The Doll's House
Mansfield
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  When dear old Mrs. Hay went back to town after
staying with the Burnells she sent the children a
doll's house. It was so big that the carter and Pat carried it
into the courtyard, and there it stayed, propped up on two
wooden boxes beside the feed-room door. No harm could
come to it; it was summer. And perhaps the smell of paint
would have gone off by the time it had to be taken in. For,
really, the smell of paint coming from the doll's house ("Sweet
of old Mrs. Hay, of course; most sweet and generous!") -- but
the smell of paint was quite enough to make anyone seriously
ill, in Aunt Beryl's opinion. Even before the sacking was taken
off. And when it was...
  There stood the doll's house, a dark, oily, spinach green,
picked out with bright yellow. Its two solid little chimneys,
glued on to the roof, were painted red and white, and the door,
gleaming with yellow varnish, was like a little slab of toffee.
Four windows, real windows, were divided into panes by a broad
streak of green. There was actually a tiny porch, too, painted
yellow, with big lumps of congealed paint hanging along the edge.
  But perfect, perfect little house! Who could possibly mind
the smell. It was part of the joy, part of the newness.
  "Open it quickly, someone!"
  The hook at the side was stuck fast. Pat prised it open with
his penknife, and the whole house front swung back, and --
there you were, gazing at one and the same moment into the
drawing-room and dining-room, the kitchen and two bedrooms.
That is the way for a house to open! Why don't all houses open
like that? How much more exciting than peering through the
slit of a door into a mean little hall with a hat-stand and two


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umbrellas! That is -- isn't it? -- what you long to know about
a house when you put your hand on the knocker. Perhaps it
is the way God opens houses at the dead of night when He is
taking a quiet turn with an angel....
  "Oh-oh!" The Burnell children sounded as though they
were in despair. It was too marvellous; it was too much for
them. They had never seen anything like it in their lives. All
the rooms were papered. There were pictures on the walls,
painted on the paper, with gold frames complete. Red carpet
covered all the floors except the kitchen; red plush chairs in
the drawing-room, green in the dining-room; tables, beds with
real bedclothes, a cradle, a stove, a dresser with tiny plates and
one big jug. But what Kezia liked more than anything, what
she liked frightfully, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of
the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a
white globe. It was filled all ready for lighting, though,
of course, you couldn't light it. But there was something inside
that looked like oil and moved when you shook it.
  The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as
though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two
little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll's
house. They didn't look as though they belonged. But the
lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile at Kezia, to say, "I live
here." The lamp was real.
  The Burnell children could hardly walk to school fast enough
the next morning. They burned to tell everybody, to describe,
to -- well -- to boast about their doll's house before the schoolbell
rang.
  "I'm to tell," said Isabel, "because I'm the eldest. And you
two can join in after. But I'm to tell first."
  There was nothing to answer, Isabel was bossy, but she was
always right, and Lottie and Kezia knew too well the powers
that went with being eldest. They brushed through the thick
buttercups at the road edge and said nothing.


  "And I'm to choose who's to come and see it first. Mother
said I might."
  For it had been arranged that while the doll's house stood in
the courtyard they might ask the girls at school, two at a time,
to come and look. Not to stay to tea, of course, or to come
traipsing through the house. But just to stand quietly in the
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courtyard while Isabel pointed out the beauties, and Lottie and
Kezia looked pleased....
  But hurry as they might, by the time they had reached the
tarred palings of the boys' playground the bell had begun to
jangle. They only just had time to whip off their hats and fall
into line before the roll was called. Never mind. Isabel tried
to make up for it by looking very important and mysterious and
by whispering behind her hand to the girls near her, "Got
something to tell you at playtime."
  Playtime came and Isabel was surrounded. The girls of her
class nearly fought to put their arms round her, to walk away
with her, to beam flatteringly, to be her special friend. She held
quite a court under the huge pine trees at the side of the playground.
Nudging, giggling together, the little girls pressed
up close. And the only two who stayed outside the ring were
the two who were always outside, the little Kelveys. They
knew better than to come anywhere near the Burnells.
  For the fact was, the school the Burnell children went to was
not at all the kind of place their parents would have chosen if
there had been any choice. But there was none. It was the
only school for miles. And the consequence was all the children
of the neighbourhood, the Judge's little girls, the doctor's
daughters, the store-keeper's children, the milkman's, were
forced together. Not to speak of there being an equal
number of rude, rough little boys as well. But the line had to
be drawn somewhere. It was drawn at the Kelveys. Many of
the children, including the Burnells, were not allowed even to
speak to them. They walked past the Kelveys with their heads
in the air, and as they set the fashion in all matters of behaviour,


