Lily
Lily disappeared at four.
Hickory Dickory Dock.
We were eating tea in the nursery ten minutes before. Lily sat by the empty chair, the one where our sister Rosie used to sit. Nanny scolded John and me for bickering, then left the room to see to the butcher’s boy.
Lily never joined in with quarrels. She seemed to have a light shining through her when she smiled at us. John and I tugged the tablecloth to see the plate of crumpets teeter on the edge. They were on the verge of overbalancing as Nanny swept in with our beakers of milk.
Humpty Dumpty Sat On The Wall.
Like an eagle on the hunt she tensed at the approaching crumpet-avalanche, soft butter already dripping fast, then slow, on the rug. I could hear only the cuckoo in the clock struggling to reach his door to sing out the hour.
I wanted Mother. John did too. I sensed his silent whimper. But Mother was troubled since the last baby came. She chanted nursery rhymes at us, her face twisted, waking us in the middle of the night with the book clutched in her hands.
Hush Little Baby.
Lily was leaning forward. John and I sat back, innocent, hands tucked under the table. Lily jumped in alarm at Nanny swooping over us in her long drab frock. The crumpets and the milk-jug toppled.
Lily paled. Her eyes welled into a more vivid blue. Her mouth crumpled. She let her blonde ringlets tumble over her face. She never told on us. John and me, we got away with it.
Lily was sent to bed. The cuckoo gave up. There were four gargles as she left the room.
The sun slid down and Nanny drew the curtains. John and I ate our tea in silence. The butter I licked from my fingers tasted of shame.
There were people in and out of the house as we finished the fruit cake. Nanny fetched more milk and banged her bucket and mop about. The butcher’s boy went out with a whistle. A telegram was delivered. The milliner called with Mother’s new hat. Peacock blue with an ostrich feather. The street was black with swift rain.
After tea we tucked the chairs in under the table. Mother had painted a shaky yellow flower on the back of Rosie’s chair. I traced the bumpy outline with my finger.
The scream came later, as John and I played chess before bed. Guests were arriving for Father’s bridge evening. The hall was filled with canes and hats. Maids were turning down our beds. I saw Daisy with the limp and Vi with the turned-in eye. I saw Stanshaw the butler clasping his silver tray.
But the scream brought us all to Lily’s room. The lamp swung from the ceiling, the window was open, the rain sprinkling the pink rug. Her china doll’s face was broken, but it was still chatting. It couldn’t tell us anything about Lily, though.
Mother stood among the fragments with her book hanging open.
Lily disappeared at four. We never saw her again. The hall filled with helmets. Mother tried to feed the baby, her pink bridge gown wet with milk and tears. A gypsy selling herbs came to the door and Mother pulled her in for good luck. Someone passed smelling salts.
Salt, Mustard, Vinegar, Pepper.
Everyone helped to fold up the card tables. The cuckoo hung out of his hole, dead as dust.
Nanny left the next morning, with men in a black car shiny with rain. John and I heard it hiss through the puddles.
Mother kept saying we’d get a replacement. We did that after the last Nanny was driven off, the one we had when Rosie was here.
Rock-a-bye baby.
Lily never came home again. Lily left at four.
Joanna Campbell is a fifty-year-old wife and mother of three daughters. She cannot be prised away from her old cottage in the Cotswolds, which includes three cats and two ponies. She has always wanted to play the piano and began to take lessons six years ago. She faces her Grade Five examination next. She always has her head in a book. She was excused outside-playtime at infant school so that she could read instead. She began to write seriously four years ago and has had short stories and poetry published in several magazines and anthologies. She was shortlisted in the Fish, Bristol and Bridport Short Story Prizes in 2010. She is a graduate of German from Exeter University. Before starting a family, she worked in both retail management and financial services. But was hopelessly bad at her jobs. Eventually, she made use of her German by teaching to adult beginners. She loves solitude and doesn’t notice the time when she is writing. Hence her children eat at odd times. Provided she has remembered to do the shopping. Her husband of twenty-six years is a company director and she is meant to be his secretary. He hopes that one day, she will actually do her job. And remember to put the coffee in his cup as well as the hot water. Her blog is http://brightwriter60.blogspot.com/.
