Chapter 22
Though it wasn’t the norm, I accepted the fact that Cess and Ness were unmarried. It didn’t bother me—if anything, I would have been appalled if either of them had decided to change this status. And yet, the fact remained that people talked. I’d have had to be deaf not to hear the local chatter.
“It’s a dreadful shame,” I heard a man say outside Mass one day. “Good sorts like those two—they’d make someone a damn good wife.”
“Still could,” another one said, “but they’d have to get cracking, those good looks won’t last much longer.”
“Nah,” yet another man said. “Dykes, both of them. Wouldn’t touch a man with a barge pole.”
One day, as I scribbled in my diary while Cess and Ness ate breakfast, I decided to ask them about it.
“Why aren’t you two married?”
Cess looked up from her newspaper. She was wearing a light cotton blouse tucked into her stovepipe trousers. A navy chiffon scarf was tied around her neck and knotted at the side. She was eating a bowl of cereal, and her lips opened enough that I could see the milk pooling in her mouth.
The kitchen was immaculate in the soft morning light.
Mum had had it remodeled a few years ago and she’d agonized over every detail.
The walls were painted a soft pastel green, with polished timber cabinetry, and the fridge was chrome and glass.
Above the stove, a collection of high-end kitchen gadgets sat neatly in place.
The clock on the wall ticked softly, its brass hands glinting.
“I can’t speak for Ness,” Cess said. “But for me, it’s because no man so wonderful exists that it would be worth my while.”
“Certainly not,” Ness agreed, sipping her instant coffee. Ness was wearing a floral tea dress that was cinched at the waist with a wide belt. Her dark, wavy hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, with a few stray curls framing her face.
“How do you know no such man exists?” I asked.
“You’re a smart girl, Mabel.” Cess noticed ink on her fingers from the newspaper and wiped them on a tea towel. “I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.”
“Explain what?”
Cess sighed and sat back in her seat. But I sensed her frustration wasn’t with me. “That marriage is for men. They get a free housekeeper, a whore, someone to provide them with children and to rant to about their troubles of an evening. And women get … what? Room and board?”
“And someone who loves you?” I countered. “Someone who loves you back?”
I’d read a lot of novels, and I had to admit this part quite appealed to me.
“Love is wonderful, and some people do find that kind of love in marriage,” Ness said. “But it isn’t the only place you find love. I’d rather work at the library and pay my own way. But you might feel differently, Mabel, and that’s your choice.”
Cess scoffed. “In fifty years this whole marriage malarkey will have gone the way of slavery, you mark my words. A stain on our history. The world is changing, there is no way women of your generation—intelligent, educated women—will continue to agree to the terms and conditions. Am I right, Mabel?”
I nodded vigorously, and Cess smiled at me proudly. Ness shook her head, chuckling.
A sense of warmth spread across me and through the room. For a fleeting moment, I felt like I was part of something. As though I belonged.
I was sitting in the bay window of my bedroom, writing in my diary, when I saw her. I was certain my eyes were deceiving me. That, or I was still sporting some sort of concussion from my fall. Because when I looked out my window, I saw Daphne Barton circling the little cul-de-sac below on her bike.
I rubbed the windowpane with my fist, then lifted my sash window. It was raining heavily enough that it felt unlikely that anyone would be out on their bike, let alone Daphne. And yet, when I poked my head out the window, there she was.
“Hullo!” she cried out.
She was still circling on her bike, drenched through. Under her wide-brimmed school hat, her hair was plastered to her face.
“Daphne?” I called. “Is that you?”
“Corsets it’s me! Who on earth else would be riding around like a lunatic in this rain?”
She had a point there. She did look comically determined as she rode her bike round and round.
“What are you doing here?” I called.
“What are you doing up there? As if I have to ask. Reading your book, right? Writing in your diary? Staring out the window? Boring. Now come down here and let’s play.”
Come down here and let’s play.
The fact that it was the first time I’d been asked to play was barely dampened by the fact that with my injuries, I wasn’t sure how much playing I could do. Still, I didn’t waste any time hobbling downstairs.
“About time,” she said when I got outside. She screeched to a stop in front of me.
“For what?”
She tapped the handlebars of her bike. “For an adventure! Climb aboard.”
I looked at the bike. It was green, and small enough to belong to a toddler. Admittedly, she was as tiny as I was tall. She reminded me of a jockey or a gymnast. “You’re joking.”
“I may be small, but I be mighty.” She grinned, revealing her small, crooked teeth. “I’ll dink you.”
“You’re crackers if you think I’m getting on that bike. I have a broken arm.”
“It’s in plaster,” Daphne said. “And I’ll be careful.”
“Mabel?” Cess called from the house. “What are you doing outside?”
“Just … talking to a girl from school.”
“In the rain?”
“I’ll be in soon,” I called.
“Righto,” Daphne said. “Hop on. Let’s go for a ride.”
“I’m not getting on that bike.”
“You will.”
“Won’t.”
“Will.”
“Won’t.”
“Will!”
I couldn’t help it, I was laughing. “Fine. I’m getting on. Get ready to crash and burn.”
“Not gonna happen.”
She planted her feet as I sat on the handlebars.
“See,” she said smugly. “No crashing and burning here.”
“Your feet are still on the ground,” I replied. “As are mine.”
“Not for long,” she said, lifting her feet and placing them on the pedals. I heard a groan and the bars tilted.
“Hell’s bells,” Daphne murmured, and then we both landed sideways on the road with an almighty crash.
I felt weak from laughing. More than weak, I felt faint.
The rain had stopped and Daphne and I sat on the porch in fits of giggles.
Miraculously, we’d both emerged largely uninjured from our fall, though I was starting to feel a little sore.
I’d even let her give it two more tries before Daphne was able to accept that perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to carry me on her bike. Of course, any fool could see this.
“All right, all right,” she’d said, hiding her amusement under an irritated expression. “So, I’m not as mighty as I thought. But we’re both fine, aren’t we? You’d get worse injuries from a pillow fight, am I right, Mabel?”
It was impossible not to laugh. I felt positively giddy—not just with the euphoric post-laughter energy, but also with that indescribable sensation of being in on a joke with someone, of being part of something scandalous and fun.
“Why did you come here?” I asked her. “And how did you know where I lived?”
“I started at St. Mary’s a week ago. I have to say, Mabel, I understand why you didn’t reply when I asked if you had lots of friends.”
The good feeling died inside me. Had she discovered what a friendless loner I was and come on a pity visit?
And did that mean that kids at school were talking badly about me?
Doing it in front of the one person who’d made me feel like a friend?
The thought brought me quickly down out of the clouds and back to reality.
“The students there are real buttnuggets. I’ve been counting the days until you return to school.”
I snorted—both with relief as well as at the word “buttnugget.” Daphne laughed out loud. “Did you just snort?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I’m a dreadful laugh-snorter. Always have been.”
Now she squealed. “A laugh-snorter! How perfect! I fart when I laugh.”
I laugh-snorted again. “Really?”
“Sometimes. My brothers call it a ‘lart.’ A laugh-fart.” Daphne was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. Then, with the most impossibly perfect comedic timing, she let squeal an enormous fart.
We became hysterical. Each time it appeared our laughter was close to subsiding, one of us snorted or farted and the whole thing started up again. It was intoxicating. And so we remained, larting and snorting until I thought I would burst open with happiness.