Young Tom or Very Mix Company

by Forrest Reid

  He caught up his towel, gave Tom an amicable slap on the shoulder, and departed—once more to the strains of “Onward Christian Soldiers”.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TOM sat on alone. He had been very happy a few minutes ago, but now that James-Arthur was gone he felt sad. He thought he would like to be a farm boy at Denny’s, working every day with James-Arthur; instead of which he was going to school, and all he knew about school was what Max Sabine had told him, obviously with the view of showing what an important person he was there, which Tom didn’t for a moment believe.

  Cloppity clop! Cloppity clop!

  He looked up, and saw a big grey barge horse approaching. Next minute the barge itself came into sight, the rope slackening as it rounded the bend; then suddenly tightening again, rippling through the water and throwing up a shower of spray. A man was walking beside the horse; another man was at the tiller.

  Tom drew back to be out of the way. He was prepared to nod to both men and return their greeting, but beyond an indifferent and somewhat surly glance, neither took any notice of him, and they and the horse and the barge passed on just as if he were non-existent, presently disappearing from view round the next bend. Why couldn’t they have said something? Then he too would have walked beside the horse and kept the man company for a little way, and perhaps told him about bathing. . . .

  He had stooped to lift his boat, when suddenly he was sent staggering nearly on to his nose by the impact of a warm heavy body against the middle of his back, while simultaneously two big paws were planted on his shoulders. It was Roger, who had come up silently behind him. He was always playing these tricks—more like a boy than a dog—and immediately Tom’s cheerfulness was restored. Roger licked his face, so he licked Roger—but just once, because he had been told it was a disgusting thing to do. It couldn’t be disgusting, however, unless there was somebody there to be disgusted, and at present there was no one.

  “Well, I suppose you’ll want to bathe now!” Tom said, adopting an elderly manner. “But it’ll be only one dip and then out, for it must be time to go home. Where have you been, and how did you guess I was here?”

  Roger, instead of answering, began to bark and jump about him, rushing to the edge of the bank and back, slewing round his head, and making it very clear in every way what he expected Tom to do. But there were no sticks on the tow-path, and bits of hedge were far too light to carry any distance. In the end, Tom seized his boat by the mast, and pitched it out as far as he could. Before it had even left his hand, Roger leapt into -the water, making a tremendous splash, calculated to scare Rat out of his wits if he were still lurking in the neighbourhood. As he watched him swimming smoothly and swiftly, Tom wished Roger had come sooner, for then he could have had a race with James-Arthur. They had very different styles of swimming, and James-Arthur declared that even in a short race across the river and back Roger wouldn’t have a chance; but if James-Arthur used the breast stroke and gave Roger half a minute’s start Tom wasn’t so sure. . . .

  The boat was floating on its side when Roger reached it. He made a grab at the hull, but it was too big for him to get a proper grip, so he bit on the mast and sails and struggled along that way—though not without difficulty, to judge by the growls and snorts. He couldn’t be really angry, of course, but it sounded as if he were, and Tom hopped about shouting encouragement mingled with laughter. It was an extremely wrecked-looking boat which eventually was dragged up the bank and dropped at his feet. He didn’t care. “Good dog!” he said, hastily stepping back to avoid a shower-bath. “And now I must go home: I was late for lunch, and you should have come sooner if you wanted to bathe.” He picked up the wreck, and they returned by the route James-Arthur had taken.

  As it happened, he needn’t have been in such a hurry; in fact he had been waiting on the doorstep for nearly half an hour, and Phemie had twice appeared to remark that the dinner would be ruined, before the car drove up with Daddy and Mother. “I know we’re very late,” Mother called out through the window. “I expect you’re starving and Phemie is furious, but it couldn’t be helped. . . . You’ll find a parcel on the back seat which you might take into the house. It’s a book Granny ordered; and it cost five guineas, so be very careful with it. Why she should want to spend a fortune on a huge tome about Chinese art is best known to herself.”

  “Japanese, I expect,” Daddy amended.

  “Well—Chinese or Japanese—five guineas seems to me an absurd price. It nearly took my breath away when the man told me.”

  “Special publications of that kind are always expensive,” Daddy said. “The pictures very likely are printed in facsimile. . . . What is the correct name for a book of that size?” he suddenly asked Tom, who stood clasping it in his arms.

  “A folio,” Tom replied learnedly. “May I look at it: the string’s untied.”

  “Did you untie it?” Mother questioned suspiciously, but added; “Perhaps—if you’re very good—after dinner. . . . Only you must promise to take the greatest care and your hands must be spotless.”

  “They’re spotless now,” Tom informed her. “I’ve been bathing.”

  Mother might have inquired further into this unexpected disclosure had not Phemie at that moment again appeared in the doorway, her countenance this time suggesting that there were limits even to her patience. So it was not till they were safely seated at the dinner-table that he was able to embark on a fuller description of his adventures. Mother was not enthusiastic about the bathing part, and made him promise not to do it again without first getting her permission, and never to do it at all unless James-Arthur was there to look after him. But she was amused by the behaviour of the rat, and thus encouraged, Tom in the end produced a few specimens of their conversation.

