by Forrest Reid
“See you Tuesday then,” Pascoe said, with one foot on the pedal. “And promise you won’t begin to do anything till I come.”
CHAPTER NINE
SHORTLY after lunch, by arrangement, Doctor Macrory called to drive him to Tramore. Stretching out a large left hand, he opened the door of the front seat, and Tom, who had been waiting all ready in the porch, deposited a leather bag and Granny’s book on the floor. He had just got in himself when Mother, evidently not expecting so rapid a departure, hastily emerged from the dining-room. “Well, I must say you’re in a great hurry to be off! Am I not even to be allowed to say ‘How do you do?’ to Doctor Macrory? Granny ought to feel flattered. . . .
“It’s extremely good of you to take him,” she went on, coming to the window of the car; but the doctor said he had to visit a patient who lived in that direction anyhow, so no question of goodness was involved. “And I’ll collect him for you some time on Monday afternoon,” he added. “It’ll probably be latish, but I don’t suppose that matters.”
“Of course it doesn’t matter,” Mother replied, “though there’s nothing to prevent Edgar from collecting him, as you call it.”
“Only that it would be several miles out of his way, and won’t be out of mine: so you’d better tell him.”
“If I do, may I tell him also that you’ll be dining with us? You can, can’t you?”
“Thus we see how infallibly virtue is rewarded,” Doctor Macrory observed to Tom, as the car turned out on to the main road, and the latter leaned from the window to wave a last farewell. . . . “And now I want to hear all about yesterday’s doings. To begin with, how did the examination go?”
“Very well, thank you,” Tom replied.
Doctor Macrory chuckled. “That’s good; but tell me a little more, won’t you?—how it all struck you, what happened, and what the other boys were like.”
Tom, at no time addicted to taciturnity, at once proceeded to do so. If it had been Daddy to whom he had been giving his account, it would have passed through a half-subconscious process of selection and elimination, based upon what he felt Daddy would or would not wish to hear, but with Doctor Macrory he never felt the need of this. So, as they drove between the summer fields, past farmsteads and an occasional wooded dingle, he gave him a minute description of everything and everybody, which he only broke off to utter a sudden “Oh!”—as the car swerved violently, the front mudguard narrowly missing a small child who had rushed out of a cottage in pursuit of a hen.
Doctor Macrory said “Damn!”, and a moment later: “Did we get the hen?”—but Tom, gazing out behind, was able to assure him that both hen and child were safe.
“Well,” said the doctor, “I’m afraid I interrupted you. You were telling me about the other boys. Brown I can’t be sure of—there are so many Browns; but Preston, I fancy, is Bob Preston’s son; and Pascoe quite certainly must be connected with the wine people—wholesale and retail—in Arthur Street. . . . In which case I was at school with his father.”
“Do you get your wine from him?” Tom asked politely.
“I get my whisky from him,” said Doctor Macrory, “so I suppose the answer is in the affirmative. . . . To return, however, to the main question—have any plans been made yet about what you’re going to do at school? What subjects, I mean. Of course there’ll be the usual subjects: what I really want to know is whether you’re going to begin Greek. . . . You see,” he went on, as Tom looked surprised, “I’ve been discussing that matter with your father, who doesn’t quite share my views upon it. To me it is most important, but I’m not at all sure that my arguments convinced him; so a word from you yourself might not be out of place—in fact might settle things. What do you think?”
Tom had done a little, a very little Latin with Miss Sabine, but his classics ended there, and he didn’t know what to think. In his uncertainty he suggested that there mightn’t be anybody to teach Greek. At Miss Wallace’s, for instance, where Pascoe had been, there hadn’t been anybody to teach science; yet that was what Pascoe was most interested in, because he was going to be a scientist.
