Where the Time Goes | a tender sort of love
You mustn’t fret, Susie.
“But the dark is dreadful, and I should like someone to talk to: the night is too still for me to sleep. ”
“Dear, tis late now. And a good night’s sleep’ll do wonders for your body, so that we can talk in the morning like we always do.”
“But — “
“You mustn’t fret, Susie. I’ve work to attend to, and you ought to save your good spirts for the ride to the boarding-school tomorrow. Fancy that! Susan Moore, in a plaid skirt and straw bonnet for the first time! From what I’ve heard, they teach you everything a modest, honest lady needs. And a fine young lady you make as well — I’m sure of it.”
“But I don’t want to be a lady. The dress is awfully large, and the bonnet makes me itch all over. And Cousin Nelly says that school is ‘nothing but hubbub’. She tells me stories: about pebbles in porridge, or…or the horrible, long windows full of dusty cobwebs which nobody dares clean. And the hours! Oh how boring they seem! I should not go; nay, I will not go.”
“Now now, there’s nothing to pout about. Did that silly Nelly not talk about the spacious gardens? Ay, you heard me: rows and rows of oaks so old that it takes three grown men to encircle, and the flowerbeds that bloom all-year, even in winter. You haven’t forgotten the crocuses which you gathered for me a fortnight ago? I think you should not — Saint Mary’s is full of ’em, littered with beds of the stuff in the springtime. ”
“And the tutors? Are they as old and mean as Nelly says?”
“By heavens, what has Nelly not talked of? Yes, they are old, but old folk can still be just as lively. I remember how my French-tutoress would take us on long walks when the weather was fine. Oh, and I still kept the little perfume bottle she bought for me as a gift, all the way from her hometown in Grasse. You’ll like ’em, Sue, there’s nothing more endearing to a weary scholar than a lively pupil, bright with curiosity and blessed with an open heart to knowledge. But it is late, Sue, I must go. ”
“Wait! I promise this is my last question.”
“Ah, ah well…Go on.”
“Just yesterday I was still running out on the grassy hills and chasing sheep and looking for ptarmigan feathers, but tomorrow I shall sit in a classroom, with the closest thing to life being the obscured view from a dusty window? I want to stay here, where there is a fire every night, and I know where all the rivulets lead to, and where the robins have their concerts. And I cannot bring myself to sleep for that reason: it seems so treacherous to leave behind what has brought me so much joy, only to look for it in some other cold, foreign place. Where did all the time go?”
“Oh Susie, but look down at your hands! Each wrinkle bears witness to all the wondrous times. But it needn’t all be winkles and haze: think of a sunset — the ones you often painted before in your diary. See, when you look at a sunset, you don’t try to tell it ‘now just a bit softer on the left side’ or ‘don’t forget that cloud over there’, do you? Why, it would be plain silly! Instead, you take a deep, deep breath and just watch it creep away, taking the colours one by one. There is no use in thinking about strange distant places, or what to do if it suddenly rained — in that moment you watch with all your heart as the light unfolds — that is where all time goes, dearest, and you ought to take in all it’s unknown spectacles, however strange it may seem at the present; for you might miss it altogether otherwise, and live in twilight forever. ”
Mrs Moore drew away from the window and turned around, expecting some response or other. But instead, her ears were met with the sweetest, softest sounds: the breaths of soothed and hearty slumber. She blew out her candle, and kissed her daughter’s brow in blessing.
Mary Moore had more work to do: letters to read and respond to, places to go and places to plan to go. Her eyes were heavy, and as she walked the weary mother felt all her joints wobble and creak.
Maybe time was a little like a sunset: all the light bursting out and into the world anew for one moment, only to have the shade of night loom thereafter, with nothing but candles left alight. Unexepected, undesired, unchanging.
Yes, she thought as she slowly shut the nursery door behind her: all was part of the strange and bewildering riddle called ‘adulthood’, to which all children are soon to encounter, and accept with steady hands.
