by James Hilton
Then Gerald looked up and saw what a huge, red face his uncle had, and how hair grew in tufts out of his nose and ears, how thick his fingers were, and how, when he spoke, the light in the room seemed to blink. And then suddenly he knew what the 'wuff-wuff' was really like--it was like the bark of a big black dog. 'Well, well, here we are, my boy. This is your Aunt Flo. She'll get you a bite of supper, and then off you go to bed.'
Gerald was rather dashed at that; surely bed could not be part of this new and marvellous existence? But Aunt Flo, who wore glasses, smiled and patted his cheek. 'You look tired after your journey,' she said, but Gerald, who felt anything but tired, did not reply. Then she shouted to Uncle Richard: 'He says he's tired after his journey'; which was really not true at all. By that time, however, Gerald was staring round the room and at everything in it. It was a very warm red room, with a crackling fire and a brass rail stretching the whole length of the mantelpiece over the fireplace. To one side stood a long dresser, scrubbed white, and on this there was a queer, dome-shaped object covered with a dark cloth. 'That's Polly,' said Aunt Flo. 'She's gone to bed now and we mustn't wake her. A parrot, Gerald--have you never seen a parrot before?'
Of course he had; he had been to the Zoo. 'Does it talk?' he asked.
'Yes, she can say "Give me a nut." You'll see tomorrow.'
Gerald was a little awed at the prospect of seeing Polly, though he didn't think 'Give me a nut' was much of a thing to say, even for a parrot. Then he noticed that the room had two windows, only one of which had a blind drawn over it; the other looked through into another sort of room. Now this was a peculiar thing--so peculiar that he could not help being rude (for Aunt Lavinia had always assured him that it was rude to ask questions). 'Where does that lead to, Uncle Richard?' he said.
'He wants to know what's out there!' shouted Aunt Flo.
'Out there, my boy? Wuff-wuff. Why, that's the greenhouse. Only we don't use it as a greenhouse now. It's where I keep my tricycle.'
'Tricycle?'
'Never seen a tricycle?'
'I've seen a parrot, but I've never seen a tricycle,' answered Gerald; so Uncle Richard beckoned him nearer to the window, and there it was, quite plainly--a tricycle. And on the handlebars, as on the lapels of Gerald's and Uncle Richard's coats, there was a red rosette.
Gerald went to bed that night in a whirl of excitement that made him forget to be frightened because of the dark. Once he heard a lot of talking downstairs and Uncle Richard wuff-wuffing in the passage. Then he closed his eyes and thought of Polly and the tricycle, and the King walked up to the engine-cab and said: 'Rise, Sir Gerald,' and pinned on his coat the biggest red rosette in the world.
In the morning, that first morning at Uncle Richard's, Gerald awoke with a half-fear that it would all be different. But no; when he came downstairs, Uncle Richard was there, looking just as big in the daylight. 'Good morning,' he began. 'I hope you slept with your colours pinned on to your night-shirt.' Now this was exactly what Gerald had done, but he had not been going to tell anybody. Marvellous that Uncle Richard should have guessed! 'Yes, of course,' answered Gerald, and Uncle Richard laughed loudly and then went to look at something on the wall and blew his nose like a trumpet. 'Glass is rising--consequently is, my boy, we'll have some fine days for you.'
All at once Gerald looked across the room and saw Polly. She was perched inside the cage on a wooden bar, with her head cocked sideways as if she were listening carefully. Oh, what a beautiful parrot! He ran towards her and she began to squawk and ruffle her feathers, which were bright green, with little patches of red and yellow. 'Don't frighten Polly,' said Aunt Flo. 'When she gets to know you she'll let you stroke her, but don't try yet--she might nip.' Gerald felt cross at being squawked at; after all, he had only meant to be friendly. So, when Aunt Flo and Uncle Richard were both looking away, he took a pencil out of his pocket and pushed it through the bars of the cage. This made the bird squawk more than ever, but Gerald had time to withdraw and hide the pencil before anyone saw him.
'Now that's very naughty of Polly,' said Aunt Flo, coming over and putting her head against the cage. 'Gerald's come to see you and you're being very rude, so you shall just go back to bed again.' And she grabbed the piece of dark cloth and pulled it down over the cage. 'She deserves it,' Aunt Flo added, 'for being in such a bad humour.'