the Kelveys were shunned by everybody. Even the teacher
had a special voice for them, and a special smile for the other
children when Lil Kelvey came up to her desk with a bunch of
dreadfully common-looking flowers.
  They were the daughters of a spry, hard-working little
washerwoman, who went about from house to house by the
day. This was awful enough. But where was Mr. Kelvey?
Nobody knew for certain. But everybody said he was in prison.
So they were the daughters of a washerwoman and a gaolbird.
Very nice company for other people's children! And they
looked it. Why Mrs. Kelvey made them so conspicuous was
hard to understand. The truth was they were
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dressed in "bits"
given to her by the people for whom she worked. Lil, for
instance, who was a stout, plain child, with big freckles, came
to school in a dress made from a green art-serge tablecloth of
the Burnells', with red plush sleeves from the Logan's curtains.
Her hat, perched on top of her high forehead, was a grown-up
woman's hat, once the property of Miss Lecky, the postmistress.
It was turned up at the back and trimmed with a large scarlet
quill. What a little guy she looked! It was impossible not to
laugh. And her little sister, our Else, wore a long white dress,
rather like a nightgown, and a pair of little boy's boots. But
whatever our Else wore she would have looked strange. She
was a tiny wishbone of a child, with cropped hair and enormous
solemn eyes -- a little white owl. Nobody had ever seen her
smile; she scarcely ever spoke. She went through life holding
on to Lil, with a piece of Lil's skirt screwed up in her hand.
Where Lil went, our Else followed. In the playground, on
the road going to and from school, there was Lil marching in
front with our Else holding on behind. Only when she wanted
anything, or when she was out of breath, our Else gave Lil a
tug, a twitch, and Lil stopped and turned round. The Kelveys
never failed to understand each other.
  Now they hovered at the edge; you couldn't stop them
listening. When the little girls turned round and sneered, Lil,


as usual, gave her silly, shamefaced smile, but our Else only
looked.
  And Isabel's voice, so very proud, went on telling. The
carpet made a great sensation, but so did the beds with real
bedclothes, and the stove with an oven door.
  When she finished Kezia broke in. "You've forgotten the
lamp, Isabel."
  "Oh, yes," said Isabel, "and there's a teeny little lamp, all
made of yellow glass, with a white globe that stands on the
dining-room table. You couldn't tell it from a real one."
  "The lamp's best of all," cried Kezia. She thought Isabel
wasn't making half enough of the little lamp. But nobody paid
any attention. Isabel was choosing the two who were to come
back with them that afternoon and see it. She chose Emmie
Cole and Lena Logan. But when the others knew they were all
to have a chance, they couldn't be nice enough to Isabel. One
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by one they put their arms round Isabel's waist and walked her
off. They had something to whisper to her, a secret. "Isabel's
m_y_ friend."
  Only the little Kelveys moved away forgotten; there was
nothing more for them to hear.
  Days passed, and as more children saw the doll's house, the
fame of it spread. It became the one subject, the rage. The
one question was. "Have you seen Burnells' doll's house? Oh,
ain't it lovely!" "Haven't you seen it? Oh, I say!"
  Even the dinner hour was given up to talking about it. The
little girls sat under the pines eating their thick mutton sandwiches
and big slabs of johnny cake spread with butter. While
always, as near as they could get, sat the Kelveys, our Else
holding on to Lil, listening too, while they chewed their jam
sandwiches out of a newspaper soaked with large red
blobs.
  "Mother," said Kezia, "can't I ask the Kelveys just once?"
  "Certainly not, Kezia."


  "But why not?"
  "Run away, Kezia; you know quite well why not."
  At last everybody had seen it except them. On that day the
subject rather flagged. It was the dinner hour. The children
stood together under the pine trees, and suddenly, as they looked
at the Kelveys eating out of their paper, always by themselves,
always listening, they wanted to be horrid to them. Emmie
Cole started the whisper.
  "Lil Kelvey's going to be a servant when she grows up."
  "O-oh, how awful!" said Isabel Burnell, and she made eyes
at Emmie.
  Emmie swallowed in a very meaning way and nodded to
Isabel as she'd seen her mother do on those occasions.
  "It's true -- it's true -- it's true," she said.
  Then Lena Logan's little eyes snapped. "Shall I ask her?"
she whispered.
  "Bet you don't," said Jessie May.
  "Pooh, I'm not frightened," said Lena. Suddenly she gave
a little squeal and danced in front of the other girls. "Watch!
Watch me! Watch me now!" said Lena. And sliding, gliding,
dragging one foot, giggling behind her hand, Lena went over
to the Kelveys.
.. 

