Little Nelson

by Norman Collins

  On her part Mrs Mewkes was just as thorough. She noted every detail of the household arrangements. Mondays and Tuesdays were hopeless: Hilda simply shut herself up in her room like a meditating nun. Wednesdays were more promising because, in the old days, Hilda had always made a point of visiting the Meals on Wheels organizer, not actually to do anything, more to show the flag as it were. But, of late, even that banner had remained undisplayed. Thursday was another dies non, with the bedroom door locked and the extraordinary sound as of something on wheels coming from within. Friday was, then, the only day. Every Friday at 10.30 the Reverend Woods-Denton went round to the local C. of E. Primary to put some backbone, to use his own expression, into their Religious Instruction classes; and he was never back much before lunch time. That, too, was the day when Hilda went round to the church to see about the flowers. Her brother was a Low-Churchman, an Evangelical. Ritual and display were obnoxious to him, and it was essential that someone who knew his mind should supervize the decorations. The browner sort of chrysanthemums were, when available, what he preferred with, of course, holly (no mistletoe) at the appropriate season.

  On the following Friday, therefore, Mrs Mewkes was in the front hall as Hilda left the house and, stepping round to the sitting room, Mrs Mewkes stood watching her go down the path. Even then she did not move. By the presentation clock on the mantelshelf she gave Hilda a full ten minutes to get clear. Then she began to mount the stairs.

  She had the whole foray worked out. The Vicarage was builder-built rather than architect-designed, and the upper landing had no natural light at all. That was why a plain glass fanlight had been let into the wall over Hilda’s door. It was towards this vantage point that Mrs Mewkes was now making. A Gothic, vestry-looking chair stood outside Cyril’s door and this was to be Mrs Mewkes’s vantage point, her look-out. Stealthily, cautiously, she dragged the chair along the landing.

  She could, in fact, have saved herself the trouble of so much stealth. She was a large and heavy woman, and Little Nelson had been following her every movement. He was, indeed, right up against the key-hole when on the other side of the panel the chair was placed there. And he had an unimpaired view of Mrs Mewkes’s massive foreleg as she lifted her skirt and began to climb into position. Then, for the first time, Little Nelson realized his peril. Not since last winter’s heavy falls of snow down beside the pool had he felt such waves of cold run through him. He began to shake. To shake, but not to panic. Going down flat on his stomach, he squirmed his way under the bed and, keeping his head below mattress level, wormed his way into the wardrobe.

  And only just in time. A moment later, Mrs Mewkes’s flat, expressionless face appeared at the fanlight. And she let out a gasp of sheer astonishment. It was all that she had feared, and Little Nelson could hear the chair creak as she rocked back upon her heels. There, down below on the carpet, she could see an untouched plate of bread-and-butter fingers, a medicine glass of milk filled nearly to the top, and a low-built four-wheel truck with a battered teddy bear sitting upright as though he were driving it.

  Then Mrs Mewkes realized the truth. Poor Hilda, broken at last under the strain of Meals on Wheels, church decorations and all the rest of it, had reverted to second childhood. She was now helpless, a pathetic dependent invalid. And the Vicar, true Christian soldier that he was, had rallied to conceal the awful truth from her friends and his parishioners.

  Concealment of the truth, however, was some thing that stuck in Mrs Mewkes’s gullet. She had an abhorence of hanky-panky in any form, and here it was flowering at its most flagrant. It was all too clear that she would have to go on keeping an eye on things. Sweating slightly, she lowered herself by degrees from the high Gothic chair. Again it creaked protestingly during her descent. Breathless and panting, she began brushing herself down.

  Inside the wardrobe Little Nelson was sweating, too. A faint mist of perspiration was now clinging to his forehead. Nor was this surprising. The consciousness of being spied on is always unpleasant. But Little Nelson’s mind was working fast. Already, he had his own plan of counter-espionage.

  It would take time, but he was determined to make it work.

