This feeling, of course, was shared by both men towards each other, since it had its existence between the two.
Richard had an affection for the starling. Its bronze-green sheens glinted in the sun as it sang on the rim of the warm red chimney pot. It wheezed and shivered its wings, as, with opened upheld beak, it turned from side to side, like a singer on a concert platform. Its song was composed of mimic cries of its surroundings—yodel-like Milk-o! cry of milkman, clatter of tinned milk cans, plaintive cry of kestrel hawk that hunted over the Hill, ringing cry of tomtit, bark of dog, zec-zec of carter to horse, the thin wail of a violin—even the noise of Mr. Turney clearing his throat in his bathroom opposite! Richard greeted the bird, in his mind, as a friend, every morning. He knew that the starling was throwing off into the sky its joyous greeting to the sun, the expectations of its mate’s sky-blue eggs hatching, and food in the cabbage fields of Randiswell—and then Richard’s happy communication with the herald on the chimney pot was liable to be broken by the actual noise of Mr. Turney clearing his throat at the wash-basin, sniffing diluted Sanitas up his nostrils, and gargling. Richard was too sensitive to close his own bathroom window, although he did not want to hear the vulgarian noises of his father-in-law; nor for Mr. Turney to overhear the private noises of his own ablutions. Any moment now Mr. Turney would be entering his bathroom.
“Come on, old chap, no use shivering on the brink! Under you go! Why, you’re not half a man! At your age, I and your uncles used to swim every morning, summer and winter, in the Longpond at home.”
Richard believed this; as a fact he had learned to swim at seven years of age.
Phillip was standing unhappily in the bath. He was afraid of the deep mass of greenish water below him. He was greatly apprehensive of being shattered by the cold. Richard lost patience with him. He bent over the bath, placed one arm under the boy’s knees and the other around projecting shoulder-blades, and lifted him up preparatory to laying him flat on his back. But the child clung to him. He was rigid with fear, his mouth open, his eyes terrified.
“No, farver, no! Please don’t! No, farver! I beg your pardon, farver!”
“Let go, boy! Don’t be such a blue funk, Phillip! Why, you’ll have a wonderful glow afterwards. Come on now, let go of my dressing-gown!” The father spoke sharply; he had lost patience; his wife’s indisposition had ruined his morning routine, and pleasure in the exhilarating cold tub, which he took every day of the year, attributing to it his absence of colds or any other illness.
He pressed down the clinging boy. Phillip cried out, tried wildly to claw himself up. His head bumped on the curved rim of the iron bath, and he began to cry. The father lifted him out, covered the shivering little wretch with his towel, and dried him.
“What a fuss over nothing, my boy! There now, don’t you feel better?”
He had come to the conclusion that his son was a cowardly sort. Did he not tell untruths, sometimes, it appeared, for the sake of untruth, when really there was nothing to be gained by it? Hetty was partly responsible, of course; she spoiled the boy, by giving in to his every mood.
“Now toddle along and show Mother that you can dress yourself like a big boy! You are a big boy, you know, you are five years old. You must look after Mother today, and Mavis. And when Aunty Belle comes, you must be on your best behaviour. There now, you won’t be afraid of cold water any more, will you?”
“No, farver.”
“And tomorrow, if you are good, I’ll let you give yourself a cold swish, after I’ve had mine, all by yourself. What do you say to that, eh?”
“Thank you, farver.”
“That’s right, old chap. Now toddle along and get your clothes on, and perhaps if you are good today, when I come home tonight I’ll give you, as an especial treat, some cherry toffee.”
“Thank you, farver.”
The boy hurried away back to his bedroom. Richard, as was his habit, shut and bolted the door, to enjoy the privacy and refreshment of what he called his tub.
As a special treat for breakfast, he cooked some bacon for Phillip. The two had the meal together in the kitchen. Richard was a little keyed-up because he had taken, for him, a bold decision. He would ride on the Starley Rover to the City. This would enable him to leave a message at Dr. Cave-Brown’s on the way. He had not cycled to his work for two years, and so the prospect was cause for some trepidation. He had never yet been late at the office—whether in the old days at Doggett’s in the Strand, or now at the Moon Fire Office in Haybundle Street—during all his years in the City, since the age of seventeen. And he must not spoil that record of punctuality.