“Possibly he is,” Doctor Macrory answered; “but unless I’m singularly mistaken you’re not: Greek for you every time. . . . And of course there’ll be somebody to teach it. . . . Science too, for that matter; though my own recollection of science at school is that it consisted largely in making fireworks and bad smells. . . . I really mean what I say, Tom, about learning Greek. I haven’t met Master Pascoe, but the fact that you and he propose to make an aquarium together doesn’t mean that science is at all likely to be in your line. You haven’t that type of mind. If you’re interested in natural history, it’s only because, like the Greeks, you’re fond of animals—which is a spiritual quality, and has nothing whatever to do with science.”
Tom listened: he was in truth an excellent listener; as could be seen now from the thoughtful expression on his face. Doctor Macrory, noting that expression, may have wondered what he was thinking about, though he did not press him further.
It was indeed some little time before either of them spoke again, but at last, gazing out across the sunlit landscape, Tom said softly: “I’d like to learn Greek: I liked that book you lent me.”
“Then you’d like their own writings still more. When you’re a little older you must have a shot at your Uncle Stephen’s book. There may be a good deal in it you won’t understand, but you’ll get something.”
“I didn’t know he had written a book,” Tom said.
“Well, he has; and a good one.”
Tom wondered why it had not been mentioned when Mother had told him other things about Uncle Stephen. Perhaps she didn’t know about it, or had forgotten; but this seemed hardly likely. He pondered the singular lapse for some time before he asked: “Have we got it? Has Daddy got it?”
Doctor Macrory sounded his horn and slowed down to pass a flock of sheep. “I doubt it. It’s not in your father’s line; and unfortunately I don’t possess a copy either.”
“Is it in my line?” was Tom’s next inquiry, for he found this matter of “lines” most interesting, though at the same time somewhat puzzling—puzzling to him, that was; Doctor Macrory appeared to find no difficulty.
The doctor smiled. “Very much, I should say; but not at present. It’s a great mistake to read a book before you’re ready for it. . . . I suppose you think I’m talking nonsense; but to start off with, you must remember that there’s a bit of him in you—of your Uncle Stephen, I mean. Like dogs and other animals, we’re all made up of bits of our ancestors, and his father was your great-grandfather, and his brother was your grandfather, and his niece is your mother.”
Tom was impressed. “That makes a whole lot,” he said, “not just a bit.”
Doctor Macrory’s glance again rested upon him, with an oddly reflective expression. It quite often did, Tom had noticed, proving that he was really interested and not just pretending to be; which was one reason why it was so much easier to talk freely to him than to Daddy.
“It does sound rather a lot—put in that way,” the doctor admitted. “But the bits are discontinuous, you know; the only direct source is your great-grandfather.”
“Is there any-thing about Orpheus in Uncle Stephen’s book?” Tom asked after another pause. “In the book you lent me there was, but only a little.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember: it’s a good many years now since I read it. . . . I know there’s a great deal about Hermes in it. Are you particularly interested in Orpheus?”
Tom hesitated. “It’s just what it said about him in that book of yours—that when he played his music, all the animals and birds followed him and wanted to listen.”
“And you’d like them to follow you?”
Tom laughed. “Of course I know it’s only a story. Still, it could have happened, couldn’t it? And there might be something about it in Uncle Stephen’s book; because it says in your book that maybe it was Hermes who gave him his lyre.”
�
��Does it? I’d forgotten that too. It’s usually supposed to have been Apollo.” He drove on for a while in silence. “I’m afraid I can’t manage a lyre,” he next said; “but since we’re living in modern times, how would you like to experiment with a more modern instrument—the kind of pipe bird-charmers use, or used to use? I’ve a notion I’ve got one put away somewhere, if I can only lay my hands on it.”
Tom coloured. “Do you mean——” he began, and abruptly stopped.
“Do I mean a present? Yes—that was the idea—if I can find it.”
“But——”
“You won’t be depriving me of anything. I’ve never used it in my life, and am never likely to. Whatever its effect on birds, I doubt if it would charm patients. It was merely given to me as a curiosity.”
“Thanks most awfully——” Tom was beginning, when the doctor interrupted him. “And here we are! Do you think you can manage if I don’t take you right up to the house? I’m rather behind time, I’m afraid; and if I go in I’ll have to pay my respects to your grandmother, which will mean another five or ten minutes. That bag doesn’t look very heavy.”
