Tabitha's House

By Perilla Hall

Marian has known and loved it since she was a small child. Living higher up the steep lane that leads down into the bay, she and her sister often called on Tabitha on their way up from the beach.
After she finishes school she goes to London to study for a science degree and then to a job in western America where she stays many years, getting back to her beloved Cornwall whenever she can. The story describes the people she knows, her relationship with them, some joyful and rewarding, some painful and frustrating.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Perilla Hall
• Release date: Jun 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311439772

Book preview

Chapter 1

Pauline and Marian’s earliest memories were of going to the beach with their father. He paddled with them in the foam-edged wavelets that slid over the smooth sand, lifting them up when an occasional larger wave threatened to swamp them. He buried their bare legs in warm dry sand and laughed with feigned surprise when they wriggled their toes, exposing feet he said he’d feared they had lost forever. He dangled them in rock pools and, when they were older, taught them to swim in a large natural pool, left by the ebbing tide. He built dams between mussel-covered rocks and diverted the stream to fill the excavation. He took them into dim damp caves, showing them how the sea had shaped and smoothed their rounded ceilings.

Sometimes their mother came too, but she didn’t share the others’ endless delight, and often went back to the house alone.

When Pauline was nine and Marian six, their father told them they were old enough to go on the beach without him, so long as they promised to keep to a few rules. They were never to go without each other, never to wander off on their own and never to go in the sea, even paddling, without a grown-up. You can both swim now, but that’s when it gets dangerous. Swimmers are the ones that get drowned because they think they’re strong enough to be safe. If you got drowned I should be very sad, of course, but I should also be very much ashamed of you for being so stupid. Do you understand?

They promised they would do as he said, gratified by his trust and thrilled at their new independence.

They spent most of their free time on the beach. Pauline insisted on making a dam and diverting the stream every time they went down. Marian had enjoyed it when their father had been there with his big spade, but she found it tiring and less fun without him. I don’t see why we have to do it every time.

You’re lazy. I won’t tell you a story if you don’t do your share.

Marian dug. She was no match for Pauline’s strong will, and she adored her stories – often gruesome and frightening, but always interesting. Sometimes she told them as they walked across the beach, and Marian had to walk fast to keep up with her so that she wouldn’t miss a word. Sometimes they sat on a rock and Marian could watch her. Pauline’s grey eyes grew large and rapt as she developed her tale, as though she were remembering things she had seen long ago: smugglers, wreckers, sea-monsters, cave-dwellers, terrifying battles, devastating rock-falls. Marian never interrupted, but she pondered the stories for days. Often she asked later about things she hadn’t understood.

Why didn’t he ever have any luck?

Who?

The monster.

What monster?

The luckless monster. You told me about him the other day.

Pauline laughed. Loch Ness, silly, not luckless. You’ll never learn anything if you don’t listen properly.

Marian occasionally became exasperated by Pauline’s superior tone. You proberly didn’t say it clearly.

I always say things clearly. I’ve got a prize for elocution. And it’s probably, not proberly. Pauline always had the last word.

Pauline had long fair hair, which was usually braided, but when she brushed it before going to bed, it fell in a shining wavy curtain over her shoulders. Marian’s hair was brown and cut short.

My rough-haired terrier, her father sometimes said, stroking her head affectionately.

She remembered he had once said: Pretty Pauli, Merry Mari.

Marian had not been pleased. I’d rather be pretty than merry.

Would you? It’s a nice point. I think you can both be both.

Pauli could be merry. I’ll never be pretty.

Why do you say that? I think you’re pretty.

That doesn’t count. You’re my father. You have to think that.

And anyway, it was only a joke. Polly Parrot. Pretty Polly.

I don’t like jokes.

Oh, come on, my darling; loosen up. I love you.

That doesn’t count either. You’re my father.

Well, I do, whatever you think about it.

It’s not fair.

What’s not fair?

Pauline being older than me.

Life isn’t fair You’ve got to learn that. But in the long run ...

She had put her hand over his mouth to stop him talking. I hate the long run. Pauline always wins. Her legs are longer than mine. She’ll always be three years older than me.

You’ll be as big as her when you grow up.

