by Forrest Reid
Or at least he seemed to be playing a quiet and absorbing game—so absorbing that he did not look round or stop at the sound of footsteps. What was this game? Tom felt bound to investigate. It looked harmless enough, though of course you never could tell. Henry was playing it with his right paw only—giving little taps and scratches at the gravel. Suddenly Tom became intensely interested, for he saw that each of these seemingly careless scratches left a mark on the path. Henry wasn’t playing: he was drawing!
Tom stood perfectly still, while Henry continued to draw, though he must have known he was being watched. Perhaps, however, he knew who was watching him, for he had ears so sharp that he could hear a leaf falling or a butterfly passing behind him, and might easily have recognized Tom’s tread. He gave a final touch, and still without looking up, slowly rose and pretended to yawn.
But Tom took no notice of him; he was too intent on something else; and this something was a figure traced there on the black gravel path. Just a few simple lines, yet certainly a diagram; and Tom stared down at it. Not that there was any need to stare, for it could not have been more clear to him if it had been drawn in thin lines of flame. There flashed across his mind the recollection of a description Daddy had once read to him of certain horses who had been trained to solve arithmetic problems by tapping out the answers with their hoofs. They were German horses, and Daddy had said there was probably some trickery behind the experiments, though the most careful observation had failed to detect any. But Henry hadn’t been trained: this was his own work. One thing was sure; he must get Daddy and Mother to look at this marvel immediately. And then, as if he had spoken aloud, and just as he was on the point of rushing back to the house, the figure was suddenly broken and scattered into a shower of gravel, while Henry’s powerful hind feet scored it across and across, sending the small grains flying.
Tom was raging with him. He had destroyed the whole thing and now nobody would believe in it. “Bad cat!” he said angrily, but Henry began to rub against his legs, arching and lowering his back. He pressed his sleek flattened head into the hollows above Tom’s rather meagre calves, where the skin was bare above his stockings; he curled his elastic body half round them, and from the suddenness and lavishness of these caresses Tom immediately felt sure that a third person must have appeared upon the scene. He was right, for there was Mother, leaning out of her bedroom window, and of course she wanted to know what he was doing.
He wasn’t doing anything, Tom replied; adding that Henry had just made a drawing on the path. Yet for some reason this answer did not satisfy Mother, not did she show the least interest in the drawing. On the contrary, she told him that he was a very naughty boy, and that if he didn’t start for school at once she wouldn’t allow him to go out in the afternoon. Also she said that she was going to tell Daddy. As if that mattered! Besides, she never did tell—at least not things of that sort, things that might get him into a row. And anyhow he was going to tell Daddy about the drawing himself.
But here was William, and Tom realized that he must be later than he had thought. He would have to run, and even then he wouldn’t be in time. He couldn’t possibly be. Yet it wasn’t his fault, for if he had had a bicycle he could have done it easily. Practically everybody else in the school had a bicycle: boys who were far younger than he was. Pascoe had had one for nearly two years, and Brown was allowed to drive his father’s car. At least he said he was, and even though, coming from Brown, this was almost certain to be untrue, still it proved——
CHAPTER FOUR
IT PROVED nothing at all, Tom knew, though he had used it as an argument when trying to make Daddy see how far less indulgent he was than the average parent. The argument had failed, because Daddy seemed to have no wish to resemble the average parent, though he had often expressed a desire for an average son. And Mother was nearly as bad. Tom had pointed out to her how much less freedom he had than other boys; Pascoe, for example, who was allowed to do all sorts of things; Pascoe’s father had complete confidence in him. But it appeared that Mother had complete confidence in Pascoe also: he didn’t go about dreaming; he was practical and reliable; the kind of boy who was bound to get on in the world. . . .
Tom jogged along the dusty road, growing hotter and hotter, till at the end of half a mile, just when he should have been getting his second wind, he found himself with no wind left at all, and relapsed into a walk.
