Young Phillip Maddison (18 page)

Knock knock knock on the door. Ring the bell. “Quick quick, open the door!”

“Why, Phillip, whatever is the matter?”

“Is Gerry here?”

“He’s in the garden, dear, on the grass with Timmy Rat.”

“Thank God, oh thank God.”

“Why, dear, is anything the matter?”

Hetty followed him into the front room, where he had flung himself down.

“When’s Father coming home from his tour?”

“He is due back tonight, dear; why do you ask?”

“It doesn’t matter. Everything is ended.”

She waited a little anxiously, lest he have something to tell her—oh, pray he was not in trouble again!

She felt his hot brow. He pushed her hand away. Tragic eyes looked into her face.

“Mother, what have I done with my life?”

“Done, dear? Why, in particular, do you ask, Sonny?”

“I’m no good, am I? If you told the truth, you would say I was no good. You know what Father thinks of me. I’m a throw-back! That’s why no one really wants to know me!”

“Sonny dear——”

“I’ve asked you particularly not to call me Sonny any longer! I am ashamed of the soppy name.”

“Very well, dear, we won’t use the name any more, if you don’t like it. Only, you know, I still think of you as my little son.”

“Then please don’t do so any more.”

To her dismay, she saw that he was crying. She sat beside him. “Go away,” his muffled voice said, his face in a cushion. “I don’t want you any more.”

“Oh dear, I think the joint wants basting, I must leave you, Phillip,” and she left the room.

He lay still awhile; then the sound of a gay, confident voice, heard through the four open windows, made him spring up, and tensely on tip-toe, but cautiously, he approached the most northerly space. Past Gran’pa’s privet hedge and faded laburnum; past the flowerless honeysuckle on the fence beyond; past Mr. Pye’s privet hedge and red hawthorn from which the blossom had long dropped; by the Rolls’ privet hedge and horse chestnut tree was a movement, a flash of happy faces, happy voices laughing together, happy like the faces seen inside the
private room of the public house on the edge of the common by the Merry Minstrels theatre. There was never any laughter like that in his own house.

Father was coming home that evening; the best part of the holidays was over; he had succeeded in nothing in his life, nothing, nothing, nothing.

T
HE
next morning, the agony of dream having subsided after a sound sleep, Phillip set about making the baggage waggon. He had his own small oak chest of tools which Hetty had given him for a Christmas present two years previously. She had explained to Phillip that Father had not said anything about the tools he had taken without permission and damaged, when Father had found out.

“He does not want to appear always to be complaining, you see, Sonny, or punishing his only son; but now that you have your own tools, you must leave Father’s things alone in future.”

The gift of the tool chest, but not Hetty’s exhortation, had brought about the desired effect.

Cranmer had brought up the two pairs of wheels the previous night, and hidden them by arrangement in the Backfield; so as soon as Father had gone over the Hill to the station—a very brown-faced, soft-voiced Father, who had returned the night before on a very dusty-white Sunbeam, having come that day from Salisbury—Phillip hopped over the fence and got the wheels.

He had two planks hidden in the Backfield as well, taken originally from the abandoned building dump there some time ago. These, held by nails to the axles, made a chassis for the box-body, which was to hold the food, the tent, and the blankets. The front axle was secured by one nail only, bent over underneath, to act as a swivel for steering. A loop of rope, tied to the ends of the front axle, was to haul the waggon. It was soon made, though left unplaned, as his plane was blunt and
dug into the grain of the wood, and he had no oil-stone on which to sharpen it. The concrete steps as a substitute only seemed to make the blade blunter.

Phillip had yet to obtain permission from Father to camp out. He arranged that Father should see him with the waggon in the back-garden when he came home that evening. Father was sure to ask what it was for, and on being told, might answer favourably. The critical moment arrived.

“Hullo, old chap, making one of your favourite motor cars? At least it won’t leave a trail of dust behind it, as the other beastly things do.”

“It’s a waggon, Father, to put the patrol kit in.”

“H’m, what kit? I thought you scouts carried your own.”

Phillip boggled. “Oh, just our stuff, Father.” Try as he might, he could not bring himself to say the word
camping.

“Well, I am off for a cycle ride to Reynard’s Common, and a dip in the Fish Ponds. It’s a lovely evening for a spin. How is your machine behaving nowadays?”

It was a hint to Phillip. He hoped Phillip would ask him if he might come along.

“It goes very well, thank you, Father, especially when I oil it, as you said.” He changed the subject, since the oil used was from Father’s can. “A boy at school has a bike with a gear of a hundred and eight. I can’t scorch very fast with mine only sixty-eight, however fast my legs turn.”

“Ah, the thing to get is a three-speed Sturmey-Archer, Phillip. How are your savings for your new machine?”

“They’re all right, thank you, Father.” A new 3-speed Swift, like the one in Wetherly’s window, was £4. 19s. 6d. With easy payments it could be spread over twelve months.

