Long Lankin: Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

the arm of the chair beside her aunt.
    —When will papa be here, Tantey?
    The old woman did not answer. She fumbled in the pocket of her black dress.
    —Where are my sweets? she muttered. Now I put them here, I’m sure of it.
    The girl went to the dresser and brought back the grimy bag of peppermints.
    —Ah you’re a good girl, the old woman said.
    She sucked her sweet, nodding and staring blankly at her hands. After a while she looked up at the girl and smiled and gently pulled her hair.
    —Your papa is a fine man, she said.
    —But when is he coming?
    —Maybe after tea, she snapped. Have patience.
    The girl stood up and walked to the window, twisting her fingers. With her mouth set in a sulky line she muttered:
    —I’m fed up waiting. I don’t think he’s coming at all. I think he’s forgot all about me.
    The old woman smacked her hands together.
    —Stop that talk. Forgot you indeed, and how could your own father forget you? You should be ashamed, carrying on like a baby.
    The girl ran back and sat on the floor beside the chair. She licked her finger and rubbed the dried blood from a scratch on her knee. She said:
    —Tell me about him again, Tantey.
    —Well. He’s very tall and straight and — O he carries himself like that.
    She pushed back her shoulders and held up her head at a proud and arrogant tilt. Then suddenly she gave a cackle of laughter and began to rock back and forth in her chair. She leaned down and ruffled the girl’s hair.
    —O he’s like a prince out of a story book, she cried, and her eyes closed up completely she laughed so hard. Like a prince he is.
    —Is he, Tantey? said the girl, smiling uncertainly and watching the old woman’s face. And will he like me when he comes? What will he say to me? Will he take me away?
    The old woman threw up her hands.
    —So many questions. You’ll just have to wait and see. Now go and comb your hair and tidy yourself up a bit in case he comes and finds you looking like a little tinker.
    Sighing, the girl stood up and went into the dim passage that led to the front of the house. The dining-room was full of moist yellow sunlight that fell on the table and against the walls. She knelt on the couch and put her elbows on the window sill. The wind beat on the glass with a dull sound. Outside, the sun threw up a dazzling reflection from the road. For a long time she stayed there, while shadows came across the fields and leaped against the window. Her eyelids began to droop, but suddenly she lifted her head and pressed her face to the glass. Someone was cycling down the road, a vague dark shape moved on the glistening tar. She went out to the hall, and into the garden, where the wind beat fiercely on her face and shook out her long curls. She stopped outside the gate and shaded her eyes with her hand. The traveller, back-pedalling, came across the road in a graceful arc and stopped.
    —Well well, he said. What have we here then?
    He looked at her, his head to one side, and with his lips pursed he stepped down from the bicycle and brushed at the wrinkles in his trousers. He was a very tiny man, smaller even than the girl, with a great square head and thick hands. His hair was oiled and carefully parted, and his eyebrows were as black and shiny as his hair. There were four buttons in his jacket, all fastened. At his neck he wore a gay red silk scarf. He said:
    —My name is Rainbird.
    With her mouth open she stared at him. He watched her and waited for a reply, and when none came he shrugged his shoulders and began to turn away. She said quickly:
    —Is that your last name?
    He looked around at her, and with his eyebrows arched he said:
    —That is my only name.
    —O.
    He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket with his thumbs outside and took a few swaggering turns before the gate.
    —Do you live in there? he asked casually, nodding towards the house.
    —Yes, she said. That’s my house.
    He looked up at the ivy-covered walls, at the windows