Uncle Edward was very stubborn about this. His face lengthened. He almost sulked. Margaret had to take charge of him, and be very firm. Next he began to ask all kinds of exacting and, to tell the truth, rather stupid questions of the man who served them, as to the quality of the fireworks. Margaret began to feel hot. But the man seemed to have taken his customer’s measure. With each question, he became graver and more confidential, making it appear that Uncle Edward was a person of uncommon discernment, and finally assuring him, as one expert to another, of the entirely satisfactory nature of his wares. It was, his manner implied, a privilege to serve one so far removed from the common, incurious run of customers.
Such tactful handling made Uncle Edward easy game. He almost purred with pleasure, and was induced to buy several things which otherwise would have remained upon the shelf. Margaret, seeing all this, felt her heart once more go out to him in a queer spasm of protectiveness and affection.
When it came to taking away the purchases, however, no blandishments could appease Uncle Edward. He insisted on carrying the bulky packages himself.
‘We can perfectly well send them for you, sir. They will arrive tomorrow morning, by the first delivery.’
‘No, thank you. I know you London tradesmen. Promise a thing faithfully, and then fail one. No, thank you.’
‘I assure you, sir—’
‘No, thank you. I’ve been had that way too often.’
The man bowed politely.
‘As you please, sir, of course.’
‘I prefer to make sure of having things in time.’
Uncle Edward, as always when anyone yielded to him, began to weaken. In the end, he was almost apologizing to the man for taking the things away.
Outside, in the crowded street, he may well have repented. The children, while they were glad to have the fireworks safely with them, past all risk of possible mischance, found the bulky and angular parcels difficult enough in the crowded pavements. They seemed to bump into everyone they met.
Uncle Edward, who had all the biggest packages, fared worst. After three people had collided with him, and his hat had been knocked crooked, he solved the question by stepping to the edge of the kerb, and hailing a second taxi. It pulled up just in front of a bus stop, blocking the way. There followed another typical Uncle Edward occasion. The bus driver hooted angrily. Uncle Edward at once refused to be bustled. He gave the taxi-driver unnecessarily precise directions, standing by the open door, while Dick and Margaret, safely inside, wriggled in an agony of apprehension.
By the time Uncle Edward got in, there was a regular Queen’s Hall concert of hoots behind them: and matters were at once made worse by the fact that they were facing the wrong way, and the driver’s first action was to stick out his hand and try to turn. The busmen were having none of that, however. Telling the driver several things about himself which he would hardly have suspected, they plunged enormously by. Dick and Margaret sat well back, imagining that from each bus rows of grinning passengers jeered at their position. Uncle Edward sat bolt upright, appearing to ignore it all. Only the indignant set of his chin showed that it had not missed him.
Then, with a sudden swerve, the taxi shot round, throwing the three of them against one another, and, in the laughter of sorting themselves out, they breathed happily again, and the incident was forgotten.
‘Tcha!’ said Uncle Edward suddenly. ‘I’ve forgotten something. Never mind,’ he added. ‘Let’s just put these things in, and then you can take me off to get it. I want a bit of a walk anyhow. Unless you’re too tired?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Are you sure? Because, if you are, I could go by myself.’
‘We’re not a bit tired. Truly.’
‘I could find the way, you know. I’m not such a country cousin as all that. I know you don’t belive I’m capable of looking after myself in town.’
Margaret took his arm.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’re not going to look after yourself this time, no matter how clever you are. We’re going to look after you.’
Dick caught his breath. Margaret was always saying things like this, which he was afraid would offend Uncle Edward and set him off again. Only, somehow, they never did.
The fireworks were carefully stowed away—a process which took some time, as Uncle Edward became extremely anxious on the subject of a possible fire, and rebuked the Spence parents, who took what he regarded as a deplorably lighthearted view of the matter. Not until he had stowed them away in an empty cellar, with a bucket of water close by, and brought down the patent fire-extinguisher which was kept on the top floor—inquiring, to the inconcealed amusement of the cook and housemaid, whether they knew how to use it—was he satisfied, and ready for the next expedition.
