Bilgewater Read Online Free PDF Page A

I, Marigold Green, a figure properly set in a picture, an equation on a page, a note in a bit of music, non-transposable, irreplaceable. Ugly, quaint and square lay I, happy and at home where I belonged. Sleepily and happily I watched the boy with the flute—it was nice ordinary Boakes—walk mazily through the lettuces, beneath me across the lawn.
    â€œ BILGEWATER .”
    I jumped so my chin cracked down on the window ledge. I swivelled my eyes, grabbed my glasses and stuck them on to my face.
    â€œ FILTHY BILGEWATER .”
    I turned my face and saw the boy Terrapin hanging out of a window. He was twelve then, a new boy, but he had made himself felt from the moment he had arrived last September. Even though he was quite close—the dormitory sticking out at right-angles from the Private Side and looking down at our garden too—I couldn’t mistake him. He had a voice, prematurely breaking, like a rookery.
    â€œ BILGEWATER! FILTHY BILGEWATER! WATCHING US UNDRESSING! ” Then I noticed that there were other boys behind him inside the open windows, springing about getting ready for bed. Terrapin I saw had no clothes on his top half and his bottom half was hidden by the window. Behind him I could see a leaping figure now and then, very white and dazzling, swinging pairs of pyjama trousers round its head.
    â€œBILGEWATER’S GOT A FILTHY MIND ,” sang Terrapin.
    A hand came out of a window over his head, got down into his hair and jerked him back out of sight and the dormitory monitor looked out—Jack Rose, a year older than me—looked out quickly, rather embarrassedly, saw me, gave me a curt nod and vanished.
    Jack Rose was the nicest boy in the school. There’s always one, says Paula. Silver spoon boys, she calls them—good-looking, good at games, good at work, and charming. Intending to be a doctor. They’re always going to be doctors, Paula says. Once when he had seen me coming along home from school he had tweaked my hair as if it wasn’t vile and said “Hello Marigold,” (not Bilgewater) and I had dropped my satchel with the ecstasy of it all. A great huge heap of homework I’d been carrying had gone shooting over the pavement and he had helped pick it up and walked back home with me. He had pulled a funny face but not derisive at the door of the Private Side and winked. I cared more for Jack Rose’s good opinion than for rubies and the sound of trumpets.
    And now he believed—what did he believe? He believed I was—Whatever did he think? He thought I was a—(I began to blush scarlet)—a Peeping Tom! With the full horror of it I began to sink down on to the floor two feet beneath the sill and to press my face into the linoleum, rolling my cheeks against it, then into the smooth surface of my homework book. Perhaps I am, I thought. Perhaps I am a Peeping Tom. I began to weep. I asked to die.
    I decided that if ever I have a daughter like me which heaven forbid, I shall be available on an occasion like this. I shan’t be taking Private Coaching like father or out playing wild and passionate tennis like Paula. I shall be there.
    â€œDarling—whatever’s the matter? Whyever are you crying?”
    â€œOh, oh, he said I was a Peeping Tom.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous, Marigold. Who said you were a Peeping Tom? What rubbish!” and my sweet mother’s head shoots from the window. Glare, glare of her eyes towards the dormitories. “You boys be quiet and go to bed at once.” Down comes the window.
    â€œMarigold darling, don’t cry. Don’t be silly. Who said—?”
    â€œTerrapin said.”
    â€œTerrapin! You goose, you goose, you beautiful goose! (My what a wallow!) Will you please sit up and blow your nose and tell me whenever anybody listened to Terrapin?”
    â€œNever.” (Gulp. Sob.)
    â€œWell then—”
    â€œHe said—”
    â€œAs if anyone would ever