Little Nelson

by Norman Collins

  Little Nelson appeared unusually pensive and preoccupied. His games of chess were as fierce and intense as ever but less frequent, and he did not always seem to be listening properly while Hilda was reading to him. Even Swiss Family Robinson, hitherto his favourite story book, no longer gripped his attention.

  What Hilda had, of course, not appreciated was that it was still only the early part of the week. Mondays to Fridays were all the same to her. But not to Little Nelson. Friday was set entirely apart. It was the day when Hilda and the Reverend were both out and Mrs Mewkes, evil and inquisitive, would continue with her spying.

  But this Friday Little Nelson was ready for her. From 10.30 onwards he had everything prepared and, as eleven o’clock approached and he could hear her ponderous footsteps plodding up the stairs, he was all keyed-up and alert.

  First he heard her drag up the Gothic vestry chair. It made an unmistakeable creaking noise as it was pulled along the worn strip of carpet. Then Little Nelson recognized the heavy laboured breathing as Mrs Mewkes hauled herself up onto the red velvet seat cushion. He waited. And he knew just how it would be. It would take at least a full minute for her to get her breath back. And then would come the final effort, the climax when she would stand up so that she could achieve her aim at peeping in through the fanlight.

  This was the moment for which Little Nelson had been waiting. He was already in the wardrobe with the pillow slip pulled down over his head. Through the gap by the hinge he could see everything. And as Mrs Mewkes’s disagreeable face came slowly into view, he leapt out. His good arm was held out in front like a rhinoceros horn and, on the other side, he had painted two staring eyes with Hilda’s shoe polish. Head down, he charged towards the door.

  It was all precisely as he had predicted. From Mrs Mewkes’s side of the glass came a hoarse intake of breath. A prolonged ‘Ooaagh’; then, a moment later, with the release of the same breath, a scream so loud that Little Nelson could not help feeling proud to think that he should be the cause of it. The house seemed to be split into two.

  But it was not the house: it was the chair. The noise of shattering furniture mingled with the last notes of the dying scream. There could be no doubt about it. Those high speed games with his four-wheel trolley had done their work. The left rear leg of the high Gothic chair had now detached itself completely and Mrs Mewkes was already flying through the air like a collapsed caryatid. Then came the dreadful moment, the thunder of the fall. Little Nelson pulled the pillow slip tight around his head so that he should not hear. It was getting on for 11.30 when he removed the pillow slip altogether. By then there was one long unbroken silence.

  Little Nelson gave himself another five minutes by Hilda’s bedside clock. Then he folded up the pillow slip and put it back in the linen drawer and got out his chess set. It was an altogether quieter game than usual. That was because his mind was at peace within him. He had succeeded in what he had set out to do.

  He had protected Hilda.

  Chapter 6

  On the day of the funeral, Hilda tied a piece of black ribbon round Little Nelson’s forearm. Little Nelson admired it enormously, and only wished that Mrs Mewkes could have been there to see it. Up to that moment everything about him had been either green or scarlet. Black was entirely new to him and he was surprised to find out how beautiful it was.

  All the same, he could not help wondering whether perhaps he had not done the wrong thing. No Mrs Mewkes meant that Hilda had to do so much more herself, and that gave her so much less time to spend with him. Stuck up there in Hilda’s bedroom while she was down in the kitchen looking after things made him feel entirely cut off from the world, like an inmate of some institution, even a convict. A kind of nervous depression set in. He moped. And, when nobody took any notice, his temper gave way. More than once he had set out the chess board, pulled up the small footstool on which he always sat while playing, only to send the whole lot flying a moment later with a single kick because he was so fed up simply being by himself.

  Nor was the Vicar of the slightest consolation to him in his loneliness. Little Nelson was perfectly aware that even though he was only in the next room, so far as the Reverend Woods-Denton was concerned, he simply did not exist. This was perfectly true. The Vicar had done more than ignore him: he had deliberately abolished within his mind all thought of Little Nelson’s existence. And he was selfish, too. He still demanded his frequent and regular service of cocoa and digestive biscuits as though, below stairs, a full houshold of staff was functioning as usual. Little Nelson was left fuming every time he heard one of those incessant refreshment trays being carried to the Vicar’s bedroom and, in his distress, he would begin kicking the chess pieces about again.

