Peach (5 page)

“Well, sure they have to approve—I mean they have to
like
them … but I can say
who
 …”

Noel breathed again. Straightening up, he walked to the edge of the excited crowd. Standing on tip-toe he could see Luke’s excited face. “When?” he called. “When, Luke?”

Luke’s eyes met his. “On Saturday,” he called, giving Noel the thumbs-up signal.

Noel walked slowly away from the crowd, down the long brown linoleum-covered corridor, past the dining room with its rows of wooden chairs and undraped tables and the institutional smells of polish and strong disinfectant with lurking undertones of vegetables and brown gravy from many meals past, into the hall where they were forbidden to go. Flinging open the front door, he gazed down at the worn stone steps, at the long gravel driveway and the big metal gates beyond which lay freedom. Noel took great breaths of the cold air, it felt fresh to him, new and clean. Luke would free him.

The Maddox Orphanage had a system with names. In the case of abandoned
children
, surnames were modest, common ones that could be found anywhere in America—Smith, Jones, Brown, Robinson. First names were after the apostles or the saints, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Paul, Peter … or Cecilia, Mary, Joan for the girls. But abandoned
babies were always given the surname “Maddox”, after the orphanage itself. Mrs Grenfell told the Maddox children that they should consider it a privilege to be named after such a wonderful, well-thought of institution. Noel was one of a dozen Maddoxes at the Orphanage, though there were, he knew, hundreds more who had gone before him and were now out in the world. “Wherever you go,” Mrs Grenfell said proudly, “they’ll know you were a Maddox boy.”

“What are the family called?” he asked later that evening as he polished Luke’s shoes, spitting on the leather and brushing briskly.

“Malone.” Luke grinned. “Irish. That’s why they liked me—the red hair and all.”

“Malone.” Noel savoured the name. It felt solid. A real name, passed on from father to son. He brushed again, harder, until he could see his face reflected in the gleaming leather.

“What happens on Saturday?” he asked, putting away his brushes.

“They’re coming at four o’clock. For coffee and cake. We all meet and get to know each other a bit better. Then we go. ’Course, if they don’t like the other person then it’ll be no good, they’ll just have to come back. But I guess they will all right.” He grinned at Noel.

They had been told to wear their Sunday clothes and be on their best behaviour to meet Mr and Mrs Malone and say goodbye to Luke. And then the announcement was to be made as to whom Luke had chosen to go with him. More than to go with him, thought Noel.
To be Luke’s brother
.

The platform at the end of the small assembly hall held a table with a vase of subdued flowers and six wooden chairs arranged in a straight line. Mrs Grenfell mounted the dais,
sweeping her visitors along with her and Matron hastily held chairs for the smiling new parents. Luke, flushed and excited, took a seat next to Mrs Malone. She reached over and patted his hand. She was small and slender and not at all old. Noel thought she looked quite beautiful. And Mr Malone was tall, upright, comfortable in tweeds. Noel could see the tip of a pipe peeking from the top of his jacket pocket. He looked calm and jovial. The way a proper father should.

“We are very lucky,” began Mrs Grenfell in that high-pitched voice she used when she thought she should talk louder, “to have Mr and Mrs Malone come to us to offer a home to two of our children. Of course,” she glanced over the top of her glasses at the assembled rows of clean young faces, chapped hands neatly folded in their laps, “we shall miss them. But they are two of our finest children and I am sure they will work hard to make their new family happy.”

Mr Malone shifted uncomfortably on his hard chair and his eyes met his wife’s behind Mrs Grenfell’s back. Mrs Malone raised her eyebrows slightly and then looked away. Noel waited for what Mrs Grenfell would say next. It wouldn’t matter if they thought he was ugly or anything, he’d prove to them that he was clever and quick, soon he’d grow bigger and Luke would help him with sports so that he wouldn’t let them down … Lost in his dreams he didn’t hear Mrs Grenfell’s next words. He watched Cecilia Brown rise from her seat two rows in front of him and walk to the platform. She mounted the steps and walked towards Luke as applause swelled around the hall. Cecilia Brown was the prettiest girl at Maddox. She was twelve years old and had been at Maddox for eight years, since her parents had been killed in an automobile accident in St Louis. Her aunt, her father’s sister, had refused to take her; having enjoyed a spinster life for forty years she had no mind to take on her
brother’s child. She had never visited, never written. Cecilia Brown deserved a break. Sweet Mrs Malone put her arms around her new daughter and Cecilia smiled tremulously and took hold of Luke’s hand.

