by James Hilton
He put down his glass and walked to the doorway. “I’m going up there,” he said.
“Nay, you can’t, you’d get lost on Mickle,” said Mrs. Jones.
“But I want to see what’s over the other side,” Gerald went on.
“Take ’em both up, Fred, if they want,” Mrs. Jones then said. “It’ll be a bit o’ fresh air for ’em.”
Fred nodded and began to trudge slowly up the steep track, Gerald and Olive following. But after a little while Gerald scampered ahead, because he liked to think that nobody had ever climbed the mountain before. It was a dangerous thing to do, and only he, the famous mountaineer and engine-driver, dare risk it. Up, up, scrambling through bracken and heather; there were tigers, too, that you had to watch out for. His blood was racing as he reached the smooth green summit. The earth was at his feet, the whole earth, and over the other side, which he had been so curious about, a further mountain was to be seen—doubtless the second highest mountain in the world. Far below he could make out the tower of Browdley Church, with a tramcar crawling beside it like a red beetle.
Suddenly he saw a halfpenny lying on the ground. “Look what I’ve found!” he cried, triumphantly; then he lay down in the cool blue air and waited for the others to come up.
Fred smoked in silence while Gerald talked to Olive.
“What makes your father a Candidate?”
“ Because there’s an election.”
“But what’s that?”
“It means he has to get in.”
“Where does he get in?”
“In the house.”
“Can’t anybody get in?”
“Only if you’re a Candidate.”
“Does he ever have a special train?”
“A special train? I—I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what a special train is? Do you like trains? When I came here there was a Four-Four-Nought on our train. Bet you don’t know what that means.” No answer.
“Are you afraid to touch a snail?”
“No. And I’m not afraid to touch a bee, either. Even a bumble-bee. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a bumble-bee.”
“Oh yes, I have. It’s like a piece of flying cat. I wouldn’t be afraid to touch one. But I’ll bet you’d be afraid to stand on the edge of the platform while the Scotch express dashed through at sixty miles an hour. I did that once. I stood right on the edge.”
“Why?”
“It was a test. None of the others could do it. My father couldn’t. Or Uncle Richard. Even the stationmaster couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because the train was going too fast. It was really going at eighty miles an hour, not sixty.”
Then there was a long silence, while Gerald lay back staring at the sky. He was very, very happy.
When you are a child, everything you think and dream of has a piercing realness that never happens again; there is no blurred background to that stereoscopic clarity, no dim perspective to drag at the heart’s desire. That little world you live in is the widest, the loveliest, and the sweetest; it can be the bitterest also.
To Gerald, alone in his own vivid privacy, everything seemed miraculously right except the Other Candidate, who was miraculously wrong. The warm red room with the brass rail over the fireplace, and the greenhouse with the tricycle in it, and the parrot who never forgave him and whom he never forgave, were part of a secret intimacy in which Uncle Richard and Olive and Aunt Flo were partners (in descending order of importance), and over which, only a little lower than the angels, loomed the Candidate. Gerald could never catch a glimpse of the Candidate, though, after Uncle Richard’s hint, he always looked out for him on the stairs. He knew that the Candidate lived in Uncle Richard’s house, working in the front parlour with the door always closed, and sleeping in the front bedroom over it; yet he could never (and it must have been pure chance) see him entering or leaving the house, or passing from one room to another. Partly, of course, this was because of Aunt Flo’s continual fidgeting. “Mind now, Gerald, be very quiet, and no playing in the passage—the Candidate’ll be in any minute.” Or: “Gerald, time for bed now—must have you out of the way before the Candidate comes in!” Long after she had put him to bed and turned out the light, Gerald would lie awake, thinking and listening; often he heard the Candidate, but it was never any words—just the mix-up of footsteps and talk. Once he said to Uncle Richard: “Can’t I ever see the Candidate?”—and Uncle Richard answered: “Not now, my boy—he’s far too busy. But I’ll take you out to-night and you’ll see him then.”
