Silence fell. Time to go. He drained the last sweet drop at the bottom of the glass, making a grey trail of melted sugar down the side, and stood up. Aunt Butters went to her corner cupboard, and fetched out the last ritual gift, a bag of his favourite sweeties, culled one by one from the mysterious glass jars in the shop. In the old days he used to stand behind her while she got them, nodding his head as her hand roved from jar to jar, too full of shy and holy happiness to speak his choice. Now he knew the selection would be unfailingly made to match his taste; with the exciting extra assurance that there would also be two or three new varieties put in on chance, to see if he liked them. Then, in a letter, he would let Aunt Butters know how he had enjoyed the new selection. If any one was a failure, he left it out: and, sure enough, it never appeared again. He and Aunt Butters did not talk openly about the sweets in these valedictory bags: only, sometimes, about new brands which she had been offered by the commercial travellers who visited her once a month to take her orders. There was an understood taboo on naming what went into the bags, which was partly respect for a tradition, and allowed also for a margin of surprise.
“Goodbye, Auntie. Thank you very much.”
He had learned now not to say “for the tea” and “for the sweets.” The thank you had to be for everything. It was vulgar to mention special things. Besides, it sounded as if perhaps there were things you were leaving out because you hadn’t enjoyed them.
“Goodbye, Georgie. Be a good boy.”
Aunt Butters stood blinking. She shook hands with him. Eddie, looking on, wondered why she never brought herself to kiss her nephew. He suspected she would have liked to, but not in front of him. She was shy, and Georgie was shy too. Still, it wasn’t right that a little boy should have no one to kiss him. Eddie never for an instant thought of doing it himself. It would have struck him as a purely feminine thing. A little girl, yes. A boy, never.
Now they were passing the shop door—Georgie allowed himself one more awe-filled glance into the darkness—and a moment later stood in the street. Aunt Butters followed them to the door. Once they were across the threshold, she was anxious to shut and bolt herself in. Knowing this, they turned and waved in a final manner. Uncle Eddie opened the door of the van, which he had christened Ivy, got out the great crank, and went to the front to wind up the engine. Georgie stood by the door, waiting while Uncle Eddie bent down and engaged in a struggle with the unpredictable mechanism. Sometimes the van would refuse to start, demanding of its owner a whole series of propitiatory journeys between the bonnet and the switches in front of the driver’s seat and a great deal of angry expostulation before it would jolt and leap into shuddering life. Uncle Eddie then had to dart back and fix the switches before the capricious engine stopped again. To begin with, Georgie had been put inside before this argument, but he found it agonizing to sit waiting and feel first the dull sulky spasms caused by Uncle Eddie’s jerking on the crank, and then, after a suspense that grew worse with each assault, to be all but lifted from his seat as the whole fabric roared and shook in violent reply. Nowadays he waited for Uncle Eddie to dart back triumphant and with hasty mysterious movements of his hands upon the switchboard reduce the mad pulsation to a more or less disciplined stutter.
Today, however, Ivy was in a good mood, obeying the third jerk, but emitting a cough like a pistol shot just to show that she was a van of character and that by her surrender she was in no way forfeiting her rights as an individual. Uncle Eddie skipped nimbly back to the switches, and in a second or two had her running robustly. Without waiting to be told, Georgie climbed in.
“Get Susie.”
Uncle Eddie had to shout above the noise of the engine. Georgie nodded, screwed himself round, reached to the first niche between the side of the van and the upright support which held the slats in place, and fetched out an old cushion.
He blushed a little as he did so, partly from pleasure, and partly from a sense of daring that amounted almost to blasphemy. Susan was Aunt Butters’ name. To call a cushion by it was something only Uncle Eddie could think of; it would be excusable in no one else. Georgie had often wondered, awe-stricken, whether Uncle Eddie had done it on purpose, but he had never dared to ask. By now his awe had sunk to a sort of amused horror. He felt a smile trying to take command of his face, and fought to keep it back. How could he want to laugh, after all Aunt Butters’ kindness, and with her sweets in his pocket!
The pleasure came from the cushion itself. It was his own, his very own special reserved cushion, that no one else was ever allowed to sit on. There was another cushion, a leather one, for other passengers. Uncle Eddie called it Sidney. Georgie had tried it once. It was large, stiff, cold against the back of his bare knees, and; with only Georgie’s weight to anchor it, it slid off the so-called seat every time the van went round a corner. Susie, on the other hand, was soft and cosy, so that he sank into the middle of her, and the rest billowed up on either side of him and kept him from bumping against the hard edges of the seat.
Uncle Eddie drove a long way round, though it was dusk now and one couldn’t see very far or very clearly. He drove past the barracks and along the edge of the great grassy fort that had been built ever so long ago, not to repel enemies, but to keep the rebellious townspeople in order. The lower slopes were covered with small trees, and, in the last of the light, Georgie could see that birds were starting to build their nests.
Uncle Eddie saw where he was looking.
“Next time we come, it’ll be light, and the first green will be on the trees.”
