‘Here is the Punch and Judy man,’ Kay said. ‘I’ll fetch him in.’
As he opened the door a whirl of snow sped in. There was the showman bent under the frame of his show, looking rather like a giant without any head or arms.
‘Do come in out of the snow,’ Kay said. The man came in and stamped the snow from him on to the mats, put down his show, and brushed the sleeves of his coat.
‘Wild weather, Master Harker,’ he said.
‘It is wild,’ Kay said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea before you play?’
‘No, I thank you, Master Harker, but it is as wild a night as any I’ve known, ever; and I’ve been a long time on the roads, Master Harker, first and last.’
‘How long, sir?’ Kay asked, for the man looked very old, although his eyes were so bright.
‘I get a little out of my reckoning,’ he answered. ‘First there were pagan times; then there were in-between times; then there were Christian times; then there was another in-between time; then there was Oliver’s time; and then there was pudding time: but there’ve been a lot since then and more coming: but the time I liked best was just before the in-between time, what you might call Henry’s time.’
Kay didn’t know what the old man was talking about, but by this time, he had brushed off the snow and was ready to begin his play: so, as soon as the room was ready, and everybody comfortable on the floor, he came in and played his Punch and Judy play.
‘And now, Master Harker and friends,’ he said, coming outside his stand, ‘now that I’ve played my play, I’ll play more than my Punch and my Judy, for a travelling man collects as he goes, or doesn’t he?’
‘He does,’ little Maria said.
‘Ah, he does, the bright Miss Maria says,’ he repeated. ‘He collects: and what he collects he shows.’
He propped his theatre against a bookcase, sat cross-legged in front of the door and produced a little white ball, which he tossed into the air. It broke into two balls while it was aloft, he tossed them repeatedly, till they broke into four balls, which shone as they flickered up and down. Presently, while three of the balls were in the air, he beat the fourth into the ground, where it became a little bright mouse which ran away into a hole: then he tossed another ball to the ceiling where it became a shining bird which flew away: then he caught the remaining two balls one in each hand: one turned into a red rose which he gave to Jemima, the other to a white rose which he gave to Susan.
‘These are all little things,’ he said, ‘which a travelling man collects as he goes.’
After this, he turned to Maria, who was the smallest person there. ‘And you, Miss Maria,’ he said, ‘I’m told you are fond of guns and that, so shall I see what will happen if I blow my bugle? But first I must tap the wainscot, to see if there’s any gate there.’
He walked across to the western wall and tapped the wainscot. It was all dark old wood there, with no hole or cranny in it, yet now, after he had touched it, there was a tiny double gate of bronze, with gilded pinnacles, in the wood. As they all watched this, the old man blew a little bugle, and instantly from within the wainscot a little bugle answered. Then suddenly a little tiny voice called out an order from inside the wainscot, and instantly two little tiny men pushed the double gates open and stood aside. Then a lot of little drums and fifes and trumpets struck up a march, and out came a band of soldiers headed by a drum-major. There must have been at least a hundred of them. They had big drums as big as walnuts and little drums as little as filberts; and tiny white ivory fifes and lovely little brass trumpets. They were playing Green Sleeves. They wore scarlet coats, with white facings, and neat little black trousers, but the beautiful thing was the way they marched. Then after them, there came a regiment of foot-soldiers, then a regiment of cavalry on little horses, and the horse of the Colonel, which was a white charger, shied at little Maria: then after these there came a regiment of artillery with guns and ammunition waggons: then after these there came waggons full of supplies of all sorts. The band halted in the middle of the room: but went on playing while the army marched about. Then presently, the army halted: the foot-soldiers piled their arms: the cavalry dismounted and tethered their horses; the artillery men parked their cannon and put their horses into lines; then they unpacked the waggons and put up tents, unrolled blankets, lighted camp-fires, cooked their suppers and went into the tents to sleep, except the sentries who marched about, and sometimes said ‘Who goes there?’ Presently the buglers came to the tent doors to blow the waking call. Everybody sprang at once to work: some struck the tents: others lit fires and cooked bacon and made coffee, or loaded up the waggons, or rubbed down and harnessed the horses, after giving them their feed. Then, when the men had breakfasted, they all fell in, the horsemen mounted, the artillery men climbed on to their guns, and away they all marched as the band played, three times round the room and then through the double bronze gates which closed behind them. After they had closed, the children heard the band fading away into the distance till it was silent. As they looked at the little gates, they began to fade, till in a minute no trace of them was there: the wainscot was old, dark wood, in a solid panel.