I want it now.

Another time Pauline said: I think I might be a changeling.

"What’s a changeling?’

They swap babies over and they grow up with different parents.

Do you think I might be a changeling too?

Might be, I suppose.

And Mum and Dad wouldn’t be our real parents?

That’s right. We might not even be sisters.

I need you to be my sister.

That’s got nothing to do with it

Who do you think your real father and mother might be?

They could be anyone. Maybe a king and queen.

Then you’d be a princess?

That’s right

"Who do you think my real father and mother are?’

I don’t know. Maybe wreckers.

"What’s wreckers?’

"I told you the other day.

Tell me again.

No. You got so frightened you cried. You’re such a cry-baby.

I promise not to cry if you tell me again.

One day Marian said: Shall I ever know as much as you?

I shouldn’t think so.

Why not?

Because I’m three years older.

It’s not fair.

When I die you might, if you live another three years.

I don’t want you to die.

That won’t make any difference. Everybody dies.

I don’t want to die.

Well, you will, whether you like it or not. Now don’t start crying again.

I’m not crying. The wind’s making my eyes water. But it’s sad, isn’t it?

It would be a lot worse if people didn’t die.

This was interesting and Marian’s eyes became less damp. Why?

The world would be so full there wouldn’t be room to sit down. They’d be tight together, like that time on the London underground.

And they might fall off?

Fall off what?

The edge of the world.

Silly. I told you the world’s round like a ball.

I forgot.

You’ll never know as much as me if you keep forgetting things - even after I die.

I don’t want you to die.

You said that before.

I know. I didn’t forget. I said it again because I thought it again.

Well, don’t think it again again if it makes you cry.

I can’t help it. Marian turned away. I want to go home.

We can’t go home yet. We haven’t made the dam.

They often called on Tabitha on their way home. Her garden ran down to the path that led up from the beach. There was a little gate in the tamarisk hedge at the bottom. A maze of paths and steps zigzagged up the steep slope to the terrace outside the house. Pauline and Marian loved the overgrown confusion of shrubs and periwinkle and honeysuckle full of butterflies and birds, and the small stone seats in sunny corners.

I call it the Secret Garden, Pauline said to Tabitha one day.

That’s nice, said Tabitha. William would have been pleased. When we started to make it, it was just a tangle of gorse and brambles -- terribly exposed. We wondered if we would ever win, but now the hedges have grown so tall there’s shelter and privacy. It’s badly overgrown, I’m afraid. I can’t get round to prune it any more.

It’s lovely. I don’t like gardens too tidy.

The pattern of their lives changed when Pauline started secondary school. She left the house after an early breakfast and had homework to do in the evenings. At weekends she usually stayed in her room until lunchtime, playing endless tapes. The house was full of the beat of loud music, but her door was kept firmly shut. She lost interest in the beach, saying it was boring and she was too old for such things.

Dad still likes it, said Marian.

Go with him then.

But their father was often away from home. Marian did go with her friends a few times, but they were so unenterprising that it wasn’t much fun. Pauline seemed to have lost interest in her too. No more pedagogic lectures, no upbraidings. Marian felt bereft and rudderless. She was very lonely.

Chapter 2

Things improved for Marian when she, too, started secondary school. She loved the variety of subjects and teachers and class-mates. Her aptitude for maths and science was soon recognised, and this boosted her self-confidence.

Pauline often went with her best friend, Janet, at the end of the school day, sometimes staying overnight. Marian begged to do the same, but her mother would not allow it.

Certainly not. you're far too young.

Lots of my friends do it.

Well, I’m not having it. It’s ridiculous. You’ve got a beautiful home – everything you could ask for. Your father spoils you in my opinion, giving you that expensive music system! Why couldn’t you share Pauline’s

It’s hers. She likes to play it by herself. "

Pauline’s impossible. The house sounds like a rock concert when you’re both at it. I can’t hear myself think.

You’d have a nice bit of peace and quiet if you’d let me stay with Claudia on nights Pauline’s away.

I’ve said no. Don’t argue. I’m lonely enough as it is with your father away so much. I’m not having you start going off.

But I’m not much company for you. I’m only a child.

