The Dolls’ House (11 page)

Perhaps Marchpane was very powerful or Emily had less sense than Tottie thought; at all events, she showed no sign of changing and things grew worse and worse for the
Plantaganets.

‘I know,’ said Emily one day. ‘Let us pretend they are the servants. They can sleep in the attic and stay in the kitchen. Let them be Marchpane’s servants.’

‘Oh no! Emily oh no!’ said Charlotte, shocked. ‘How can they be? They are themselves. Marchpane is more like their aunt or their stepsister.’

‘She isn’t like a sister,’ said Emily, and that was certainly true. ‘She is a lady. A great lady. I don’t want them in the sitting room with her.’

‘Why shouldn’t they be in the sitting room?’

‘They are so ordinary. So like ordinary people.’

‘Then I like ordinary people.’

‘Yes, but they don’t go with Marchpane.’ Emily had her way, and the Plantaganets were told to keep in the kitchen.

Mr Plantaganet couldn’t understand it. ‘The master of the house to stay in the kitchen, not to go into the sitting room, not to go where he likes in his own house? Father goes where
he likes. I am the father, the master of the house, Tottie?’

‘Of course you are,’ said Tottie firmly.

‘I am not – what she called me, Tottie? I am not the butler, am I?’

‘You shan’t be the butler,’ said Tottie, but Emily put in her hand and took up Mr Plantaganet. ‘You are the butler,’ said Emily. ‘Go and open the
door.’

‘I am a postmaster, the master of the house, postmaster, house master,’ cried poor Mr Plantaganet, struggling.

‘A pretty postmaster!’ said Marchpane. ‘Emily hasn’t opened your post office for days.’

‘Shouldn’t we put up the post office for Mr Plantaganet?’ suggested Charlotte.

‘He can’t have it now,’ said Emily. ‘He is being the butler. And Birdie can be cook.’

‘But – would Birdie make a very good cook?’ asked Charlotte miserably. ‘You know how muddled she gets. Suppose she were muddled between sugar and salt.’

‘Or coffee and curry power, or beans and sultanas.’ Emily laughed, but the Plantaganets did not laugh. ‘Very well, she can be the maid and Tottie can be the cook.’

‘Tottie – can – be – the – cook?’ said Charlotte, reeling.

‘Yes, we can make her a dear little cap and apron.’

‘But Tottie – Tottie, Emily!’

‘I don’t care,’ said Emily in a hard voice. ‘I want a cook for Marchpane and Tottie must be cook. I don’t see anything in it,’ said Emily loudly. ‘We
often make her cook.’ Charlotte was silent. ‘Don’t we?’ said Emily more loudly. ‘She likes cooking.’ Charlotte was silent. ‘I don’t care,’ said
Emily again. ‘She is the cook, so there!’

‘You have to do as you think with dolls,’ she said to Charlotte’s silent face. ‘You have to play with them.’

‘Yes, poor dolls,’ said Charlotte.

‘I’m only playing with them,’ said Emily defiantly.

‘Yes, poor dolls,’ said Charlotte.

Now the Plantaganets, of the dolls’ house, were only allowed to use the attic and kitchen. Marchpane lay in their big bed, bathed in their bath, sat on their chairs, ate
and drank out of their flowered china, looked out of their windows. She sat by the lamp and saw the shadow of the roses; she had Birdie’s birdcage, and her feather broom. If Birdie’s
hat had fitted on her head, you can be sure Emily would have given it to her.

And Apple? Apple was still Apple in the house. He would not stay in the kitchen, not because, like Birdie, he could not remember, but because he did not want to stay in the kitchen.

‘You are naughty, Apple,’ said Tottie.

‘I want to be naughty,’ said Apple.

He was not afraid of Marchpane. He did not dislike her. He was not afraid of anybody, and he liked everybody as everybody liked him. ‘Sing me a song,’ he said to Marchpane, as he
would have said to Birdie and Tottie.

‘I don’t know any songs,’ said Marchpane, and Apple laughed in high delight because he thought Marchpane was teasing. ‘Go on, sing it,’ said Apple.