‘That was lovely,’ Maria said.
The old Punch and Judy man said, ‘I seem to remember that little Miss Susan was once very fond of butterflies. I’ll see if I can’t call a few, in spite of the cold.’
He began to blow a low note upon his pan-pipes. Presently he said, ‘The leaves are falling. All the cocoons are in the leaves.’ It seemed to the children that the ceiling above them opened into a forest in a tropical night: they could see giant trees, with the stars in their boughs and fireflies gleaming out and ceasing to gleam among the lower sprays. Heavy leaves began to waver down on to the floor, where they lay crackling, till it grew brighter, when lo, the sun was shining among the treetops, green and grey parrots and scarlet cardinal birds came pecking the fruits, and now, out of the fallen leaves, there came butterfly after butterfly, bursting out of cocoons and chrysalides of many strange forms into images of lively beauty, bright as jewels. They sunned themselves for a moment, then leaped into the air and flew about. ‘Put a little sugar from the bowl into your hands,’ the old man said to the children, ‘then they will perch on your hands.’ The children put sugar into their hands, moistening it from the milk-jug, and lo, the lovely gleaming blue and scarlet and golden creatures perched on their hands and glistened and quivered there, as they thrust long snouts into the sweetness. Little Susan had as many as nine on her hand at once, as well as a big shining blue one which perched on her hair. When all the butterflies had had some sugar, they flew up into the air, and danced in and out in a maze, as gnats will, but the maze danced by them was all in order and very beautiful. At last they all went spiring up into the bright tropic day, and flickered away among the trees, going round and round and round till they were out of sight, so far up. Then the tropic forest disappeared: it was the study ceiling again.
‘And now,’ the old man said, ‘I’ll show you yet another little play, which many an ancient queen has watched, in her palace by the banks of the Nile.’ He produced two cubes of ivory, one red, one white: they looked like dice.
‘Now,’ he said, taking one in each hand and shaking them, ‘look at these.’
He was shaking the dice in a strange way, so that suddenly the moving rhythm of the hands became waves of the sea; the little red cube was a tiny little red shark, snapping after a little white skate; he swam round and round the room after it, always just missing it, and at last, when he had almost caught it, the skate turned into a skylark and went up singing to the ceiling. Instantly the shark turned into a hawk and went after her. They went round and round the room up and down: always the hawk nearly caught her, and once it seemed had caught her, but the lark turned into a little deer and ran among the children. The hawk turned into a wolf and chased her; yet just as he was about to pounce, the deer turned into a princess on a little white pony, and galloped away. The wolf turned into a red
knight who called for a black horse and presently galloped away after her. The children could hear the hoofs dying away and away and away. A lot of little green fairies came dancing down on to the forest track by which the riders had gone. They pulled the sides of the forest inwards, so that at last there was the study wall again.
‘Now,’ the old man said, ‘if you’ve been pleased with my shows, if I may have my silver shillings, my biscuit for my Toby, my egg and my bacon for myself, I will be taking my way.’
Kay paid him the silver shillings, and brought in biscuits and some good meaty bones for Toby, and then a supper of eggs and bacon, with hot buttered toast, and a jug of sweet chocolate.
The old man seemed suspicious about the French window. Before he sat to his supper at the table, he went to it, to make sure that the curtains were drawn completely across it.
While he ate, the children sat round the fire, talking of the wonderful show, and telling each other what they would like to see again. Suddenly the dog Barney pricked his ears and from just outside the French window two key bugles and an oboe struck up the tune of ‘O come, all ye Faithful.’ Some twenty singers outside in the snow broke into the hymn.
