SARAH

New Zealand Listener, Volume 13, Issue 326, 21 September 1945, Page 24

SARAH

(Written for "The Listener’ by

WANDA

HALL

garden. She had the morning before her, free, not with an adult’s freedom pock-marked with self-inflicted duties of exercise, of rest, of cleaning, tidying, weeding, reading, lea ifig, haunted by the.fear of wasting ti but a child’s day, undated, unnamed, empty of plans and full of possibilities. At the edge of the levelled ground she stopped to look down at the rough grassy slope with its clumps of jonquils, their heads still green-sheathed, at the golden willows and beyond them to the curling river and the gulls flying down it to the sea. It was so still that she could hear theic crying, the starting and stopping of the cars in the township a mile away, the sibilance of the earth drying out after rain. The sun shone right through her hair, warming the scalp beneath till suddenly, impatiently, she flung out her arms, longing to lay them round the tops of the harbour hills and enclose the whole scene, the whole day in their embrace. ) walked slowly into the

It is the compensation of trammelled grown-ups that they can smother inconveniently excessive feelings beneath a multitude of trifles: "What a lovely day! I must clean the windows, paint the kitchen bench, I must, oh I must ring up Mabel and ask how her cold is." For a six-year-old it is more difficult. Sarah had no defences against this first uprising of her senses, no happy psychological vocabulary with which to list, label and subdue; nor did she know of any reason for so doing with no past experience of inadequacy to frighten her. But when she had climbed to the top of the tallest pine-tree, and swaying ‘there had sung her song as loudly as she could: "Oh perfect day, oh blue, blue, blue, oh sea!" when she swung down, her thoughts concentrated on achieving the maximum of speed and agility, not ‘noticing the tiny, resilient branches that scratched and tore as she dropped past ‘them, she still felt unsatisfied. For a little while she lay on the pine-needles till an idea grew in her mind. She would draw a beautiful picture, something lovely enough to frame and keep for ever, that was it; a picture of The ‘Holy Grail. It was not till Sarah had found paper and pastels and settled down to work, that she realised that the magic words were merely words: in her mind and formed no.image; that she could not draw something without first knowing its qualities. She decided to try Excalibur instead, but even that presented the enormous difficulties of the colour of steel and the shine of jewels, so that it was for consolation rather than praise that she took it to show her mother. : "Sarah! I want you to come and get ready for lunch now." "Yes Mummy. Mummy, I sang a song and made a picture,"

"Did you, dear? I see, that is nice, but Sarah, your hair! And your frock is torn, and you're covered with resin! Run along to the bathroom and get clean before Daddy and the visitors come home." Sarah looked at her mother’s gentle, smiling face. She wasn’t very cross, that never happened; but then she was never happy or sad, or very anything, not at all like herself. She went out, not to wash, but to wait at the gate for her father; he would make everything right.

He came at last, walking up the hill with a man and a woman beside him. Sarah forgot all about manners as she ran to meet him, calling Daddy, dear Daddy, flinging herself against him, hold« ing tightly to this protection and posses sion that was her very. own. He dis« engaged himself quietly from her clinging arms, and walked on saying, apologetic and embarrassed to his guests, "What a magnificent display of emotion." Then they were at the front door; Mummy came out to say "How do you do?" And, to Sarah, "Do go and get tidy, you know I told you about that before." Sarah looked at her mother. Sometime, somewhere, she had heard words that expressed a strong feeling, that when used had called up a passionate reply, that had stirred up a storm and left a final calm behind: "You bitch, you bloody bitch!" she shouted, then, seeing only surprise and no answering in the faces around her, she rushed into the house and gave the door a satisfactory slam. Her mother was bewildered. She felt words like "exhibitionist," "over-stimula-tion," "give. them ‘constructive toys," "give them a good smacking," floating through the minds of the audience. In reply to this unspoken and possibly imagined criticism she said: "She’s had a very quiet morning playing by herself till she came in to do some drawing, but as a matter of fact I think it’s her teeth that are upsetting her just now." "Don’t talk to me of teeth," said her visitor, seizing on this enjoyable topic with relief and avidity, back on solid ground after that really intolerable moment, "Now I went to my dentist the other day, and he told me that in this country. ee .