On most mornings he got a seat in the car and was deposited at the school gates, but on Tuesdays and Thursdays he had a music lesson with Mr. Holbrook at nine o’clock, which was too early for Daddy, so he had to make the journey on foot. He could do it comfortably if he left the house at twenty past eight, but something nearly always cropped up to delay him. And Mr. Holbrook, though he usually was late himself, now and then was punctual, on which occasions he expected Tom to be punctual too. This was unreasonable, perhaps, but Mr. Holbrook wasn’t a reasonable person—quite the opposite. On the other hand he was a very pleasant person—particularly if he happened to like you—for he had favourites, and you precious soon found out whether you were one of them or not. Tom saw nothing wrong in this; he was sure that in Mr. Holbrook’s position he would have had favourites himself: indeed, what was the use of liking people if you didn’t show them that you liked them. Besides, it made everything more lively and interesting. You never knew beforehand what kind of lesson you were going to get. That is, if you happened to be a favourite: the others, he supposed, knew well enough. In Tom’s case it meant that he was allowed to choose his own songs—except when he chose something too difficult—and also that quite often after school he was invited to Mr. Holbrook’s house to listen to the gramophone. Mr. Holbrook would put on records and tell him about singers and operas (he went abroad every year to listen to operas; that was how he spent his holidays), and he would describe them, and play little bits on the piano, and it was all highly enjoyable. Tom had never heard a real opera—in fact he had only once been inside a theatre, when Mother had taken him to see Peter Pan—but through these fugitive glimpses, in which Mr. Holbrook supplied the scenery and the story and piano impressions of the orchestra, while famous tenors, sopranos, and baritones sang the principal airs, he had acquired a remarkable erudition, and an enthusiasm which nearly equalled Mr. Holbrook’s own.
A most agreeable feature of it, too, was that being Mr. Holbrook’s “star artist” aroused jealousy in nobody. Nor antagonism. Tom had felt very doubtful before the last Christmas concert, for instance, of the prudence of standing up to sing “Voi che sapete” in Italian. It had seemed to him that it would be wiser to sing it in English. But when he had revealed these timidities to Mr. Holbrook, the latter had grown so impatient that argument became impossible. And as it surprisingly turned out, he need not have been afraid; nobody—not even Brown—had accused him of putting on side. On the contrary, for the two nights of the concert—which was always repeated and always crowded with parents and visitors—he had found himself, if not exactly popular, at least an important person; and though by the beginning of the next term everybody else had forgotten this, it had been very pleasant while it lasted. Since then, having heard them first on the gramophone, he had learned two other Italian airs—Tosti’s “Serenata”, and the “Spirto gentil” from La Favorita. Daddy, who didn’t really care for music at all, wondered why Mr. Holbrook couldn’t teach him sensible songs, and even Mother, who used to sing herself but had lately given it up, thought the last choice a little odd. Fortunately it had the advantage of an easy accompaniment, she discovered; for at home Mother played his accompaniments, though Tom could sing better when Mr. Holbrook played.
These meditations were interrupted rudely by a sudden shout behind him. “Hi! Skinny!”
Tom, who would have liked to take no notice, wheeled round at the offensive name. A boy on a bicycle had ridden out on to the road through a garden gate—a large and burly boy with red cheeks, smiling mouth, dark hair and dark eyes. At least he seemed to Tom large and burly, though actu
ally he was only thirteen. But Brown was an out-sized thirteen and much the biggest boy in the school. Mother thought him handsome, she was always praising his looks: Tom thought that if he had been differently dressed and carrying a flat basket he would have looked exactly like a butcher’s boy. He was not only big, but he was as strong as a bull, had legs as thick as columns, and was forever wanting you to feel his muscles. “Hello, Brown!” he replied.
Brown zig-zagged slowly on for a few yards and then hopped off his bicycle. “Done your algebra?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Tom. “Have you?”
Brown walked beside him, still smiling. “Well, as a matter of fact I haven’t,” he said ingratiatingly. “And the worst of it is, I’ve promised to play cricket. So I wonder if you’d let me copy yours? Do you mind?”
Tom hesitated, while his face grew distinctly glum. His algebra was invariably wrong, and he knew from past experience that identical mistakes in two separate copies of work were apt to lead to further investigation—particularly when one of the copies happened to be Brown’s. But Brown, though perfectly aware of the reluctance, was not an easy person to discourage. “No,” said Tom at last, in a tone of resignation, “I don’t mind.”