So that night Uncle Richard took Gerald to the market-place, which was full of a great crowd of people. Uncle Richard hoisted him on to his shoulder so that he could see; and far away, over all the cloth caps, a man was standing on a cart and shouting something. Gerald could not hear what it was he was shouting, because people round about were shouting much louder. “Aha, we’re in good time,” said Uncle Richard, in Gerald’s ear. “That’s only old Burstall—don’t you take any notice of him. He’ll only go on till the Candidate comes, that’s all. Watch out—you’ll soon see the Candidate!”
The talking and shouting went on, and Gerald, perched on Uncle Richard’s shoulder, began to feel very sleepy. Everyone seemed to be smoking pipes and cigarettes, and the smoke rose in a cloud and got into his eyes, so that it became hard to keep them open. The man on the cart continued to talk, but he wasn’t interesting either to watch or listen to … and still the Candidate didn’t come. … Then suddenly, with a jerk, Gerald felt himself being lowered to the ground and Uncle Richard was stooping and shaking him. All around were the legs of people hurrying past. “Why,” exclaimed Uncle Richard, “I do believe you’ve been asleep! Didn’t you see the Candidate?”
Then Gerald realised what had happened. Uncle Richard laughed heartily. “Well, I don’t know—you are a rum fellow, and no mistake! Badgering me all the time to see him, and then when he does come you drop off to sleep!”
“I couldn’t help it,” answered Gerald miserably. “I didn’t know. … Why didn’t you nudge me?”
“Nudge you? God bless my soul, I thought you were wide awake!” Uncle Richard went on laughing as if it were a great joke instead of something very sad. “Well, my boy, you missed something good, I can tell you. The Candidate’s a treat—a fair treat!”
Days went by, and the chance did not come again. All the commotion of shouting and singing and waving red rosettes was reaching some kind of climax that Gerald, even without understanding it, could clearly sense; every morning the magic was renewed, and Uncle Richard tapped the barometer with more zest for the day ahead.
In Gerald the desire to see the Candidate had grown into a great longing. It coloured all Browdley in a glow of excitement, for, as Uncle Richard had said: “You’ll see him, my boy, if you keep your eyes open! Ha, ha—if you keep your eyes open, eh? That hits the mark, eh? Wuff-wuff. … He’s everywhere in Browdley—you’re bound to see him. But mind, now, no hanging about the passage—that would only annoy him. He’s putting up a hard fight—we’ve all got to help.”
That was so, of course, and it was for that reason he and Olive kept on putting bills in letter-boxes. It was like Secret Service, where you did things you didn’t properly understand because the King ordered you to; though you never really saw the King till afterwards, when the danger was all past and he received you at the Palace and conferred on you the Most Noble and Distinguished Order of the Red Rosette.
So Gerald wandered about, eager and happy and preoccupied, full of thoughts of his mission and stirred by wild hopes that some time, any time, on the stairs or at the corner of the street, the Candidate might suddenly appear. A vision! It was terribly exciting to think of—quite the most exciting thing since Martin Secundus had measles and went to the sanatorium, and Gerald used to wait about outside thinking that Martin would probably die and would want to give him a last message from his death-bed.
One afternoon Gerald was alone in the house, reading the Yearly Repo
rt of the Browdley and District Friendly and Co-operative Society, which he had found under the cushion of a chair, and which seemed to him, for the moment, of engrossing interest. There was a picture in it of the first train entering Browdley station in 1853, and beside it, a picture of the first shop opened by the Browdley and District Friendly and Co-operative Society in the same year. A long, long time ago, before Uncle Richard was born. Gerald began to think about a long, long time ago, but it was hard to think like that. He was relieved when the tinkle of a bell in the street outside reminded him of his unique position—he was alone in the house, and the bell belonged to the ice-cream cart that visited the Parade every afternoon. Gerald had a passion for ice-cream, and one of his constant puzzlements was that grown-ups, who had pockets full of money and complete freedom to do anything they liked, didn’t eat ice-cream all day long. Aunt Flo, for example, would nibble at a spoonful and say she “didn’t care for it much—it’s too cold” (what a ridiculous thing to say !) and Uncle Richard wouldn’t have any at all. Profound mystery of human behaviour! Some times, however, they had allowed Gerald to go out into the street with a cup and buy a half-pennyworth. Now, with a sudden consciousness of his great chance, Gerald reached down from the dresser the largest cup he could find and took two pennies carefully out of his purse. Then he ran down the passage and out at the front-door. The ice-cream cart, drawn by a little donkey, stood in the middle of the road-way, with the ice-cream man sitting perched up inside it. It was a beautiful cart, covered with coloured pictures and gilt lettering, and with four bright brass pillars holding up a flat roof. It made the ice-cream man, whose name was Ulio, look like a king on his throne. “Two-pennyworth,” said Gerald, a little nervously, lest Mr. Ulio should see into his inmost heart. But Mr. Ulio just jabbed at his ice-cream and scooped a few slices into the cup—and not very much more, Gerald thought, than he had formerly got for a halfpenny.
