early.

‘I shan’t begin teaching Celia to read till she is six.’

But theories of education do not always turn out as planned. By the time she was five and a half Celia could read all the story books in the nursery shelves, and practically all the words on the posters. It was true that at times she became confused between words. She would come to Nannie and say, ‘Please, Nannie, is this word “greedy” or “selfish”? I can’t remember.’ Since she read by sight and not by spelling out the words, spelling was to be a difficulty to her all her life.

Celia found reading enchanting. It opened a new world to her, a world of fairies, witches, hobgoblins, trolls. Fairy stories were her passion. Stories of real-life children did not much interest her.

She had few children of her own age to play with. Her home was in a remote spot and motors were as yet few and far between. There was one little girl a year older than herself—Margaret McCrae. Occasionally Margaret would be asked to tea, or Celia would be asked to tea with her. But on these occasions Celia would beg frenziedly not to go.

‘Why, darling, don’t you like Margaret?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then why?’

Celia could only shake her head.

‘She’s shy,’ said Cyril scornfully.

‘It’s absurd not to want to see other children,’ said her father. ‘It’s unnatural.’

‘Perhaps Margaret teases her?’ said her mother.

‘No,’ cried Celia, and burst into tears.

She could not explain. She simply could not explain. And yet the facts were so simple. Margaret had lost all her front teeth. Her words came out very fast in a hissing manner—and Celia could never understand properly what she was saying. The climax had occurred when Margaret had accompanied her for a walk. She had said: ‘I’ll tell you a nice story, Celia,’ and had straight away embarked upon it—hissing and lisping about a ‘Printheth and poithoned thweth.’ Celia listened in an agony. Occasionally Margaret would stop and demand: ‘Ithn’t it a nithe thtory?’ Celia, concealing valiantly the fact that she had not the faintest idea what the story was about, would try to answer intelligently. And inwardly, as was her habit, she would have recourse to prayer.

‘Oh, please, please, God, let me get home soon—don’t let her know I don’t know. Oh, let’s get home soon—please, God.’

In some obscure way she felt that to let Margaret know that her speech was incomprehensible would be the height of cruelty. Margaret must never know.

But the strain was awful. She would reach home white and tearful. Everyone thought that she didn’t like Margaret. And really it was the opposite. It was because she liked Margaret so much that she could not bear Margaret to know.

And nobody understood—nobody at all. It made Celia feel queer and panic stricken and horribly lonely.

On Thursdays there was dancing class. The first time Celia went she was very frightened. The room was full of children—big dazzling children in silken skirts.

In the middle of the room, fitting on a long pair of white gloves, was Miss Mackintosh, who was quite the most awe-inspiring but at the same time fascinating person that Celia had ever seen. Miss Mackintosh was very tall—quite the tallest person in the world, so Celia thought. (In later life it came as a shock to Celia to realize that Miss Mackintosh was only just over medium height. She had achieved her effect by billowing skirts, her terrific uprightness, and sheer personality.)

‘Ah!’ said Miss Mackintosh graciously. ‘So this is Celia. Miss Tenderden?’

Miss Tenderden, an anxious-looking creature who danced exquisitely but had no personality, hurried up like an eager terrier.

Celia was handed over to her and was presently standing in a line of small children manipulating ‘expanders’—a stretch of royal blue elastic with a handle at each end. After ‘expanders’ came the mysteries of the polka, and after that the small children sat down and watched the glittering beings in the silk skirts doing a fancy dance with tambourines.

After that, Lancers was announced. A small boy with dark mischievous eyes hurried up to Celia.

‘I say—will you be my partner?’

‘I can’t,’ said Celia regretfully. ‘I don’t know how.’

‘Oh, what a shame.’

But presently Miss Tenderden swooped down upon her.

‘Don’t know how? No, of course not, dear, but you’re going to learn. Now, here is a partner for you.’

Celia was paired with a sandy-haired boy with freckles. Opposite them was the dark-eyed boy and his partner. He said reproachfully to Celia as they met in the middle:

‘I say, you wouldn’t dance with me. I think it’s a shame.’

A pang she was to know well in after years swept through Celia. How explain? How say, ‘But I want to dance with you. I’d much rather dance with you. This is all a mistake.’

It was her first experience of that tragedy of girlhood—the Wrong Partner!

But the exigencies of the Lancers swept them apart. They met once more in the grand chain, but the boy only gave her a look of deep reproach and squeezed her hand.

He never came to dancing class again, and Celia never learnt his name.

When Celia was seven years old Nannie left. Nannie had a sister even older than herself, and that sister was now broken down in health, and Nannie had to go and look after her.

Celia was inconsolable and wept bitterly. When Nannie departed, Celia wrote to her every day short, wildly written, impossibly spelt letters which caused an infinitude of trouble to compose.

Her mother said gently:

‘You know, darling, you needn’t write every day to Nannie. She won’t really expect it. Twice a week will be quite enough.’

But Celia shook her head determinedly.

‘Nannie might think I’d forgotten her. I shan’t forget—ever.’

Her mother said to her father:

‘The child’s very tenacious in her affections. It’s a pity.’

Her father said, with a laugh:

‘A contrast from Master Cyril.’

Cyril never wrote to his parents from school unless he was made to do so, or unless he wanted something. But his charm of manner was so great that all small misdemeanours were forgiven him.

Celia’s obstinate fidelity to the memory of Nannie worried her mother.

‘It isn’t natural,’ she said. ‘At her age she ought to forget more easily.’