Brown ignored the resignation. “Thanks awfully, Skinny,” he said. “I’ll give you yours back in plenty of time. You’re going to Holbrook, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Tom.
“Well, I’ll give you a lift as far as the cricket field if you get up behind.”
Tom still hung back, however; not that a lift wouldn’t be most useful, but because he felt he had been weak in the matter of the algebra. “I say, Brown,” he began uncomfortably.
“Yes,” said Brown, waiting.
“Nothing,” Tom muttered.
Slowly he unfastened his schoolbag and produced an exercise book. Brown, with much more expedition, seized it and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he said again—this time rather carelessly—and immediately remounted his bicycle. “Jump up,” he cried, and Tom got on to the backstep.
Brown to impress him began pedalling like mad. The road was uphill, and though the hill was gradual it was long. Tom could see Brown’s face getting redder and redder; he could hear him breathing, and he could even feel the heat exuding through his thick body. “Silly ass!” he reflected, yet not without appreciation of Brown’s powers. It couldn’t be easy to carry a double load up that hill.
When they reached the playing-fields he got down and Brown too dismounted, trying hard not to appear puffed. Together they walked over the beech-shadowed grass, Brown wheeling his bicycle and Tom thinking of the algebra. Thanks to the lift, however, he was now in no hurry; indeed he had several minutes to spare. This reminded him of his grievance against Daddy. Besides, if he had had a bicycle he wouldn’t have met Brown.
He wished he could get his exercise book back again. There was nothing to hinder Brown from doing the sums himself, except that he wanted to play cricket. “I say,” he once more began dubiously. “Are you going to write them out in ink?”
Since Miss Jimpson insisted upon ink—as a precaution against last-minute copying—Brown merely gave him a half-compassionate look.
“Because,” Tom went on more firmly, “if you are, I hope you’ll be careful. You know the row she kicks up about blots, and the paper’s so thin you can’t scrape them out. It’s as thin as gauze is.”
“As thin as blazes, you mean,” Brown rejoined light-heartedly; but he didn’t promise to take any precautions.
That was like him, once he’d got the thing, and Tom’s annoyance increased. “Did you bring me those stamps?” he asked suddenly, for Brown had turned aside and was proceeding towards the bicycle shed. “What stamps?” he inquired, disappearing into the shed.
He knew very well what stamps; Tom had reminded him about them every day that week. He followed him now, though without much hope. “The stamps you owe me,” he said, “the two Mauritius stamps.”
Brown looked surprised. “Mauritius stamps?” he repeated, as if he had never heard of Mauritius stamps before. Then he added calmly: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And having fixed his bicycle, he emerged from the shed, still followed by Tom.
“You do!” Tom exclaimed indignantly. “I gave you three Cape of Good Hopes, and one of them was unused.”
“That’s because it was a forgery,” Brown returned quickly. “You can be sent to jail for passing forged stamps; it’s just the same as passing forged banknotes.”
“You can’t,” said Tom. “And it isn’t a forgery. If you think it is why won’t you give it back to me?”
“Because I don’t want to get you into trouble,” Brown answered kindly. Tom’s face darkened. Pascoe had warned him to have no dealings with Brown, but Pascoe was always warning you about something, and always so sure he was right that it only made you more determined not to take his advice. “You promised me two Mauritius stamps,” he repeated gloomily. “You promised to bring them the next day.”
“That was before I knew you had committed a crime,” Brown explained. “Anyway, I haven’t got any Mauritius stamps.”
“Then you told a lie,” said Tom.
“I didn’t. I said I’d bring you two Mauritius stamps—perhaps.”
Brown was looking him straight in the eyes with the utmost candour, and Tom knew he could do nothing. “You didn’t say ‘perhaps’,” he muttered.
“I did. You mayn’t have heard me, but that’s because you weren’t listening. I said it like this.” And Brown repeated the sentence, yet even now, though he strained his ears, Tom could not catch the last word.
It was the same as a lie,” he declared. “And you’re the same as a thief.”
