Shade by Neil Jordan Read Free Book Online

seaweed mingled its tendrils with the dead Boinn’s hair. And the satisfaction in Dolly’s smile was of the kind that knew it shouldn’t be there. Which is why it vanished when Nina turned towards her and said, to reprimand her, “Tut, Dolly, tut.”
    She awoke to the scent of pollen, to the sight of her father bending towards her in the late spring sunshine, muttering till she woke, “What larks, pip.-
    “Who is Pip?” she asked for the umpteenth time, and again, of course, he told her.
    “Pip, who loved Estella, lived with Bob and Mrs. Bob and ate his vittles. Time to eat your vittles, Nina.”
    She dressed, in the shafts of low sunlight that streamed through the window. And she padded down the corridor, through the wedges of bright that stood against the dark, down the staircase, against the huge streams of illuminated dust. Was there more sunlight then? So it seems, so it seems. And it seemed to Nina, in the battle between dark and bright, that the bright was for the moment winning. She clutched her mute doll between thumb and forefinger and when she entered the dining room, placed her hessian back against the wheaten-coloured pitcher that held the milk. Her father, already rising from the table, paused to kiss the whorl of hair at the top of her crown before he left.
    There was silence, and the sound of decorous chewing from the other end of the table. Miss Shawcross sat there with Mary Dagge, a plate of Mary Dagge’s eggs in front of her. Egges, thought Nina, and rubbed her sleepy eyes.
    “Keep your hands,” Miss Shawcross said, “to yourself. Keep your hands from yourself.”
    Nina looked to her left, saw Mary Dagge rising, her eyes wide-open in an O of alarm.
    “Like this?” said Nina, placing her wrists, like Miss Shawcross’s, on the deal table, her palms turned downwards. She watched as a plate was placed between them, with afluffyyellow souffle of scrambled eggs. Egges, she thought again and felt a longing for times past.
    “Yes,” said Miss Shawcross.
    “How do I eat then, Miss?” asked Nina.
    “Without moving the elbows,” said Miss Shawcross, “with a knife and fork.”
    Nina scooped egg on to her fork and her wrist moved upwards.
    “You’re spooning,” said Miss Shawcross. “Don’t spoon.”
    “How am I spooning?” asked Nina.
    “It’s a fork, not a spoon. Use it as one.”
    And Miss Shawcross demonstrated. The egg placed on the away curve of the fork with the help of the knife, lifted heaven-wards. Her mouth opened slightly, the fork entered, the mouth closed, chewed, barely.
    Nina did likewise, imitating her perfectly. To her surprise, she enjoyed the act of imitation.
    “And sit straight,” said Miss Shawcross.
    “Straight,” said Nina. And again she imitated.
    Nina found, through those next few sun-filled weeks, that there were lessons for every possible procedure in life, that for every act she had hitherto performed unthinkingly, there was a better, an infinitely superior version. She learnt to sit without crossing her legs, to walk without turning her feet outwards, not to speak without being spoken to, to keep her hands neither to nor from herself, to rise from her chair to a standing position with her back even straighter than Miss Shawcross’s. She learned not to be Nina, indeed, to be quite another person who needed a name, a name quite different from her own. She decided on Emily as a name for this other she was becoming, and though she enjoyed becoming Emily, enjoyed pretending to be her, enjoyed learning Emily’s prim habits, she knew in her heart of hearts that she hated her. Emily learnt her ABCs, learnt her Bible stories, learnt her two times tables, always sitting upright in the small cupboard-like room Miss Shawcross had chosen as their learning emporium, but Nina longed to sit open-legged on Dan Turnbull’s cart, longed to swing on the swing he built her with her dress blowing upwards in the wind, longed to pronounce eggs as egges. And Nina longed most