  Lil looked up from her dinner. She wrapped the rest quickly
away. Our Else stopped chewing. What was coming now?
  "Is it true you're going to be a servant when you grow up,
Lil Kelvey?" shrilled Lena.
  Dead silence. But instead of answering, Lil only gave her
silly, shamefaced smile. She didn't seem to mind the question
at all. What a sell for Lena! The girls began to titter.
  Lena couldn't stand that. She put her hands on her hips;
she shot forward. "Yah, yer father's in prison!" she hissed
spitefully.
  This was such a marvellous thing to have said that the little
girls rushed away in a body, deeply, deeply excited, wild with


joy. Someone found a long rope, and they began skipping.
And never did they skip so high, run in and out so fast, or do
such daring things as on that morning.
  In the afternoon Pat called for the Burnell children with the
buggy and they drove home. There were visitors. Isabel and
Lottie, who liked visitors, went upstairs to change their pinafores.
But Kezia thieved out at the back. Nobody was about;
she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard.
Presently, looking along the road, she saw two little dots.
They grew bigger, they were coming towards her. Now she
could see that one was in front and one close behind. Now she
could see that they were the Kelveys. Kezia stopped swinging.
She slipped off the gate as if she was going to run away. Then
she hesitated. The Kelveys came nearer, and beside them
walked their shadows, very long, stretching right across the
road with their heads in the buttercups. Kezia clambered
back on the gate; she had made up her mind; she swung
out.
  "Hullo," she said to the passing Kelveys.
  They were so astounded that they stopped. Lil gave her
silly smile. Our Else stared.
.. 

  "You can come and see our doll's house if you want to,"
said Kezia, and she dragged one toe on the ground. But at that
Lil turned red and shook her head quickly.
  "Why not?" asked Kezia.
  Lil gasped, then she said, "Your ma told our ma you wasn't
to speak to us."
  "Oh, well," said Kezia. She didn't know what to reply.
"It doesn't matter, You can come and see our doll's house all
the same. Come on. Nobody's looking."
  But Lil shook her head still harder.
  "Don't you want to?" asked Kezia.
  Suddenly there was a twitch, a tug at Lil's skirt. She turned
round. Our Else was looking at her with big, imploring eyes;
she was frowning; she wanted to go. For a moment Lil looked


at our Else very doubtfully. But then our Else twitched her
skirt again. She started forward. Kezia led the way. Like two
little stray cats they followed across the courtyard to where the
doll's house stood.
  "There it is," said Kezia.
  There was a pause. Lil breathed loudly, almost snorted;
 our Else was still as stone.
  "I'll open it for you," said Kezia kindly. She undid the hook
and they looked inside.
  "There's the drawing-room and the dining-room, and that's
the -- "
  "Kezia!"
  Oh, what a start they gave!
  "Kezia!"
  It was Aunt Beryl's voice. They turned round. At the
back door stood Aunt Beryl, staring as if she couldn't believe
what she saw.
  "How dare you ask the little Kelveys into the courtyard!"
said her cold, furious voice. "You know as well as I do, you're
not allowed to talk to them. Run away, children, run away at
once. And don't come back again," said Aunt Beryl. And she
stepped into the yard and shooed them out as if they were
chickens.
  "Off you go immediately!" she called, cold and proud.
  They did not need telling twice. Burning with shame,
shrinking together, Lil huddling along like her mother, our Else
dazed, somehow they crossed the big courtyard and squeezed
through the white gate.
  "Wicked, disobedient little girl!" said Aunt Beryl bitterly to
Kezia, and she slammed the doll's house to.
  The afternoon had been awful. A letter had come from
Willie Brent, a terrifying, threatening letter, saying if she did
not meet him that evening in Pulman's Bush, he'd come to the
front door and ask the reason why! But now that she had
frightened those little rats of
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Kelveys and given Kezia a good


scolding, her heart felt lighter. That ghastly pressure was gone.
She went back to the house humming.
  When the Kelveys were well out of sight of Burnells', they
sat down to rest on a big red drainpipe by the side of the road.
Lil's cheeks were still burning; she took off the hat with the
quill and held it on her knee. Dreamily they looked over the
hay paddocks, past the creek, to the group of wattles where
Logan's cows stood waiting to be milked. What were their
thoughts?
  Presently our Else nudged up close to her sister. But now
she had forgotten the cross lady. She put out a finger and
stroked her siser's quill; she smiled her rare smile.
  "I seen the little lamp," she said softly.
  Then both were silent once more.