Having taken his wife a second cup of tea, he lifted out his bicycle and departed down Hillside Road on that enamelled and nickel-plated machine, straw hat held under arm lest it blow off in the rush of air down the short and flinty hill to the corner, and then up the slight slope of Charlotte Road to the doctor’s.
Phillip watched him out of sight from his mother’s bedroom window. Then he turned and said to his mother, “I’m the man now, Mummy.”
“Yes, dear. You will be a good boy, and not touch any of your father’s things, won’t you?”
“No, Mummy.”
The idea having been put into his head, Phillip promptly went down the steps from the landing to Father’s work-room. It was a wonderful place, full of strange and exciting things. He tried the handle, and found the door locked. He returned to his mother’s bedroom.
“May I float my birf-day boat, Mummy, in the barf?”
“Yes, dear, if you promise not to make a lot of splashing.”
Hetty thought with relief that Mrs. Feeney was coming for a whole day today.
“I don’t want Mavis to come, Mummy. She interubbers me.”
Mavis could now walk. She lived much of her life in the cot and the high chair which Phillip had vacated. She was now asleep, having had from her father, whose delight in her was as obvious as his disappointment with his first-born, a bowl of warm bread and milk, called sop.
Hetty lay with aching eyeballs. She felt sick, her head ached. She shivered. What could she have eaten? Or had she caught a chill. Thank goodness, Mrs. Feeney would be here any minute now.
Phillip put in the plug, and turned on the taps. The fire was not alight in the kitchen, so no hot water could scald him, thought Hetty, or be wasted. His Aunt Victoria had sent him a little yacht from Holborn for his birthday, on behalf of his godmother who was living in the Aegean, making a study of the country of Homer and other Greek poets, preparatory, it was understood, to coming home and starting, with a friend, a school for young gentlewomen in the West Country.
Happily Phillip sailed his boat in the bath. He experimented with extra sails from the toilet roll, extra masts with toothbrushes from the rack above the soap dish, and with the soap for its own sake, together with the tooth glass. It was interesting to transfer water in the glass from bath to lavatory pan. He tried to sail the yacht in the pan, and to find out what happened when he clambered up and pulled the plug. Obviously the form was disintegrating, for next he sought out Zippy, to give that cat a cold swish.
This being done, the cat yowled and fled, looking unusually thin, and leaving a string of water on the linoleum of the landing and the carpet of the stairs. Philip knew where it had gone to, its hide in the cupboard under the stairs, where brooms and brushes were kept, with smelly cloths—Phillip knew every one of the smells—for polishing and cleaning wood, stone, and metal.
Having pulled Zippy out of the cupboard, Phillip was wiping him in the scullery when there was a knock on the door. He went to the door, recognising the knock of Mrs. Feeney. He knew all the other callers by the way they rang the bell, knocked, or, when it was Hern the grocer, who was deaf, both rang and knocked.
“Why, what have you been doing with the cat, Master Phil? My goodness, the poor old moggy’s as wet as anything! What have you been doing, eh?”
Mrs. Feeney went straight into the kitchen, put her bag on the board
under the dresser, and began to untie the strings of her bonnet.
“Zippy had a barf, Mrs. Feeney. I did too, with Farver. I’ve been sailing my boat. Mummy’s ill in bed. So don’t make too much noise, will you?”
“Oh? I’ll be going upstairs then, to find out what’s the matter.”
“You won’t make any noise, will you, Mrs. Feeney?”
“Go on with yer, Master Phillip, it’s you that mustn’t make the noise!”
Mrs. Feeney loved her Master Phil. Had she not helped to bring the little dear into the world? Mr. and Mrs. Maddison were a special master and mistress to the charwoman. She had the highest regard for both of them, based on Richard’s invariable courtesy to her, and on Hetty’s sweetness and confiding kindness; and also, though Mrs. Feeney did not realize this, on her own not unexceptionable integrity. Mrs. Feeney always worked her hardest and best. She was invariably cheerful, and always grateful for all and any little extras in the way of stale pieces of bread, cold potatoes, bones and pieces of mutton fat, old clothes and hats, old newspapers, that Hetty gave her. She did not ever stand on her rights, as the phrase went; she knew only her duties. For a shilling, Mrs. Feeney worked a half day of five hours. A whole day was eighteenpence, including her lunch of bread and cheese and tea, and more tea with bread and dripping at five o’clock, before going home. She enjoyed her work greatly.
