Listening for Lions: Chapters 7–10

There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, which had been weak the day before, was imperious, truly Masai-like.

When he saw the bewildered look on my face, he indicated a pile of books of various sizes, some as small as a folded handkerchief and some as large as a sofa pillow.

The robin will be on page seventy-two, though this time of year the breast will be more sorrel than orange.

I’m afraid pritchardi is the result of my own vanity. When a new bird is found, it is often named after the person who discovers it, but the Royal Bird Society has refused to accept my bird as a new subspecies, and so they will not give it my name.

As soon as I had gulped down my meal of hot soup and a mutton chop, I ran up the stairs and hurried into the grandfather’s room to make my report.

I settled down on the fountain’s ledge. With the water turned off the fountain looked forsaken.

“I have had a letter from my son,” he said. “He and his wife wish to come to England. It seems they are lonesome for you and they wish for a reconciliation with me.”

As I made my resolution, I realized I no longer called him “the grandfather.” Now, as if I were truly his grandchild, I called him Grandfather.

As I walked along the paths, the tenants would greet me and sometimes the mistress of the house would invite me in to see her children and have a cup of tea.

Often the message I would carry from a tenant to Grandfather would be a plea for the wait of a month or two for rent. Grandfather would complain and talk of idleness and spendthrifts, but in the end he always agreed.

Often the message I would carry from a tenant to Grandfather would be a plea for the wait of a month or two for rent. Grandfather would complain and talk of idleness and spendthrifts, but in the end he always agreed.

Again and again the tenants would tell me of neighboring landlords who threw their tenants out of their homes for any little thing, or landlords who charged exorbitant rents.

“What a miserable exchange,” he complained. “All my birds leaving and my wastrel son and his wretched wife descending upon me. I told Grumbloch to keep them in the city, but they won’t do as they are told. I won’t have them here. They can pitch a tent outside.”

I wished that I could disappear, but Mr. Grumbloch said in a voice that seemed to be filled with irony, “There is your daughter.”

It was all I could do to keep from shouting that I was not their Valerie and had no wish to be. All the loathing I felt for them was turned against myself, for hadn’t I let myself become a part of them?

For myself, I was too nervous to eat even a morsel and signaled Arthur to take away my plate before the untouched food was noticed.

“It’s not just the house,” Mr. Pritchard said. “I had a talk with one of the tenants. Father is letting the lodges for a pittance. Rents must be raised. Of course, everything can’t be accomplished in a day.”

I saw Mrs. Nessel tighten her lips to keep back an angry retort.

“I won’t leave Grandfather,” I said, surprising myself with my defiance.

“He is not your grandfather, and furthermore you have nothing to say about it,” Mr. Pritchard told me. In a voice full of mockery he said, “Surely you wouldn’t disobey your dear parents?”

“Any fool could see how the girl has ingratiated herself with my father,” Mr. Pritchard said.

I remembered Father reading a passage from the prophet Isaiah: “Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay field to field, till there be no place, that they may be placed alone in the midst of the earth!”

“Gray’s Inn, eh? A beehive of barristers. I’m glad it’s you and not me that has to take up with the law. Off we go then.”

“That’ll be a shilling and two pence.”
I handed over my pound note and received in return a large handful of shillings and some pence from the driver.

I had rehearsed what I would say so many times that I had been sure I would not forget my little speech, but confronted with Mr. Grumbloch’s perpetual frown and sharp blue eyes, I could only conjure up three words: “I’m not Valerie.”

I had rehearsed what I would say so many times that I had been sure I would not forget my little speech, but confronted with Mr. Grumbloch’s perpetual frown and sharp blue eyes, I could only conjure up three words: “I’m not Valerie.”

I think I had some idea that I would be put to work in the scullery, or perhaps, I thought with a little hope, I might help Mr. Duggen.

Mr. Grumbloch’s frown returned. He had been speaking gently to me; now he made his voice very firm. “They must be apprised of your whereabouts.” He put his hand on mine. “I will be there to support you.”

He cautioned me, “Though sensible in her own way, my sister is inclined to be somewhat impetuous and is, I’m afraid, a little too involved with art and other nonsense.”

Frieda herself, with her flowing hair and trailing skirts, looked like a wood nymph.