by Forrest Reid
“Last Easter,” said Mr. Holbrook. “And in Italy.”
Miss Jimpson gave a little shrug. “For that matter, I don’t remember seeing any dogs in Italy—which, judging from the way they treat their horses, is just as well.”
“All the same, it was there you saw him,” Mr. Holbrook persisted. “A smaller version of him, I admit, and in a picture—several pictures. My dear Anna, look at his colour; look at those little curls! He’s the dog who invariably accompanies Tobias and his Angel in old Florentine pictures. He’s a Botticini.”
Miss Jimpson gazed in silence.
“There’s no deception,” Mr. Holbrook laughed, “it’s him.”
“He,” Miss Jimpson corrected abstractedly. Then suddenly she smiled and looked at Tom very much as she had looked at him across the table in the teashop. She had liked him then, he knew, and he was pretty certain that she liked him now; yet behind this she remained puzzled. “It’s a very queer thing to me,” she murmured, “that if anything extraordinary happens, it always seems to happen either to Tom or when Tom is present.”
“That’s the magic in him,” replied Mr. Holbrook gaily.
Miss Jimpson smiled at Tom again, but thoughtfully. She sighed, shook her head, and, as if finding reverie to no purpose, abruptly emerged to the practical affairs of life. “Well, magic or no magic,” she announced, “I must return to my home. . . . Come along,” she added to Tom. “Perhaps he won’t follow us after all.”
In this conjecture at least she proved correct, for the white dog trotted on ahead.
“He’s a white Chrysanthemum,” Tom whispered to himself, “and I’m going to call him Caleb.”
But he had now time to think of other things, and among them of all the “Geoffreys” and “Annas” he had heard. It was clear that in his absence the “romance” had not stood still. Mother had been quite right when she had said that Miss Jimpson would be able to manage her own affairs; and she must have managed them jolly cleverly, he reflected—innocently giving her all the credit both for the original idea and for the efficient way in which it had been carried out. It wasn’t a matter, however, that one could very well allude to, so he refrained from comment. “How did you get here?” he inquired instead, knowing that neither Mr. Holbrook nor Miss Jimpson lived near.
“We came in a tram,” Mr. Holbrook told him. “After that we walked. This old graveyard of yours wasn’t in the programme at all. Like yourself, it was an accidental discovery; we didn’t even know that it existed.”
But Miss Jimpson—who was obviously in a most unstable mood—had again begun to look thoughtful. There seemed to be something on her mind which she could not quite bring herself to say; though she would say it soon, Tom was sure, because it was very evident that she wanted to. He smiled at her encouragingly, and once or twice she nearly spoke, and then at the last minute didn’t.
Why not trust us?” suggested Mr. Holbrook, who also must have noticed the preoccupation. “You’re making me, at least, extremely nervous.”
Mr. Holbrook spoke lightly, but Tom could see that Miss Jimpson was serious. It was queer that they should be lovers, he thought, because really they were very different, and you saw this even more when they were together than when you met them apart.
Miss Jimpson coloured, and next moment Tom found himself blushing in sympathy, which was idiotic, and annoyed him. Then suddenly she said: “It’s only that Tom somehow—I don’t know—— But in a way I can’t help feeling that he’s been connected from the beginning with——” She broke off, and finished almost crossly: “Oh, what I mean is that I don’t see why we shouldn’t tell him.”
Tom looked at Mr. Holbrook, but Mr. Holbrook only laughed and said: “Well, tell him then.”
“I should like him to be the first to congratulate us,” Miss Jimpson went on. “It’s just a—superstition.”
“I do congratulate you—very much,” Tom hastened to assure her, and Mr. Holbrook laughed once more, and slapped him on the shoulder.
“You’re a particular friend of ours,” he said. “I imagine that’s what we’re trying to convey. . . . For that matter, always were of mine,” he added half to himself.
Tom felt pleased, though his pleasure was mitigated by an alarming impression that Miss Jimpson wanted to kiss him. Hang it all, she couldn’t! Fortunately she herself appeared to be doubtful about it, and had less time to make up her mind than she knew. “This is my turning,” he was able to tell them half a minute later, when they had reached the main road. “I mean, I go to the right here, and the way to the tram is on the left.”
So they stopped, and shook hands, and the dangerous moment went by. Miss Jimpson didn’t kiss him—though he still believed she wanted to, and indeed he might have let her if Mr. Holbrook hadn’t been there. He suddenly found himself feeling a little sorry for Miss Jimpson—and understanding her—understanding her better than Mr. Holbrook did perhaps.