  The intricacies of inter-sectarian theology had proved too much even for The Times. For a full week, impishness had not even once been mentioned. What had taken its place and was being just as angrily debated, was the identity of the three gnomes. The Albert Hall and the Covent Garden incidents were both closely analysed. Indeed, as the enquiry went on, the question arose as to whether they were the same three gnomes who earlier in the year had set Mr Meehan’s milk-float in motion – to say nothing of those who had taken part in that unseemly race through the Chamber of the Commons while the House was still in session.

  An animal behaviourist from Bristol University suggested that, just as hunting lionesses move off in three or fours when in pursuit of their prey, so a trio in gnome society could be assumed to be the natural zoological unit. On the other hand a music lover, writing from St John’s Wood, contended that it was improbable that the barbarian attitude shown to both Vaughan Williams and Ballet would extend throughout the entire species and that the three miscreants were probably mere gnome drop-outs, miniature misfits, the sort who could be relied on to disrupt gnome football matches, if there were such things.

  And poor Cyril, so painfully dependent on his Times, was growing hopelessly confused again. His mind was now full of hunting lionesses and delinquent threesomes, and his work in the parish began to be affected. He visited some of the sick twice in a single day, even, in one instance, twice in a single morning. Services of marriage and baptism became noticeably vague and perfunctory as though his thoughts were elsewhere – as indeed they were.

  The actual breakdown, the public demonstration of pastoral incompetence, took place during a Civic Week sermon delivered to a congregation of neighbourhood tradesmen and borough councillors. It had already been a long and more than usually rambling sermon when the preacher happened, in passing and purely by accident, to mention the credal belief in the Trinity. Why he should have done so he could not remember but, once he had uttered the words, they triggered something off and he was away again.

  ‘Are they, we ask ourselves,’ he demanded rhetorically, ‘necessarily the same three, or could they not be a different three? Are they the three we keep reading about in the papers or another three who may crop up again at any moment? How many threes there are we may never know. And do we really need to know? Is it not perhaps better that we should leave to others what we do not know ourselves? Remember that hunting lionesses setting out as dusk

  That was when the verger mounted the pulpit steps, and touched him gently on the arm. At first the Reverend Cyril Woods-Denton did not appear to understand. He insisted on finishing his next sentence, which was all in praise of Vaughan Williams. But the verger, though gentle, was firm. He switched off the pulpit light and unplugged the microphone. Then taking a firm grip on his charge, he led him down the twisting staircase and returned him, still audibly protesting, to his seat above the choir stalls.

  Throughout the whole of this distressing incident Hilda had not moved. She had sat, isolated and rock-like. Indeed she did not leave her seat until the church had entirely emptied. Even then, with Cyril beside her, she insisted on leaving by the vestry door. Her brother was quiet by now. Every so often he would mutter something about threesomes and gnome football matches. But, for the most part, he was entirely silent.

  Once back home it came as a relief to Hilda to be in her own bedroom, alone with Little Nelson once more. Not that she had been neglecting him. He now had on a thick pullover in Fair Isle design that she had just finished knitting for him, and she was glad to see that he was wearing his admiral’s hat.

  It had been her great discovery, that hat. She had felt all the time that it must be lying about somewhere. It was, however, only on the second thorough search through the boxroom that she came upon it. And, sure enough, in the old trunk that had been Cyril’s while at
Oxford there it was, crushed flat, the gold of the braid reduced to a dull russet, and the plumes all tangled up and dishevelled. By the time she had ironed it out, however, going over each of the festoons with a tooth brush, it certainly once again looked very high-ranking and important.

  And as soon as she saw him in that hat, Hilda decided she must have a photograph of him wearing it. This was not easy, however. She had not even got a camera of her own. There was, of course, her brother’s. It was a large box-like affair that, as a curate, he had taken with him on school treats and summer outings. But Hilda could not bring herself to ask him.

