Hello and welcome back to Drift Off.
I'm your host Joanne and I'm so glad you're here.
Tonight's story is The Aunt and Amabelle by Edith Nesbitt.
A quiet,
Curious tale of a little girl sent to her room,
Who finds,
Tucked inside an old book,
A doorway to somewhere she never expected.
So take a moment now to let your shoulders soften into the bed beneath you.
Let the weight of the blanket hold you exactly where you are.
Feel the day beginning to loosen its grip.
Thought by thought.
Until there's only this.
The quiet of the room.
The steadiness of your breath.
The soft dark behind your eyes.
Just the sound of my voice.
And permission to let go.
Away a leaf falls,
Slowly,
Slowly,
Drifting down until it finally comes to rest.
And whenever you're ready,
Let's begin.
It's not pleasant to be a fish out of water.
Or a cat caught in the rain.
Not pleasant to be in a temper,
Or to feel the joys of life slip away in a stiff,
Uncomfortable suit.
But of all the uncomfortable things to be,
The most uncomfortable is to be in disgrace,
What some people rather amusingly call being sent to Coventry.
We've all been there.
It is a place where the heart sinks and aches,
Where familiar faces are clouded and changed.
Any small remark you timidly offer is met with stony silence,
Or with the assurance that nobody wants to talk to such a naughty child.
If you are only in disgrace and not in solitary confinement,
You will creep about a house that looks like the one you've had such jolly times in.
And yet feels as unlike it as a bad dream is to a June morning.
You will want to speak to people.
And be afraid to speak.
You will wonder where there is anything you can do to change things at all.
You have said you're sorry,
And that has changed nothing.
You will wonder whether you are to stay forever in this desolate place,
Shut out from all hope and love and fun and happiness.
And though it has happened before,
And has always in the end come to an end,
You can never be quite sure that this time it isn't going to last forever.
It is going to last forever,
Said Annabelle,
Who was eight.
What shall I do?
Oh,
Whatever shall I do?
What she had done ought to have been the subject of her thoughts.
And what she had done seemed to her at the time,
And still seemed,
Even now.
A noble and self-sacrificing act.
She was staying with an aunt.
Measles or a new baby or painters in the house.
I forget which was the cause of her banishment.
And the ant.
Who was really a great aunt and quite old enough to know better.
Had been grumbling about her head gardener to a lady who had come to call,
Wearing blue spectacles and a beaded bonnet trimmed with violet flowers.
He hardly lets me have a plant for the table,
" said the aunt.
And that border in front of the breakfast room window is just bare earth.
And I expressly ordered chrysanthemums to be planted there.
He thinks of nothing but his greenhouse.
The lady in the blue spectacles and beaded bonnet gave a snort.
And said she didn't know what we were coming to.
She would have just half a cup,
Please.
Not quite so much milk.
Thank you very much.
What would you have done?
Minded your own business?
Most likely,
And never gotten into trouble at all.
Not Annabelle.
She was enthusiastically anxious to do something that would show the Great Aunt what a thoughtful,
Unselfish little girl she really was.
The aunt's opinion of her being at present quite otherwise.
So,
She got up very early one morning.
Took the cutting-out scissors from the workroom table drawer,
And slipped away on an errand of mercy,
She told herself,
To the greenhouse.
Where she snipped off every single flower she could find.
McFarlane was at his breakfast.
Then,
With the points of the cutting out scissors,
He She made neat little holes in the flower bed,
Where the chrysanthemums ought to have been,
And stuck the flowers in.
Chrysanthemums,
Geraniums,
Primulas,
Orchids and Carnations all together.
It would be a lovely surprise for Auntie.
Then the ant came down to breakfast and saw the lovely surprise.
Amabelle's world turned upside down and inside out suddenly and surprisingly.
And there she was in Coventry.
And not even the housemaid would speak to her.
Her great-uncle,
Whom she passed in the hall on her way to her own room,
Did murmur as he smoothed his hat.