Then do as you’re told.

Marian asked her father. Couldn’t I? It’s so lonely here, Dad. Pauline’s allowed to.

He shook his head. I’m afraid not, Mari, if your mother’s said no.

It’s not fair.

I know. We’ve often talked about that. He rumpled her hair, but she ducked away from his caress.

It’s horrible here when you’re away.

"What way horrible?’

Mum and Pauline shout at each other a lot. I don’t think they like each other at all. And I don’t think they like me much either.

Oh my darling, that’s not true. Mum loves both of you.

Not in the way that counts.

And Pauline certainly loves you. Think of the hours and hours you used to spend on the beach together.

She’s not interested any more.

She’s growing up. It’s not an easy time. You’ll be friends again later.

The long run again? I hate it, Dad.

Poor Mari. I know.

They both did well at school. Pauline shone at creative writing and drama. She had a poem printed in the school magazine, and in her last year she played Rosalind in ‘As You Like It.’

Marian watched the final rehearsal with the rest of her year. All the staff and pupils were tremendously enthusiastic about the whole production and Pauline’s performance in particular. Since Marian’s school work had become so stimulating, her self-esteem was more secure and, so far from feeling jealous, she glowed with pride for Pauline’s success.

Pauline went home with Janet afterwards. At supper that evening Marian told her parents about the performance.

Pauline’s terrific. I’m really proud of her.

Good, her father said. I’m looking forward to seeing it.

When they all got home after the first night, he was enthusiastic.

I was very much impressed, Pauline. The whole thing was excellent and I have to say you were outstanding. I wasn’t the only one who thought so either. Lots of people came up afterwards and congratulated us. We’re very proud of you, aren’t we, Delia?

I suppose so. I just hope you’ll be a bit more amiable at home now, Pauline. Don’t let it go to your head. It’s only a school production, you know.

Pauline flashed her a look of pure hatred and said nothing.

You wouldn’t know, Peter, Delia said, turning to their father. You’re away such a lot. You’ve no idea how impossible she can be when you’re not here. You think she’s so marvellous, but you don’t see what I see. I have them day in and day out. She’s rude and inconsiderate and lazy.

Accustomed though she was to her mother’s ways, Marian was shocked to hear her criticising Pauline on this very special evening.

Pauline stood up. I’m going to bed. I don’t need to listen to this. She kissed her father and went out of the room.

I’m going to bed too, Marian said. I’m tired.

I think we’re all tired. It’s been an exciting evening. Goodnight, my darling.

To Marian’s surprise, Pauline came into her room as she was undressing. She stood by the window, looking out at the night.

I hate her. I seriously hate her. And I think she hates me.

Marian got into bed and watched the tense slender figure, one hand twisting a lock of hair. It was the first time Pauline had spoken to her as an equal.

I’m going to get out of this hell-hole just as quick as I can, and the sooner you get out too the better,

I can’t. I’ve got all my exams to do.

Pauline’s were behind her and she was hoping for a place at Oxford.

I know. She turned away from the window. Remember how you used to say it wasn’t fair me being three years older? I can see what you mean. She came and sat on the bed. Poor Mari. You’ll just have to stick it out and then you’ll get free too. It may be easier when I’ve gone. Mum can’t stand the sight of me.

I’m dreading you going.

God knows I haven’t been much use to you for a long time.

But you’ve been here. I don’t know how I’ll manage when you’ve gone.

You’ll manage somehow. Goodnight. Pauline kissed her.

Goodnight. You were terrific, you know.

Thanks.

Their father was to be away for a few days and left the house next day before breakfast. Pauline announced that she intended to stay with Janet for the rest of the week.

"When did you arrange that?’ her mother said angrily.

I haven’t arranged it, but they never mind me stopping over. I would have stayed there last night, but I wanted to know what Dad thought of the play.

I suppose it doesn’t matter what I thought?

When Marian got home from school she asked her mother if she could go to the last performance the following evening.

Why do you want to do that?

Because it was so good. Pauline was so good.

I’m sick of hearing about it. Your father went on and on last night. No, I’m not going again. Once is enough for me.

I think I'll go and ask Tabitha.

