I for Isobel Read Free

have words to describe—someone safe behind a wall of her own building.
    But not to tell, not to say just once, ‘It’s my birthday today!’ She thought, I shall tell the tree. She saw herself hiding her face between two sharp folds of the tree trunk and whispering, ‘It’s my birthday today,’ and felt a thrilling pain in her tight throat, as if she was reading
The Little Match Girl
in the old book of fairytales at Auntie Ann’s.
    That put her in a reading mood. She went into the lounge, where there were bookshelves full of books for guests, with a special shelf for children’s books. She had read that out long ago; she looked through it but there was nothing new and nothing she wanted to read again, so she began to look through the other shelves. She took out a book called
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
, thinking that adventures could never be dull, read the first sentence,
To Sherlock Holmes she is always
the
woman
, and was disappointed—that didn’t sould like the beginning of an adventure. She turned to the next story,
A Case of Identity
:
    â€˜My dear fellow,’ said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, ‘life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on…’
    Birthdays, injustices, parents all vanished. She sat on the floor reading till the noise of cups and saucers in the kitchen warned her that the grown-ups would be coming in for afternoon tea, then she went to the little room where she and Margaret slept, next to their parents’ bedroom. It was too hot there, but if she went outside to the cool shade of the fig tree, Caroline and Joanne Mansell would come asking her to play with them, or Margaret would want her to go for a swim. Besides, it wasn’t hot in Baker Street.
    What a lucky thing that she had found this new place in time to spend the birthday there. Presents didn’t matter so much, if life had these enchanting surprises that were free to everyone.
    She read without stirring until Margaret came in and said, ‘Mum says you’re to wash your hands before dinner.’
    Dinner was the meal which at home they called tea. Mrs Callaghan pronounced the word with a conscious elegance which Margaret imitated, maddening Isobel, who was about to hiss, ‘Tea!’ but recollected herself and said, ‘Can I have the light on for a while tonight?’
    â€˜We’re not allowed to read in bed.’
    â€˜Oh go on, don’t be mean. It’s different on holidays. It’s only at home that we aren’t allowed to read in bed.’
    â€˜You ask them then.’
    Isobel hid the book under her pillow.
    â€˜Ho, ho.’ Margaret spoke with adult poise, then relented with adult satisfaction. ‘Oh, all right. So long as you put it out before they come to bed. They can see the light under the door, you know. And go and wash your hands because I was told to tell you.’
    Isobel went quietly, because of Margaret’s kindness about the light.
    The birthday still cast its shadow, in spite of Holmes and Watson. While she ate her tea, she was thinking how wonderful it would be if beside her bed in the morning she found a huge box wrapped in paper, with a big bow and a card that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY ISOBEL . She would try to lift it but it would be too heavy, so she would rip away the paper and lift the lid, and there would be
The Complete Works of Arthur Conan Doyle
, books and books and books. It was a lovely dream, but then she woke up to reality and felt the worse for it.
    After tea she had to play Snap with Margaret and the Mansell girls while she thought about Holmes and Watson and longed to go to