But Marchpane really did not know any songs. She had lived for all those years in nurseries and she did not know any songs. This was because her head was so filled up with thoughts of herself
that there was no room for the smallest song to enter; but she was very clever. She knew that the Plantaganets did not like Apple to be with her and so she said, ‘You sing to me.’ This
was clever because most people, however small, like to sing their own songs best, and Apple began to sing to Marchpane. Every day he sang her a song and she pretended to love it. Soon he had a
habit of going in to Marchpane.

‘Apple, don’t do that,’ said Tottie.

‘Will,’ said Apple.

‘Don’t,’ said Tottie.

‘Don’t,’ said Mr Plantaganet.

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t,’ said Birdie.

‘Do,’ said Marchpane, ‘do.’

Apple liked people who said ‘do’ better than people who said ‘don’t’ and he continued to go in to Marchpane.

‘She will get him into mischief,’ said Tottie.

‘I am very uneasy about him,’ said Mr Plantaganet, but they were far too proud to go in after Apple and show Marchpane they cared. Birdie was not too proud. She went straight in and
brought Apple back. That surprised them.

‘There were no two thoughts about it,’ said Birdie, and she looked surprised herself. ‘Sometimes there are not,’ she said. ‘Sometimes there is only one thought and
then I know what to do. Sometimes, but not very often.’

‘And why don’t you let him play with me?’ asked Marchpane.

Birdie could not answer. As soon as Marchpane spoke to her, she became confused, and thought of heaviness and lightness, and yellow hair that was not real and was real, and eyes that were
painted and eyes that opened and shut, and wedding clothes and cracker feathers and the fairy off the Christmas tree. She could not speak to Marchpane, but Tottie answered her.

‘Because we do not choose,’ said Tottie.

‘
You
do not choose?’

‘You let him do dangerous things,’ said Birdie suddenly.

‘Do I?’ asked Marchpane and smiled. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said, ‘if I want.’

‘You had better not,’ said Tottie. ‘He is our little boy.’

‘Is he? Fancy that!’ said Marchpane. She glared at Tottie. ‘Wait and see,’ said Marchpane. ‘Wait and see, you little splinter!’

Suddenly, just after that, Emily said to Charlotte, ‘I know, Apple shall be her little boy.’

‘Whose little boy?’

‘Marchpane’s.’

‘Marchpane’s?’

‘Yes. Marchpane’s.’

‘But he isn’t Marchpane’s little boy. He is a Plantaganet. You can’t change him now.’

‘Why can’t I?’

‘You can’t. I won’t have it,’ said Charlotte.

‘Charlotte, who is the Eldest?’

‘You can’t be the Eldest all the time,’ cried poor Charlotte.

In the dolls’ house there was silence. Marchpane, Birdie, Mr Plantaganet, Tottie, and Darner had all heard. Apple was not listening; he had made a white gumboot out of the little bedroom
jug and was trying it on his foot over his red shoe and now he could not get it off.

Darner was the first to break the silence. ‘Prrick!’ said Darner. ‘Prrick! Prrick! Prrick!’

‘Did you hear?’ asked Mr Plantaganet then, in a long, long whisper. ‘Tottie, did you hear?’

‘Did I hear? Or did you? Did I? Did you? Did I?’ said Birdie, rattling terribly.

Tottie did not answer. She was wishing desperately, her wood as hard as if were full of knots and grains. ‘Oh, Emily! Emily! Emily! Emily! I wish. I wish. I wish,’ wished Tottie.
‘Oh, Emily. Emily!’

But Marchpane only smiled her heavy china smile.

If it were impossible for Birdie to remember that her room was Marchpane’s, how could she remember that Apple was now Marchpane’s little boy? She forgot all the
time and this, of course, gave Marchpane many opportunities to pounce on her, and Marchpane loved pouncing on Birdie. ‘She is like a cat with a poor little bird,’ said Mr Plantaganet
indignantly. ‘Oh, I hate to see her,’ and he begged Birdie, ‘Birdie, do try and remember. Remember that your room is her room. Remember that Apple is her little boy.’

