“Thank you,” he managed to say, raising his school cap, with its badge sewn on the front, as he bowed slightly to the young woman. She looked up a moment in surprise, wondering if he meant to be sarcastic, then decided to take no notice, in case he was. Like most people, not of the looked-down-upon working class, in the district, she bore herself usually with reserve, enclosing a feeling of superiority to most other people living in the neighbourhood. Behind the reserve was a defensive touchiness, at times showing itself in hauteur.
Tremulous with relief, Phillip turned away. He hesitated before going into the Reading Room.
A tram-bell clanged loudly outside in the street as the main swing-doors opened to admit an old man entering with a cold gust of air, its effect heightened by the livid colour of his face revealed above the black breathing-pad held across his mouth by black tapes fastened at the back of his hair. Phillip had often seen him, a figure inspiring mild fear. Laboriously with a stick the apparition tapped towards the reading-room doors; but before they had swung-to behind his entry, as he was making for the only unoccupied seat, Phillip darted past him, and snatching a copy of the Automotor Journal from a table, seated himself in the vacant place. Safely there, he looked at the library ticket concealed in his hand, while exulting that now there was no proof that he had made the blots and written the awful word about the shag. Now he really would be better! His prayer had been answered! He swore he would turn over a new leaf!
Taking out his note-book, he began to write the name of a motorcar upon a page which already held a list of several makes, with their numbers and descriptions. The collection of motorcar numbers was one of the local boys’ current hobbies; but unlike most other boys, Phillip did not confine himself to numbers. He had ridden in a motorcar but once; his interest was, by that experience, more technical. There was a common saying among boys that one day a big prize would be given for the biggest list of registration numbers, though who was to give the prize, and where it was to be got, was never stated.
In Phillip’s book were recorded, in his laboriously neat hand—with its immature resemblance to his father’s—the following details.
Motorcars seen on the road leading to Reynard’s Common by Phillip Maddison, Esq., of Lindenheim, Wakenham, Kent.
15 h.p. Panhard et Lavassor, 4 seater, my Uncle Hilary’s motor. I was one of the first passengers.
5½ h.p. Peugeot, a voiturette. Tall and tiny, with curving radiator. Seen by Cutler’s Pond.
4.9 h.p. Pick, tiny 2 seater. In Wetherley’s coach works.
Hurtu, an old broken down crock. Pulled by horse near Obelisk.
Lutzmann, with 4 carriage wheels. No radiator, but cooling tanks, and spoon and ribbon brakes. Seen in blacksmith’s yard in High Street. No good.
Lanchester. Seen by cousin Gerry.
Oldsmobile, an American. Seen by Father who passed it (while boiling) up Brumley hill on his 3-speed Sunbeam. (The motor was boiling, not Father).
Locomobile steam-car. Outside Green Man, Cutler’s Pond.
White’s Steam car. Seen by Harris, in my form at school.
Arrol-Johnstone dog-cart, old-fashioned veritable old-iron, slow and panting. Seen by Cutler’s Pond.
Mercedes, very sporty and fast, brass snake-like exhaust pipes on one side. Seen in Wetherley’s coach works. Not for sale, he told me.
Mors. Spidery. Mors is Latin for death. It looked like it, said Father. Seen on Sunday, two men pushing it.
Darracq, French make. Seen in Daily Trident photo, so can be half claimed as seen by me.
James and Brown, London built. Think I saw one, but am not certain (must not cheat too much).
Siddeley-Deasey. Stopped on way up hill to Heath. Man said make-and-break spring was broken.
Fafnir motor-bike, German. Father told me Fafnir means dragon. Yellow and black, more like wasp. Seen on Brumley road, Sunday.
Star. It passed fast through Fordesmill, and very likely fell into police trap along Brumley road to Cutler’s Pond, Father said.
Royal Enfield, “made like a gun”. It certainly made bangs in silencer box. On Sunday walk to Cutler’s Pond with Father.
de Launy-Belville. Going down Stumps Hill. Seen by Father, who reported it to me.
Phillip was writing the latest entry, 20. Wolseley, seen in Automotor Journal in Free Library, when the old man stopped by his chair, and staring down at him with red-rimmed eyes that held a fixed expression of misery, pushed up the black pad and said, wheezily, “That is my cheer yar sittin’ in. I seed it fust, d’n I tho.”
