The Sour Taste on the Silver Spoon

When she was little, Eustacia had an impressive collection of dolls. She was never quite sure whether people gave them to her because they thought she liked them, or because it was an easy choice of present. If asked, she would have said, “Well, I didn’t dislike them.” And that wasn’t being tactful, though she was, somewhat reluctantly, learning the habits of tact.

     She hadn’t been one of those technical minded tomboys who clamoured for trucks and trainsets instead of dolls, and, more than once, had set up a little school with her dolls. She was indulged in such matters, and also given a little blackboard, and chalk, and her grandmother, to whom she was very close, often played along. But at an early age, Eustacia realised that it was all just a delusion, even if her grandmother didn’t seem to realise. The dolls were all entirely powerless, no matter how finely they might be dressed, no matter how bright blue their eyes or bendable their limbs. They did not hear a thing, and did not learn a thing, and could do nothing about it (though her grandmother certainly could!) nor feel any in or fear if she dismembered them or threw them though the window. 

     Perhaps they were lucky, thought Eustacia. They were utterly powerless, but at least they didn’t know it! I do know it.

     She grew out of her dolls, and grew into books. She could not remember a time when she could not read, and devoured any book that came to hand, though of course she had her favourites. Reading did, of course, meet with approval, though there was sometimes tut-tutting and mutterings of it not being suitable at all. Her grandmother was her ally in this, too, and never took away the comics she craved – had even been known to connive with her in the procurement of them. But the thing was, she grew out of them sooner than her grandmother realised, though, being basically a kind-hearted child, for all people spoke about her “wild ways”, she didn’t tell her. What she could tell nobody, not even her grandmother, was that it could be deeply frustrating – she didn’t want to use the word upsetting – to read of all these wonderful beings who had marvellous powers when she didn’t have any at all. But that didn’t just apply to those who could spin spider webs, or transform themselves into other beings, or fly to outer space under their own steam. It applied just as much to the poverty-stricken orphan, or to the least popular girl in the form, or the child who was locked in the cupboard, or any of the little heroines and heroes of her books. If they had enough courage and resilience, enough wit and determination and, of course, were lucky enough to meet the right people, then they were not powerless. They had choices. They could be the mistresses and masters of their own destiny. 

     It happened in real life, too. She was allowed to read carefully selected articles from the newspapers by now (she had been secretly reading them, uncensored, for years, not that she was always interested in everything) and found a story about a girl who had been born with only one leg and still became a ballet dancer thanks to her own courage and skill and a wonderful doctor who made her – Eustacia always liked to learn a new word – a prosthesis. Now of course, Eustacia hurriedly told herself, she was very lucky to have been born with both her legs. And she wasn’t even a particularly good dancer anyway, for all they did their best to teach her. But that girl had – this was another phrase she liked – defied expectations. And in her case, defying expectations was a very good thing.

     She is allowed to defy expectations, thought Eustacia. And thanks to her own skill and courage, and thanks to the wonderful doctor, she can follow her dream and do what she wants to do, despite how she was born.  She wondered in passing if she would ever meet the remarkable ballet dancer, who was only a couple of years older than she was. She supposed it was not impossible, but realised after only a few seconds that she didn’t particularly want to, anyway. 

     She wasn’t a good dancer, but there were things that Eustacia was very good at. She was good at playing chess, and could already often beat her father, who was a gracious loser and delighted that his daughter was so skilled. So why did he refuse permission for her to enter a tournament, shaking his head and rumpling her hair, and saying, “I’m sorry, Stacey,” (he sometimes called her Stacey, though her mother didn’t approve) “And I’m sure you’d win, but it wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. If you think it out for yourself you’ll realise why.” She adored her father, but hated that phrase of his, “if you think it out for yourself”. It made it sound as if she really had a choice, and could be trusted to take the right one, and that wasn’t the case.

     She had a very good singing voice, and that particular skill delighted her mother, who was a big music lover. She employed a professional tutor for her, and when she was at an age when most children would still only be singing their favourite pop songs (and she loved a great many pop songs, when she was allowed to listen to them) or the kind of condescending songs they had in the National Curriculum (which she followed, more or less, in some ways more, and in some ways, less) she could sing arias by Verdi and Wagner, and from Bach oratorios, but she had a special fondness for the folk songs her grandmother loved, and once she was worried when she brought tears to the old lady’s eyes by her rendition of Blow the Wind Southerly, but her grandmother kissed her and said they were good tears and made her think about her husband, the Grandfather Eustace, whom Eustacia was called after, but had never known, who had been a sailor. 

