by Hal Porter
Hal Porter (1911-1984) - Australian short story writer, novelist, dramatist and poet

"I am here. I am Marcus. May I come in?"
"I am here", said the voice within.
I turned the handle. The door was locked. This horrified me. Doors in the country were not locked except in the most unorthodox circumstances. Inside doors were never locked. The handle of a large iron key I had never seen before protruded from the brass-rimmed keyhole. I turned it. I opened the door. I fell in love.
Seated with upright but graceful decorum on a low armless cedar chair was the most exquisite being I had, or have since, seen. It was a girl of my age. Her dress was yellow velvet, the immediate yellow of a sunflower. Her long straight hair, in an era when all hair seemed clipped or cropped, was to me the miracle of the miracle. It fell like a shawl of light over her shoulders. It was the hair of Rapunzel, of all immolated princesses, of all children lost in the snow or woods of ballads. Her hands and arms and face were whiteness without name. Above her head, on the barred skylight, lay fallen petals of almond blossom. Hw grey their white. On the girl's lap sat a large doll dressed as she was. It wore a necklace of white beads.
With dark eyes, behind the surface of which were extra shadows, she watched me watching her. She did not move. Then, at last, her lips moved.
"I am Gretel" she said.
I told her again that I was Marcus.
"I am Gretel. She is Gretel." She touched the doll's flaxen poll.
"A good idea," I said. "And dressed like you! But she has beads." I remembered my manners. "I'm sorry you've been sick. How soon will you be better?"
she did not answer, but continued to look at me, as I did at her. My love could find no words. Then inspiration came. I remembered that, among a handful of necklaces tossed to sisters by mother, there was a white chine one. "I have a present for you," I said. How else express love, at twelve? How else at ninety, or ever? "I'll get it. I'll be back." Although blinded, I was wide awake to the need for chicanery. I locked the door. If mother should escape Miss Stanway before I had decorated my idol with stolen gewgaws, the sin of disobedience would not be discovered. I ran to the front veranda. Mother was still enmeshed in Miss Stanway's tough net of scandal. I stole the white necklace. I returned to the last room.
Gretel and Gretel sat as when I had first seen them, beneath the skylight ruled across by bras, and littered with the petals of spring. I held up the necklace, and smiled and smiled like a dog.
And she smiled.
There are no words to describe how this addition of beauty to a beauty already overwhelming affected me.