  She decided therefore to do the daring thing: she would buy a camera of her own. It was not easy. There turned out to be so many different kinds of cameras and, in the end, she chose an automatic one because the assistant told her that she could not go wrong with it. The assistant, however, spoke in error. Things kept going wrong all the time, like accidentally pressing the button before she got the camera out of its case, or holding it back to front while taking a picture, or simply forgetting to remove the little rubber lens cover. But she persevered. It was made all the easier by the fact that Little Nelson simply loved being photographed. Tilting his admiral’s hat, Beatty-fashion, he would cock his head back, put on a half-smile and stand there, smirking.

  Hilda used up three new rolls of film on that one pose alone. There would, indeed, have been a fourth had not Little Nelson got hold of the camera first. He had blazed away with it at waist height. In consequence when the roll eventually came to be developed there was a whole album-ful of chair-leg studies, snap shots of the underneath of tables, and glimpses of skirting boards and bottom drawers.

  As for Little Nelson himself, he could not have been happier or more occupied. Chess was now his favourite pastime and he sat for hours intent upon the game. It was not, of course, played according to Federation rules. The pawns and pieces were all set out in their correct places, and he never forgot to make sure that there was a white square on the near righthand side. But there the resemblance ended. With him it was a game of charge and countercharge, combat and confrontation. The knights were the principal antagonists, bearing mercilessly down on enemy king and queen alike, scattering hostile pawns and bishops in their passage. Only the castles were left unassaulted.

  It was clear, however, that the new rules were being every bit as rigidly enforced as the old. The black and white distinction was closely observed and never once did the charging knight make an attack on one of his own colour.

  The one thing that worried Hilda about Little Nelson’s chess games was their intensity. Once bent forward over the board he became a different person, ruthless and destructive. It was like having a twenty four inch Genghis Khan with her in the bedroom. The casualties were certainly alarming. Here a chip off a black mitre, there a portion of the black queen’s crinkly crown left lying on the board after play. The knights were, of course, the ones that suffered most and Hilda noticed that, at bed time, when Little Nelson came to put the pieces back in their box, he was always careful to conceal that one of the injured animals had already lost the tips of both ears through charging into battle too impetuously.

  Even when he agreed to play with her, his chess games were not without their tensions. Trying to restrain him from snatching both kings off the board simultaneously, she could not prevent an imitation gold button from being ripped off her cardigan. Little Nelson could not have been more helpful, going down flat on his face, tunnelling under things, in search of it. But somehow it was never recovered. Hilda took it as a warning that in future she must do nothing to excite him.

  It was because he seemed so ready otherwise to lead an entirely sedentary life that Hilda was delighted when he wanted to take his truck out onto the landing. She encouraged him. She was sure that it would do him good. It had to be arranged, of course, on those afternoons when Cyril was out on his duties and, even then, she was afraid that her brother might notice the scratches on the paintwork, even the small chunks of wood snicked out of the bannisters. Much as she was ready to indulge him, she had to admit that he was careless; careless, and unashamedly boisterous. He would get the truck going at full speed, then leap into it from behind and career down the length of the landing, ending up with a bump against the high Gothic chair at the far end. She did not mind much about the chair because it was a piece of furniture that she had always disliked. But she could not help being afraid that Little Nelson might hurt himself, might damage his other eye or something.

  And it was the same when he climbed up on the chair itself. He treated it like a steer in a rodeo. He would rock violently backwards and forwards until first the front legs and then the back legs left the floor completely, and then bring it down, rein it in as it were, with a jolt. This worried her, too. The chair was far from new, almost an antique, and she could not help noticing how it creaked when, at the end of the game, she put it back in its place.

  Not that she need have bothered. Little Nelson was at the moment far too busy listening to the wireless to go near the chair. And for good reason. There had been three more gnome incidents – though only two of them were recognized as such at the time – and they were in every bulletin.

