The Journeying Boy

by Michael Innes

  MY DEAR AGNES, – I am writing to excuse myself, with many apologies, from what I am sure will be a most delightful Mah Jong party on Friday. The fact is – I am going for a holiday – and to the West of Ireland! I leave on Thursday! And this means such a terrible rush!

  You will wonder how this has come about. Well, when my brother, Sir Charles, came to see me a short time ago it appeared to him that I was (only, I am sure, ever so slightly) run down, and he recommended the change and was so very generous as to provide for the financial side. You will appreciate the thoughtfulness of this the more when I tell you that my brother’s work is now extremely important and most confidential – and so absorbing that it is really charming of him to give such thought to the happiness and health of an elderly spinster sister. Were my dear father, Sir Herbert, alive he would, I am sure, be proud of his equally distinguished son. Woollens are the problem, even at this time of year, and particularly when one is going abroad. I am sure to be particularly interested in everything I find in Eire, as my father, a truly liberal man, was a great supporter of the late Mr Gladstone. And on the literary side there will be, I believe, views of Slieve League, Ben Bulben, and other places most romantically associated with Allingham, Mr Yeats, and other wonderful Irish writers.

  In great haste from one who is about to go out and hunt for woollen stockings (! !) and who remains,

  Your affectionate friend,

  MARGARET LIBERTY.

  Captain Cox to Miss Joyce Vane

  DEAR JOYCE, – I’m terribly sorry I shan’t be seeing you for some time, as on Thursday I’m off to Ireland with a kid who sounds a bit of a handful all round. This is a terrible bore! I’ve been making inquiries since I got the job and it appears that the lad’s father is a terrible scientific swell. He has a laboratory in which he cracks atoms much as you and I might crack nuts when lucky enough to be having one of our jolly dinners together. Perhaps this is why the lad is insisting on taking me to see a film with atom bombs in it just before we leave. It’s called Plutonium Blonde. But there is only one blonde for me and I will see her again as soon as I can.

  Love,

  PETER.

  Ivor Bolderwood to Cyril Bolderwood, Killyboffin Hall, Co. Donegal

  MY DEAR DAD, – I shall be returning by Stranraer tomorrow night, nearly everything here being satisfactorily cleared up, I am glad to say. Meanwhile this ought to catch this evening’s plane and let you have one piece of news. I called on cousin Paxton and expressed the hope that, being now more settled on this side of the world, we might a little better our acquaintance with him. Bernard is very much the great man (as is right and proper) but perhaps a little lacking in the simplicity of life and manner which one likes to think of as attaching to genius. He is – as we rather expected – unable to visit us this summer, having very important researches in hand. I was of course sorry about this but at the same time a shade relieved – suspecting that when he does go into the wilds it is to do all the orthodox things during the day, and to express complete rustication of an evening by donning nothing more elaborate than a boiled shirt and a black tie. But he did accept your invitation for his only boy, Humphrey, who will be crossing with a tutor on Thursday. Humphrey is of public-school age and will presumably want to fish and perhaps shoot. Billy will no doubt be able to do something about that. Bernard hinted darkly that Humphrey is something of a handful, and indeed that he has sometimes been afraid of his running away! What do you think of that? But soon he soft-pedalled on this theme, no doubt as not wanting to scale off relations like ourselves benevolently prepared to ‘solve the problems of the holidays’. As for the tutor, I gathered in a telephone conversation that he was to have been a Captain Peter Cox, VC, a worthy much too straight out of the romances of ‘Sapper’ to be quite our cup of tea. Do not, however, be alarmed! Now, it seems, the charge has been transferred to a Mr Thewless, whom Bernard described as ‘a very genteel man and something of a scholar’. Bernard had looked him up in some work of reference and found that he is given to writing little articles on Roman remains. So he may be quite a congenial man, and it occurs to me that he might be interested in the conical mound near Ballybags, which appears to me to be almost certainly defensive in type. Humphrey and this excellent bear-leader will be taking the light railway from Dundrane on Friday and you will no doubt send Billy to meet them.

  Your affectionate son,

  IVOR.