Nobody ever knew that Gerald had poked the parrot with a pencil. It was a secret for as long as the world should last.
There was porridge and a brown egg for breakfast, and afterwards a girl came into the room. Uncle Richard said: 'Aha, the gathering of the clans. We must introduce you . . . Olive . . . and Gerald . . . We're going to put you to work this morning--both of you.'
She looked about the same age as Gerald and had straight yellow hair and blue eyes. He did not like girls as a rule, but he noticed that she was wearing the same kind of red rosette, and immediately he saw what it all meant in a flash--it was a secret society, and they were all sworn to help one another, even girls. So he said politely: 'Hello.'
Then Uncle Richard told them what he wanted them both to do. It was a grand adventure. They had to walk along the neighbouring streets and put a red bill through every letter-box, giving a double-knock afterwards, like a postman. Gerald had often practised being a postman, so he was overjoyed. If a house hadn't got a letter-box, then they would have to push the bill under the front door. It was all most important work, and they must wear their red rosettes all the time.
So they went out with the bills and began along the Parade. How beautiful the Parade was in the lovely sunshine! Some people asked them inside the houses and gave them sweets and pennies, which only proved to Gerald that real life wasn't a bit like the silly make-believe of being at school. And some day, when he left Grayshott, there would be real life all the time. He was so busy knocking like a postman that he hardly spoke to Olive, except once, when a whistle in the distance reminded him to ask: 'Have you ever been faster than sixty miles an hour?'
'We have a horse that can run as fast as that,' said Olive.
'A horse as fast as a train?' echoed Gerald scornfully, but he was a little perturbed as well. He just answered, very off-hand: 'Oh, a racehorse--that doesn't count'--and let the conversation lapse.
When they had finished giving out the bills they went back to Uncle Richard's, and there another odd thing happened. A very old lady was in the passage-way talking to Uncle Richard and Aunt Flo, and as Gerald and Olive came in she lifted her spotty veil and stared. 'Yours?' she said, and Aunt Flo shouted: 'She's asking who they belong to, Richard!' Uncle Richard answered: 'My nephew, this is--wuff-wuff--and this'--pointing to Olive--'is the Candidate's little girl.'
That was the first time that Gerald ever heard of the Candidate.
The Browdley by-election was what the newspapers called 'closely contested.' Sir Thomas Barton, a cotton magnate, was opposed by Mr. Courtenay Beale, a young London barrister with a superfluity of brains and bounce. Sir Thomas, wealthy, middle-aged, and a widower, liked to play the democrat on these occasions; and as, in any case, there were no good hotels in Browdley, he found it convenient to lodge with Uncle Richard during the campaign. In another sense, of course, he found it highly inconvenient; Number 2, The Parade, seemed a strange habitation after his baronial mansion a hundred miles away. In his own mind he saw Uncle Richard's house as 'just an ordinary small house in a row'--he totally failed to perceive the immense social significance of the front garden. And Uncle Richard himself he thought a decent, well-meaning fellow, with some local influence, no doubt--a retired tradesman, wasn't he?--something of the sort. His wife, too, a good woman--fortunately, too, a good cook. Everything spotlessly clean, of course. And no children--only a little boy staying with them, a nephew--very quiet--one hardly knew he was there. Useful, too, as a playmate for Olive.
All this was remote from the world that Gerald lived in, and however much he probed it by questioning he could not really make it his own.
'Uncle Richar
d, what is a Candidate?'
'He wants to know who the Candidate is, Richard!'
'Oho--taking an interest in politics already, eh? Wuff-wuff! Why, he's a Liberal--that's why we're trying to get him in.'
'Get in where?'
'He wants to know all about him, Richard, I do believe!'
'You mean his name? Well, my boy, he's called Sir Thomas Barton. Do you know what "Sir" means?'
This time it was Gerald's turn to shout. 'Yes, it means he's a knight.'
'Right to a T, my boy. Knighted by the King--consequently is, you have to call him "Sir." Be careful of that, mind, if you should ever happen to meet him on the stairs.'
All of which was tremendous confirmation of something that Gerald had long suspected--that he and Uncle Richard were real people, knowing real things. A knight, indeed! And on the stairs! That was how you were liable to meet knights, but no grown-up except Uncle Richard had ever seemed to realise it.