  The strain of having Little Nelson in that sort of mood and her brother Cyril sulking in his own room, bore down upon poor Hilda. Moreover, the whole business of keeping them apart now seemed entirely pointless. With Mrs Mewkes no longer there, all danger of intrusion and discovery had been at once removed; and if she wanted to give a small private tea party for the three of them she did not see why she should not do so.

  It was not easy to arrange. At first Cyril said ‘No,’ adding that he would not consent even to be seen dead with ‘that thing’. Hilda was careful, however, not to allow herself to be offended. Even so, it took a great deal of pleading and cajoling, coupled with some pretty direct talking. And Little Nelson himself proved no easier. He opposed the whole idea. Secretly he was still frightened of the Vicar. And twice while Hilda was appealing to him, he retreated into the wardrobe, slamming the door behind him to show that he wasn’t listening any more.

  In the end, it was food that counted. This time it was the threat to Little Nelson of no more bread-and-butter fingers that did the trick. Even though they always remained uneaten, Little Nelson was very fond of his bread-and-butter fingers. He enjoyed their slipperiness, and it was nice afterwards having Hilda wipe his hand with a warm face flannel. So, grudgingly, he gave way. And Hilda rehearsed everything with him. She showed him where to sit, how to cross his legs right down at ankle level and not with one foot cocked up in the air like a hoop-la peg, and what to do if anyone dropped anything. Also, she made a point of stressing that though there were rules to be observed, Afternoon tea, she explained, was by no means a game, adding by way of example that balancing a toasted tea-cake on top of his head just to show that he could do it would be both silly and out of key.

  Little Nelson understood perfectly and, for Hilda’s sake, he was determined that everything should be in order. He sponged down his pointed shoes, put another knot in the piece of elastic that kept his eye-shade in place, and borrowed Hilda’s hair brush to smarten up his admiral’s hat.

  It was significant that the Vicar came downstairs exactly on the hour, punctual to the minute. And there was an air of impending departure about the very manner of his arrival. He took a chair as far away from Little Nelson as possible, and sat down on the very edge of it. His own legs remained rigid and uncrossed, and he kept his knees pressed tightly together as though guarding himself against the possibility of any sudden and unprovoked attack. It was noticeable that when he reached out to take his tea cup, his hand was trembling. Scones, served with whipped cream as well as jam, served somehow to calm him down and, when he took his second cup of tea, his hand was firm and vice-like. Leaning back, cup and saucer held before him, he became reminiscent. It was mostly memories of Oxford distilled from those distant days between the Wars: sweet choirs at dawn up Magdalen Tower; head of the river races with cheering crowds and girls in house-boats; golden afternoons in punts; bonfires in forbidden places.

  Little Nelson sat there enthralled. And he was certainly very well behaved. Twice, purely out of habit, he tried to climb up on to Hilda’s knee but each time he gave a quick and understanding nod when she bent forward to stop him. And, when it came time for the Vicar to leave, Little Nelson got up and, standing at full stretch, very politely opened the door for him. Then, when it was just the
two of them again, Little Nelson went over and gave Hilda’s hand a squeeze to show that he realized how difficult it had been for both of them.

  All the same, Hilda was far from happy about Little Nelson. Something certainly had come over him. He no longer concentrated on anything. When she was showing him the pictures in the story book she was reading to him, he kept glancing away, and all that seemed to interest him were the news bulletins.

  He had a sense of timing that Hilda found almost uncanny and, at the sixth pip, the long one, there he was always eagerly crouched over her pocket radio set. And it was the same at night. It was the BBC’s World Service that he now kept waiting for, and Hilda got used to hearing first the click of the On/Off button, followed immediately by the rousing strains of the Lillibulero. At first she made no attempt to stop him because she was glad to think that at last he had found something to absorb his thoughts. But her own sleep-pattern was beginning to suffer. It was broken up into one-hour segments. And, all the time, Little Nelson was growing more and more restless.