The chair was next to a hot-water radiator. The old man had come in to get warm. His own house, in Skerritt Road nearby, was fireless.
“Well, I got here first,” said Phillip in a whisper. He pointed at the SILENCE notice on the wall. “But I won’t be half a mo.”
He pretended to be looking at the periodical; but the old man’s presence took away all thought, all life from him. He stayed an uneasy minute longer, then remembering Cranmer, got up and, pulling back the chair, offered it to the old man, with a mock bow, and a sweep of his hand. Then catching a whiff of the strong, acrid smell emanating from the dark, creased clothes of the old man, Phillip’s nose wrinkled up, and he stared at the ceiling.
“You cheeky young limb,” growled the old man, fixing Phillip with his ruined eyes.
“‘A year ago I used Pears’ Soap, since when I have used no other’,” murmured Phillip, half to himself. The words were from a well-known advertisement, originally a drawing in Punch. It showed an unkempt, bearded man, short clay pipe in mouth, writing a testimonial for the soap. Phillip and his mother had a private joke about the picture; they pretended that it was Father.
The old man lowered himself slowly into the chair, while Phillip waited to be thanked. After all, it was his seat, and he had unselfishly given it up. When the old man uttered no word, Phillip said sarcastically, “What do you say?”, but meeting only the same miserable stare from the eyes, turned away to examine a newspaper, one of many flat on the sloping stands around the walls. Its turning edges were frayed and dirtied by many wetted fingers and thumbs. Glancing back at the seated figure of the old man, Phillip saw that he was holding a page of the Automotor Journal, while staring at a picture, and rolling the edge of the page between his finger and thumb, preparatory to turning it over.
“H’m,” muttered Phillip, in contempt. “One of the dog’s ear brigade.”
Recently the boy had been checked by his father for doing the same thing. A book or magazine, said Richard, should be respected. Its pages should be turned lightly, not held as though they were a dog’s ear, to be rubbed.
There was no interest in the newspaper—nothing about Birds or Motorcars—and remembering that he was due to meet Cranmer at seven, with a glance at the clock Phillip walked between the rows of drab-dressed people sitting silent except for frequent coughing and throat-clearing; and passing through the swing-door, went to the shelves of books in the lending department. Here, before volumes ranged in alphabetical order of their classified contents, he stood hesitant, facing the word ANTIQUITY.
Phillip knew that Antiquity was rather like History, which was utterly dull and uninteresting. Antiquarianism was about things like tombstones in old churchyards, dark old buildings, churches and cottages with moss and lichen on their roofs—all very interesting to Mother, who often talked with Mr. Mundy on the Hill. Perhaps Mother would like a book on it? For he must leave NATURAL HISTORY alone for a bit. If he took home an antiquarian book, it might put the librarian off the scent; also, it would help to put Father in a favourable mood.
Phillip took a volume from the section, and opening a page, saw a photograph of the High Road before the elms had been cut down. There was Pennison the barber, standing outside his sweetstuff-shop near the corner of Comfort Road. Across the road was Sprunt’s pawn shop, with the three golden balls hanging over it. Sprunt’s where once he had bought a horse-pistol, and fired it off too, with black powder—a wonderful weapon!<
br />
“I would like to take out this one, please. Antiquarianism is so very interesting, I think,” he said, in unconscious imitation of his mother’s manner.
The young woman gave the small boy with the soft, distinct voice an upward glance. She recognised him as the one who had raised his cap to her ten minutes earlier. Seeing his deep blue eyes and gentle smile, she was sorry for having taken no notice of him before. He had such black hair, and such a gentlemanly voice. Her face took on a gentle look, her lips lost their hard line, and lifted with a smile as she withdrew the card from the book, and having stamped it and the front page, took his ticket and said,
“You’re one of the brainy ones, I can see. Well, don’t let your brains kill you, dear.”
“Oh no, I won’t do that!”
She smiled openly with the stir of warmth that arose in her as she absorbed the look on his face, which seemed to shine from within.
Responsive to her feeling, Phillip felt clear and happy. He had turned over a new leaf! He stood smiling at the assistant, thinking that her mouth and chin and cheeks and brow were lovely in shape. His gaze dropped.
