As if Hugo could read his thoughts, he said, ‘Perhaps I’d better tell you, it’s my sister. I think she’s going to meet a man and she hasn’t told Mother or me anything about him.’
As always, when Hugo spoke the truth, his words carried full conviction. The driver smiled and said, ‘My word! It’s like that, is it? It struck me as rather rum that a fellow as young as you are should be chasing women. But don’t you think it’s a bit—what shall I say?—a bit low-down and sneaky to go spying on her?’
Hugo affected to consider this point, then answered, ‘No, I don’t think it is. I think I ought to know where she goes. She’s never been one to have men-friends before, and I don’t suppose she knows how to look after herself.’
The driver chuckled. ‘Meaning, of course, you do! And I dare say you can, though one wouldn’t think it, to look at you. Well, I’ll do my best.’ Then he added, ‘Have you no father?’
Hugo shook his head, ‘No, he was killed in the war. There’s only Mother and Magda and me.’ In his pedantic way, he would have liked to say, ‘There are only Mother and Magda and I,’ but he thought the bad grammar would be more endearing.
Five minutes passed, then Hugo said, ‘There she is, in her dark blue coat. It’s her best. I think I’ll crouch down a bit, till she gets on the bus.’ And he made himself so small that the cab looked empty. ‘Yes, it is a 27. Now we shall see.’
The chase began. Both Hugo and his driver found it much more difficult than they had supposed it would be to keep track of the bus without getting too far ahead or too far behind. In books, such exploits often appear very simple. ‘Driver, follow that car, and there’ll be a guinea for you!’ And he gets the guinea, however skilfully the car he’s pursuing dodges through the traffic and twists down side-streets in an effort to throw the sleuths off the scent. But Hugo’s driver was cast in a different mould. He was not one to whom an adventurer would have entrusted a confidential mission,—not because he was unreliable, but because he was too slow-witted and innocent.
The homeward rush to the suburbs had started already and the traffic was thickening. He began to sweat under the strain and said through the window, ‘I’m taking your money under false pretences, sonny. I’m no hand at this game. Hadn’t we better call it a day? I’ll drive you home free of charge.’
Hugo said, ‘No, please go on. I’ve a feeling we shan’t lose sight of her. But if we do, I shan’t blame you.’
The task would have been hopeless if the bus had been a crawler,—one of those that exasperate the passengers by loitering at every stop and getting themselves caught deliberately in every traffic-block and at every change of the lights. (The ignorant public, instead of blaming the driver, who wants his cup of tea as much as they do, should remember that buses run to a time-table, and that if they’ve made too much ground, they must contrive to lose it before they reach the inspector at the control-point.)
But the particular bus that Hugo was following, was in the opposite predicament. It was behind its time. This meant short waits at the compulsory stops and perhaps a blind eye turned towards the request stops. The great thing was, it kept on the move as steadily as it could, which made the pursuit very much easier. Once or twice, the taxi-driver said pathetically, ‘I couldn’t see that stop: she may have got off,’ but Hugo answered, ‘I’m almost sure she didn’t. Besides, I think this street is rather too shabby. Let’s go on.’
They had an anxious moment at Kew Bridge, where a great many passengers got out, but Hugo declared that Magda was not among them, and they drove down the long road past Kew Gardens. Much the same happened when they crossed the river again by Richmond Bridge. In fact, the driver said, ‘There she goes,—blue coat and black hat. We’d better turn round.’ But Hugo said, ‘That woman’s too fat for Magda. Magda’s skinny and taller. Please do go on.’ So they went along Richmond Road, past Marble Hill Park and right into Twickenham, where they had their reward. Hugo clapped his hands like a child and shouted, ‘She’s out! She’s got out! She’s turned up there to the right. Now all we have to do is to go very slowly and find where she goes to.’ The driver said, ‘Yes, but we mustn’t let her notice we’re following her, or she might suspect something.’ Hugo shrewdly replied, ‘Oh, she’ll be far too busy thinking of the man she’s going to meet, to notice us. Still, I’ll keep out of sight, just in case she looks round.’ And he crouched down again, with his eyes on the level of the bottom of the window.