Brown suddenly grabbed him by the wrist. “Look here, Skinny,” he observed softly, while at the same time he screwed Tom’s arm round till he was completely helpless, “all this sounds to me uncommonly like cheek.”
“You’re a cad,” Tom gasped, twisting his body sideways to ease the strain on his arm. “You attacked me when I wasn’t expecting it.”
Instantly Brown released him. “Expect it now,” he said, “because I’m going to attack you again.”
Tom hastily retreated—an instinctive precaution which Brown’s immobility made all the more ignominious. He simply stood there smiling. “I’m not going to attack you, Skinny,” he said; “you’re beneath it. And besides, you were quite obliging about the algebra. See you later.”
With that he strolled off, whistling, while Tom gazed after him. He would never get his stamps, he knew, and he never would be able to retaliate. Words meant nothing to Brown, and physical force was out of the question. He couldn’t stand up to Brown for two minutes, and even if he had the courage to attempt it there wouldn’t really be a fight: Brown would merely twist his arm again, or sit on him till he surrendered. It was queer that Brown should be so invulnerable, and in most ways successful, because actually he was a stupid person. He had never been able to get beyond the third form and he was always at the bottom of that. But he was cunning, and you couldn’t exactly say he knew nothing, since he knew everything that you weren’t supposed to know. Really he was as stupid out of school as he was in it, yet for some reason he was successful—and popular—more popular than Tom, and infinitely more than Pascoe. It was hard to understand why.
Suddenly he remembered that the school clock had struck while Brown was twisting his arm. This was annoying, for it meant that though he had arrived in tons of time he was none the less going to be late. There was precisely the same rush and fuss as if he had only arrived that moment. He tore on to the school, clattered up the stairs, and hurried down a passage. He could hear the piano thundering and crashing, which meant that Mr. Holbrook must have been waiting a good while. He opened a door at the extreme end of the passage, and entered.
“Late, of course,” Mr. Holbrook remarked without ceasing to play. “Out of breath, of course. Too hot to do anything for the next quarter of an
hour. Wasting my time, wasting your own time, wasting your father’s money. If you have any excuses don’t make them. Take off your jacket; sit down in that chair; and don’t move or speak till you can do so without panting.”
These words came in a kind of sing-song through the music, so that Tom immediately knew it was all right. He followed Mr. Holbrook’s instructions to the letter, except that he said he was sorry.
He didn’t know what Mr. Holbrook was playing, but he liked it. Moreover, it was very pleasant in the music-room, which seemed particularly cool and shadowy after the bright sunshine outside. And Mr. Holbrook wasn’t in the least like Brown. The windows were wide open, and Tom sat quiet as a mouse.
Mr. Holbrook played for perhaps five minutes, but at last he got up, lit a cigarette, and motioned to Tom, who perched himself on the edge of the music-stool and plodded through a few scales and exercises. He was really no good at the piano, because the drudgery of practising bored him, and he shirked it whenever he could. Mr. Holbrook knew this as well as he did: in fact Tom at the piano bored them both. He wondered if Mr. Holbrook was supposed to smoke cigarettes while he was teaching: he didn’t believe he was, though he always did it. Tom’s hands looked very brown on the black and white keyboard, and in spite of the cooling process his fingers stuck to the notes. After a very unsatisfactory performance Mr. Holbrook sighed, pushed him off the music-stool without a word, reseated himself, and played three or four chords. “Sing,” he said, and Tom, standing beside him, began to sing.
This was the part of the lesson he enjoyed. He even enjoyed singing scales and exercises nearly as much as songs; and he sang up the scale now, while Mr. Holbrook thrummed chords in unison. The treble voice sounded through the room, filling it, clear and fresh as a blackbird’s. It gave Tom pleasure; it gave Mr. Holbrook pleasure—you could tell that from his face, and also from the way he played the accompaniment. This indeed was why Tom loved singing to him. He liked singing to other people too, but not in the same way; and there were a few people, such as Daddy, whom he couldn’t sing to at all unless he forgot they were listening. Nearly without a break Mr. Holbrook’s chords and arpeggios dissolved into the opening bars of a melody, his eyes slid round for a moment towards the singer, while he gave a little backward jerk of his head, the customary signal.