Then he discovered that his hands were dirty from the cellar, and had to go off to wash them. When he rejoined Dick and Margaret, a fresh anxiety had seized him.
‘Will the shop be shut?’ he inquired, in a stage whisper.
‘What shop?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Margaret. You know very well.’
‘Truly I don’t, Uncle Edward.’
‘The sweet shop, of course.’
‘There’s one in the Grove, that stays open till seven.’
Uncle Edward stopped.
‘Is that a good one? Are you sure the sweets are of good quality?’
‘They were the last time I went,’ said Dick, with a grin.
‘Yes—but, you know, those places that stay open late. … They may not be of the best class.’
‘Well,’ said Margaret practically, ‘as it’s after six, we shall have to go to one that stays open late, shan’t we?’
The logic of this struck Uncle Edward, but he remained dubious, and was led along, explaining that, if he did not approve of the quality of the chocolates when he saw them, he would defer the purchase till the morning.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘your mother would be disappointed, and I’d hate to disappoint her. All the same, it would be better than getting rubbishy goods.’
When they reached the shop, however, an excellent little place that made its own sweets, Uncle Edward was reassured. He had a long conversation with the young lady behind the counter on the superiority of home-made sweets to any others, and left the shop with lavish purchases: Dick’s and Margaret’s own special favourites, plus a large box for their mother.
‘What a nice girl,’ exclaimed Uncle Edward as soon as they got outside. ‘So charming. Such nice manners. And none of that horrible make-up. Do you know, my dear, the last time I bought chocolates—I was visiting the Ponsonbys, at Southsea. Susan has grown up into such a tall girl. Simply shot up. Quite nice looking, too, except that she will do her hair in that ridiculous way. Most unsuitable. I spoke to Phyllis about it. It quite spoils the girl’s appearance. But she doesn’t seem to mind. Lets the girls do just as they like. Well, as I was saying, my dear, I was getting some chocolates for them, and the girl who served me had her fingernails all stained that horrible red. Really, it quite disgusted me. I hardly liked to give them the chocolates. But this girl —so different. I hope, Margaret, that—’
He stopped abruptly, and looked down. In his excitement, he had all but trodden on a diminutive urchin, who was holding out an enormous and very greasy cap. With him were two even smaller children, wearing hideous masks. They had with them a wheelbarrow, improvised out of a sugar-box and what: looked like a pair of small pram-wheels. One held the handles, which consisted of irregular bits of wood roughly nailed on. The other stood by his side. In the box was a shapeless mass made up of a heap of old clothes, with a mask stuck clumsily on at an angle, and the remains of a dirty old straw hat.
Uncle Edward looked down at the trio with disfavour. He drew back, as the greasy cap was almost touching his coat. The urchin was addressing him.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘What?’
‘Spare a copper for the guy, sir?’
‘Spare a copper—?’
�
��Yes, sir. For the old guy.’
Uncle Edward did not seem to understand. He looked at the children in bewilderment.
‘He’s asking for a penny for the guy, uncle.’
‘It’s a custom,’ added Margaret quickly: for Uncle Edward, who had strong views on begging, was beginning to exhibit the familiar symptoms of indignation.
‘Spare a copper for the old guy, sir?’
The urchin, who had a snub nose and a queer, hoarse voice, repeated his plea without change of expression. His keen little eyes went from one to another, then came to rest again on Uncle Edward.
Uncle Edward hesitated, tutted to himself under his breath, shifted his parcel, and began to fumble awkwardly in his clothes. In London he went in continual dread of pickpockets, and so hid his money in an inside pocket of such secrecy that he had to execute a series of gymnastics in order to get any of it out.
‘Tell me, my boy,’ he said, addressing the urchin, whose eyes had brightened hopefully. ‘What do you know of the Gunpowder Plot?’