Magda was walking quickly, and her course zigzagged into a residential quarter some way from the river. Then she paused in front of a not very modern block of flats, took a latch-key out of her bag and went straight in, through a side-door.
Hugo said, ‘Well, this seems to be it.’ Then the driver, prompted by his reading of detective-stories, said, ‘If you’d like to look round, I can always pretend to be doing something to the cab.’ He got out, opened the bonnet, bent down and in traditional fashion presented such a view of his ample rump that it could hardly fail to convince a watcher at a window above that heavy repairs were in progress down below. Hugo too got out, by the door on the far side, and crept round towards the flats in the shadow of some laurels.
A notice-board by the road proclaimed the block to be Underbourne Mansions. It needed repainting badly, and so, if one could judge in the stingy light which shone above the three entrance-doors, did the building itself. Between it and the road there was a strip of garden, ambitiously laid out as a rockery, but the effort or the expense of keeping it up must have been too great: for it was full of half-dead weeds and sickly-looking shrubs.
‘Not very posh,’ said the driver and straightened himself, rubbing the small of his back, where the bending had caught him. ‘Now what do we do?’ Hugo hung his head thoughtfully, feeling suddenly rather forlorn and helpless. ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’ The driver scratched his head in perplexity. Here again, Hugo’s choice of a chauffeur, though in other ways admirable, proved at fault. Most taxi-drivers—at least, most London taxi-drivers,—are supposed to be men of the world, closely acquainted with every variety of amorous intrigue that the city has to offer. Some of them—for a suitable fee—would have played the private-detective quite adroitly,—questioned hall-porters, chummed up with chars, invented errands to gain access to the building and memorised the lists of names by each entrance. But Hugo’s driver could only scratch his head and say after a very long pause, ‘Well, you could, I suppose, go inside and tell the porter—though I must say, I haven’t seen one about—that your sister’s in one of the flats and you want to see her on—on very urgent family affairs!’ As he produced the last phrase—a formula that he had learnt in the First World War,—he smacked his lips at its appropriateness.
Hugo said, ‘But I don’t want to see her at all. I think I’d better get back into the cab. Why, it’s after six!’ The taxi-man nodded and said, ‘Yes, that’s why there’s nobody about just now. They’ll all be listening to the six o’clock news. Credit squeeze to be tighter—no more hire-purchase—and a wife who won’t give me any peace at all till she gets a new washing-machine.’ Hugo asked, ‘How much have I spent up to now, if we go straight back?’ The driver looked at the meter and did some calculations. ‘Well, we’ll call it thirty-five bob, all in, if that’s all right.’ Hugo told him it would be quite all right, but added, ‘Mind, I want you to treat me like a proper customer. Well, I suppose we’d better be off. I wish there were a seat in front. It would be so much easier to talk to you.’ The driver said, ‘Oh, in my job, you have to learn to talk backwards through the window.’
He opened the door of the cab, helped Hugo in, then hoisted himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine. While they were rumbling in bottom gear up a slight incline, a man hurried past them towards the entrance of Underbourne Mansions. He paused for a second in the light of a street-lamp to look at his wrist-watch, while Hugo put his head through the side window and stared back at him. Then, as soon as they were over the brow of the little hill,
he shouted through the partition, ‘I’ve seen the man! I know him! It’s—no, I’d better not tell you, but, my word, what would Mother say—what would she say!’
‘You don’t want to go back and have it out with him?’ the driver asked rather apprehensively. He had seen the man and noticed his vigorous stride and thought he looked a tough customer.
‘Oh no,’ Hugo crooned. ‘You don’t understand. It isn’t like that at all. I know everything now,—all I wanted to know.’ And he concluded, like a distinguished guest complimenting his hostess, ‘This afternoon has been a great success!’
They didn’t speak to one another again till they had got through the Hammersmith bottle-neck. Then the driver said, reflectively and sadly, ‘You know, sonny, if I was you, I shouldn’t be too hard on your sister. You’re only young once and there isn’t very much left for you afterwards, whatever people say. I had my chances and I didn’t take them—and look where it’s landed me. Don’t blame your sister, if she’s making the most of her chances while she can.’