“Thank you,” he said softly, and taking the book, raised his cap, while giving her a fleeting smile, and a little bow, in imitation of his Father.
At that moment the swing doors of the Library were edged open, and the well-known parsonic figure of Mr. Mundy in black straw yard and long knitted muffler flowing from several turns around his neck—he never wore an overcoat—came through on a bicycle. He had a large wicker fishing creel, which held books, slung over one shoulder.
Leaping off the bike, Mr. Mundy greeted everyone boisterously, like old friends. He saw Phillip.
“Hullo, the very man I wanted to see! I think there is a specimen of either Nyctea Scandiaca or Bubo Bubo Bubo on the Hill! Snowy Owl, or Eagle Owl! I must write to The Times. I’ve just seen Sprunt the pawn-broker, who is a great bird-man, and described it to him—my gardener saw it in the row of elms—and I’ve come to identify it. Bubo Bubo Bubo sounds terrifying, doesn’t it, m’dear?”, turning to the assistant. “It’s the classification of Linnaeus, as of course you know.”
Everyone was now looking at the vicar; heads in the reading room, seen through glass-panelled doors, were turning.
“Well, m’dear,” he went on, “I wonder if you have any books of reference—Gould’s British Birds is what I want.” He stood his bicycle against a wall. “Now, Phillip—hullo—where’s he gone, I wonder?”
*
“My God, Cranmer, quick! They’re after me! Down to the cemetery!”
Cranmer ran beside Phillip, away from the Free Library. Soon the fog hid the lights behind. They stopped outside the sweet-shop opposite the Boys’ Entrance of Wakenham Road School. Then Phillip told Cranmer what had happened.
Cranmer was Phillip’s companion of many a secret walk around the fields of Joy Farm, and the allotments by the Workhouse in Randiswell. Cranmer was a faithful friend, with whom Phillip had kept up the friendship of pre-scholarship days, when they had gone to Wakenham school. Both boys would soon be fourteen. Then Cranmer, who had remained at Wakenham Road School, would start work.
Meanwhile, the light in his life was his friendship with Phillip. Cranmer had a father who spent most of his wages, when in work, in a pub called The Jack. Because Cranmer came from Skerritt Road, that place of supposed evil, most of its children in broken boots and ragged clothes, Phillip had been forbidden to see him. Hetty was never afraid of her son’s contamination. The boys therefore were chums in secret, meeting every Friday night outside the Library.
“I can’t stop tonight, I’ve got to hurry, Horace. Can you walk with me s’far’s the Cemetery gates?”
“Yus. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ t’night. Carry yer book, Phil?”
“Thanks.”
Cranmer took the volume gratefully. Phillip was pleased that Cranmer always wanted to do things for him.
As they walked upon the smooth square slabs of the new pavement, beside the iron railings of the cemetery, he told Cranmer about his fears.
“If Mr. Mundy reports me, I’m a goner, Horace. I’ll have to run away from home.”
“I’m wiv yer, Phil. Anyfink you do, I do.”
“What about your father, Horace?”
Cranmer spat. “Pah, my ole man don’t care what I do! Only what about your’n?”
“Oh, he doesn’t care either.”
Cranmer considered this.
“I don’t want to git yer in no trouble, Phil, but my bruvver knows a bloke dahn Green’ich what’s got a barge, ole piper ’e takes, bundles ’n bundles er ole piper all pressed tergewer, an’ tugs take ’m dahn ter’r piper mills in the Medway somewhere—cor, it ain’t ’arf some sport on’r Thames barge, Phil!”
Cranmer spoke through his clenched teeth, his lips parted slightly, in the approved manner of the streets where everyone was against you, and if you didn’t look after yourself, no one else would. Everyone was out after a poor boy—Cranmer had known that from the time he could walk, and learned to hurry away from kicks, back-handers, and beltings. As he spoke he drew his lips back against his gums (half his front teeth were decayed) and his words came without facial movement—as though a slop, otherwise copper, bluebottle, or policeman, were eternally waiting to catch him.
“I ken ’alf-inch s’m tins’r stuff from ole ’Ern, an’ we kin live off’r’m an’ ’ide up among’r piper bales, Phil. No one won’t see us.”