Gerald ran back into the house and began to eat the ice-cream in a great hurry, because it was “waste” when it melted, and it always did, towards the bottom of the cup. The parrot squawked and pattered up and down the bars of the cage; she always demanded a share of anything that people were eating. Gerald, however, took no notice of her, partly because of their long-standing feud, but chiefly because he would not have given away even a fraction of his ice-cream to anybody. While he was eating ice-cream he was transfixed with greed; mind and body were united in the fulfilment of desire.
When the cup was empty he became his more usual self again; his passions became more mystical, more closely intertwined with thought. He was not sure what he would do next, but he ran into the greenhouse and stared for a time through the blue glass, which he liked better than the red. He was excitingly alone. The Candidate was out, Uncle Richard was out on his tricycle, Olive and Aunt Flo were “round the corner” on some errand. Suddenly a knock came at the front door and Gerald ran back to open it, hoping beyond hope that the Candidate might have returned unexpectedly and that he would say, when they had shaken hands: “Gerald, in all Browdley you are the man I have most of all been wanting to meet. I have heard of you, of course. Come into my parlour and let us talk. Has Mr. Ulio gone out of the street? I hope not, for I should like you to join me in a large dish of his excellent ice-cream …” But no; it was an ordinary man, just an ordinary man, wanting to see the Candidate. Gerald said he was out. “Hasn’t he come back yet? There’s this letter for him. He’s been up at the farms on Mickle this morning, so they say, but I reckoned he’d be back by now. Will you give him this letter when he comes?”
“Is it very important?”
“Oh, no, it’ll do when he has a minute to spare. No particular hurry.”
Gerald gave his promise, but as soon as the man was gone he came to the conclusion that the letter was very important, and that the man had only said it wasn’t because it really was. Secret Service people did things like that. And since it was very important, and if the Candidate were still at the farms on Mickle, why should not Gerald go up there himself, immediately, and deliver it to the Candidate in person? They would meet, perhaps, in Mrs. Jones’s kitchen. “Where is the young man who brought this message? He has saved my life. What? He lives with Uncle Richard? And I never knew it!—How can I ever forgive myself! … Mrs. Jones, bring us some of your nettle-drink—we will all quaff together.”
Gerald left the house, walked to the centre of the town, crossed the market-place, and took the turning up the hill. The day was not so fine as when he had set out for Mickle before, and the mountain itself looked heavy and dark; but Gerald did not mind that—he had too many exciting thoughts. At one place where the street narrowed and two factories faced each other, he imagined that the walls were leaning over, and that if he didn’t hurry they would fall on him. So he broke into a scamper till the danger was past, and then stood panting and not quite sure whether he was really afraid or only pretending. Then he took the Candidate’s letter out of his pocket and looked at it solemnly; it reminded him of what he had to do. He hurried on. Presently he came to the end of the houses; the lane twisted and became steeper; a few drops of rain fell. He thought of the warm red room at Uncle Richard’s with Aunt Flo making potato-cakes as she probably would be by this time, and just beginning to wonder where he was; the clatter of cups and the kettle singing, the parrot squawking for a spoonful of tea. Would it not be safer to go back? But no; no; he must climb up and up and deliver the letter to the Candidate. He came to a line of high trees; if there were an odd number of them, perhaps he would go back, but if there were an even number he would keep on. There were twelve. He often settled difficult problems by this kind of method, though he never told anybody about it, except Martin Secundus, who understood. He began to walk faster uphill. You cannot do it, they all cried, mocking him as he passed by; it is too dangerous to climb this mountain; no one has ever done it and come back alive. It is my duty, he answered proudly, as he swept on.
