Straight On Till Morning (Disney Twisted Tales) - Liz Braswell Page 0,3
prepare tea, and she didn’t want her mother commenting about unattractive red splotches on her cheeks or rings under her eyes.
In the afternoon her brothers came home, and things should have been better.
“John, Michael,” Wendy said with relief as their boyish humors and exuberance filled the otherwise silent house.
“Greetings, Sister,” John said, handing her his hat while pecking her on the cheek with a vaguely sarcastic air. He was bound for a real university someday, perhaps even Oxford, and had already begun effecting the irony and insouciance necessary for a sojourn there. Michael just kicked his boots off willy-nilly and threw his coat on a chair. Of course, other families had maids to deal with such situations, but aside from the Darlings’ general lack of excessive funds, Wendy enjoyed the routine.
At least, she used to.
Tsking mindlessly, she picked up Michael’s jacket and smoothed it out, hanging it up properly.
“Wendy, you’re a damn fool for not continuing your studies within the sphere of public education,” John announced, sounding like someone else.
“It’s heaps of fun, too,” Michael growled, a stormy look on his face. He was a less subtle wielder of sarcasm than his older brother.
“Well, Father said none of the daughters of his clients go—and they are all very respectable girls. And anyway, I have all the time and books I need,” she added, a little hollowly. It had seemed like the right choice to decline when her parents had—somewhat reluctantly—presented her with the option of attending one of the newfangled public schools. Why should she spend time cooped up in a crowded institution and be treated like a child when she could have a tutor and then putter about the house, dreaming and keeping things in order like an adult?
“It’s dumb. I hate it. School and its stupid rules,” Michael shouted. “‘If you don’t eat yer peas, you can’t have yer pudding!’ Stupid lunch matron.”
“Now, Michael, I’m sure they just want you to have a nutritious, healthy supper,” Wendy said, feeling the comfortable role of mother easily slide over her with its dulcet tones and indulgent smiles, banishing any uncertain feelings from the moment before.
“Are there any of those French biscuits left?” Michael asked hopefully. “The ones you made?”
“The ones I and Mother made? Perhaps. I’ll set out some and serve you a nice cup of proper tea while you go upstairs and bathe. And then, if there’s time, I’ll tell you a story before bed.”
“Oh, Wendy and her stories,” John said with a smile and not quite a roll of his eyes. “I have too much reading to do. Like actual reading. Of actual history. Plus, Wendy Darling, I find your tales have a bit of a Freudian bent to them these days. Haven’t you noticed? It’s all fathers and sons and missing mothers.…”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said frostily. And indeed she didn’t. But his tone was nasty enough.
“I want three lumps in my tea! And milk!” Michael called over his shoulder as he stomped out of the room.
“Oh,” Wendy said, suddenly remembering. “Mother is supposed to come home from her dinner with Mrs. Cradgeapple early tonight—if you hurry, you may get to say good night to her before you turn in!”
“Oh. Yes. Mother,” John said thoughtfully. “Haven’t seen her in ages. Tall lady? About so high? Would absolutely love to catch up with the old hen.”
“John!” Wendy put her hands on her hips.
“Tootles, Sister. Off to read some more Swiss psychology. You know those Swiss. All chocolate and timepieces and subtext.” John made an elaborate bow and pretended to tip the hat that was no longer there.
Once he was gone, Nana, curled up comfortably in her early retirement by the fire, gave Wendy the sort of questioning look that only a really intelligent dog could.
“Yes, I see the muddy tracks they left on the floor,” Wendy sighed. “And no, I don’t know what to do about them. Boys! They grow up so fast.”
Now that was an interesting idea.
Never Land was full of children who never grew up—but what about a boy who grew up too fast? Literally. Like…hatching out of an egg as a baby and then attaining the height of a man by the end of the day.
“They watched the egg with expectant faces,” she murmured, trying it out. “‘What’s it gonna be?’ asked Cubby. ‘How should I know?’ Peter laughed. ‘It’ll be something great, though—you can count on that!’”
Yes. That was lovely. She pulled out her little notebook. Now