‘You say that?’ said Birdie.

‘I have to say it,’ said Mr Plantaganet sadly.

‘I shall never say it,’ said Birdie.

Tottie looked at her. ‘Birdie, do you try and not remember?’ she asked.

Birdie did not answer.

‘But she is so cruel to you,’ said Mr Plantaganet.

‘Yes,’ said Birdie, ‘but I don’t mind. I don’t remember it.’

Tottie and Mr Plantaganet looked at her. ‘How strange Birdie is,’ they were both thinking. ‘She looks as if she had grown lighter,’ thought Mr Plantaganet. ‘And how
untidy she is. No wonder Marchpane teases her. She looks as if she had forgotten about her hair and her apron strings, and the feather on her hat and her parasol. She looks as if she might fly
away. And how bright she looks,’ thought Mr Plantaganet, ‘like someone standing near a candle.’

‘Like a doll in a lit shop window,’ thought Tottie. ‘Like a doll on a Christmas tree,’ thought Mr Plantaganet.

‘Birdie, do try and remember,’ urged Tottie. ‘Try and remember not to go in after Apple. We must give him up for the present. Just for the present,’ said Tottie firmly.
‘We shall get him back,’ said Tottie.

Mr Plantaganet was too sad to speak. Darner did not even growl, but turned over in his kennel with a sharp little flop; Birdie said nothing, nor did that bright look on her face alter at
all.

It happened that Mrs Innisfree gave Emily and Charlotte a musical box. It was a small wooden one, painted with kittens and fans, and it was made in Switzerland. When it was wound up, it played
music that was the smallest tinkle, delicate and thin. Emily had put it in the dolls’ house sitting room for Marchpane and Apple to hear, and the sound of it filled the house. ‘Tinkle,
tinkle,’ played the musical box. It drew Birdie form the kitchen.

‘What is it? What is it?’ asked Birdie. ‘Oh, how beautiful! How beautiful it is!’ It seemed to her more beautiful than anything she had ever heard or ever imagined.
‘It is like the songs I meant my bird to sing, only I didn’t know them then. How could I know? I am only a cracker doll, but I know now,’ said Birdie. ‘I know
now.’

It drew her from the kitchen across the hall to the closed sitting-room door.

Birdie had tried to remember what Tottie and Mr Plantaganet had asked. For two whole days she had not followed Apple, not gone into her bedroom, not gone near Marchpane. Now, as she stood at the
sitting-room door, the tinkling of the musical box delighted her so much that it tinkled in her head and she could no longer remember what anyone had said.

She had no idea of going in, nor of anything else but the music, when suddenly she heard a sound that upset the running of the tinkling and spoilt it.

‘Oh, hush!’ said Birdie. ‘Don’t, don’t.’

She tried to listen to the music again, but again came that ugly sound.

‘No!’ said Birdie. ‘Hush. Hush.’

But it came again. Again. Suddenly Birdie, as if she had woken up, knew clearly what it was. It was Darner barking. ‘Prrick,’ came the sound. ‘Prrick! Prrick!
Prrick!’

Clearly, in that instant, Birdie had one thought, and only one. ‘That was Darner,’ thought Birdie clearly, ‘Darner barking. Some-thing is happening to Apple. Apple. Apple is in
danger,’ thought Birdie, and she opened the sitting-room door.

‘Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle.’ The sound of the music met her so much more full and clear near the musical box that the sound of it knocked against the sound of
Darner’s barking in her head and confused her. She did not know she had come in; she could not see what was happening to Apple.

For Apple was standing on one of the tapestry chairs, which was dragged up near the table, and he was leaning over the lamp with his darning-wool wig near the candle flame; there was a strong
smell of singeing, and it was just going to send the whole of Apple up in flames.

Marchpane was sitting on the couch, watching him and smiling her china smile.

‘Tinkle. Tinkle,’ went the musical box.

‘Prrick!’ barked Darner. ‘Prrick! Prrick! Prrick! Prrrrrickkkckckckck!’ he barked frantically.