'You see,' added Uncle Richard, pointing along the passage towards the always closed door of the front parlour, 'that's his room. Never you go making a noise outside of it, because you might disturb him when he's at work.'
'At work?'
'Yes, my goodness, and plenty of it. Didn't I tell you, my boy, he's trying to Get In? And you and me and your Aunt have all got to help him, otherwise the Other Candidate'll Get In!'
This was the first time that Gerald had ever heard of the Other Candidate.
Marvellous, mysterious days. Every morning when he came downstairs Gerald found Uncle Richard still up, and every night when he went to bed Uncle Richard was still down. Was it possible that he never had to go to bed at all? And every morning he tapped the barometer (Gerald knew all about that now) and made some queer remark that was supposed to be funny; at any rate, it made Uncle Richard himself laugh. One morning he said: 'Fine day for the race,' and Gerald pricked up his ears and said: 'What race?'
Then Uncle Richard's face crinkled up suddenly. 'The human race,' he answered. He went on laughing at that until Aunt Flo said: 'Come and have some breakfast and stop plaguing the boy.'
But Gerald wasn't plagued at all. He smiled at Uncle Richard to show that he appreciated the joke, whatever it was, and that, anyhow, he and Uncle Richard were on the same side in the great battle.
The joy of being sure of this sharpened the joy of giving out bills and knocking at doors; there was also a song that the boys from the streets round about would sing:
'A Li-ber-al Tom Barton is,
And Li-ber-als are we,
We'll vote for Barton, all of us,
And make him our M.P.'
Gerald liked this because he knew the tune (it was 'Auld Lang Syne'), but he couldn't understand all the words. However, the words of songs never mattered. But he did know that 'Tom Barton' was really wrong, so he always sang 'Sir Thomas,' very quietly to himself, so that he should be right without anyone hearing him.
(And afterwards, when the Candidate had Got In, he would tell people that he owed it all to one person--someone who had helped him by handing out bills, and who had called him by his proper name all the time; moreover, he had a most important engagement in London, and though there was a special train with steam up waiting for him at Browdley station, no one would undertake to drive it fast enough to reach London in time. So Gerald cried out: 'I will, Sir Thomas . . .' and Uncle Richard waved to him from the platform, as the huge engine--a Pacific Four-Six-Two, by the way--gathered speed . . .)
'Is the Other Candidate a knight?' he once asked Uncle Richard.
'Eh, what's that? Wuff-wuff--young Beale a knight? God bless my soul, no. A little jumped-up carpet-bagger, that's all he is.'
The strangest things were happening all the time in that enchanted city of Browdley. Houses were decked with blue and red flags (blue, Gerald learned, was the Other Candidate's colour); windows were full of bills and cards; at every street corner in the evenings groups of people gathered, and sometimes a man got up and shouted at them, waving his arms about. Excitement filled the marketplace and ran along the streets; the little brown houses, doors wide open on to the pavements, were alive with eagerness and gossip and the knowledge of something about to happen. Gerald, walking about with Uncle Richard, could sniff the battle of Good and Evil in the air.
'Well, Dick. D'ye think he'll get in?'
'We're doing our best, Tom.'
'It'll be a touch-and-go with him, anyway. T'other Candidate's gaining ground.'
'A carpet-bagger, Tom, if ever there was one--a carpet-bagger.'
'They do say he's got one o' them motorcars.'
'He would have. Anything to make a noise.'
In the morning the rumour was confirmed. The Other Candidate had a motor-car, and it was one of the very first motor-cars to appear in most of the streets of Browdley. Gerald, in secret, would not have minded looking at it; but because it belonged to the Other Candidate he pictured himself driving an express train and overtaking it, along a parallel road, so quickly that he could hardly see it at all. But, no, perhaps that was too easy. He was riding Uncle Richard's tricycle instead, and even that overtook it. And the Other Candidate scowled and shouted after him: 'Who will rid me' (like Henry II and Thomas à Becket in the history book) 'of this turbulent young man who rides a tricycle so fast that I cannot catch him up in my motor-car?' (Eight knights sprang forward and ran after Gerald, but they could not catch him.)
Actually Gerald spent most of his time in the streets near Uncle Richard's house. Sometimes, if it were raining, he played in the greenhouse; there were red and blue panes of glass in the greenhouse door. If you looked through the red, everything was hot and stormy; if you looked through the blue, it was like night-time. That was very wonderful.