Then he began to see that the sky was darkening, not with rain only, but with twilight; the top of Mickle lay in a little cloud, as if someone had drawn the outline of the mountain in ink and then smudged it. He felt tired and his legs trembled. Soon the rain began to fall faster, until there was no mountain to see at all—only a grey curtain covering it; but he knew he was on the right path, because of the steepness. Never, remarked the famous engine-driver, do I remember such a night of wind and rain. …
He walked on and on, climbing all the time, till the rain had soaked through all his clothes, and was clammy-cold against his skin.
Suddenly he heard a noise, a strange noise, a kind of rumbling and muttering from the road ahead. He stopped, scared a little, listening to it above the swishing of the rain and the whine of the wind in the telegraph-wires. The noise grew louder, and all at once two bright yellow lights poked round a corner and came rushing at him. He ran for safety to the side of the road, and there slipped on some mud and fell. The next he knew was that the rumbling noise had halted somehow beside him, and had changed and lowered its key. Someone was holding him up and feeling his arms.
“No bones broken, Roberts. I’m sure we didn’t touch him—he just slipped and fell over. We’d best take him along with us, anyhow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gerald found himself lifted off his feet with his face pressing against something rain-drenched and fluffy. A ray of yellow light caught it, and he saw then that it was a rosette fastened to a man’s overcoat.
A blue rosette.
Blue.
Once again the truth besieged him in an over-powering rush. This man who was holding him must be the Other Candidate … and the noise-making Thing near by must be the motor-car. There could be no doubt about it. And he was shaken. He felt fear, horror, and the simple presence of evil. “Let me go!” he shouted desperately, wriggling and twisting and hitting the man’s face with his fists.
“Here, what’s the matter, youngster?”
“Let me go—let me go!”
“What’s a
ll the fuss about? You aren’t hurt, are you? Better get him in the car, Roberts.”
“No! No, no!”
“Well, what the devil do you want?” Now that the man had used a swear, like that, Gerald was more certain than ever that he must be the Other Candidate. And knowing that he was the Other Candidate, it was easy to see what a wicked face he had. Terrible eyes and a curving nose and a sneery mouth, like pictures of pirates. And what he wanted to do, undoubtedly, was to steal the Candidate’s letter that Gerald was carrying. Gerald looked around wildly. The man had put him down to earth again, that was something; but both the men seemed so huge above him, and the falling rain seemed to enclose the darkness through which lay his only chance of escape.
“Come on,” said the man roughly. “This is no place to hang about all night. We’d better make sure and take him along with us, Roberts.”
“Very good, sir.”
“No!” screamed Gerald. “You carpet- bagger!” And with that and a quick bound into the middle of the darkness, he ran down the hill, leaving the two men standing by the motor-car. He heard them laughing; then he heard them shouting after him and to each other; then he heard them beginning to run after him. He plunged sideways into a hedge, scratching his face and arms and bruising his eye against a thick branch. At last he managed to struggle through the long wet grasses of a field. He could hear the two men running down the hill; they passed within a few yards of him on the other side of the hedge; they passed by. As soon as he had gained breath he began to stumble farther across the field. They should not take him alive, and they should not find the Candidate’s letter. So he tore it up into very little pieces and let go a few of them whenever there came a big gust of wind. When they were all gone he felt brave again and wished he had some other papers to tear up and throw away.
It was ten o’clock at night when Gerald, in charge of a policeman, arrived at Number 2, The Parade. The Candidate was out, but Uncle Richard and Aunt Flo were waiting up, worried and anxious and by no means reassured by Gerald’s first appearance. For he was nearly speechless with exhaustion; his clothes were drenched and mud-plastered; his arms and face were streaked with scratches, and he had an unmistakable black eye. All the policeman could say was that he had found him fast asleep in a shop-doorway along the Mickle road, and that he had been incapable of giving any account of what had happened to him—only the fact that he lived at Number 2, The Parade.