  4

  As he drove to Euston, Mr Thewless, having a tidy mind, endeavoured to sort out his misgivings. He did not believe that Sir Bernard Paxton had read his article on the Roman villa excavated at Little Slumber. Being anxious to secure his services after all, Sir Bernard had simply looked him up in the likelier bibliographies and added a postscript designed to please. Every summer, as Mr Thewless very well knew, scores of Thewlesses attach themselves to little archaeological enterprises and happily potter away their holidays in insignificant siftings of the rubbish-dumps of the legionaries… But in Ireland – thought Mr Thewless irrelevantly – the armies of Rome had never set foot. There the Imperial Eagles had never been borne along the unending arrow-like roads that were the arteries of Latin culture. And the island was the worse of it to this day. Because the praetors of Augustus had left it to the generals of Elizabeth, to the Earl of Essex and Lord Grey de Wilton…

  But these scholastic reveries – thought Mr Thewless, bumped awake as his taxi jerked to a stop in a traffic-block – were off the present point. Sir Bernard was paying too much, too. For a residential holiday post five guineas would have been adequate and eight handsome. Fifteen was merely ominous. And along with the offer of it there had come fresh and disconcerting information. Humphrey Paxton was not merely difficult. There was now the suggestion that the unfortunate lad was a little off his head, and disposed to imagine conspiracies and dangers around him. It was with this that Mr Thewless was to be landed in the depths of Ireland and in a household of which he knew nothing.

  Mr Thewless frowned at the humped back of the taxi-driver. These were merely the reactions of a new housemaid who learns that it is two miles to the nearest bus stop. Rightly regarded, if the job was difficult it thereby carried only the more dignity. This was Paxton’s boy – say Newton’s, Galileo’s boy. The child of genius… And it was up to the new tutor to see him through.

  But there was the additional annoyance that Sir Bernard himself might not appear again. There had been the suggestion that the great man might be ‘urgently called away’. The quite childish suspicion came to Mr Thewless that he was really, in the vulgar phrase, being led up the garden path – or left holding the baby. Perhaps Sir Bernard had reason to avoid or dread a parting at a railway station. Perhaps in all innocence, but at the beckoning of the unconscious mind, he had contrived that the urgent calling away should happen. Perhaps here at Euston there would be immediate and embarrassing difficulty. Mr Thewless had a horrid vision of a lusty fifteen-year-old boy indulging in a hysterical fit on the platform… Various ineffective schemes occurred to him. They would see if any of the automatic machines were working. They would walk up and look at the engine. They would buy large numbers of banal illustrated journals. They would look for chocolate-coated ice-creams. Distraction was the proper technique.

  The taxi-door was flung open and Mr Thewless, emerging, gave directions for the disposal of his luggage. Unlike many of those who excavate Roman villas, he never found small matters of this sort harassing and he seldom muddled them. It was already a couple of minutes after half past four as he made his way to the appointed rendezvous. There was nobody there.

  Misgiving returned. If Sir Bernard was indeed not bringing the boy to the station, what reason was there to suppose that the boy would actually come? It was true that his father believed him anxious to go to Ireland – but what more likely than that when it came to the point panic might seize a nervous child? Mr Thewless paced up and down. He bought some tobacco and paced up and down once more. It was after twenty-five to five. Suddenly a fantastic t
hought – or rather a fantastic mental experience – came to him. Sir Bernard Paxton was one of the most important men in England – and not important in any insulated world of science merely. There no longer existed such an insulated world. He must be important – vastly important – to those who played for power. For ultimate power. For the very dominion of the earth. Was it not conceivable that his own child…?

  Mr Thewless halted, amazed at himself. He never read gangster stories. He never even read that milder sensational fiction, nicely top-dressed with a compost of literature and the arts, which is produced by idle persons living in colleges and rectories. Whence, then, did this sudden vivid fantasy come? He found himself staring unseeingly at some unintelligible piece of machinery displayed in a glass case. He turned and hurried out into the main courtyard of the station.

  A taxi was just drawing up. The door burst open and he saw untidy black hair and black eyes glancing slantwise from a pale face – with crowning these the sort of flattened bowler hat which some public schools still consider essential for young travellers. The boy jumped from the taxi, and as he did so hauled from an inner pocket a large watch on a leather strap. Mr Thewless went up to him. ‘Are you Humphrey Paxton?’

