eFiction India eFiction India Vol.02 Issue.09 | Page 32

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STORIES

There follows the meal, a variety of audiovisual distractions, and, seen through the
porthole-like window, the aureole of the
sun encircling the shadow of the plane as it
chases across the tops of the clouds.
There is an end to this particular rabbit hole
of wonders, a grim building on solid earth,
and her, the little girl, stood before a desk,
behind which sits a blind man in a black
cloak, saying, “Robert Baines?” and awaiting a response.
A voice whispers in her ear. It says in her
own tongue, “Make the sound ‘yes’.”
“Yes,” says the little girl.
“Robert Baines. Ten years, Her Majesty’s
pleasure.”
And a gavel claps upon the desktop and the
blind man wielding it smiles, not unkindly.
Again, a voice whispers in the little girl’s
ear, instructing her to say yes once more,
which she does.
She is directed towards a holding cell,
shaking to the core of her being. On the
way she passes the real Robert Baines. It will
be the only time their eyes meet directly.
This first cell is clean, it’s quiet, and the
guards are kind enough, but the next day
the little girl is moved to the permanent
facility and the real fun begins.
Little pink dresses. A clean one for every girl
every day of the week. Patent leather shoes
with shiny buckles.
A castle with a drawbridge.
Pony rides on Wednesdays.
Meals taken together in a room full of
gigantic embroidered pillows, one or two,
or however many are needed, for each girl.
The meals themselves are opulent, all a little
girl might dream of. Indeed, more than
most have ever even heard of. Jellies and
jams, soups, panini garnished with cress,
roasts of all descriptions, oranges and butter
and double cream, syrup, crusty bread and
eFiction India | June 2014

cheese.
The girls can eat with their hands if they
want, if that’s what they’re used to. But
if needed, if desired, here are all sorts of
matrons and instructors prepared to come
down on their knees to demonstrate what
knives and forks can do. Kind women,
learned women with good hearts.
Every day of the week these women keep the
little girls busy, reading to them, showing
them how to use scissors to make snowflakes, instructing them in the intricacies
of the watusi and the grapevine fox-trot.
The floor of the activity room is covered in
stars that glitter, the ceiling painted to look
like the sky.
Nothing has been overlooked.
Twice a month, shackled at the ankle, the
girls march out of the building, two by
two. In their pink cloaks and party hats
they wander through the town on their
way to visit the museum or the aquarium
or the zoo.
Twice a day they are let out into the courtyard where they are allowed to walk arm
in arm in a circle for nearly half an hour,
kicking up the dust.
There are days devoted to physical education as well. To tennis, to croquet, to gymnastics and learning how to swim, the butterfly being a particular favourite among
the facility’s instructors. For some of the
older girls there are even lessons in dressage.
Book learning is neither encouraged nor
discouraged. On hand, if desired, are all
manner of tutors. Some take the time to
learn English. Some have found solace in
the rigours of geometry, others have dipped
into the pages of Nancy Drew, while others
still have pursued nothing at all.
Thursday night is movie night: Sleeping
Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White and the
Little Mermaid, all are particular favourites.
Some days it rains. Just like everywhere else.
One rainy day, a Sunday, the little girl sits in

her cell playing with her thumbs, the shade
of her skin contrasting with the solid white
walls holding her in. There’s a knock at the
steel door, then the sound of a key turning
over and the door springs open.
“Sorry to interrupt your quiet time,” says a
matron standing in the doorway. She has a
calm, gentle way about her. “I need you to
come with me, please.”
The little girl puts on her pink party dress
and buckles on her shoes, then follows
the woman out into the corridor. Several
minutes later the little girl is let into a room,
empty except for a small table with a tea
set and some cookies on it, and a mirror
stretched out along one wall.
“Help yourself,” says the matron, gesturing
to the tea and cookies, before closing the
door behind her.
The little girl sits and pours out a cup of tea
for herself and one for the doll that’s seated
in the other chair. By watching the other
girls she’s learned one might do this. She
puts sugar in her tea and takes a sip, but
for the most part only pretends to drink.
She takes a bite of cookie, but finds she has
no taste for it.
There are eyes watching her. Of this she
feels almost certain.
An hour later, back in her cell, the rain pattering off the high slit of a window, there is
another knock on her door. It is the same
matron, only now she stands there holding
out a package.
“This is for you,” she says. “Here.”
The little girl opens it up. Inside is a thin
gold necklace with a dolphin charm.
The girl looks up at the matron, who smiles
at her almost sadly before making some
comment about dinner, then closing the
door.
Over the years this ritual will repeat itself
many, many times.
***