Miss Jimpson told him that he would be the first person they’d invite to their new house when they’d found one, and that anyway she hoped she’d be seeing him before that.
“Of course,” Tom replied, and thanked her. After which he and Caleb took the road to the right, but they hadn’t gone far before it occurred to him that it would have been nicer if he had asked Miss Jimpson and Mr. Holbrook to dinner. He half thought of running back to do so, only when he looked around they were already hidden by a bend in the road. So he scudded on, with the white dog galloping beside him.
* * *
When he reached home he found Daddy pottering about the garden as usual, but abruptly he stopped pottering to stare at Tom’s companion. Luckily Daddy was not an excitable person and was always willing to listen to explanations. He listened to one now, without comment or interruption, though at the end of it he announced: “We must ring up the police.”
“Yes, I know,” Tom hastened to agree. “But if he isn’t claimed mayn’t I keep him?”
Daddy looked dubious, pulled up a weed or two without speaking, and finally said that they’d first have to see what Mother thought about it. “You needn’t keep on thanking me,” he added after a minute or two, rather dryly. I haven’t given you a present and I haven’t said ‘yes’. You’re a great deal too impulsive, and in this case it’s only going to lead to disappointment: the dog’s certain to be claimed within twenty-four hours.”
Tom did not argue the point, but he mentioned what a good dog Caleb was, winding up hopefully with: “Mother will like having him—I mean of course if we don’t find his owner.” After which he sat down on a stone and watched Daddy’s slow and deliberate movements, wondering what he would think were he to be told of all that had happened that afternoon. He knew of course that he never would tell him, because Daddy, he had long ago found, neither welcomed nor cared for such confidences. But he might tell Mother—particularly now that the whole adventure was over. And somehow he felt that it was over—felt this very strongly—so strongly that he didn’t believe it would make the least difference whether Henry came back or not. He had even the feeling that it had all been in some way explained, so that it could never trouble him again. It had lost its power to trouble him; it was like an imaginary phantom, which you suddenly discover to be only an effect of light and mist. And with this he remembered that he had not written to Pascoe.
He had intended to write; he must write this evening; though Pascoe himself, he was sure, would be returning home at least a day or two before the holidays ended.
How quickly things ended! Tom thought. Nothing lasted very long, and nothing seemed the same when it was gone as it had seemed while it was there. Summer was gone, or nearly gone, and it would be a year very likely before he visited the sea again. Pascoe was luckier; Pascoe had Aunt Rhoda’s house always there for him to go to, and Aunt Rhoda herself always dying to have him at any time and to keep him as long as possible. Tom hadn’t an aunt even of the most ordinary kind, let alone one who lived in a lovely place like Greencastle. But he had an uncle—Uncle
Stephen. What would it be like, he wondered, if he were to go to stay with Uncle Stephen the way Pascoe did with Aunt Rhoda? True, Uncle Stephen didn’t live beside the sea; but he lived in the country, which was the next best thing. Supposing he did get an invitation from him then, would he be allowed to accept it? And immediately this question became so urgent and fraught with possibilities that he was obliged to put it to Daddy.
Daddy seemed to be more amused than interested. He merely laughed, said that it wasn’t in the least likely to happen, and began to tie up one of the rambler roses. Tom felt secretly irritated. How could Daddy tell what would happen! For all he knew, Uncle Stephen might at this very moment be writing a letter of invitation. Mother would at least have admitted the possibility and been ready to discuss it, but Daddy’s next remark was: “Aren’t you satisfied with your mother and me?”
As if that had anything to do with it! Tom felt inclined to say “No”. It was meant as a joke, doubtless; yet none the less it closed up the entire subject, so that he couldn’t go on without seeming childish and silly. You can’t go on talking when the other person is like that. And Pascoe was like that too, although he didn’t make jokes.
Daddy must have noticed the silence, and perhaps been surprised by it, for presently he glanced round and observed: “Your Uncle Stephen’s a rather strange person from all accounts.”
But it was now too late; Tom’s desire to talk about Uncle Stephen had subsided; and he only replied, while he stopped down and pressed his mouth against the top of Caleb’s head: “Mother likes him.” Then he remembered that Daddy had been very decent about Caleb, and that he was very decent in lots of ways, though he was so against what he called “flights of imagination”.
“All the same,” Tom thought, “it’s just because Uncle Stephen doesn’t happen to be his kind of person that he says he’s strange. . . . Like the Blakes—and like me. . . . But he’s Mother’s kind of person.”
With which he was content until he added: “And so am I.”
January 1934
October 1935
—oOo—