Santa Carpentry A Never mind,
It'll soon be over.
And went off to the city,
Banging the front door behind him.
He meant well,
But he did not understand.
Amabelle understood.
Or she thought she did.
And knew in her miserable heart that this time being sent to Coventry felt different.
That this time she would stay there forever.
I don't care,
" she said,
Quite untruly.
I'll never try to be kind to anyone again.
And that wasn't true either.
She was to spend the whole day alone in the best bedroom.
The one with the four post bed and the red curtains,
And the large wardrobe with the looking glass in it.
One you could see yourself in right down to the very ends of your strapped shoes.
The first thing Amabelle did was look at herself in the glass.
She was still sniffing and sobbing,
Her eyes swimming with tears.
One rolled down her nose as she looked.
That was very interesting.
Another rolled down.
And that was the last.
Because as soon as you get interested in watching your tears,
They stop.
Next,
She looked out of the window and saw the decorated flower bed,
Just as she had left it,
Bright and beautiful.
Well,
It does look nice,
You said.
I don't care what they say.
Then she looked round the room for something to read.
There was nothing.
The old-fashioned best bedrooms never did have anything.
Only on the large dressing table,
To the left of the oval swing glass,
Was one book covered in red velvet.
On it,
Twisted very fancifully in yellow silk thread,
Mixed up with leaves and squiggles that made it hard to read,
Were the letters ABC.
Perhaps it's a picture alphabet,
" said Amabel,
And was quite pleased.
Though of course she was much too old to care for alphabets.
But when one is very unhappy and very dull.
Anything is better than nothing.
She opened the box.
It's only a timetable,
She said.
I suppose it's for people when they want to go away.
And he must keep it here in case they suddenly make up their minds to go and feel they can't wait another minute.
I feel like that.
Only it's no good,
And I expect other people do too.
She had learned how to use a dictionary.
And this seemed to work the same way.
She looked up the names of all the places she knew.
Brighton,
Where she had once spent a month.
Rugby where her brother was at school.
And home,
Which was Amberley.
She saw the times when the trains left for these places and wished she could go by them.
Once more,
She looked around the best bedroom,
Her prison.
And thought of the best deal.
She wish she had a toad to tame,
Like the poor Viscount.
Or a flower to watch growing,
Like piccola.
She felt very sorry for herself.
And very angry with her aunt.
And very grieved at the conduct of her parents.
She had expected better things from them.
For now,
They had left her in this dreadful place,
Where no one loved her and no one understood her.
There seemed to be no place for toads or flowers in the best room.
It was carpeted all over,
Even in its least noticeable corners.
It had everything a best room ought to have,
And everything was dark,
Shining mahogany.
The toilet table had a set of red and gold glass things,
A tray,
Candlesticks,
A ring stand,
Several little lidded pots,
And two bottles with stoppers.
When the stoppers were taken out,
They smelled very strange.
Something like very old scent.
Something like cold cream also very old and something like going to the dentist.
I do not know whether the scent of those bottles had anything to do with what happened.
It certainly was a very extraordinary scent,
Quite different from any perfume I smell nowadays.
But I remember that when I was a little girl,
I smelled it quite often.
There are no best rooms now,
Such as there used to be.
The best rooms now are happy with chintz and mirrors.
There are always flowers and books and little tables to put your teacup on.
And sofas and armchairs.
And they smell of varnish and new furniture.
When Amabelle had sniffed at both bottles and looked in all the pots,
Which were quite clean and empty,
Except for a pearl button and two pins in one of them,
She took up the ABC again to look for Whitby where her godmother lived.
And it was then that she saw the extraordinary name,
Where You Wanna Go.
This was odd.
But the name of the station it started from was still more extraordinary.
For it was not Euston,
Or Cannon Street,
Or Marlebone,
The name of the station was Big Wardrobe in Spare Room.
And below this name,
Really quite unusual for a station,
Annabelle read in small letters.
Single fares strictly forbidden.