‘Carol-singers,’ Kay said, ‘and very good ones. How silently they came up. I didn’t hear a single step.’
Peter went to the window and twitched back the curtain a little. ‘It’s deep snow already,’ he said peering out. ‘They have got Japanese lanterns. Do look how beautiful they are!’
Outside was a party of twenty men and women wrapped against the snow, and bearing big Japanese lanterns hung upon sticks. Snow was whirling all about them. Their shoulders were covered white with snow. Their faces glowed in the lantern-light. The musicians had music stands with electric torches.
‘That’s not the Condicote Choir. We’ve not got a style like that. Who are they?’ Kay said.
‘That’s the Cathedral Choir from Tatchester,’ Caroline Louisa said. ‘There are the Canons and the Precentor, and that’s the Bishop himself.’
When the hymn had finished Kay and Caroline Louisa went into the hall to the side door. The Bishop and his singers moved towards them as they opened.
‘Good evening, Bishop,’ Caroline Louisa said, ‘come in into the warmth, while we brew some cocoa for you.’
The party came in stamping the snow on to the doormats. They stood in the hall while Kay ran to fetch Jane, Ellen and Joe. Then they all sang ‘Good Christian Men, Rejoice’, ‘Christians Rejoice’, ‘Deep was the Night’, ‘O Night peaceful and blest’ and ‘Noël’.
When they had sung, Kay and the others brought buns and hot cocoa for the singers. They sat about in the hall and ate and drank.
‘And now,’ the Bishop said, ‘we have finished our tour here and must be thinking of getting back. I want you all to come tomorrow night to the Palace at Tatchester. We are having a children’s party, with a Christmas Tree, at five o’clock, and I shall expect you all.’
The children said that they would be delighted and thanked him for the thought.
‘Then, another thing,’ he said: ‘I want you all to come on Christmas Eve to the Midnight Service of the Thousandth Christmas Celebration in Tatchester Cathedral. There has been a midnight celebration every Christmas Eve since the Foundation. We wish this Thousandth Festival to be really memorable.’
The children loved any festival which would keep them out of bed at midnight like grown-ups. They said that they would love to come.
He looked about the faces gathered in the hall: ‘Ha,’ he said, ‘I think I have seen that face before. Aren’t you my little friend, Miss Maria? Well, I am glad to see you again.’
Little Miss Maria showed some small confusion, for once, only a year before, she had started the Bishop’s motor car and driven it into a lamppost. However, the Bishop seemed inclined to forgive and forget.
A moment later he caught sight of the Punch and Judy man, who was packing his puppets into a box.
‘Ha,’ he said, ‘isn’t this the famous Punch and Judy man, Cole Hawlings? We have met before, I think.’
‘You’ve seen me a many times,’ the old man answered. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘And you’re just the very man I was hoping to see; a Punch and Judy showman,’ the Bishop said. ‘At this party tomorrow we shall have a great many children. Would you consent to come to play for them?’
‘Right gladly,’ the old man said. ‘I will bring my Punch and my Judy and my dog, Toby; for I have played a Christmas play on that Night ever since pagan times, so to speak.’
‘Thank you,’ the Bishop said. ‘Will you be at the Palace at half-past four, then, tomorrow? Good. And now “Good Night to all of you; a merry Christmas and a most happy New Year, and many, many thanks for your most warm welcome.”’
As the members of the Choir swathed themselves up against the snow before venturing forth, most of the children scattered upstairs. Kay waited to open the door for the Choir and, while standing near the door, he heard, or thought that he heard, the noise of swift padding feet. The thought flashed into his mind, he did not know why, that these were the Alsatian dogs again. ‘They move just like wolves,’ he thought. The noise ceased and he thought that he must have been mistaken. Then he saw that the dog, Barney, had pricked his ears and was staring towards the door. Barney uttered a little yap.
‘There was something passing,’ Kay said to himself.
But now the Choir was ready to start. He opened the door and, as he opened it, he saw that three men were there at the French window which led into the study. Undoubtedly, they were trying to peer in through the window; as the door opened they wheeled round.