Hugo said, ‘I don’t blame her, exactly.’ Then he added, in a voice which sounded as if his emotions were stirred, ‘But it’s so unfair. She can go out and have men whenever she likes, and I—I’ve got to potter about at home and see nobody but the people who come to our street——’ He stopped suddenly, realising that this remark might be disloyal to his friend the dustman.
The taxi-man did his best to be sympathetic. ‘But, sonny, when I talked about being young, I didn’t mean being as young as you are. You wait another five years or maybe less, and you can be sure some nice girl will come along and take a fancy to you.’
Hugo shouted, ‘I don’t want what you call a nice girl.’ Then he added more softly, ‘You forget, I’m a cripple. A lot of funny things may happen to me, if I live, but there’s one thing I can promise you—I shall never marry.’
The driver, who felt sore at having his well-meant advice so roundly rejected, didn’t speak again till they reached Olympia. Then he said, rather shortly, ‘Now, Guv’nor, where would you like me to set you down?’
‘Where Pollitt Crescent turns into Pollitt Square. I live quite close, but it wouldn’t do for me to be seen coming home in a taxi.’ The driver said, ‘Right-ho,’ and then added in a lower, yet audible tone, ‘That’s still one of our swanky neighbourhoods,—full of old cats with daughters going astray.’
But when Hugo got out, looking tense and very tired, the man’s heart melted, and he said, ‘Look here, sonny, I don’t want to be greedy. It’s been an interesting afternoon for me—something I’ve never done before—far better than the pictures. Thirty bob will pay my expenses all right. You keep the rest. I expect you can do with it.’
Hugo looked at him gravely, as if weighing up his moral attributes, and said, ‘No, that won’t do. You’ve been good to me, and I want to show you I’m grateful. I’m going to give you two pounds. If you don’t take it, I shan’t wish you good night. I can afford it. Please?’
The cherub-face smiled, the taxi-man hesitated, then took the money and shook Hugo’s hand.
[2]
Hugo had a late supper with his mother that night, since, in Magda’s absence, she had to look after Miss Tredennick. They didn’t talk very much to one another; for both of them had a good deal to think about. But Mrs Muller’s thoughts had a way of uttering themselves aloud, and towards the end of the meal one of them came out.
‘Well, I hope she doesn’t bring it back with her!’
‘What did you say?’ asked Hugo, abstractedly.
‘I was thinking of Magda. I knew she was seeing Josephine tonight, but she didn’t tell me till just before she went out that Josephine had the ’flu. It would be a business if we all caught it—just before Christmas, too. This Josephine has got plenty of other friends, and she never used to bother with Magda very much. She shouldn’t have sent for her. And Mr Bray so frightened of microbes. I don’t suppose he’d let Magda do his room, if he knew.’
Hugo said, after a short silence, ‘Mother, do you think I ought to give a Christmas present to Mrs Fawley?’
‘To Mrs Fawley? Why ever should you, Hugo? She gives me and Magda a little present—some cheapish handkerchiefs, or something like that—and we send her a card, but she’s never given anything to you. Or if she has, you’ve never told me about it.’
She looked at Hugo suspiciously, but he answered, ‘No, Mother, she hasn’t. But I feel I should like to give her something this year, or at least send her a card of my own. I’m quite old enough to do that now.’
His mother said grudgingly, ‘Well, I suppose there wouldn’t be any harm in that—though, of course, you must address it to both of them—Mr and Mrs Fawley. But I shouldn’t waste the money if I was you. You’ll be sending Miss Tredennick a card, of course, and it might be nice to give her a little present. She’s been very good to you this year. And you could send a card to Mr Bray. You remember, he gave you ten shillings last Christmas, and I expect he’ll do the same this year. But those Fawleys,—they’ve never seemed quite to belong to this house, like the other two do. Perhaps it’s because we don’t do anything for them, excepting the hall and the stairs. But they take that for granted, as it’s in their lease. Won’t you have some more pudding, dear? It’ll do you good.’