Return tickets?
No class.
Not a penny.
Trains leave.
Big wardrobe in spare room all the time.
And under that,
In still smaller letters.
You had better go now.
What would you have done?
Rubbed your eyes and thought you were dreaming?
Well,
If you had,
Nothing more would have happened.
Nothing ever does when you behave like that.
Annabelle was wiser.
She went straight to the big wardrobe and turned its glass handle.
I expect it's only shelves and people's best hats,
" she said.
But she only said it.
People often say what they don't mean,
So that if it turns out differently than expected,
They can say,
I told you so.
But this is most dishonest to oneself.
And being dishonest to oneself is almost worse than being dishonest to other people.
Amabelle would never have done it if she had been herself.
But she was out of herself with anger and unhappiness.
Of course it wasn't Hatz.
It was,
Most amazingly,
A crystal cave.
Very oddly shaped like a railway station.
It seemed to be lighted by stars,
Which is,
Of course,
Unusual in a booking office.
Over the station clock was a full moon.
The clock had no figures,
Only the word NOW in shining letters all around it,
Twelve times over,
And the NOWs touched,
So the clock was bound to be always right.
How different from the clock you go to school by.
A porter in white satin hurried forward to take Amabelle's luggage.
Her luggage was the ABC,
Which she still held in her hand.
Lots of time,
Miss,
" he said,
Grinning in a most friendly way.
I'm glad you're going.
You will enjoy yourself.
What a nice little girl you are.
This was cheering.
Amabelle smiled.
At the pigeonhole where tickets come out.
Another person,
Also in white satin,
Was ready with a mother-of-pearl ticket,
Round like a card counter.
Here you are,
Miss,
He said,
With the kindest smile.
Price nothing.
And refreshments free all the way.
It's a pleasure,
He added,
To issue a ticket to a nice little lady like you.
The train was entirely of crystal,
Too,
And the cushions were of white satin.
There were little buttons,
Such as you have for electric bells,
And on them,
What you want to eat.
What you want to drink.
What you want to read in silver letters.
Annabelle pressed all the buttons at once.
And instantly felt obliged to blink.
When the blink was over,
She saw on the cushion by her side a silver tray with vanilla ice,
Boiled chicken in white sauce,
Almonds,
Peppermint creams,
And mashed potatoes,
And a long glass of lemonade.
Beside the tray was a book.
It was Miss Ewing's bad-tempered family,
Bound in white vellum.
There is nothing more luxurious than eating while you read.
Unless it be reading while you eat.
Amabelle did both.
They are not the same thing as you will see if you think the matter over.
Just as the last thrill of the last spoonful of ice died away,
And the last full stop of the bad-tempered family met Amabelle's eye,
The train stopped.
Hundreds of railway officials in white velvet shouted,
Where you want to go to,
Get out.
A velvety porter,
Who is somehow like a silkworm and somehow like a wedding handkerchief sachet,
Opened the door.
Now,
He said.
Come on out,
Miss Amabelle.
Unless you want to go to where you don't want to go to.
She hurried out onto an ivory platform.
Not on the ivory,
If you please,
" said the porter.
The White Axe Minster Carpet.
It's laid down expressly for you.
Annabelle walked along it and saw ahead of her a crowd,
All in white.
What's all that?
" she asked the friendly porter.
It's the mayor,
Dear Miss Amabel,
" he said,
With your address.
My address is the old cottage,
Amberleigh,
" she said.
At least it used to be.
And found yourself face to face with the mayor.
He was very like Uncle George,
But he bowed low to her,
Which was not Uncle George's habit.
He said.
Welcome,
Dear little Amabelle.
Please accept this admiring address from the Mayor and Burgesses and Apprentices,
And all the rest of it,
Of where you want to go to.
The address was in silver letters,
On white silk,
And it said,
Welcome,
Dear Amabelle.
We know you meant to please your aunt.
It was very clever of you to think of putting the greenhouse flowers in the bare flower bed.