CHAPTER TEN
TOM walked up an avenue over-arched by trees. It was not a particularly tidy avenue: indeed it badly required weeding at this moment; and he decided that he would perform that service for Granny to-morrow. With a hoe and a wheelbarrow it might be rather fun, and would at least help to pass the time, for to-morrow would be Sunday. If Mother were here she would certainly object on this very ground, but he had an idea that Granny’s objections, if she had any, could be overcome. There was a saying employed by Phemie on such occasions, “The better the day the better the deed”, and though really all it meant was that you intended to do what you wanted, it might work with Granny.
On the other hand, she probably didn’t care a straw whether there were weeds in the avenue or not. Out of doors, she left everything to Nature, or what amounted to Nature, Quigley, who, with his wife, lived in the lodge, and was supposed to be her gardener. Both Mother and Daddy strongly disapproved of Quigley, and were always at Granny to get rid of him. They pointed out that he was lazy, incompetent, neglected his work, and imposed on her in every way be could. But of course Granny knew they had the irreproachable William in their mind’s eyes, and to everything they said merely replied that she liked Quigley, and thought he liked her.
In fact, Granny had her own ideas, and was not easily influenced by other people’s. Everything at Tramore was as different as possible from the garden at home. Granny didn’t go in for flowers, therefore there were no flower-beds; and the only flowers were those which themselves wanted to be there; such as snowdrops, primroses, daffodils, and bluebells—all of them spring flowers and now over. Daddy didn’t even approve of the Tramore grass, and again laid the blame on Quigley, because the sickle-shaped lawn in front of the house was thick with moss. William, he said, would have got rid of the moss long ago, but Quigley appeared to encourage it. Beyond the lawn, on every side, grew a green and tangled jungle. . . .
The house itself was covered thickly with creepers, so that looking at it from a little distance it appeared to sink into and be half lost in the leafy woodland behind. Granny preferred it like this, and so did Tom. In the late autumn and winter doubtless it presented a somewhat forsaken and neglected appearance, so that if it were not for the thin grey threads of smoke curling up from its irregular chimney-stacks, you might almost think nobody lived there; but on a summer afternoon, dreaming under a deep soft blue sky, it had a rich and drowsy beauty, profoundly peaceful. . . .
And here, like Mariana in her moated grange, lived Granny Tom had learned the poem about Mariana for Miss Sabine, and, as with most of the poems he was fondest of, had found its counterpart in real life. Naturally it was only the “moated grange” itself which was a counterpart, for Mariana had been young and most unhappy, whereas Granny was old and remarkably lively: still, the picture and the music were the same——
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak’d,
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,
Or from the crevice peer’d about.
Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices rolled her from without.
It was lovely. Daddy, to be sure, had said that Miss Sabine’s taste in poetry seemed to be very nearly as morbid as Tom’s own—when he was a boy, he had been given such things as “Ye Mariners of England”, and “How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix”, to learn. This had made Mother laugh. “But you didn’t enjoy them very much, dear, did you?—though they were so stirring; and Tom at least likes his.” And since Daddy returned no answer: “I think it’s wonderful how Miss Sabine always knows what he will like. It’s very clever of her, and certainly makes his lessons much easier and pleasanter.”
“Oh, they’re a nice pair!” Daddy had grumbled ; but Tom knew he really thought a tremendous lot of Miss Sabine.
The outer door of the house was open, so he did not need to ring the bell. He turned the handle of the inner door and entered the hall, which was square and had a fireplace in it, making it look like a room. Here he left down his bag, and went in search of Granny He knew where she always sat; and there he found her—in the big panelled drawing-room, with its bright chintzes and soft grey carpet, and the cabinets where she kept her collection of china. Granny herself, sitting so quietly among her things, was not unlike some delicate and fragile object surviving from an earlier period. She looked, somehow, as if nothing had ever happened to her. Her tranquil, gentle face, with its faint wild-rose colouring; her white hair; her slender hands; even her knitting—were all singularly in keeping with the porcelain cups and plates and vases she was so fond of. A fantastic notion crossed Tom’s mind that Granny was growing more and more to resemble her things. The yellow sunlight, filtering through curtained windows, awoke the dragons on a Chinese screen behind her to a fiery life; the whole room was flooded with magic light and colour; a single silvery note from a small clock on the chimney-piece chimed the half-hour.