Ice crept into Noel’s veins, inching its way around his heart, chilling its way through his brain. “Come on,” hissed his neighbour, “move along. We’re supposed to go outside and wave goodbye.”

Noel walked carefully down the forbidden front steps, standing quietly at the back of the crowd. Mr and Mrs Malone climbed into the bright, shiny red car. Cecilia hugged her friends and with a sweet smile took her place in the seat behind them. Two small new suitcases were hefted into the trunk and it snapped shut with a solid thunk. It was a very beautiful car.

“Noel! Noel.” Luke pushed his way through the crowd of envious well-wishers. He grasped Noel’s hand in his.

“Good luck, kid. I’ll write. When I can. I guess I’m gonna be awful busy from now on.” He turned and strode towards the car, tall, red-haired, confident. “By the way,” he called, “I left something on your bed. A present.” With a final wave he stepped into the car and took his place beside Cecilia. Her smile seemed to light up the landscape like the setting sun as the car took off in a spurt of gravel, to freedom.

Noel lay on the bed, the unwrapped present beside him. Its pink paper napkin was stained with grease from the buttercream that sandwiched together the pastel pieces of angel cake. Cecilia’s smile floated hazily in his memory. And Luke, so strong, so tall, so free—sitting confidently beside her. Noel had no doubt the Malones’ house would have a huge, warm kitchen with milk and cake, there would be soft beds and deep carpets, to go with the shining red car and the beautiful girl on the seat beside Luke. Luke Robinson—no—Luke Malone was a winner! Noel picked up the piece of
cake and crunched it in his hands, feeling it squelch creamily in his fingers. Then, tearless and stern and desperately alone, he walked to the toilet and flushed away Luke’s parting gift.

Five-year-old Peach could remember, when she was
very
small, looking up to Lais’s great height, trying to catch her sister’s impatient glance and sliding her small hand into Lais’s cool one, always wanting to be with her, to go where Lais was. Now that she was older she was allowed to sit on the white carpet in Lais’s room, waiting while her sister prepared for some evening out. She would hold the beautiful earrings for her or slide sparkling rings on to Lais’s white fingers, touching the long lacquered nails wonderingly, her mouth copying Lais’s pout as she applied the lovely shiny red lipstick.

Amelie fell and broke her hip just two days before they were due to sail on the liner for France. Lais was furious at the thought of forfeiting the trip; it was to be her first visit to Paris since she had been brought home by Leonie five years ago—“in disgrace,” Peach had heard whispered, though she didn’t understand why. But it was not Lais’s anger that caused their parents to relent and allow them to go alone, it was Leonie’s disappointment.

“Very well,” Gerard said sternly to Lais while Peach hovered anxiously in the background. “But
you
will be in
charge of your little sister. We are trusting Peach to your care on this trip.”

“Don’t worry, Gerard,” Lais called, dancing her way from the room, “Peach will be just fine. I’ll take good care of her.”

Peach dashed excitedly along to the nursery, flinging aside the stuffed animals, her teddy, the Raggedy Ann doll and the friendly little dog on wheels, desperately trying to find it. At last! There it was—banished to the back of the toy cupboard by Amelie, angry with Lais for buying something so totally unsuitable. It was still in its elegant burgundy box and Peach ran an admiring finger over the raised gold letters, Cartier. Lifting the lid she flung aside the protective layers of tissue-paper. It was a beautiful grown-up dressing case, fashioned from smooth burgundy leather with a tiny little gold lock and key at the front and on top, her initials. “M.I.L. de C.” and then beneath that in gold, “Peach”.