  Startled eyes regarded him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought’ – and Mr Thewless nodded at the watch – ‘that I recognized Master Humphrey’s Clock.’

  The boy gave a yelp of laughter, instantly taking and joyously appreciating the unremarkable joke. Then his eyes narrowed and Mr Thewless saw them suddenly flood with anxiety, suspicion, distrust. ‘Are you Mr Thewless, my tutor?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘I am. And you have arrived just in comfortable time.’

  ‘Let me see your passport, please.’

  Mr Thewless opened his mouth – and checked himself. From an inner pocket he produced the document and handed it over.

  And the boy scanned it with extraordinary intensity. Then he handed it back. ‘Excuse me.’ He turned away and tumbled some coins into the hands of the taxi-driver – and his own hands, Mr Thewless noticed, were trembling. Another taxi had drawn up behind. The boy spun round upon it. An elderly lady got out. The boy gave an odd gasp; it might have been of either relief or dismay. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘here I am. And I’m most terribly sorry to be late. I’ve got the tickets and my gear is in the Left Luggage. Daddy couldn’t come. It’s not too late?’

  ‘Not a bit. Did the dentist keep you?’

  ‘The dentist?’ The boy looked blank. ‘Oh, well – it was all horrid. And then I had to go home for something. I just had to go. I’m frightfully sorry. It was terrible cheek, keeping you waiting.’ He paused, and his eyes flashed again at Mr Thewless. ‘What’s the first line of the Aeneid?’

  ‘Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris.’ And Mr Thewless smiled. ‘Perhaps you can tell me the second?’

  ‘The second?’

  ‘Certainly. If you want to be sure it’s me, I want to be sure it’s you.’

  ‘I see.’ And Humphrey Paxton gave a quick and decisive nod. ‘Italiam fato profugus Laviniaque venit.’ He frowned. ‘Would we have time to make a short telephone call?’

  ‘Only just.’

  ‘Is there anyone in London that you know very well?’

  ‘I have a sister who lives in London.’

  They had been walking through the station, and now Humphrey halted by a telephone box. ‘Will you ring her up and say just the words I tell you?’

  Mr Thewless nodded gravely. ‘Unless they are quite unsuitable words, I have no objection at all. Come along.’ They entered the telephone box together and he produced twopence. ‘What is it that I am to say?’

  Humphrey considered. ‘What is your sister’s name, please?’

  ‘Harriet.’

  ‘Then say “Hullo, Harriet, I hoped I’d find you in” – and hand the receiver to me.’

  Mr Thewless did as he was bid. The lad, he thought, was quite unbalanced. Nevertheless, he was capable; he ought certainly to have got School Certificate long ago… He heard his sister’s voice. ‘Hullo, Harriet,’ he said, ‘I hoped I’d find you in.’ And he handed the receiver to Humphrey.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Humphrey’s voice was apologetic, but not exaggeratedly so. ‘Would you mind telling me who has just spoken to you?’ He listened. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Would you please hold on?’ He handed the receiver back to Mr Thewless. ‘You may care to explain,’ he said seriously. And he slipped from the telephone box.

  Mr Thewless explained – briefly, for his eye was on his watch. He set down the receiver and emerged briskly. ‘And now we run for it, Humphrey. We have ten minutes, but there’s often a queue at the Left Luggage. Porter!’ And he hurried forward. Humphrey Paxton, it was clear, fought with phantoms, and a sympathetic understanding was necessary. After all, it was only in point of their intensity that such dire imaginings as apparently beset the boy were abnormal. Only a few minutes before his own well-ordered mind had been invaded by some sensational and alarming notion – fleetingly indeed, so that he no longer remembered what it had been about… At the moment he must simply show Humphrey that the phantoms had no power over the actual world; that the holiday upon which they were embarked went smoothly forward on its predetermined way. ‘What about the tickets?’ he asked briskly.

  And Humphrey produced an envelope. ‘Everything is there, sir.’ His voice was meek and suddenly that of a much younger boy. Mr Thewless glanced at him. He was moving dreamily forward, sucking his thumb.