Mrs. Feeney, having removed black poke bonnet and shawl, went into the scullery. In that small, dark place, she leaned towards the sink, held her nose between finger and thumb, and adroitly cleared her nostrils with an expulsion of air from the lungs. Then she turned the tap, and found, to her surprise, that Phillip had been watching her. “Don’t you ever do that, Master Phil, or you’ll be getting me into hot water.”
Bonnet and shawl being hung behind the scullery door, she tidied her hair, before going upstairs to see the mis’es, otherwise mistress. She found Hetty changing the diapers of the baby in her cot. Mis’es had the fever, and Mrs. Feeney tucked her up in bed.
“I’ll get on all right, mum, you leave it to me, mum.”
Hetty told her that Miss Maddison, the master’s sister, was coming at twelve o’clock, and would Mrs. Feeney see about some macaroni and cheese for her luncheon. And would she go in next door and tell Mrs. Turney that she would like to see her? And, of course, to keep an eye on Master Phillip.
*
Master Phillip meanwhile had gone out of the house, and was knocking at Mrs. Bigge’s front door. He often went in to see Aunty Bigge, because she gave him cake and comfits. Comfits were nice to crunch, being little rolypoly white and pink things with black licorice inside. He liked to strum on Mr. Bigge’s harp, too, and make lovely noises. There were also many fascinating things to see in Aunty Bigge’s house, although he did not like being kissed by Aunty Bigge, who smelled like some of the cloths in the cleaning cupboard, or her hair did. Aunty Bigge’s hair had a black bottle smell, a cat’s tail smell.
Mrs. Bigge was proud of her hair, which when brushed out fell nearly to her knees. She had a secret receipt, by which she maintained what Josiah Bigge called her Woman’s Glory. She used to work a mixture of vinegar, neat’s foot oil, and chemist’s civet into her scalp with an old toothbrush. This receipt not only guarded against any tendency to dandruff, but it gave the thick tresses a fragrance similar to those of Ayesha, Josiah’s favourite heroine in fiction, by way of Rider Haggard’s famous novel. Mrs. Bigge had not the least wish to attract Josiah Bigge, or any other man; she considered that any woman who set out to attract anyone was lacking in self-respect. The hair-treatment receipt was an old one of her grandmother’s, and calling herself Ayesha had no more harm in it than Josiah’s harp-playing. Good plain cooking was the way to a man’s heart.
“Mummy ill in bed, dear? Good little boy to come in and tell Aunty! You shall have a piece of home-made toffee, that you shall!”
Phillip felt disappointment. He had had Aunty Bigge’s home-made toffee before. It was not real toffee, being made of dripping and black treacle. He looked round for interesting things when Aunty Bigge was in the kitchen, but saw nothing new.
That day was a strange one for Phillip. He was subdued, rather scared, and unhappy that he was not allowed to see Mummy. Her door was to be kept shut. Mrs. Feeney said “Isolation”. It sounded alarming. Grannie said to Aunty Bigge, “Are there any spots on the b-t-m, Mrs. Bigge, with German measles?” He wondered what b-t-m meant.
Mavis was brought down from Mummy’s room, and her cot put in the sitting room.
Zippy caught a bird and played with it, and the bird went “Ee-ee”. Zippy ran away growling when he tried to take the bird. So he chased Zippy with a cushion and banged him until he let go the bird, which he picked up to stroke, when the bird pecked him hard, hurting his finger before flying away. So Phillip pinched Mavis and made her cry. He took her dolly and gave it first a ride on Daddy’s bike, then a swish in the pan by pulling the plug.
Aunty Belle looked round the door and said he was a naughty boy and if he did not behave he would be sent to bed.
“I don’t care.”
“You cannot love your Mother, if you say such things when she is ill, Phillip.”
“I don’t love Mummie any more.”
Phillip felt like he did when he was chasing Zippy, he did not really mean it, but only half-meant it.
The doctor came and looked down his throat with an ivory thing, not the handle of a spoon as when Mummy used to look down his throat, pressing on his tongue, making him retch. Then he had to take off his jersey and vest.