Smiling, she turned the tiny key and peered inside. The deep claret suede felt soft to her small exploring fingers. There were little compartments meant for trinkets and jewels, crystal jars with enamelled lids for potions and powders and the prettiest gold and enamel hairbrush and comb. It was Lais’s christening gift to her and Peach sat back on her heels, with a sigh of satisfaction. The little case was
exactly
what she would need for travelling with Lais.

Papa took them to New York. The pier was abustle with voyagers and well-wishers and friends. A band played merrily and to Peach the waiting liner looked as big as their hotel in Florida.

Papa carried Peach up the gangplank and Peach carried her precious case. Their staterooms were filled with flowers and she ran around excitedly, wondering how this could possibly be a boat when it looked just like a proper room, while Gerard talked quietly with Lais, looking very serious.
And then there was a flurry of kisses and goodbyes and they were waving to Papa on the pier and throwing coloured streamers while the band played far too loudly and quite suddenly she wanted to cry.

“Oh no you don’t,” Lais said firmly, “no crying when you’re with me.” So Peach swallowed hard and licked away the solitary tear that had crept to the corner of her mouth.

The first night at sea Lais dressed her in her prettiest dress—white organdy with a red satin sash and little red slippers—and then she had to sit still so as not to get creased while Lais designed her face for the evening. Lais’s dress was as scarlet as Peach’s sash, a slender column that foamed around her ankles like the wake left by the liner. At dinner they sat at a table with other people and a big man with a lot of gold braid on his smart jacket who smiled at Peach a lot and told her how pretty she looked. Afterwards they went dancing and Peach sat on a big gilt chair clutching Lais’s tiny satin purse to her chest so that it wouldn’t get lost because Lais had told her to look after it. After a while she began to yawn. Her eyelids drooped from the smoke and fatigue. It was so noisy and she couldn’t see Lais anywhere. Fatherly men patted her head admiringly and older ladies frowned at the sight of her.

“Surely the child should be in bed,” they murmured. “Whoever is her mother?”

“She’s not my mother,” Peach replied sleepily, “she’s my sister. Lais.”

“Disgraceful,” they complained, “keeping a child up like that.”

Lais returned and hauled her off to bed angrily. “Stupid busybodies,” she muttered as she dragged Peach along endless corridors, lurching as the boat swung under their feet, “you didn’t want to go to bed, did you?”

“No. Oh no,” replied Peach, trying to keep up with Lais’s long stride. All she wanted was to be with Lais.

Lais unlocked the cabin door and pushed her inside. “Come on then, into bed with you.” She pulled off Peach’s pretty white dress hurriedly.

Peach sat on the edge of her bed sliding off the little red slippers. “What about my teeth?” she asked, thinking of her mother.

“In the morning,” called Lais, already at the door.

“But Lais. Where are you going?” Peach sat up in bed anxiously. She still wore her vest and knickers and her socks. There was no sign of her nightie, or a drink of milk or anything. And where was Teddy?

Lais hesitated then hurried back across the room and hauled the teddy bear from beneath a pile of clothes. “There,” she said. “Now go to sleep.”

Peach relaxed under the covers. “Yes,” she murmured, yawning. “But Lais. Where
are
you going?”

“Dancing,” said Lais, closing the door.

Lais danced her way across the Atlantic Ocean, sleeping during the day. Peach was placed in the nursery with other children and had a lot of fun there with the nannies and the toys and games. But she was lonely and she missed her mother and Lais. Each night she sat and watched Lais prepare for her evening, but now she had early supper with other children and was tucked up in bed before Lais left for dinner. The rhythm of the boat was soothing, a sort of low wallow and roll that lulled her to sleep like a rocking chair, and only occasionally did she wake when Lais came in, sometimes thinking she heard laughter and voices from the next room.

In Paris they went straight to the de Courmont town house on the Ile St Louis. Peach felt a little awed by its
grand rooms and suspicious of those fat babies that Lais called cherubs peeking down at her from the ceilings. She was allowed into the kitchens to have milk and a chunk of bread with chocolate—“pain chocolat”—something Maman would never have permitted had she been there.