One day he had a tremendous adventure. Browdley lies in a valley, and beyond the town, steepening as it rises, there is a green-brown lazy-looking mountain called Mickle. A few scattered farms occupy the lower slopes, and at one of these, Jones's Farm, it had been arranged that Gerald and Olive should leave some bills. A pony-cart drew up outside Uncle Richard's house soon after breakfast, and the journey began at a steady trot through street after street that Gerald had never been in before. The horse swished its tail from side to side, waving a red rosette tied on to it; big posters decorated the cart. The man who drove was called Fred. It was a lovely blue sunshiny morning, and when they had climbed a little way and looked back, they could see all Browdley flat below them, covered with a thin smoke-cloud, the factory chimneys sticking out of it like pins in a pincushion. Above them, very big now, the mountain lifted up. Gerald had never been close to a mountain before. He felt madly happy. The lane narrowed to a stony track where Fred had to get down several times to open gates. At last they reached the farmhouse where Mrs. Jones lived. She was standing at the doorway wiping her arms on an apron and smiling at them; she was very fat and had hair piled up on top of her head. When Gerald and Olive got down from the cart she hugged them. 'Well . . . well . . . well . . .' she began, leading them inside the house; and just as they got into the kitchen a tabby cat suddenly moved from the hearthrug towards Gerald, tail erect. Gerald loved cats and stooped to stroke it, but he hadn't to stoop far, because (so the thought came to him) the cat was quite as large as a dog. Then he reflected that that wasn't a very sensible comparison, because dogs could be of all sizes, whereas cats had only one size, whatever size they were. Was that the way to put it? Anyway, Mrs. Jones's cat was a monster. It lifted up its head and met his hand in a warm, eager pressure that was beautiful to him. 'Isn't she a big pussy?' said Mrs. Jones, standing with her fists at 'hips firm,' as they called it at Grayshott.
'She's a big cat,' said Gerald gravely.
'Her name's Nib,' continued Mrs. Jones, and began to say 'Nibby, Nibby, Nibby,' in a high-pitched voice. But the cat, after one shrewd upward glance, knew that this was all nonsense, and continued to heave up to Gerald's hand. While Gerald was thus entranced, Olive remembered the bills they had brought and handed them over
. 'Lawks-a-mussy,' said Mrs. Jones, glancing at them, 'it's Jones as'll read these, not me. A Liberal 'e is, that's very sure, even if it was his dyin' day.'
Then she waddled away to a farther room, the cat abruptly following her, and presently returned with pieces of cake, glasses, and a jug. 'Nettle-drink,' she said. The cat was purring loudly. 'Sup it up--it'll do you good.'
Gerald was looking at the mountain through the doorway. In the sunlight it looked as if it were moving towards him.
'Is it the highest mountain in England?' he asked.
'Nay, that I can't say for certain--it'll happen not be as high as some on 'em.'
'Isn't it the highest mountain of anywhere?' asked Gerald desperately; but neither Mrs. Jones nor Fred seemed to understand. Fred said: ''Tis only Mickle--I wouldn't call it much of a mountain at all.'
All at once Gerald realised that it didn't matter how they answered: it was the highest mountain, the highest in the world, and he was going to climb it, like the men in the snowstorm in his geography book.
He put down his glass and walked to the doorway. 'I'm going up there,' he said.
'Nay, you can't, you'd get lost on Mickle,' said Mrs. Jones.
'But I want to see what's over the other side,' Gerald went on.
'Take 'em both up, Fred, if they want,' Mrs. Jones then said. 'It'll be a bit o' fresh air for 'em.'
Fred nodded and began to trudge slowly up the steep track, Gerald and Olive following. But after a little while Gerald scampered ahead, because he liked to think that nobody had ever climbed the mountain before. It was a dangerous thing to do, and only he, the famous mountaineer and engine-driver, dare risk it. Up, up, scrambling through bracken and heather; there were tigers, too, that you had to watch out for. His blood was racing as he reached the smooth green summit. The earth was at his feet, the whole earth, and over the other side, which he had been so curious about, a further mountain was to be seen--doubtless the second highest mountain in the world. Far below he could make out the tower of Browdley Church, with a tramcar crawling beside it like a red beetle.