What’s it got to do with Tabitha?

She loves Pauline. I’m sure she’d really like to go.

Tabitha hasn’t got a car and I can’t take you. I'm playing bridge.

Well, I’ll go and see her anyway and tell her all about it.

Tabitha was enthusiastic at the prospect of seeing Pauline’s Rosalind. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. How lovely of you to think of me!

The only thing is Mum can’t take us. She’s playing bridge.

No problem. I’ll see if Jo-Jo’s free.

Who’s Jo-Jo?

Joanna Jones. She drives a taxi. I’ll phone her right now.

When her mother heard the plan, she said: Tabitha always tells me she doesn’t go out in the evening. I hope you didn’t pester her.

The last night was even better than the first. The cast came down after the final curtain and mingled with the audience. When Pauline saw Tabitha she hugged her. I didn’t know you were coming.

Neither did I until yesterday. It was Marian’s idea.

Did you enjoy it?

Very, very much. Marian said you were good, but I couldn’t have guessed how good. Well done, Pauline! We’re both proud to know you.

Other people were crowding round.

We mustn’t keep you, my dear. Everyone’s wanting to congratulate you. Come and see me when you’ve got time and we can talk about it.

Wasn’t she good! Marian said, going back in the taxi.

Remarkable! I wonder where she’ll go from here. There’ll be plenty of opportunities at university. I’m glad for her she’s moving on, but I know you’ll miss her.

I shall miss her terribly.

There was a pause. Marian fiddled with her programme.

How’s school?

Marian smiled. Good mostly. Maths and science are getting really interesting. My science teacher, is great.

I’m glad about that. It’s such a toss up. I know you’re depressed at the thought of Pauline going away, but I hope you’ll stick it out and then you’ll be off to university yourself.

I shall. It seems a long way off, but I’ll make it

Good girl. They were nearing the village. I’d love to take you back to my house and we could go on talking, but your mother will be expecting you. I’d better put you down.

Will you be all right? Wouldn’t you like me to see you in?

No. I’ll be all right. Jo-Jo will see me in. Thank you for a lovely evening. Come and see me soon.

Marian found her mother in a good mood. Her bridge had gone well. She didn’t enquire about the performance.

Chapter 3

Pauline got her place at Oxford and Marian’s life at home was in some ways more peaceful, as Pauline had predicted it might be. Marian had wondered if her mother’s animosity would be turned onto her, but this didn’t happen. Rather she used Marian as an ear for her frequent complaints about her lonely and frustrated life. Repetition reduced the impact of this recital and Marian learnt to respond almost automatically. Her attention was fully taken up with school. She was sad, when she thought about it, that her mother was unhappy and her father so often away.

Two evenings a week her mother played bridge. On these occasions she not only allowed but positively encouraged Marian to stay overnight with Claudia.

When Pauline came home from Oxford at the end of her first term, her relationship with her mother was as bad as ever. After the first stormy week she announced she was going to spend Christmas with Janet’s family.

You can’t do that.

I can. They’ve invited me.

Whatever will they think of your father and me?

I’ve no idea. I don’t think they’re much interested.

It’s Christmas. Your place is here. You’re utterly selfish.

You’ll have a much better Christmas without me.

But what will people think?

I don’t care. And I shan’t be coming back after Christmas, or ever, so you’d better get used to the idea.

You can’t go to Janet’s house after every term.

I might make other arrangements. I’ll talk to Dad.

You think you can twist him round your little finger, but he won’t agree to this.

It was not a happy Christmas. Marian spent much of it in her room to escape her mother’s alternating diatribes against Pauline and weeping fits of self-pity. Her father looked haggard. Marian went to Claudia’s house as often as she could and was relieved when term started.

A week later Peter drove Pauline back to Oxford. The evening after he got home he knocked on Marian’s door after supper. She was working at her desk and he apologised for interrupting.

That’s all right. Sit down.

He sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. She took a small bowl from her shelf of knick-knacks and handed it to him.

Thanks. Your mother would be furious – smoking in the house, and a bedroom at that.

It’s all right. I don’t mind.

He sighed. "I hoped things would improve when Pauline got to university but I’m afraid