Ella Natwick Character Analysis

She laughed to keep him company. They were such mates, everybody said. And it was true. She didn’t know what she would do if Royal passed on first.

Then she did something. She bent down and kissed Royal on the forehead in front of the whole Parramatta Road. She regretted it at once, because he looked that powerless in his invalid chair, and his forehead felt cold and sweaty.

But you can’t undo things that are done.

What could she do for him? As he lay there breathing she would have loved to stroke his nose she could see faintly in the light from the window. Again unpractical, she would have liked to kiss it. Or bite it suddenly off.

[…] All their life together she had to try in some way to make amends to Royal, not only for her foolishness, but for some of the thoughts that got into her head. Because she hadn’t the imagination, the thoughts couldn’t have been her own. They must have been put into her.

She knew. Guilt sent her scuttling to him, deliberately composing her eyes and mouth so as to arrive looking cheerful.

“I was in the garden,” she confessed, “looking at the cineraria.”

“The what?” It was a name Royal could never learn. […]

But she couldn’t distract him from her shortcomings; he was shaking the paper at her. “Haven’t you lived with me long enough to know how to treat a newspaper?”

One morning she said on going in, “Fancy, I had a dream, it was about that man! He was standing on the side path alongside the cinerarias. I know it was him because of his funny-shaped head.”

“What happened in the dream?” Royal hadn’t opened his eyes yet; she hadn’t helped him in with his teeth.

“I dunno,” she said, “it was just a dream.”

That wasn’t strictly truthful, because the Holden gentleman had looked at her, she had seen his eyes. Nothing was spoken, though.

So it was again evening when her two objects converged: for some blissfully confident reason she hadn’t bothered to ask herself whether she had seen the car pass, till here was this figure coming towards her along the tunnel. She knew at once who it was, although she had never seen him on his feet; she had never seen him full-face, but knew from the funny shape of his head as Royal had been the first to notice. He was not at all an impressive man, not much taller than herself, but broad. His footsteps on the brickwork sounded purposeful.

He had a [cleft lip], there was no mistaking, although it was well sewn. She felt so calm in the circumstances. She would have even liked to touch it. […]

But he was ugly, real ugly, deformed. If it wasn’t for the voice, the eyes. She couldn’t remember the eyes, but seemed to know about them.

Oh dear. She had reached him. And was given all strength — that of the lover she had aimed at being. […]

His eyes were swimming out of reach.

“Eh? Dear — dearest — darl — darlig — darling love — love — LOVE?” All the new words still stiff in her mouth, that she had heard so far only from the mouths of actors.

The words were too strong she could see. She was losing him.

She laughed to keep him company. They were such mates, everybody said. And it was true. She didn’t know what she would do if Royal passed on first.

Then she did something. She bent down and kissed Royal on the forehead in front of the whole Parramatta Road. She regretted it at once, because he looked that powerless in his invalid chair, and his forehead felt cold and sweaty.

But you can’t undo things that are done.

What could she do for him? As he lay there breathing she would have loved to stroke his nose she could see faintly in the light from the window. Again unpractical, she would have liked to kiss it. Or bite it suddenly off.

[…] All their life together she had to try in some way to make amends to Royal, not only for her foolishness, but for some of the thoughts that got into her head. Because she hadn’t the imagination, the thoughts couldn’t have been her own. They must have been put into her.

She knew. Guilt sent her scuttling to him, deliberately composing her eyes and mouth so as to arrive looking cheerful.

“I was in the garden,” she confessed, “looking at the cineraria.”

“The what?” It was a name Royal could never learn. […]

But she couldn’t distract him from her shortcomings; he was shaking the paper at her. “Haven’t you lived with me long enough to know how to treat a newspaper?”

One morning she said on going in, “Fancy, I had a dream, it was about that man! He was standing on the side path alongside the cinerarias. I know it was him because of his funny-shaped head.”

“What happened in the dream?” Royal hadn’t opened his eyes yet; she hadn’t helped him in with his teeth.

“I dunno,” she said, “it was just a dream.”

That wasn’t strictly truthful, because the Holden gentleman had looked at her, she had seen his eyes. Nothing was spoken, though.

So it was again evening when her two objects converged: for some blissfully confident reason she hadn’t bothered to ask herself whether she had seen the car pass, till here was this figure coming towards her along the tunnel. She knew at once who it was, although she had never seen him on his feet; she had never seen him full-face, but knew from the funny shape of his head as Royal had been the first to notice. He was not at all an impressive man, not much taller than herself, but broad. His footsteps on the brickwork sounded purposeful.

He had a [cleft lip], there was no mistaking, although it was well sewn. She felt so calm in the circumstances. She would have even liked to touch it. […]

But he was ugly, real ugly, deformed. If it wasn’t for the voice, the eyes. She couldn’t remember the eyes, but seemed to know about them.

Oh dear. She had reached him. And was given all strength — that of the lover she had aimed at being. […]

His eyes were swimming out of reach.

“Eh? Dear — dearest — darl — darlig — darling love — love — LOVE?” All the new words still stiff in her mouth, that she had heard so far only from the mouths of actors.

The words were too strong she could see. She was losing him.