‘Eh, sir?’
‘What do you know of the Gunpowder Plot?’ Then, as the small boy’s face remained blank: ‘What do you know of Guy Fawkes?’
The urchin stared at him.
‘Who was Guy Fawkes?’ persisted Uncle Edward.
The child shook his head, and murmured something which Uncle Edward did not catch.
‘What?’ Uncle Edward clicked his tongue. Then he bent down again to the urchin.
‘Why do you take that guy around in the barrow?’
This was something the urchin could answer. He grinned all across his face.
‘Why, to get pennies, o’ course, sir.’
‘Yes, but why? Why should a guy get you pennies?’
The urchin thought the question insane, but, hoping for his money, he answered it.
‘We always does it, sir. Please to remember, the fifth o’ November?’
‘But that’s exactly it. Why do we remember the fifth of November?.’
‘Dunno, sir.’
‘Do you mean to say you don’t know why you are carrying that wretched effigy around? That you don’t know what it commemorates?’
The urchin looked at Dick and Margaret, and shrugged his shoulders. Margaret took Uncle Edward’s sleeve, and pulled at it gently.
‘It’s getting late, Uncle Edward. Hadn’t we—’
He shook his arm free.
‘Wait a minute, my dear. This is a very important matter. Do you go to school?’ he asked the child.
‘Yessir.’
‘And do you mean to say you have never been taught about Guy Fawkes?’
‘Nosir.’
‘How perfectly scandalous!’ Uncle Edward straightened up. ‘It only goes to show—I’ve always maintained that the primary school system in this country is a perfect farce. …’
‘Spare a copper for the old guy, sir?’
The child did not know what was wrong with this odd gent, but he believed in missing no chances.
‘What—I— Certainly not! You cannot even tell me— Oh, very well. Here you are!’
And, half in disgust, he threw sixpence into the filthy old cap.
The small boy stared incredulously at it for a second. Then he looked up, his face transfigured by a wide grin of delight.
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir.’
And, as they walked away, they heard his voice, with precisely the same intonation, addressing other passers-by.
‘Spare a copper for the old guy, lady? Spare a copper for the old guy?’
Chapter Four
All the way home, Uncle Edward inveighed against the inefficiency of primary education. The children, knowing nothing about it, listened in silence. Whatever they might have thought or known, they would not have contradicted him. They had had enough of arguments and scenes for one day.
What was worse, each of them was privately afraid that Uncle Edward might start to test their own historical knowledge. While they could give a better account of Guy Fawkes than the urchin with the guy, they did not feel any too sure that their information would come up to Uncle Edward’s standard.
He came back to the subject at dinner, for which, as a treat, the children were allowed to sit up. (They generally had a kind of high tea of their own at six o’clock, before starting on their homework.) Uncle Edward related the incident in great detail, and went on to his condemnation of primary schools.
Here Mr. Spence opposed him. The brothers-in-law were very good friends. Their friendship centred in Mrs. Spence, and was based upon a real regard for each other’s good qualities. Mr. Spence laughed at Uncle Edward, and Uncle Edward regarded his brother-in-law as frivolous and curiously wrong-headed in certain respects: but, meeting seldom, they got on well.
At the same time, Mr. Spence, who had a strong vein of mischief in him, could seldom resist the chance of starting an argument. He protested, when afterwards taken to task by his wife, that he had not started the argument on purpose, but that Edward said such preposterous things one could not help contradicting him. This was partly true. The fact was that Uncle Edward, with his prejudices and his indignations, was a perpetual target and temptation to his brother-in-law’s more agile wits.
It so happened that, on the subject of primary schools, Mr. Spence felt strongly. He knew something about them, whereas Uncle Edward did not.
For two years, Uncle Edward had taught at an exceedingly high-class preparatory school. He had only done it to oblige a relative, and had not been altogether a success, since the boys, though they liked him, could not help ragging him. The experience had been bad for Uncle Edward in most ways, since it increased his general feeling of inadequacy: but it constituted him, in his own mind, an authority upon educational matters, and he made full use of it.
