Radio television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

Pale, but steady, she ate an enormous breakfast, and then asked if she could go over to her grandmother's. She wanted to tell Cliff he needn't bother about the car. Cliff, Hazel thought, will have something to say about that Rodney Dwyer. Cliff, the sophisticated bachelor, was Margaret's idea of a man-about-town. His contempt of Rodney's crass behaviour would certainly be a valuable support for Margaret. But Cliff, apparently, was even more upset than Hazel had expected. He called up and announced, full of righteous wrath, that . they would soon see about people treating any niece of Clifford Barbour's in that fashion. "I, myself," he said, "will take that girl of yours to the dance. She'll have the best time of any of them." "Darling, that's wonderful!" Hazel said happily. "Well, it's the least I can do. Poor kid. And what's more she'll be the prettiest girl there. I'll see to that!" Rescued, thought Hazel elatedly. How wonderful! The dress would be worn after all, and the car — Margaret would have the satisfaction of parading in the Bernadotte before all of them! Granted, going with your uncle was just a cut or two above going with your brother — but on the other band everybody knew how popular Cliff was. If he was willing to forego his own engagements to spend a Saturday night with his niece, didn't it stand to reason — wouldn't the boys reason — that Margaret must have quite a lot to offer? A little later, when Margaret came home, Hazel ran lightly downstairs to greet her, prepared for an overflow of effusion. But Margaret didn't seem excited. Yes, she agreed. Uncle Cliff had said he would take her to the dance. That was fine, she could wear her dress; it wouldn't be wasted. "But aren't you pleased? You'll have a wonderful time with Cliff. Even better — " she stopped herself in the nick of time. "Oh, I know, Uncle Cliff's a super dancer. It's swell." Margaret, seeing that her mother wasn't satisfied, added earnestly, "It really is swell, Mother. Don't think I don't appreciate it. Only — " She frowned, and her eyes took on that vague, puzzled look that always disturbed Hazel. Only this time Margaret wasn't vague, really. She was thinking. "Mother, do you remember Aunt Isobel?" she asked. "Isobel." Hazel thought hard for a moment. Isobel. Dimly she recalled a thin, rather homely woman, tall, spinsterish. . . she couldn't decide whether she really remembered her or whether she had simply seen pictures of her. In any case — "Vaguely," she said. "Why?" Margaret sighed. "She had a blighted romance, too. She never married. Grandfather told me." Oh, dear! Hazel thought. Oh, no — not that! Anything would be better than to have Margaret drooping around the house, dramatizing her plight as a rejected woman, identifying herself with all the unhappy love affairs of all time. . . Spare us, she thought fervently. "She was just a sharp-tongued old maid, that's all," she said rather harshly. "Nothing romantic about Isobel. I don't know what GrandR father told you, but he was probably just u pulling your leg. Why don't you go upstairs and rest a while, since you're going out tonight after all." 98 "All right." Margaret trailed upstairs obediently, but she still looked vague. A short time later she called down from the head of the stairs. "Mother? What about Aunt Claudia — didn't she have another love affair before Uncle Nick, even? And Uncle Cliff had two wives, didn't he?" "What about it?" Hazel called back. What now — what strange tack was this the child was taking? She didn't like it. It would be better if she were carrying on about her disappointment, or swearing vengeance at Rodney and Geraldine, or even refusing to eat and locking herself in her room. . . But not this! There was no further sound from upstairs, and Hazel went back to her lemon pie. But she was still disturbed, and slowly a vague suspicion at the back of her mind became more definite. Knowing Margaret . . . yes, knowing Margaret, it was possible. She could forget about the dance — at least forget about how important it had been yesterday — if she had suddenly developed another enthusiasm to take its place! But could she be as much of a child as that, still? Curiosity drove Hazel The United Way for ALL Red Feather Services upstairs. She had to find out, somehow. . Margaret wasn't resting at all. Con torted over her desk, she was busily scrib bling away, with a fat yellow pile of paper and several newly-sharpened pencils be fore her. She glanced up as the door opened, and grinned. "Mother, it's going to be swell — terrific! I've got to phone Grandfather and thank him." "Thank him for what?" Hazel asked cautiously. She peered over Margaret's shoulder at what looked like a list of names. "What goes on?" "Thank him for the idea, of course." Margaret added a name, underlined it,' and and threw down her pencil. "Oh, I forgot, I didn't tell you. Listen, we got to talking, Uncle Cliff and Grandfather and I — Grandmother was out in the garden, so she couldn't interrupt the way she does, though of course I always like to talk to her—" Hazel was conscious of a too familiar sensation. Margaret's on her horse again! Full speed ahead, all the details jumbled together so that you had to pick and poke to get the story — "Tell me simply," she said in desperation. "What did you talk about?" "I'm going to write a book, that's what! The Barbour Book, maybe I'll call it — or we'll think of something else. But anyway it got started with Aunt Isobel, and how she was blighted — I mean her love life, and that started because of me and Rodney, of course, though it's not important considering what a cheap character Rodney turned out to be — and then I got thinking about all the other romances that have happened in this family, with Uncle Cliff and Aunt Claudia and Uncle Paul, even, though I don't know how I'm going to get him to talk, but we'll see. . . And I can have pictures to illustrate it and everything. Isn't it stupendous?" Margaret finished on a squeal of excitement. "Grandfather says he'll tell me lots of stuff about San Francisco in the old days, and Mother — Uncle Cliff even said one of his school friends was a publisher and maybe he'd look at it when it was finished. I've started already, see?" She waved her list under Hazel's nose. It was, indeed, quite long already. Hazel felt the grip of apprehension. If Margaret went around sticking her nose into all the old family love stories . . . Then all her apprehension faded as she met Margaret's clear, bright, absorbed blue eyes. And the child had such color — why, it was like last week when she'd first heard about the dance, only better, much better! Bending, she kissed Margaret's forehead. "I think it's a tremendous idea. Remind me tomorrow and I'll give you some pictures myself. But darling, look — it's getting rather late. Don't you want me to set your hair before you shower?" "I guess so," Margaret said. "Just a sec." She licked her pencil and made a note, and then got up. "I couldn't work on it tonight anyway. Besides, I guess even real authors go out on Saturday night. They say no matter how devoted you are to your art you have to take some time off or you get sort of stale or something." Hazel got the yellow dress from the closet and shook it out, hanging it on the giraffe-shaped clothestree that had been in Margaret's room from the time she was an infant. Margaret came up beside her, looking at the dress from half-closed eyes. "Beauty, huh?" she said. "I guess I won't disgrace Uncle Cliff. Gee — wait till I tell him, Mother." "Tell him — you mean that you won't disgrace him?" "Oh, Mother!" Margaret gave a guffaw. "Tell him about the book! Wait till I tell him I've made an outline!" Well, thought Hazel, I guess I'll have something to tell him too. That I was definitely right, about Margaret's not being ready yet to become a real adolescent. I'm glad I didn't get myself all worked up about that Geraldine. She knew what she was doing, yes, but as long as Margaret didn't, quite. . . what harm? Some girls mature so much later than others. With sudden fierce emotion, she offered up a little prayer of gratitude that she was to be allowed after all to have Margaret as a child for just a little longer. It might be only months. . . but it was something. Margaret, looking for a hairnet, said thoughtfully, "On the other hand, maybe I shouldn't talk to Uncle Paul. He might be too — too reserved, don't you think? Mother — would you do it for me?" "We'll see," Hazel said. "We'll see, dear." She must, she thought, remember to tell Dan, when she went downstairs, that Margaret was off to the races again. !