But Granny—who could not have heard his arrival or she would have been out in the hall to meet him—at once became very human indeed, as she got up quickly from her chair to kiss him welcome. “Tom darling, it’s so nice of you to have come. Does Rose know you’re here? Perhaps you’d better touch the bell. I wasn’t quite sure when you would arrive.”
Granny was always a little extravagant in her endearments, as indeed, according to Mother, in everything else; but when there was nobody there Tom didn’t mind this; and at all events she didn’t bother you about such matters as going to bed on the first stroke of the clock, or keeping your hands in your pockets, or eating between meals—in fact she would have fed him from morning till night if she had had her way.
He produced his parcel. “Here’s your book, Granny. Mother got it in town; and there’s a lovely tiger in it.”
“Thank you very much, dear. Doctor Macrory brought you, I suppose. Your mother rang me up last night to tell me he was going to.”
“Yes; but he only came as far as the gate. . . . Where’s Dinah?”
“Dinah is in the kitchen with her kittens. Perhaps you didn’t know she’d had kittens?”
Tom was immediately interested. “Why don’t you have them in here?” he asked.
“It’s too soon yet: their eyes aren’t even open. Rose says they’re just like little rats. But the next time you come——”
Tom interrupted her. “Do you mean to say you haven’t even looked at them, Granny? Kittens aren’t a bit like rats. They’ve got fur, and whiskers, and everything. Rats are naked when they’re born.”
“Well, that’s what Rose says,” Granny answered meekly; and as the door opened, “Oh Rose, I did ring for tea, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind bringing in Dinah’s basket: Master Tom wants to see the kittens.�
��
“I’ll get it myself,” Tom cried, jumping up. “How many are there, Rose?”
“I’m sure I never counted them,” Rose replied with an air of superiority. “Nasty crawling little things! Cook says there were five; but she gave three of them to Quigley to be drowned.”
Tom regarded her coldly. He did not approve of affectation, especially of Rose’s kind—just as if kittens were far beneath her. “Then if there were five, and three have been drowned, you ought to be able to tell how many are left,” he said.
He knew this wasn’t a proper way to speak, and Rose, maintaining a lofty silence, evidently thought so too. All the same, it was what she deserved, so he left her there, and ran out to the kitchen to get the basket.
Dinah was in it with her children, but Dinah, too, behaved stupidly. The moment he lifted the basket she hopped out, with a distinctly irritated mew. She very soon altered her tone, however, to a more humble and plaintive one, as he carried the basket back to the other room, while she followed closely on his heels. This anxiety was extremely silly, and he told her so. If he couldn’t be trusted with kittens, he would like to know who could! “Nobody,” poor Dinah replied; and since she had already lost three, her pessimism was perhaps excusable.
Not that she appeared to suspect him of wishing to steal the kittens; from the tone of her mews it was more as if she feared he might break them by letting them drop; and she got back into the basket the moment it was deposited on the hearthrug. She didn’t remain there long. Tom took the whole family out and lay down on the hearthrug himself, curling as well as he could round both cat and kittens till all felt warm and furry—and very soon purry, too; with a rough tongue, intended for a kitten, occasionally passing over the back of his hand.
From these domestic felicities he was summoned by Granny to come to the table and have tea. At home there would have been a reminder to go and wash his hands first, and Granny received due credit for being sensible and unfussy. She got yet a further good mark for having remembered that he was specially fond of potted shrimps and hot freshly-baked shortbread Dinah, though unused to any but kitchen meals, also was comforted with a few shrimps, and a saucer of milk—a good deal of which she splashed on to the carpet.