Mr. Spence looked up, with a smile and a slight rising of the eyebrows.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Edward,’ he said. ‘Personally, I think the primary schools do wonderfully good work.’
‘Good work!’ exclaimed Uncle Edward. ‘Good work! Why—’
‘You must consider the difficulties under which they labour. Suppose you, Edward, were put in sole charge of a class of sixty children. Not carefully selected children, mind you, as you had at St. What-d’you-call-its, but children graded roughly by age, and varying from the sharpest, most intelligent little street arabs to dolts and high-grade imbeciles. Why, man, the sheer effort of keeping them from rioting would be enough for most people. And those teachers not only keep them all quiet and all occupied, but actually teach them something as well.’
‘Precious little,’ said Uncle Edward.
A spot of colour appeared on each of his thin cheeks. The allusion to rioting had gone home. He was too generous to suspect a direct hit at him. Besides, he supposed that the facts of his brief teaching career were not known. It was a long time ago, and he had managed to persuade himself that it had not been nearly as bad as, in fact, it was. But the truth lay in the deeps of his mind. He would often wake up suddenly, from a dream that he was back in the classroom, and go hot and cold with the fear that his former persecutors had broadcast the story everywhere.
‘Precious little, perhaps, judged by an ideal standard. Judged by what they could do with smaller classes. A miraculous amount, judged by the hopeless disadvantages they have to fight against.’
Uncle Edward snorted.
‘At any rate,’ he said, ‘I should have thought they could have told them about Guy Fawkes. On the very day before the anniversary.’
‘Yes.’ Mr. Spence, his head slightly on one side, conceded the point. ‘Yes. They might have done that.’
‘The bare facts, at any rate. That would not take long.’
Mr. Spence, who had finished, laid down his knife and fork.
‘I wonder if any one knows the facts,’ he said, gazing somewhere over Uncle Edward’s head.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Uncle Edward stared at him in astonishment.
‘Oh, we kno
w more or less what happened, I grant you. I was thinking of the real facts. The truth.’
Mrs. Spence gave her husband a beseeching glance. Uncle Edward took long enough over his meal at any rate. In town, he had so much to say that he would from time to time forget all about his food, and only be recalled to it when he noticed that everyone else had finished, and the children, impatient for the next course, were sitting in attitudes of unnatural stiffness.
But Mrs. Spence’s look came too late. Uncle Edward laid down his fork.
‘I don’t know that I altogether follow you, Geoffrey.’
‘How far do we know the truth about any past event? We have a record of the chief facts. This or that battle occurred, this or that man did such-and-such a thing and had his head cut off. But how much do we really know? How much do we understand?’
This suggestion of doubt was very unpleasant to Uncle Edward, who asked always to live in a world of black-and-white certainties. He frowned,, drew his head back a little, then shook it.
‘In this case,’ he said, ‘the facts are established beyond a doubt. We know what happened. We have the subsequent confessions of the miscreants. There is no lack of witnesses. I should have thought there was no event in history about which we could feel greater certainty.’
Mr. Spence began to break a piece of bread into small pieces. His wife, noting another danger signal, tried again to catch his eye. Smiling, he looked into space somewhere above her head.
‘I wonder what those witnesses’ testimony is worth.’
‘What, may I ask, do you cast doubt upon? Whose testimony do you suspect?’
‘None in particular. It is, simply, that I do not believe that we can ever know the full truth of anything that happened in the past.’
Uncle Edward’s face turned quite dark. He spluttered. Then, with a violent effort, he regained his self-control.
‘In that case, my dear Geoffrey, we might as well close our history books, and regard all our mighty heritage as so much waste paper.’
‘No. History is an attempt to understand and interpret the past. Not to state it precisely as final, and never to be examined again.’
The Fifth of November Page 2