One of the first of the Choir to leave the house was the Precentor who lifted his Japanese lantern to see who the men were, and Kay saw that one of the men was the foxy-faced man who had done the card trick in the train.
He cried, ‘Aha, Precentor, we were just too late for your concert, what?’
He and the other two caught step with the Precentor and passed along with him. Kay could not hear what the Precentor called them nor what they talked about, for the other members of the Choir were filing past, each saying something, such as: ‘Burr-r-r, what a night!’ ‘I say, isn’t it snowing!’ ‘Don’t you stop at the door, Kay. You’ll catch cold,’ etc., etc.
Kay noticed that Cole Hawlings came to the door as the last of the Choir passed out; he leaned from it to watch the departing party. As he turned back into the house, Kay thought that his face was very white. He noticed that he walked somewhat unsteadily back into the study. ‘He didn’t like those three men,’ he thought.
As Kay shut the door and slipped the chain on to it, he heard the bell of the back door violently rung. Someone beat on the knocker there. Jane and Ellen hurried to the kitchen to see who was knocking. Then the telephone bell in the porch began to ring. Caroline Louisa went to the telephone.
At this instant, little Maria, who was with the other children upstairs, leaned over the banisters and cried, ‘Buck up, Kay! We are going to dress up and play Pirates.’
‘All right. In a minute,’ Kay said.
He went back into the study to look after the old man. He noticed that the curtains, which had been disarranged when Peter and the rest had stared at the carol-singers, were now carefully re-drawn over the French window. The Punch and Judy man stood in the corner near the door, looking very white and tense, as though the earth were about to open.
‘So, Master Harker,’ the old man said, ‘we always used to say, “It’s the snow that brings the wolves out.” Many a bitter night did we stand the wolf-guard. Now here, once more, they’re running. We must stand to our spears.’
‘Everything’s all right,’ Kay said.
‘Where did those three men go?’ the old man asked in a whisper.
‘I think they went with the Choir,’ Kay said, ‘but I couldn’t see.’
The old man shook his head and pointed at the dog. Barney had stiffened in his tracks, with a bristling fell. He was s
howing his teeth and staring at the curtained window. There could be no doubt that somebody was outside.
The old man lifted a finger to the dog, perhaps to keep him from barking. He then shut his eyes and muttered something. It seemed to Kay that he was in great distress of mind. Then, as he opened his eyes, it seemed to Kay that he had found comfort, for he smiled, pointed, and whispered to Kay, ‘Master Harker, what is the picture yonder?’
‘It is a drawing of a Swiss mountain,’ Kay said. ‘It was done by my grandfather. It is called The Dents du Midi, from the North.’
‘And do I see a path on it?’ the old man said. ‘If you, with your young eyes, will look, perhaps you will kindly tell me if that is a path on it.’
As they stared at the picture, it seemed to glow and to open, and to become not a picture but the mountain itself. They heard the rush of the torrent. They saw how tumbled and smashed the scarred pine trees were among the rolled boulders. On the lower slopes were wooden huts, pastures with cattle grazing; men and women working.
High up above there, in the upper mountain, were the blinding bright snows, and the teeth of the crags black and gleaming. ‘Ah,’ the old man said, ‘and yonder down the path come the mules.’
Down the path, as he said, a string of mules was coming. They were led, as mules usually are, by a little pony mare with a bell about her neck. The mules came in single file down the path: most of them carried packs upon their backs of fallen logs, or cheeses made in the high mountain dairies or trusses of hay from the ricks; one of them towards the end of the line was a white mule, bearing a red saddle.
The first mules turned off at a corner. When it came to the turn of this white mule to turn, he baulked, tossed his head, swung out of the line, and trotted into the room, so that Kay had to move out of his way. There the mule stood in the study, twitching his ears, tail and skin against the gadflies, and putting down his head so that he might scratch it with his hind foot. ‘Steady there,’ the old man whispered to him. ‘And to you, Master Kay, I thank you. I wish you a most happy Christmas.’
The Box of Delights Page 4