  Mother maintained that all rats were horrid, and some of them evidently most conceited; while Daddy went on quietly with his dinner and did not appear to be listening. This, as it turned out, was a delusion, for suddenly he said: “It seems to me Miss Sabine was definitely right, and that it’s high time you went to school.”

  There followed a pause, before Mother replied rather dryly; “If rats choose to talk to Tom, I can’t see how that is any concern of Miss Sabine’s.”

  “Yes—if,” Daddy agreed.

  A faint flush rose in Mother’s cheeks. “Judging from all accounts, school doesn’t appear to have particularly improved her own nephew,” she said.

  The matter dropped there, for Daddy returned no answer, and during the remainder of dinner Mother too spoke little, and then merely on the dullest matters of fact. By the time they rose from the table it was well after eight and within half an hour of Tom’s bedtime.

  Daddy, who had so effectually, if perhaps unintentionally, thrown a damper on the conversation, now followed his usual custom and went out to potter about the garden, while Mother retired to the kitchen to discuss household matters with Phemie. Tom, alone in the study, vacillated between the rival attractions of Curiosities of Natural History and Granny’s book. It might be better to choose Granny’s, he decided, since very likely she would either send or call for it to-morrow; so placing it carefully on the table, he drew up a chair and began to turn the pages.

  Daddy had at least been right about the pictures; they were coloured, and most of them were queer—some of them very queer indeed. There were birds and animals, and pre-eminent among the latter was a superb tiger, with his head lowered and an extraordinary expression on his face. Whatever might be true of rats, it was at least quite clear that he could talk, and also that he could come alive and spring right out of the book if he wanted to. Tom was fascinated by this picture, yet at the same time wasn’t wholly sure that he would have liked to have it hanging above his bed. . . . That is, unless he could make friends with it first. . . . Then it would be lovely. . . . “Puss—puss,” he whispered, as a preliminary endearment.

  But there were men and women, too, and they were equally strange—even the more ordinary ones—with their slanting eyes and
pale, mask-like faces; to say nothing of the demons, bogeys, and magicians. Mother, entering unnoticed, found him absorbed, with flushed cheeks and very bright eyes, while a single rapid glance at the picture he was studying showed her how foolish she had been not first to have had a look at Granny’s book herself. She gently drew it away from him, and he relinquished it without a word: nor did she say anything except that he could come for a little walk round the garden with her before going to bed.

  He was surprised, for a glance at the clock told him it was already past his bedtime, but he asked no questions, and they went out together into the evening twilight The garden was dreamy and still; pleasanter, because cooler, than it had been all day. Daddy, surrounded by a halo of moths, was doing something with his sweet-peas, and looked up to greet them. Then he stooped to capture an imprudent snail, while Tom and Mother passed slowly on, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

  She talked gaily of any topic she thought might at once distract and tranquillize his mind, but all the time she was secretly reproaching herself. For she had seen his face as it was raised from Granny’s book, and though a tendency to walk in his sleep appeared to have little connection with any immediate or discoverable cause, Doctor Macrory had strongly urged that there should be no pre-bedtime excitements. Of course it was most unreasonable to feel vexed with Granny, when the fault was entirely her own; nevertheless she did feel vexed; and determined to have a look at the other pictures after Tom had gone to bed, in the hope that they might prove more innocent than the horribly malevolent and lifelike demon he had been poring over when she had discovered him. One good thing was, that his nocturnal peregrinations nearly always took place early—before she and Daddy had retired. To-night she would sit up later than usual, and must be sure to leave her bedroom door open, which occasionally she forgot to do.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  YET, had he guessed her anxiety, Tom could have told her that there wasn’t the slightest danger of his walking in his sleep, and this for the excellent reason that he had a plan which necessitated lying awake. True, a most important part of the plan had been defeated by Mrs. Fallon’s refusal to lend him the keys, but he could still pay a midnight visit to the church, even if he could not go inside. Therefore it was in a way disappointing to find he no longer very much wanted to pay this visit. The attractiveness of the adventure had curiously waned with the waning of daylight, and at present he was positively glad that Mrs. Fallon had been so scrupulous. With the keys in his possession, he might have felt it his duty to make use of them, whereas now—supposing he went at all he need only look over the wall from the road. . . .

  But that “supposing” was nonsense: of course he was going: he had said he was, and though nobody had heard him and therefore nobody knew, to back out at this stage would be none the less to funk it—at the thought of which the lines of his mouth grew remarkably obstinate.

  In fact it seemed hardly worth while undressing—except that Mother occasionally came in to see him after he was in bed, and she would be sure to notice if he still had his clothes on. Besides, with such an exploit looming before him, he wasn’t in the least likely to fall asleep, and to make doubly sure, he would lie and think about his aquarium. Then, when all the house was quiet, he would start.