“No sign of it so far. But the children must remain downstairs in isolation. It’s scarlet fever.”
When Father came home he was not angry. He said to Aunty Belle, “What rotten luck for you, at the start of your holiday, too! It is very good of you to offer, Belle, and I will send a telegram to Viccy at once.”
That night it was strange, sleeping on the floor beside the yellow and brown carpet of the front room, on a big mattress laid there by Father. And the gas lamp went pop when it went out, then red, and a little light shone up there all by itself. Phillip lay very still, for Daddy was in his nightshirt getting into another bed on the carpet. And a Nurse was upstairs with Mummy and no one had kissed him goodnight. He hugged Golly beside him.
The darkness seemed to be rushing by all the time. It was thick, and so different from the darkness upstairs in his bedroom. Phillip did not realize that this was due to the curtains being drawn across the poles above the windows. In his own bedroom there was nothing at night over the window.
In the thick dark about him there was a little pop, and a little whistle, then some more pops and little whistles.
He wondered why the lamp in the middle of the ceiling was making little pops, now that it was on the by-pass. Then Daddy moved in the dark and sighed and turned over and there were no more pops and whistles. Instead there were slow, soft prods over his feet and beside his legs and he felt very glad, lying open-eyed in the darkness, feeling that Zippy was open-eyed, too. Then Zippy was purring and playing the piano on his body. He could feel Zippy’s whiskers near his ears, though they did not touch or tickle him. Zippy’s whiskers never did. Then pop, and the little whistle again. Zippy was gone. He felt for him, but he was not there.
The cat was creeping, step by step, towards a scent. Then the pop and little whistle stopped and Daddy whispered, “Hullo, Zippy! Where have you been, you naughty boy.” Zippy purred loudly as Daddy stroked him. “Where have you been hiding? You naughty boy, Zippy. Ah, you want my warmth, don’t you?”
Phillip went to sleep soon afterwards. So did Richard, gently snoring, with the brindled cat against his back, under the bedclothes.
Isabelle Maddison slept in the sitting room, on an improvised sofa-bed, beside Mavis in her cot.
Upstairs, feeling herself to be swelled red all over, while all her brain and thoughts were a thick brown, Hetty lay unsleeping in her bed.
All the upper windows of the house were
open, for the contagious germs of scarlet fever to escape into the air.
Richard was convinced, from an article about Sanatoria in Switzerland he had read recently in The Daily Trident, that germs floating in air would follow a warm air-stream, and so find themselves outside. That was why the lower windows of the house were all shut.
The next morning a telegram arrived with the post. It was decided that the two children should be taken to Epsom, where Isabelle Maddison had already arranged to spend the second week of her vacation with her younger sister, Victoria, and her husband George Lemon.
Victoria had replied to the pre-paid telegram, offering to look after the children during Hetty’s indisposition, provided that Isabelle would accompany them for the first fortnight. Please telegraph time of arrival.
Chapter 11
MAFEKING DAY
THE OUTSIDE porter of Randiswell station had come up with his trolley, and the black portmanteau, with its thick, cracked straps, faded white paint lettering, and plaster of old labels, once Richard’s grandfather’s, had preceded the travellers by half an hour. Mrs. Bigge had pushed the mail cart in which Mavis was strapped. Miss Isabelle Maddison had held the hand of her nephew. Phillip wore his best suit: white sailor blouse and skirt, white socks, black shoes with button strap, wide straw hat with letters in gold on the band, H.M.S. Defiant.
Phillip looked anything but defiant. His face was tearstained. He had sobbed all the morning at the idea of leaving Mummy. When the time came to leave, he had clung to the banister rails halfway up the stairs. Mrs. Bigge had finally got him down to the hall, whereupon he had clung to the post at the bottom. Eventually he was persuaded to abandon the post, vainly admonished to be a man. Another plea likewise had failed.
“Surely,” said a distressed Aunty Belle, “surely, Phillip, you cannot want to upset your little sister? Look at Mavis, sitting so still and good in her mail-cart! “Round-eyed, in poke bonnet, bib, and shoulder-cape, the baby wondered what it was all about. Soon she, too, was crying. “I want my Mummy, I want my Mummy.”
Donkey Boy Page 16