  In the old days, Little Nelson had gone off to sleep as soon as Hilda put her arm over him. It was no longer so. Almost at once he would wriggle himself free, and lie there beside her, stirring uneasily. Then, as soon as he felt reasonably sure that she was asleep again, he would slither off the bed and go over to the window. He could hardly have been quieter about it, tiptoe-ing over the expanse of oilcloth and raising the corner of the blind as gently as a young mother lifting the side curtain on her baby’s cot. And, once in position, he would stand there, head held slightly to one side, listening.

  It was this listening that so upset Hilda. She could not help herself from listening, too. At night time the silence of an outer suburb is broken by a whole orchestra of sounds, all menacing, all unaccountable. She heard noises like burglars forcing locks, doors being edged open, windows prised. But these were not the sounds he was intent upon. His sounds were evidently fainter, and very far away. But Little Nelson did not for a single moment slacken or relax. He just stood there listening, listening, listening. If it had not been for fear of wakening her brother in the next room, Hilda would have screamed out loud from sheer strain of wondering what it was that he was waiting for.

  And then one night Hilda heard it herself. It was certainly a very distant sound. Straining her ears, she could just hear it, muted but still audible. It came drifting in on the night’s quietness like the sound of an ebb tide pulling at the pebbles on an empty beach. And for some reason she found it faintly alarming.

  Gradually, it grew louder. Soon it was as though she could hear each separate stone, each pebble grinding against its neighbour. There was a rhythm to it, like a regular and throbbing heart-beat.

  Hilda got up and went over to join Little Nelson by the window. He was panting, his small shoulders jerking upwards with each breath. He started nervously when she came to him. Then he moved closely in beside her, and placed his hand in hers. And, all the while, the sound came pressing in on them. It was more of a pounding by now, a methodic, clockwork rhythm. With a shock she recognized it for what it was. They were not pebbles that she could hear; they were feet. She was listening to the steady left-right, left-right of a whole regiment of tiny feet.

  Little Nelson braced himself. Letting go of her hand he went across to the wardrobe for his admiral’s hat and his woolly pullover, and buckled on an old leather belt of hers that she had given him. Then he began to dance a jig, keeping his feet in time with the music of the marching feet outside.

  But he had not entirely forgotten her presence. As soon as the jig was over, he reached up to make sure that her hand was still there. A moment later the first of the marchers appeared around the corner. He was a rather fat gnome, corpulent rather than muscular. He swung round to assure himself that the others were still following and led his band forward up the hill. Hilda felt Little Nelson’s grip tighten. Through the slats of the Venetian blind she could see gnomes of all ages, rank upon rank of them. There must have been scores of green and scarlet figures, all marching up to top barrack-square standard. Outside the Vicarage the fat gnome called his company to a halt.

  Hilda shivered. It had come as a shock to her to discover that she was now standing on the oilcloth on her bare feet. And in her nightdress, too. Normally she was most careful where Little Nelson was concerned, never letting him see her in her nightdress unless she was wearing her dressing-gown as well. Nor without her bedroom slippers. Feet, she had always felt, were very rarely beautiful, and at bath time she had been unable to help noticing how ancient-looking and boney her own feet seemed to have become.

  But Little Nelson was not looking at Hilda’s feet. He was staring straight up into her face. Reassuringly, she bent forward and smiled back down at him. But it was not reassurance that he was seeking, it was something quite different. Before she could stop him, he had sprung up and kissed her.

  Then, not even pausing long enough to go round the bed – simply slithering under it – he made for the door and unlocked it. It was all over in an instant and she could hear the clitter-clatter of his shoes as he raced down the stairs.

  By the time Hilda, properly covered up by now in her long dressing-gown, had got out onto the landing, Little Nelson was already at the front door. Balanced on the umbrella stand, he was taking off the safety chain.

  ‘Stop it,’ she cried. ‘Stop it at once I say! Do as I tell you! Leave that chain alone, d’you hear me?’