You can be expected to know that you ought to ask leave before you touch other people's things.
Oh,
But,
" said Amabel,
Quite confused.
I did.
I did.
But the band struck up and drowned her words.
The instruments of the band were all of silver.
And the bandsman's clothes of white leather.
The tune they played was Chiro.
Then Amabelle found that she was taking part in a procession,
Hand in hand with the mayor.
The band playing like mad all the time.
The mayor was dressed entirely in cloth of silver,
And as they went along he kept saying close to her ear,
You have our sympathy,
Till she felt quite giddy.
There was a flower shell.
All the flowers were white.
There was a concert.
All the tunes were old ones.
There was a play called Put Yourself in Her Place.
And there was a banquet with Amabelle in the place of honor.
They drank her health in white wine way.
Then,
Through the crystal hall of a thousand gleaming pillars,
Where thousands of guests,
All in white,
Were met to do honour to Amabelle,
They shouted,
I cannot explain to you what had been going on in Annabelle's mind.
Perhaps you know.
Whatever it was,
It began like a very tiny butterfly in a box that could not keep quiet,
But fluttered and fluttered and fluttered.
Then the mayor rose and said,
Dear Amabelle,
You whom we all love and understand,
You who were unjustly punished for trying to give pleasure to an unresponsive aunt.
Poor,
Ill-used,
Ill-treated,
Innocent Amabelle.
Lameless,
Suffering Amabelle.
We await your words.
That fluttering,
Tiresome butterfly thing inside her seemed suddenly to swell to the size and strength of the fluttering albatross.
Amabelle got up from her seat of honour on the throne of ivory and silver and pearl,
Choking a little,
And extremely red about the ears,
She said.
Ladies and gentlemen,
I don't want to make a speech.
I just want to say thank you.
And to say.
To say.
She stopped.
And all the white crowd cheered.
To say she went on as the cheers died down.
That I wasn't blameless and innocent and all those nice things.
I ought to have thought.
And they were auntie's flowers.
But I did want to please her.
It's all so mixed.
Oh,
I wish Auntie was here.
And instantly Auntie was there,
Very tall and quite nice looking,
In a white velvet dress and ermine cloak.
Speech,
Cried the crowd.
Speech from Auntie.
And he stood on the step of the throne beside Amabel instead.
I think perhaps I was hasty,
And I think Amabelle meant to please me.
But all the flowers that were meant for the winter,
Well,
I was annoyed.
I'm sorry.
Oh,
Auntie,
So am I,
So am I,
Cried Amabelle.
The two began to hug each other on the ivory step.
While the crowd cheered like mad.
And the band struck up that well-known air,
If you only understood.
Oh,
Auntie,
Said Amabelle among hugs.
This is such a lovely place.
Come and see everything!
We can,
Can't we?
" she asked the mayor.
The place is yours,
He said.
And now you can see many things that you couldn't see before.
We are the people who understand.
And now you are one of us.
And your aunt is another.
I must not tell you all that they saw,
Because these things are secrets,
Known only to the people who understand.
" Perhaps you do not yet belong to that happy nation.
And if you do,
You will know without my telling you.
When it grew late,
And the stars were drawn down,
Somehow to hang among the trees,
Amabelle fell asleep in her aunt's arms,
Beside a white foaming fountain on a marble terrace,
Where white peacocks came to drink.
She awoke on the big bed in the spare room,
But her aunt's arms were still around her.
Amabelle,
She was saying.
Amabelle.
Oh,
Auntie,
" said Amabelle sleepily.
I am so sorry.
It was stupid of me,
And I did mean to please you.
It was stupid of you,
Said the aunt.
But I'm sure you meant to please me.
Come down to supper.
Amabelle has a confused recollection of her aunt saying she was sorry and adding,
Poor little Amabelle.
If the aunt really did say it,
It was fine of her.
And Annabelle is quite sure that she did.
Sweet dreams my friends.
Sleep well.