Phillip was silent. Pinching from a shop was not right. It was all right to scrump apples, or pull carrots from the allotments near the workhouse, but taking things from a shop was stealing. Besides, Hern the grocer was a nice man, a friend who told him of his adventures in Canada. Phillip often visited him in the little room behind his shop, where Hern did his accounts at a stand-up desk. Cranmer was an errand-boy for Hern on Saturdays.
“How much do you get at Hern’s, Horace?”
“’Ern gimme tuppence, Phil, only I hev to give it to me Mum.”
Cranmer worked from 9 a.m. until 8 p.m. for that sum; but he received, in addition, odd ends of reasty bacon, a bag of broken biscuits, various chunks of stale cheese-ends, as well as other scraps, all of which he took home in an old perambulator.
“I don’t think we ought to half-inch from Hern, you know, Horace.”
“P’raps you’re right, Phil. I was on’y sort-er finkin’ of you, reely.”
“Perhaps I ought to go and see Mr. Mundy now, and confess. He’s a decent old fellow, you know.”
“I know!” cried Cranmer, “You kin say you come ter join ver Siety fer properation er gospital! Ven you can tell ’im your sin and ’e’ll forgive yer!”
“Yes, I might join the S.P.G.,” said Phillip, eager with this hope.
They became silent as the place of parting came nearer. There was a stone hidden on the wall of the cemetery; usually the boys played football on the pavement with it, quiet little dribbles, Cranmer being Woolwich Arsenal and Phillip being Aston Villa—but tonight Phillip did not feel like playing. At the cemetery gates he said, “Well, I must say so long now. See you next Friday? Same place? By the way, there is a terrific owl about now—probably flown down from the North Pole—no one knows exactly what it is, but it may be an Eagle Owl. If so, I think many a small dog may be missing in the future near! So keep your eyes skinned. I’d like any observations to go into my notebook.”
“Blime,” said Cranmer. “Does it tike kids’s well’s dorgs?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised! Well, goodbye for now.”
Stopping at the corner of Charlotte Road, Phillip looked back. The fog was clearing, before a wind. From up the road came a long hoarse whistle, Cranmer’s speciality. Cranmer had thrust three fingers into his mouth and emptied his lungs fervently and rapidly through the finger-spaces. The result was a sort of miniature railway-engine screech. Phillip thought it was rather a common noise; he must remember to tell Cranmer not to do it in future. Also, Father might hear it; it n
eedlessly advertised their whereabouts when together.
A lighted tram rushed past, its steel wheels seeming to whoop in the rails as the brakes were put on before the stop by the Unitarian Church on the far curve. Under a clearer, star-seen sky the driver was expressing his relief. His brown and yellow vehicle had groaned all day slowly, with clanging bell, through the traffic; while a bitter dew had lain upon his lashes, stinging the lids of his eyes, vulnerable to detritus falling from one or another of a hundred thousand chimneys of South London.
Chapter 4
“HISTORY OF THE BOROUGH”
HAPPY in his thoughts of a new beginning, Phillip hurried along Charlotte Road. When he came to St. Cyprian’s church, the sight of lighted windows for the usual Friday night choir-practice gave him an idea. He would go in and join the S.P.G. right away. He hesitated. Perhaps it would be safer to join the St. Simon’s branch, and throw himself on the mercy of Mr. Mundy after all, as Cranmer had suggested. St. Simon’s reminded him inevitably of Helena Rolls; it was as though a lead plummet dropped in his breast. He would go over the grass of the Hill, and down through the thorns above the gully, in order to see the lighted windows of Helena Rolls’ house at the top of the road.
It was thrilling to walk over the grass at night, to climb silently over the hurdle fence; and avoiding thorn twigs with slow care, to creep, in the shadow lines of the street-lamp, to cover by the park gates. While he stood there, he saw Mr. Pye’s front door open, and the figure of Mr. Pye descending the steps. Phillip pressed himself against the iron post of the park gate, and kept rigidly still. He saw Mr. Pye tip-toeing up by the Rolls’ hedge, pause to open their gate, pass through, close it very carefully, and go to the front door. Phillip watched him put something through the letter box, and then Mr. Pye tip-toed back to the gate. He opened and closed it very quietly, and then tiptoed back to his own house again, and up the steps to the front door he had left a little bit open.
Young Phillip Maddison Page 4