  They still had seven minutes when Humphrey’s suitcases had been added to those of Mr Thewless on a barrow. Their porter was moving off when he was recalled by the man at the counter. ‘Paxton, was that? There’s something else came in later.’ And he pushed forward a heavy and slender object in a canvas case.

  Humphrey’s thumb came out of his mouth; he turned and himself seized this new piece of luggage with quick curiosity. ‘It’s a gun!’ he cried – and so loudly that people turned to stare. His eyes blazed. To be young! thought Mr Thewless. To have so swift and passionate a capacity for pleasure, for exultation! A clatter disturbed this reflection. Humphrey had flung the swathed shot-gun back on the counter. ‘I don’t want the horrible thing,’ he said. ‘Take it away. It’s not mine.’

  Mr Thewless looked at the label. ‘It’s addressed to you, Humphrey, and has been delivered here by special messenger. Your father must have meant it for a surprise.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do such a thing – unless prompted. Did you prompt him?’ And Humphrey looked at his tutor accusingly. ‘Do you think I want a horrible gun to go shooting living things with?’

  ‘I can see you don’t. And I certainly didn’t suggest a gun to your father. But there it is.’

  Humphrey shot out a finger and pointed at the clerk behind the counter. The whole scene was uncomfortably dramatic, and there was now a little crowd to watch it. ‘Do you think he would like it? He could sell it and buy toys for his children.’

  Mr Thewless smiled. ‘I don’t think he would be allowed to take it, just like that. But if you don’t want it we can leave it here and make some arrangement when we get back.’

  ‘I don’t know that we shall get back.’ Humphrey’s glance as he uttered this dark absurdity was travelling rapidly over the people round about. ‘We’ll take it,’ he said abruptly. ‘Come on.’ And he tucked the shot-gun under his arm and strode forward.

  Mr Thewless, had there been leisure for the action, might have paused to mop his brow. As it was, he hurried after the porter, who was trotting in sinister haste far in front of them. Their coach was A3, which meant right at the front of the interminable train. They gained it, however, with a good half-minute to spare. The man piled their luggage on the racks. Mr Thewless handed him a shilling and then, after rapid calculation, a further sixpence. The train was moving.

  ‘We’ve done it!’

  Humphrey’s voice had rung out surprisingly. So might the earth’s first space-traveller exclaim as his rocket took of
f for the moon. The two other occupants of the compartment looked up, smiling. One was a bearded man with pebbly glasses. The other was the elderly lady who had been in the taxi behind Humphrey’s. On one side a towering brick wall was gliding past them; on the other were lines of sleeping-cars, themselves apparently fast asleep in the afternoon sunshine. Presently the whole sprawl of North London would be hurtling southwards. Then the Midlands. There would be no pause till Crewe.

  Mr Thewless, tucking his gloves into a crevice on the rack above his head, heard a sigh behind him, and when he turned to his pupil it was to observe that some quick reaction had seized the boy. Humphrey was curled up in the corner seat opposite, his head just above the level of the window-frame, staring out with unseeing eyes. He had grown to a casual seeming smaller and younger, and yet at the same time he appeared to be supporting some unnatural burden of years. His brow was slightly puckered and for the first time Mr Thewless noticed that there were dark lines under his black eyes.

  In fact, Humphrey Paxton had retired into a sort of infantile privacy, like some unhappy small boy being taken to his first private school. And into that privacy it was necessary to intrude. That, Mr Thewless saw with some misgiving, was a condition of getting anywhere. Somehow – and the sooner the better – he had to rap firmly on the door and walk in.

  But it would assuredly be useless to force the lock. For the moment at least it might be best to leave Humphrey alone. Mr Thewless, therefore, got out his book – it was a volume of verse – and opened it. He read a page with reasonable concentration – it would never do to let his professional problem of the moment obsess him – and turned over to the next. And here his mind must a little have wandered, for it was some moments before the oddity of what had occurred came home to him. What he had stumbled on was in the form of a rhetorical question; and it was substantially the question that he now realized to be forming itself with some urgency in his own mind about his new pupil. Acting on impulse, he leant forward and handed Humphrey the book. ‘Do you know this?’ he asked. ‘The one called “Midnight on the Great Western”.’ And he pointed to the place on the page.