That was a deep and lovely thought. The first green. Next time. A memory of early summer swept over Georgie filling his heart with longing and an emotion which seemed bigger than he was, too big to be looked at or contained. It linked up at once with the prospect of working with Uncle Eddie and being his partner indeed. A wild sweet vision filled his imagination, in which he and Eddie drove in the van to the allotment, and in the warm summer evening picked the herbs for next day’s trade. Georgie saw it all so clearly; he could touch the funny beans and smell so strongly the crushed scent that rose, that he all but tipped sideways off the cushion. For one sharp forbidden instant he yearned to clasp Uncle Eddie round the waist and cry to him to take him home to his house now, for always, and never let him go.
“I will work for you until I die, Uncle Eddie, and never ask you for anything at all.”
His heart cried out, not his voice. Uncle Eddie, feeling the small body lean suddenly against him, glanced down and saw a solemn, almost podgy profile. Funny, self-possessed little chap, he thought. A good plucked ‘un. They seem kind to him in that place. We’ll make it up to him, one day.
He pulled out his turnip.
“Marchin’ orders, mate.”
“Yes, Uncle Eddie.”
The van turned, on a bit of waste ground, and rattled its way back towards the Orphanage.
Chapter 2
Georgie Bagshawe left the Orphanage at the age of sixteen, setting out into the world in a forty-shilling blue serge suit, a ten and sixpenny pair of brown shoes, a three and ninepenny Derby hat, with hope in his heart and a determination to work hard in his first job and be a credit to the institution which had been his home.
As the time for his departure drew near, it became plain to Georgie that his early suspicions had been correct, and that the partnership with Uncle Eddie was likely to remain a dream. True, Uncle Eddie asserted vehemently that it was only deferred, because of circumstances outside his control, and that the job found by the Orphanage was only a temporary arrangement, from which Georgie must be ready at any moment to be recalled. But Georgie, seeing his hero with an older eye, kept little expectation that the plan would come to pass. He did not love Uncle Eddie any the less, or bear him even the shadow of a grudge. The plan had been a source of happiness to them both, and, even though for a long time now he had never quite been able to believe in it, it had brightened many a dark hour. Besides, it might come true. One could never be sure.
The bond between him and Uncle Eddie was as close as ever, and the understanding as strong. This was the only point on which there was evasion, and it all came from Uncle Eddie. Georgie contributed no more than was needed to respond tactfully. The more magnificent and vague Uncle Eddie became—it was characteristic of him, Georgie now saw, to assert most vehemently the things he was least sure of—the more gently and unquestioningly did Georgie pretend with him that all was well. They even went so far, one wet evening, as to draw out to scale the new legend, PEN-BERTHY AND BAGSHAWE, which was to adorn the herbalist’s shop; and they had many discussions on policy and the management of the stock. These sessions left Uncle Eddie flushed and confident. Uncle Eddie would go away promising loudly to start preparations the very next morning, but the afflatus never lasted. Next time the pair met, Uncle Eddie, avoiding Georgie’s eye, would jerk out some reason for postponement.
“Only for a while, Georgie, pal o’ me heart. For two or three months—or five at the outside——”
Then there came a stronger reason. Uncle Eddie fell ill one spring with pneumonia, and was six weeks in hospital. He took a long time to get over this bout and, by unspoken agreement, all plans were dropped until he should be himself again. This was the illness that had made him seem thinner. After it, he stooped more than before, the flushed patches in his cheeks were brighter, and his eyes had a tendency to water. Georgie missed none of these changes, and to his love was added a protectiveness, a feeling so warm and strong that whenever Uncle Eddie seemed low-spirited and blustered in his efforts to hide it, all Georgie’s love would gather to a lump and bring tears to his eyes. He had faced, as almost certain, the thought that he would have to find work elsewhere, and, with hope and yet with half a smile at himself, he made a new dream. He dreamed that he should earn and save enough money, to help Uncle Eddie to build up his business: for, he told himself frankly, at last, after storms in his mind during which loyalty to Uncle Eddie and refusal to criticize him had battled against his rising common sense, the reason Uncle Eddie was not ready to take him into partnership was that he had fallen on hard times. The business had gone down. That illness was to blame, of course. In the long interval, some of his customers had gone elsewhere.
So it was no sort of surprise to Georgie when Mr Entik-napp sent for him, just before he was due to leave, and made surmise into fact.
Mr Entiknapp sat at his big desk. It was made of a rather ugly yellowish wood, and had a worn leather top. He coughed, cleared his throat, picked up a green bronze paperweight, and put it down again.
“Your—er—uncle—Mr Penberthy, that is—informs me that, owing to unforeseen circumstances, he is not yet ready to receive you into his business.”
“That’s right, sir.”
The Warden looked up. “He told you?”
“No, sir. Not exactly. But I rather expected it.”
Mr Entiknapp’s eyes dropped. There was a steady, limpid candour in Georgie’s which he found hard to meet. A kindly but not very imaginative man, he had a good idea of Georgie’s affection for the odd fish he called his uncle, and the boy’s eyes forced him to see how much this change of plan might mean.
Privately, he had no great opinion of Eddie, and had for some time ceased to hope that he would do anything for Georgie. He cleared his throat again.
