A Winning Spirit. Valerie Tripp

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      Turnips

       CHAPTER 1

      olly McIntire sat at the kitchen table daydreaming about her Halloween costume. It would be a pink dress with a long, floaty skirt that would swirl when she turned and swish when she walked. There would be shiny silver stars on the skirt to match the stars in her crown. The top of the dress would be white. Maybe it would be made of fluffy angora, only Molly wasn’t sure they had angora back in Cinderella’s time. That’s who Molly wanted to be for Halloween—Cinderella. All she had to do was

      1. talk her mother into buying the material and making the costume,

      2. find some glass slippers somewhere, and

      3. convince Linda and Susan, her two best friends, to be the ugly stepsisters.

      She could probably talk Susan into it. As long as Susan got to wear a long dress, she wouldn’t mind being a stepsister. But Linda was another story. If they were going to be fairy-tale princesses, Linda would want to be Snow White because she had black hair just like Snow White’s. Linda would want Molly and Susan to be dwarfs. Probably Sleepy and Grumpy, thought Molly.

      Well, Molly certainly felt like Grumpy tonight. She looked at the clock. She had been sitting at the kitchen table for exactly two hours, forty-six minutes, and one, two, three seconds. She had been sitting at the kitchen table, in fact, ever since six o’clock, when Mrs. Gilford, the housekeeper, called everyone to supper.

      Molly had smelled trouble as soon as she walked into the kitchen. It was a heavy, hot smell, kind of like the smell of dirty socks. She sat down and saw the odd orange heap on her plate. She made up her mind right away not to eat it. “What’s this orange stuff?” she asked.

      Mrs. Gilford turned around and gave her what Molly’s father used to call the Gladys Gilford Glacial Glare. “Polite children do not refer to food as stuff,” said Mrs. Gilford. “The vegetable which you are lucky enough to have on your plate is mashed turnip.”

      “I’d like to return it,” whispered Molly’s twelve-year-old brother Ricky.

      “What was that, young man?” asked Mrs. Gilford sharply.

      “I like to eat turnips,” said Ricky, and he shoveled a forkful into his mouth. Eating turnips—or anything alive or dead—was no hardship for Ricky. If it could be chewed, Ricky would eat it. Quick as a wink, all his turnips were gone.

      That rat Ricky, thought Molly. She looked over at her older sister, Jill. Jill was putting ladylike bites of turnip in her mouth and washing them down with long, quiet sips of water. Almost all of the horrible orange stuff was gone from her plate.

      Molly sighed. In the old days, before Jill turned fourteen and got stuck-up, Molly used to be able to count on her to make a big fuss about things like turnips. But lately, Molly had to do it all herself. Jill was acting superior. This new grown-up Jill was a terrible disappointment to Molly. If that’s what happened to you when you got to be fourteen, Molly would rather be nine forever.

      The turnips sat on Molly’s plate getting cold. They were turning into a solid lump that oozed water. With her fork, Molly carefully pushed her meat and potatoes to a corner of her plate so that not a speck of turnip would touch them and ruin them. “Disgusting,” she said softly.

      “There will be no such language used at this table,” said Mrs. Gilford. “Furthermore, anyone who fails to finish her turnips will have no dessert. Nor will she be allowed to leave the table until the turnips are gone.”

      That’s why Molly was still at the kitchen table facing a plate of cold turnips at 8:46 P.M. None of this would have happened if Dad were home, she thought. Molly touched the heart-shaped locket she wore on a thin chain around her neck. She pulled it forward and opened it up to look at the tiny picture inside. Her father’s face smiled back at her.

      Molly’s father was a doctor. When American soldiers started fighting in World War Two, he joined the Army. Now he was somewhere in England, taking care of wounded and sick soldiers. He had been gone for seven months. Molly missed him every single minute of every single day, but especially at dinnertime.

      Before Dad left, before the war, Molly’s family never ate supper in the kitchen. They ate dinner in the dining room. Before Dad left, back before the war, the whole family always had dinner together. They laughed and talked the whole time. Now things were different. Dad was gone, and every morning Molly’s mother went off to work at the Red Cross headquarters. Very often she got home too late to have dinner with the family. And she spent at least an hour every night writing to Dad.

      When a letter came from Dad, it was a surprise and a treat. Everyone gathered and listened in silence while Mrs. McIntire read the letter aloud. Dad always sent a special message to each member of the family. He told jokes and drew funny sketches of himself. But he didn’t say which hospital he worked in or name any of the towns he visited. That wasn’t allowed, because of the war. And even though Dad’s letters were long and funny and wonderful, they still sounded as if they came from very far away. They were not at all like the words Dad spoke in his deep-down voice that you could feel rumbling inside you and filling up the house. Molly used to be able to hear that voice even when she was up in her room doing homework.

      When Dad called out, “I’m home!” the house seemed more lively. Everyone, even Jill, would tumble down the stairs for a big hug. Then Dad would sit in his old plaid chair, cozy in a warm circle of lamplight, and they’d tell him what had gone on in school that day. Dad’s pipe smoke made the room smell of vanilla and burning leaves. Sometimes, now that Dad was gone to the war, Molly would climb into the plaid chair and sniff it because that vanilla pipe smell made her feel so safe and happy, just as if Dad were home.

      Molly remembered the fun they had at the dinner table when Dad was home. He teased Jill and made her blush. He swapped jokes with Ricky and told riddles to Brad, Molly’s younger brother. And he always said, “Gosh and golly, olly Molly, what have you done today?” Suddenly, everything Molly had done—whether it was winning a running race or losing a multiplication bee—was interesting and important, wonderful or not so bad after all.

      Dad loved to tease Mrs. Gilford, too. As she carried steaming trays out from the kitchen with lots of importance, Dad would say, “Mrs. Gladys Gilford, an advancement has been made tonight in the art of cooking. Never before in the history of mankind has there been such a perfect pot roast.” Mrs. Gilford would beam and bustle and serve up more perfect pot roast and mashed potatoes and gravy. She never, ever, served anything awful like turnips.

      But everything was different now because of the war. Dad was gone and Mom was busy at the Red Cross. So Mrs. Gilford, who had arrived at the dot of seven o’clock every weekday morning of Molly’s life to cook and clean, now ruled the roost more than ever. And Mrs. Gilford was determined to do her part to help win the war.

      A Victory garden was Mrs. Gilford’s latest war effort. Last СКАЧАТЬ