DEATH OF TOTTIE WILSON

Evening Star, Issue 21718, 12 May 1934, Page 2

DEATH OF TOTTIE WILSON

[Written by Panache, for the ‘ Evening Star.’]

When Emily was asked by another girl in the country school to write something in her autograph album she turned red right round her neck. Fluttering the pink and bine pages, she had already seen the only two autographs she knew—a rhymed request for a piece of wedding cake, and an exhortation to think of absent friends when the golden sun is sinking in the west. She giggled and looked round helplessly till a friendly voice prompted: “1 know a good one,” and Emily wrote from dictation: “God ’gave ns our relations, but thank God wo can choose our friends.” Not that Emily had ever had either the enterprise or the effrontery to choose a friend. She “ went with ” any girl that asked her, and the friendship lasted till the other girl found that Emily’s extraordinary good nature did not quite make up for her slowness; nor her generosity for her tendency to resent any attempt to penetrate her reserve. On the otherTiand, Emily had definite ideas about relations. They came in hordes, especially at weekends, because it was the country and her mother was hospitable. Emily scraped potatoes and shelled peas for them cheerfully and stolidly, because that was much easier than sitting with them in the front and saying “ Yes ” and “ No ” to the volatile, well-meant chatter. Once or twice there had been no avoiding a return visit to town, but sometimes when Emily was asked she had a cold, and once it snowed, and another time her coat was far too shabby; and her sister was always willing to go instead. They were kind in town, but they talked a lot, and wore always going out, and gave one tactful presents of new clothes. When Emily’s mother died, and she was left to keep house for Tom, her brother, the cousins still came, and brought their children. Emily liked the children while they were [babies, but not when they became inquiring and argumentative. Tom had moved with the times, but Emily preferred walking the three miles to “putting him out ”to drive her. She didn’t mind the wireless, she told Tom defensively when ho told her she. was a stick-in-the-mud. He urged her so often to go and see Bell in town that, for the sake of peace, and because she was obliging, she cut a cabbage and a buncli of chrysanthemums and set off for the station, choosing a day when Tom had a meeting in the opposite direction.

Flushed and wispy, she turned into Belle’s street. At the gate was fielle’s youngest boy, admiring a motor car. ft was too late to turn back, for the child had announced her shrilly. Through the open door came strange voices. Belle, gushing sincerely over the chrysanthemums, tried to pull her visitor over the doorstep, when Emily, with a sudden sense of .her own power, realised they could not make her go in if she didn’t want to. She liked Belle all right, but not strangers. She wouldn’t stay to lunch, because . . . because . . . she was going to see

an old friend. She just brought the flowers and the vegetables on the way. Quickly she added to Bello’s raised eyebrow that it was Tottie Wilson, who lived up the hill, near tho football ground. No, Belle must have all the chrysanthemums; Tottie grew them herself. And the cabbage? Tottio didn’t like cabbage either. Her father had died of diabetes.

Emily enjoyed herself that afternoon. Tottio was not a great one for talking either. Emily enjoyed sitting on a seat watching schoolboys playing football; and it was nice, when one was hungry, to buy chocolate from a slot instead of having to ask smart young girls and fresh young men.

That evening Emily was so happy that Tom said she must go to Belle’s often, and soon she was going every Thursday, when Tom had his meeting in the township on the other side. Belle always seemed to have visitors, and understood how shy Emily was. liven if she hadn’t visitors she acknowledged the prior claims of friendship. Tottie Wilson expected Emily every second Thursday, but Belle still had to accept everything Emily brought from the farm in her bag. “ But she must like fresh brown eggs,” Belle objected when the dozen was thrust on her. But Tottie did not care for them; her brother, an auctioneer, had taken so many raw it had put Tottie quite off them.

Emily’s friendship with Tottie lasted for three years. Then one Thursday Tom was to have dinner at Belle’s ieforo he went to the boxing. Emily must come, too, just themselves; they would listen to the wireless, and positively no visitors would come in. Still, Emily felt depressed. Though she could go to Tottic’s for the afternoon, anything like a party was a thought on her. Handing over her monthly hunch of Howcrs, she walked sadly to the gate on the edge of the sodden lawn, as Belle’s son, on a rasping new scooter, was monopolising tho path. That distressed her further, for she was one who liked shiny black heels. “ Tottie Wilson can have a ride on my scooter if she likes,” the boy called out. Climbing the hill Emily sat down on the usual seat by asphalt path at the edge of the muddied football ground. It was quiet and lonely and the air had the autumn tang she liked, hut she could not shake off her heaviness. She forgot time, and the warmth had faded from tho short afternoon when she heard a voice: ” Hullo! 1’ re been round you three times on ,ny scooter. She's a silent hill climber, my red scooter. I’ll break another record going down.” Emily walked sedately down tho hill far behind the scooter, safe from the risks it was taking, wondering what she would say when tho boy told them at table how she had spent her afternoon. ft did not enter her head that he was not interested, that his one thought was his new toy. So when she heard him begin “ My hill-climb-ing scooter,” she said doggedly, fear-

ing questions-: “ Tottie Wilson’s dead.” Thou, fearing sympathy, she added: “ She doesn't want flowers. She was buried this afternoon.” It was not till the next day that she realised she could just as easily have said Uiafc To tiki Wilson had been out.