“In that case, you won’t be too much disappointed. Especially as I have been so fortunate as to secure an exceptionally good position for you.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Yes.” Mr Entiknapp looked up and smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret, Bagshawe. I’ve had this position in mind for you for a long time. Three or four years, in fact. Yes. When I saw how you were coming on, and developing, I said to myself you were just the boy for it. Yes, I said to myself, Georgie Bagshawe is just the boy to suit my old friend Mr Burn-gullow. Indeed, I went further. I told him about you, let me see—oh—it’ll be eighteen months ago. Or two years. ‘Mr Burngullow,’ I said, ‘I’ve got just the boy for you. Good at his books,’ I told him. ‘He’ll suit you splendidly. Always provided, that is to say, that his uncle doesn’t want him.’”
As the Warden began, he saw a shadow pass over Georgie’s face. Interpreting it correctly as a feeling of hurt that he should so long ago have doubted Uncle Eddie’s promises, he added the proviso, and now elaborated it.
“’There is the idea,’ I said to Mr Burngullow quite frankly, because it never does not to be quite honest about these things, does it? ‘There is the idea,’ I said, ‘that he’s to join his uncle as soon as the state of the business makes it practicable. But, in the meantime, you couldn’t have a better or a steadier lad,’ I told him. There now—that’s high praise, isn’t it? So mind you justify it, and be a credit to us.”
“I’ll try my best, sir, I promise. It’s very kind of you.”
“I’m sure you will, Bagshawe. I’m sure you will.”
There was a pause. Georgie shifted his feet and coloured.
“Yes, Bagshawe?”
“Mr Burngullow, sir. Where does he live? And what sort is his business?”
Mr Entiknapp threw back his head and laughed noisily. He was surprised at his own relief that Georgie had taken the news so well. For some reason which he could never understand, Georgie had an effect on him different from that of any of the other hundred and twenty boys under his control.
“Well, well, what are we coming to! I’d quite forgotten to tell you. Matron says I’d forget my head, if it weren’t screwed on.”
Georgie smiled politely.
“Mr Burngullow owns a large draper’s shop. In fact, he owns four or five. The one we are sending you to is in Trelith-rick. It’s across the Tamar, I’m afraid: but it’s not far. A mere matter of two hours by train. You’ll be able to get back, from time to time, to see your aunt and—er—Mr Penberthy. You’re lucky that it’s in this branch the vacancy has occurred. It might have been Camborne. Or Penzance.”
Across the Tamar! in Cornwall! Georgie licked his lips, then answered steadily, “Yes, sir.”
“Yes. You’re very lucky. I wrote last month to Mr Burngullow and reminded him of his promise to take you. No answer came till yesterday. Mr Burngullow’s been ill; I didn’t know. A Mr Hooper wrote explaining why I hadn’t heard before.”
Mr Entiknapp got up, and stretched out his hand across the desk.
“I know you’ll do us credit. You’ll have a kind and godfearing employer. And I trust you will be happy.”
Georgie shook his hand. It was moist, but the grip was firm.
“I’ll do my best, sir. Thank you very much.”
The farewell from the Orphanage was not as sad as Georgie had feared. Now that the time had come to leave, he found himself clinging to the place and to the people he knew. No real warmth of affection existed between him and the Matron or any of the staff, but he had received nothing but kindness from them; the impersonal, antiseptic, undiscriminating kindness with which they treated all the boys in their charge. Had he known it, to the very limited extent they allowed themselves such latitude, Georgie was a favourite. A bo
y so obedient, so gentle, so dependable could not fail to be liked, the more so as he somehow escaped the dullness of many well-behaved young people. There was a streak of enterprise in him, and a firmness of character. When, as he came to senior status, he was given a little authority over the juniors, Georgie showed himself both kind and firm. Altogether, the staff reckoned that he would do them credit.
His actual departure was abrupt and rushed. Having had no further news of his friend, nor anything from Mr Hooper, Mr Entiknapp wrote again, saying that Georgie’s term had expired, and asking when he might expect to start work. No answer came for over a fortnight, and the Warden was about to write again when a curt letter from the branch acknowledged his esteemed communication, and said that if Mr Bagshawe was ready to join the establishment, the sooner he arrived the better, and the writer begged to remain, his faithfully, something quite illegible.
The manner of this communication puzzled Mr Entiknapp, but there was nothing obscure about its meaning. He sent for Georgie, they looked up trains, and found one due to leave in an hour’s time. Georgie hurried off to pack his very few possessions, bade Matron goodbye, returned to the Warden’s study, and received the parting gift of half a sovereign. His salary, Mr Entiknapp told him, had been fixed at twelve shillings a week, and he was to live in.
Train journeys were still a novelty to Georgie. He had not made a dozen in his life, and all but one in company. The yellow third-class ticket was more solid than a bus ticket, and he put it importantly in the special ticket pocket halfway down the left-hand inside of his jacket. The fitness of this action comforted him. He liked a world in which everything had its appropriate niche. To have a jacket specially equipped for the first occasion on which he wore it seemed to Georgie a good omen.
Deliverance Page 4