  The first concerned the intended despatch of a flight of homing pigeons from Didsbury. Cooing contentedly, the birds had been delivered, six to a basket, all carefully labelled and stacked ready for the guard’s van. They were highly trained and experienced birds, and they had all travelled by rail before. They knew that there was no cause for hurry or alarm. Allowing for staff shortages, industrial action, faulty rolling stock, points failures and non-functioning of signals, they reckoned that they had three, four, even possibly five hours of rest and relaxation ahead of them. The older birds had, indeed, already tucked their beaks into their feathers and were asleep. Then, to their bewilderment, the bolts on all three baskets were simultaneously slid back and small, impatient hands were pulling them out onto the platform. Within seconds, and to the tumultuous clapping of wings, the birds became airborne. Airborne, but still confused. In close formation they shot down towards the Arrivals side, veered sharply, narrowly missing an in-coming commuter train, and made their way towards the main Exit. Then they soared. Soon they were at tree-top height and still circling. Ten minutes later, and no more than half awake, they were back in the loft that they had left less than half an hour before.

  Station Master and Goods Porter alike were reprimanded, and it was only an eye-witness account of three mannikin-size figures, in green and scarlet uniform and all whistling like canaries, that had been seen scuttling across the footbridge that saved them from suspension; even possibly from dismissal.

  The theft within the same week of a van left standing outside the Despatch Department of the Coronation Firework Corporation, Broxbourne, Herts, passed at the time unrecognized for what it really was. At Scotland Yard, Transport, Larceny, and Road Offences were all kept informed, but the National Emergency Headquarters was left entirely un-notified. The vanload had been a full one. And it was valuable, It contained Sky Rockets, Catherine Wheels, Roman Candles, Thunder Flashes, Big Bangers, Celestial Fire, Golden Showers, Jumping Jacks and assorted Sparklers.

  At the time of the theft the driver was in the staff canteen building up his strength in readiness for a trip to Reading and back, some thirty-six miles each way. He was a large man, and his consumption was correspondingly heavy. About to start on his mince tart and custard – he had already finished his second helping (free) of Chef’s Special – he was interrupted and informed that his van had gone missing. Not at first believing what he had been told, he finished the tart and the cup of strong Indian tea that had been waiting at the side. Then, when he had paid, he went out into the yard to find himself faced by the empty spot where the load of fireworks should have been. By the time that he was satisfied that there was nothing there, the Corporation’s delivery van was already far off and speeding up the motorway.

  It was not until a full forty-eigh
t hours later when the van – a total write-off by now – was discovered upside down in a small ravine in Cheshire, that the truth became apparent. The fireworks had all been removed, but certain significant clues remained. No fewer than four plastic cushions on the front seat had been removed and stuffed up against the back padding of the driver’s seat, as though otherwise the driver might have found it impossible to reach the steering wheel. Moreover, skilfully carpentered blocks of wood attached to the pedals confirmed the impression that extreme smallness had been one of the problems that had to be overcome by the hijackers.

  The third incident carried its signature upon it from the outset. An articulated lorry belonging to Allied Egg Distributors had left the Company’s West Country Depot at Taunton to begin its long journey to the metropolis. It was early morning, and the roads were still empty. Everything proceeded smoothly as far as Devizes. It was then that the driver became aware that one of the rear doors must have become loose and was banging against the side of the trailer. He pulled in at the next lay-by and re-secured the door, pulling down the closing handle with all his weight. By Trowbridge, however, the door was banging about again – clearly opened from the inside. And worse. Cardboard egg crates, each containing one gross of Grade A free-range farm-house eggs, were leaving the lorry at the rate of one every few hundred yards. In consequence, the traffic had built up by now, and other vehicles were swerving wildly to survive the bombardment. There were skids, jack-knifings and crashes. For more than half a mile the roadway was one long shining carpet of custard-coloured confusion. And, all the while, so other motorists attested, three smaller-than-school boy figures could be seen working flat out like heavy camp labour, shoving the crates out one by one, and whistling cheerfully as they pushed and heaved.