‘No, thank you. I’m not very hungry to-night.’
‘You’re tired, dear. You’ve never really told me what you did this afternoon.’
‘Yes, I did. I told you I went exploring.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘In the Hammersmith direction.’
‘But, Hugo, that’s a horrid, rough part. What could you find to interest you there?’
‘The river’s pretty, with the lights on the bridge.’
Mrs Muller began to clear the dishes away, while Hugo sat silent, folding his table-napkin—his mother had always brought him up to use one—in a fantastic pattern. Then, when she had started to wash up, he said, ‘Mother, what were those papers I saw in the sitting-room—on Magda’s desk? I saw the envelope they came in this morning. It was addressed to her, but it had printed on it, The Albany Secretarial College. Is she going to stop doing house-work?’
‘No, Hugo. I meant to tell you. She got those papers—the—what do they call it?’
‘The prospectus?’
‘Yes, the prospectus—for you. She’s been on at me for some time about it. At first I said no, but she said, well, there couldn’t be any harm in her just writing for particulars and I had to agree. You see, she thinks you might be very much happier if you began to learn how to make a living for yourself. It isn’t like an ordinary school. They don’t have masters or games or anything of that sort. They have tutors who coach you—like Mr Middleton does, only he doesn’t seem to teach you anything useful. Don’t you think you might like to try it, just for a term? Even if it didn’t turn out to be much use, it would give you something to do, instead of sitting and reading alone and going out for your little lonely walks. The other boys would be very nice to you—they wouldn’t be at all like ordinary schoolboys. And you need hardly see them unless you wanted to.’
Hugo’s face had gone very pale, and he raised his upper lip, showing his teeth like an animal that threatens to bite.
‘So it was Magda who wrote to this college?’ he asked.
‘Yes, dear, but I knew she was going to. After all, she’s quite right. You see—it’s horrid even to speak of such awful things, but you won’t always have me. People have accidents and sudden illnesses and—oh, Hugo dear, I hope you’ll never need to work, and as long as I live and can work, I’ll do my best to save you from that—but I shan’t live for ever.’ She shuddered as she spoke those gloomy words, which suddenly put her in mind of Hugo’s prophecy about someone dying in the house before the end of the year. Then, with an attempt at cheerfulness, she went on, ‘Besides, when you’re grown up—and that won’t be so very long now—you can’t just go to Mr Middleton in the mornings and hang about the house fo
r the rest of the day. Why, darling, what’s the matter?’
He hid his face with his hands, so that nothing but his blond little head was showing, and began to sob loudly. His mother left the sink and put her arms round him. She could feel him trembling, while he nestled against her.
Between outbursts of tears, he gasped, ‘I want to stay as I am—I don’t want to grow up. Nobody loves a grown man—at least, not the kind of person I want to love me—and not in the way I want to be loved.’
She stroked his hair and said, ‘Never mind, Hugo darling. You may feel different about it all some day,—but till you do, you can go on just as you are. But you know, you’re a clever boy, and you oughtn’t to waste your gifts.’
He broke free from her embrace and said defiantly, ‘I shan’t ever feel different from what I am now,—really different, that is. And I don’t want to learn the kind of things they teach you at these schools,—useful things, they call them, like bookkeeping and shorthand. Mr Middleton calls them competitive things. I want to learn exquisite poetry, like Tennyson and Byron and Milton. And I want to go on with my Latin. I want to read Catullus and Virgil and Horace—you wouldn’t know who they are, but Miss Tredennick knows. Her father used to read Horace, and she’s recited some of it to me. And I want to write—like Mr Bray, but much better—Mr Middleton says his novels are middle-brow—and to draw—but the kind of pictures I like, not pictures to sell.’
Delighted to find him more rational, Mrs Muller said, ‘Well, of course you might make a name by writing—some wonderful play, that they’d do on TV——’ Hugo gave her a look of contempt, but she went on bravely, ‘Still a day may come when you’ll have to earn your own living and for your own sake you ought to be prepared for it.’
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