  But Little Nelson took no notice. He had become a different Little Nelson by now. He seemed larger, more masterful. There was a new air of authority about him. And he was brisker. It was the matter of a moment for him to reach the catch. The door swung open, and Hilda felt a great wave of cold air break over her. Little Nelson did not turn. He walked straight out into the blackness of the night. It was only then that she noticed that, tucked under his arm like a swagger cane, Little Nelson was carrying the Vicar’s ivory paper-knife, the one that he had always admired so much.

  Hilda could see that it was too late to stop him now, and she went back into her bedroom. Outside, the gnomes were still standing there, brightly lit under the street lamp halfway up Vicarage Gardens. They had been put at stand-easy by now and there was a lot of stretching and shuffling. But, at the sight of Little Nelson, the fat gnome immediately called them all to attention and came forward himself. Two paces in front of Little Nelson, he stopped short and saluted.

  Then Hilda knew that she had been right. He was a transformed Little Nelson. And his every action proved it. He removed the paper-knife from under his arm and held it upright in front of him, ceremonial fashion. The fat gnome stepped smartly back, by now conspicuously a full pace behind. The two of them moved up to the front of the column and the fat one gave the sign. At once they were off again. Hilda could hear the steady left-right, leftright as the marchers receded.

  There was one ray of comfort. Considering the time of year, the night had turned surprisingly chilly. It came therefore as a great consolation to Hilda that Little Nelson should have remembered to put on his woolly pullover before starting off.

  Chapter 7

  Only now that he was gone did she realize what Little Nelson had come to mean to her. Without him, life itself seemed empty and purposeless. And, in her distressed state, she even began to doubt the very scene that she witnessed outside her own Vicarage.

  Not that it was by any means unique. Reports of other gnome massings were coming in nationwide – a contingent of over a hundred seen crossing open moorland at Bodmin; the beach at Bexhill looking as though a whole coach party of very small people had just disembarked there; a ragged, rather strung-out column marching two abreast down the A72 from Peebles.

  Once more public anxiety mounted. Children were kept off the streets, and the theatres remained closed. Clearly the Government had to do something. And it did it. They brought pressure to bear on Scotland Yard to change the Deputy Commissioner in charge of Emergency Operations. The outgoing DC had been an old sta
lwart, a grizzled and highly respectable veteran with thirty years service both in and out of uniform behind him. The incomer was one of the new kind of policeman, young, intellectual and unpopular. His attitude was entirely different. He distrusted the road-block and traffic-barrier approach. Instead he appointed his own Advisory Committee of psychologists, students of the paranormal, social workers and statisticians and graphologists.

  And, quite soon, the Committee came up with something of more than passing interest. Nothing positive as yet, but still possibly a clue, a pointer. It was one of the statisticians who spotted it. Did his fellow members, he asked, realize that there were two different kinds of gnomes within the borders of Great Britain? There were the 24-inch gnomes with three buttons on their jackets and tasselled hats as supplied by Nursery Gardenware Limited, and there were the 20½-inch gnomes with four buttons but no tassels on their hats. The latter came from Ornamental Pottery Associates.

  The Deputy Commissioner was not slow to appreciate the significance of this discovery.

  Life at the Vicarage was at its lowest ebb. Hilda’s doctor, not knowing about Little Nelson, could make nothing of the whole affair. He simply told her to take things easy and not worry so much. To be on the safe side, he put her on to a whole course of the latest tranquilizers. They had their effect. Instead of tearing round the house in Mrs Mewkes’s absence, frantically dusting, polishing, scrubbing – anything, in fact, that would help her to forget that Little Nelson was gone – she now sat about all day on chairs and sofas and things, half-doped and tearful, remembering Little Nelson all the time.

  In a way it was even worse for the Vicar. With Hilda immobilized, he had to do so much more for himself – seeing about the altar flowers, the Parents’ Annual Sunday School get-together, and the delivery of the Parish Magazine to the elderly and the bedridden. He and his sister had worked in double-harness, as he always put it, for so many years that he now found single-haulage almost too much for him.