  Once snugly in bed, however, he felt less adventurous than ever, though not a bit drowsy. He lay on his back, his eyes wide open, thinking first of his aquarium, and then of the examination on Friday, when he would see a lot of boys he had never seen before. Even if there were only a few, there might still be one with whom he could make friends. At least, that was always what happened in school stories. In the very first chapter—or if not in the first, at any rate in the second—the hero always found a chum; and, though he would have liked to be, of course he wasn’t really James-Arthur’s chum. James-Arthur, when his work was over, went about with boys of his own age, and now and then—which was more surprising—with girls. . . .

  Mother evidently wasn’t coming, but she had done what was much the same thing, she had gone to the drawing-room and begun to sing. It was for him, he guessed, or partly for him, and she had left the door open so that he might listen, for she knew that this was what he liked. He himself could sing most of her songs, and did, not only at the piano but all over the house. When Miss Sabine was there he was invariably called on to perform, but not when there was only Doctor Macrory, because Doctor Macrory, like Daddy, couldn’t tell one tune from another.

  I remember all you told me,

  Looking out where we did stand,

  While the night flowers poured their perfume

  Forth like stars from——

  The song Mother was singing was called “Edenland”. The tune had a waltz rhythm, which the accompaniment accentuated, so that it seemed to swing round and round inside you, rising at the end of each verse to a climax before dying away. In silence Tom’s body moved now with this mounting climax——

  And the path where we two wandered,

  And the path where we two wandered,

  Seemed not like earth, but Edenland,

  Seemed not like earth, like earth,

  But Edenland.

  Mother sang song after song, picking out his favourites——

  I think of all thou art to me,

  I dream of what thou canst not be,

  My life is filled with thoughts of thee,

  Forever and forever.

  Actually it should have been “My life is cursed with thoughts of thee”, but Mother had crossed out “cursed” and written “filled” above it. . . . He hoped she would sing “When Sparrows Build”; but these were the introductory bars of “My dearest Heart”, also a favourite——

  All the dreaming is broken through,

  Both what is done and undone I rue,

  Nothing is steadfast, nothing is true,

  But your love for me, and my love for you,

  My dearest, dearest heart.

  There were three verses to Arthur Sullivan’s song, and when it was finished, Mother was silent for a long while—so long that he began to think she must have stopped altogether. But he was wrong; she hadn’t; and now there came at last what he had been waiting for——

  When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth,

  My old sorrow wakes and cries,

  For I know there is dawn in the far, far north,

  And a scarlet sun doth rise;

  Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads,

  And the icy founts run free,

  And the bergs begin to bow their heads,

  And plunge and sail in the sea.

  O my lost love, and my own, own love,

  And my love that loved me so!

  Is there never a chink in the world above

  Where they listen to words from below?

  Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore,

  I remember all that I said,

  And now thou wilt hear me no more—no more

  Till the sea gives up her dead.

  We shall walk no more through the sodden plain

  With the faded bents o’erspread;

  We shall stand no more by the seething main

  While the dark wrack drives o’erhead;

  We shall part no more in the wind and the rain,

  Where thy last farewell was said;

  But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again

  When the sea gives up her dead.

  After that, he did not know how many more songs Mother sang, for he must have fallen asleep in the middle of one of them, and when he opened his eyes the night was gone, the sun was shining in at his window, and somewhere down below, Roger was barking. In a trice Tom was out of bed and hurriedly dressing. Out in the garden Roger greeted him with effusion, tore wildly round the lawn in a circle, and then, with Tom after him, raced on to the gate.

  It was a lovely morning—cloudless, cool, and fresh—the air extraordinarily clear. But it was impossible to keep up with Roger, who dashed on ahe
ad, and quickly was out of sight round the bend of the road. Well, he could just come back again, Tom thought, and slackened his pace to a walk It was only then that in the hedge, a few yards farther on, a door he had never before noticed was suddenly pushed open, and a girl looked out and beckoned to him. Tom did not know her, had never seen her before, and he stood gazing at her without either advancing or retreating. It was not that he was shy of strangers as a general rule, but this girl was so different from anybody he had ever met, or expected to meet, that he forgot his manners. For one thing, her skin was smooth as ivory, and pale yellow: for another, she had narrow dark eyes set obliquely under thin, slanting eyebrows; and her sleek black hair was drawn tightly back and rolled up on the top of her head. Her mouth was extremely small; her nose was rather long, and curved down to a point, almost like a parrot’s beak. Her dress was equally unusual, for it was gathered about her in loose voluminous folds that appeared to cling to her without any visible fastening. Moreover it was brilliantly blue and green and white, sprinkled all over with embroidered flowers, and she carried in her left hand a little fan. Certainly she was attractive, in a strange exotic fashion that seemed to him about three-quarters human. But this first, somewhat dubious impression lasted only till she spoke, when he immediately regained confidence; for her voice was beautiful—low and clear like a wood-pigeon’s—as she invited him to come in and look at her garden.

  She spoke and smiled so pleasantly that he couldn’t very well refuse, though really he wanted to go after Roger, who hadn’t returned, which was most unlike him. But he need only stay a minute or two, she told him; a single glance would show him what the garden was like; couldn’t he spare just a moment?—and her eyes glinted oddly over the fluttering fan.