The Garden Party | Page 6

content shone in her eyes.
"You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother," said Stanley. "I've
only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone
given my shoes to the servant girl?"
"Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled.

"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!" cried Beryl
despairingly.
"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She
had only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was
eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no
one had said a word up till now.
"Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?" How
unfair grown-ups are!
"But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't you, Lottie?"
"I don't," said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put
on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food."
Stanley pushed back his chair and got up.
"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you've finished,
I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your
mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been put. Wait a
minute--have you children been playing with my stick?"
"No, father!"
"But I put it here." Stanley began to bluster. "I remember distinctly
putting it in this corner. Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose.
Look sharp! The stick's got to be found."
Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. "You haven't
been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?"
Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. "Most
extraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself. They've
made away with my stick, now!"
"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness on these occasions could
not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him?

"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried from the gate.
Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to say good-bye!" he cried.
And he meant that as a punishment to her.
He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down
the garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning
over the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if
nothing had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took
it for granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't
even take the trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn't lost. Kelly
trailed his whip across the horses.
"Good-bye, Stanley," called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy
enough to say good-bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes
with her hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too,
for the sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and
run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him!
Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called "He's
gone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old
Mrs. Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee.
"Gone?"
"Gone!"
Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house.
Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; they
sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went
over to the table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot." She
wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they
liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day
was theirs.
"No, thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that
moment she tossed the boy up and said "a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!" to him
meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock like

chickens let out of a coop.
Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen,
caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly
reckless fashion.
"Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and
held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too
was a man and drowning was too good for them.
Chapter 1.
IV.
"Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for me!"
There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it so
fearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When she stood on the
first step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then you
had to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And
when she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of