     He was a sailor, thought Eustacia, sometimes, so perhaps there is hope after all. But somehow she could never quite believe it. Not that she would ever want to be a sailor. She had been on board ship a few times, and hadn’t disgraced herself or her family by being seasick, but found it very unpleasant, which was odd, really, as she was quite a good swimmer. She mentioned this apparent anomaly to her father, who sighed, and rumpled her hair, and said that if she thought about it, she would see that it was not the same thing at all.

     Eustacia’s grandmother passed away when she was fourteen. It was not unexpected. The old lady was ailing, in a gentle, ebbing way, with no particular pain or indignity. “I’ve been blessed with a kind way to go, my darling,” she said, having her way about Eustacia knowing the truth that she had already realised without being told. “I shall miss you all dreadfully, but I’m weary, and want to be with your Grandpa.”

     “Do you believe in heaven, Grandma?” she asked. Though they could speak, generally, about anything and everything, spiritual matters lay deep with her grandmother.

     “I don’t think most of us deserve it, and if it was that place with the children in white all waiting around, like it says in the carol, beautiful as it is, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t want it. But I think we’re more than just a collection of veins and bones. But you have years and decades ahead of you, Eustacia, maybe almost a century, given our family’s longevity, at least on the female side, and the way they’re making new discoveries all the time. Life has dealt you a silver spoon, some would say. I know it’s be no means that simple. But try to make the best of it. I won’t say be grateful for everything and embrace everything. Some things aren’t worth your gratitude or your embrace. But be as happy as you can, and be as kind as you can.” 

     “I’ll try,” she promised, fighting her tears. 

     That was the end of my childhood, thought Eustacia. Of course it wasn’t really, things weren’t that simple. But it seemed that after her Grandmother died, more seemed to be allowed, but more seemed to be expected of her. After only a couple of years, that included young men. In fact, on the surface, her parents seemed to allow her more leeway in such matters than many of her friends’ parents. But she knew that things weren’t that simple. There were young men, even when she was sixteen, who would not do, and even more when she was eighteen.

     It was ridiculous, thought Eustacia. Even Tommy Ritson wasn’t anything like as bad as they liked to make out, as if he were some kind of womanising criminal, and he was just a lad who liked to enjoy himself and look at him now, settled down already with Marta, and I know they’re so happy, and I don’t begrudge it them, not really, but every time I see her, I think that could have been me. That should have been me! 

     She had never had much choice in the matter of her education or future career. She couldn’t help giving a laugh at the idea of both, not exactly a bitter laugh, but one with no mirth in it. She had been allowed to attend university, but not to travel to a university in another town, and had even spent a couple of terms teaching English at a private girls’ school. But she knew full well that even that would not last. That there would be one of those quiet talks, especially as now her father, too, was in failing health. Rebelling against it would have been letting Daddy down or letting us down. 

     She had been awake early that morning. She was normally quite an early riser, and fond of what she called the day before the day, almost like a third time, an interposed time. But when she awoke at four, she knew she would never get back to sleep again. She went out onto her balcony, breathed in the dark air before dawn. It was true what the cliché in the song said about the city never sleeping. But she still couldn’t help half-thinking that nobody was awake but she. One thing is for sure, she knew nobody would be facing the same day, and nobody having to think the same thoughts. In that odd light that seems to be both the last vestige of the moonlight and the first flickering of the sunrise, she could see the buntings that were strung out across the city, see the signs marking the route. A few people were already there, had been camping out the night before, though not as many as there would have been a generation ago. Maybe it will be different for my daughter or son, she thought. Maybe they will not be so utterly powerless as I am. Certainly if I have anything to do with it! 

     At six o’clock there was a knock on her door. “Come in,” she called, knowing it would be Sarah. Sarah who had been confidant to her mother before her.

     “Up so early, Madam,” Sarah said.

     “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t call me Madam!” She was ashamed of her ragged temper as soon as she had spoken the words, but would not, in all honesty, have recalled them.

     “Well, at least not when we’re alone,” Sarah said, sitting down on the bed, her trained, kind eyes automatically running a check over Eustacia’s outfit. “Your big day, Stacey.”

     “My big day,” Eustacia echoed. 

     Sarah only patted her on the shoulder, and, without being asked, set to the task of combing her long, thick, wavy red-brown hair. Eustacia generally bridled against such simple tasks being done for her, as if she were a baby, but Sarah had a special way of brushing hair, taming out the most truculent tangles without snagging and catching, and with a rhythm that was oddly calming. Poor lass, thought Sarah, as she brushed her hair. Poor, poor lass. Thank the Good Lord none of my daughters ever had to be Queen!