Phillip was studiously examining his pair of pincers.

“Father. Oh Father—I mean—I wonder—that is, would you mind—I—I——”

“Come on, out with it, old chap! What do you want to say?”

Phillip took a deep breath, felt himself go pale and cold, heard himself saying, “Please, may I go camping with my patrol next week?”

“You mean, sleeping out?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Who will be in charge, pray?”

“Me, Father. Mother promised to let us have her tent.”

“Oh, did she? It looks as though it would scarcely keep out the dew, let alone a storm. And where, may I enquire, do you propose to camp?”

“In Whitefoot Lane woods, Father. By the Seven Fields.”

“Have you got permission to go on the land there?”

Phillip stared at the pincers.

“Now listen to me, my boy, and try and learn a little sense. You ask me if I will allow you to go camping. You have, on your own admission, no proper tent, no permission to use another’s land, and—it is my duty to add—shown no signs of responsibility. In addition, you are a minor. Therefore, you cannot accept liability for the well-being, safety, and indeed the lives of six boys including yourself.”

Why did Father
always
talk as though always the worst would happen?

“I wonder whether or not you have duly considered what would be the outcome if a boy should die of pneumonia, due to culpable neglect, which it certainly would be without a proper groundsheet, or a proper tent? Shall I tell you who would be legally responsible in any action to recover damages? I would, as your parent! No, my boy, I cannot but withhold my permission for you to sleep out. And if your Mother is wise, she will withdraw her promise—here and now, to avoid further disappointment—to lend you that—well, I can scarcely call it a tent—that little cotton canopy she brought back from Hayling. What induced her to buy such a useless fal-lal, I cannot imagine! Now go upstairs like a sensible fellow and wash your hands before tea. And please regard what I have just said as being entirely for your own good.”

Which talk proved to Phillip, yet once again, that to ask Father for permission to do anything was to have it, as Father would say, knocked on the head. He soused his face in the bathroom basin, to remove traces of tears, before going down to tea.

*

Nevertheless, or
tamen,
the baggage or
impedimenta
—two words which the patrol leader had borrowed from Caesar’s
de
Bello
Gallico
—managed to leave Hillside Road a few days later, for the summer camp of the Bloodhounds in Whitefoot Lane woods. Phillip intended to cycle home each evening, and return the next morning in time for breakfast round the camp fire.

No pewter bugle sounded the fall-in for this great occasion.
Napoleon, the owner of the instrument, had left the patrol after his first field day, when he had arrived home, feet blistered and knickers torn.

Others had come along. The Saturday afternoon parades had not passed unnoticed in the district; they had been watched by various small boys who lived there. One was a boy who, like Desmond Neville, lived alone with his mother. One afternoon this boy had waited in the porch for Phillip’s return from school; and to pass the time, as well as to make his mark, had taken out his penknife and carved his initials on the thick layer of several coats of cream paint on the stone sill of the stained-glass window beside the door. Two large letters

and a quantity of paint chippings on the tiles below were seen by Phillip when he returned, satchel slung over shoulder.

The boy had meanwhile gone home, leaving a message with Hetty that his Mother would be very pleased if Phillip could come and have tea with him.

Phillip received this invitation with mixed feelings, having regard to the deep cuts on Father’s paint. He decided to hide B J under a mixture of candle-grease and flour, rubbed with coal dust, then the sap of a dock-leaf. What cheek, to cut his initials like that! However, any new man was not to be sneezed at.

To make a good impression, he changed into his Eton suit, and carrying gloves, went along Charlotte Road, and knocked at Mrs. Jones’ door. He bowed as he shook her hand; he sat down upstairs only when asked to; and at the tea-table he continued to wear the good-boy smile on his face he had assumed while turning the corner of Hillside Road, after practice at home before his looking-glass. Mrs. Jones was a thin and rather frail person, he decided, with a rather sad smile something like Mother’s, but with a more whispery voice.

When Mrs. Jones showed anxiety about the initials her son Basil had cut, Phillip said, “Oh, Father and I do not mind little things like that, you know,” and changed the subject to his uncle Hilary’s motorcar. Further to make the impression on Mrs. Jones of a respectable character, he showed her the photograph of himself leaning lightly with one gloved hand on the photographer’s little table with a fern on it in a pot, and smiling
amiably with lips over his teeth. “A Scout must smile and whistle under all difficulties,” he quoted from the Scout Law.

Mrs. Jones had a big bump on her, which he pretended not to notice as she was arranging herself, saying she was a little tired, on the sofa after tea. Quickly Mrs. Jones covered this bump with the large flowered pinafore she wore from shoulders to feet, while Phillip, his back turned, showed his new friend the silhouetted heads of birds and animals in
Scouting
for
Boys.
He knew, of course, the reason for the bump. Mrs. Jones was going to have a baby.

So Basil joined the patrol. He brought a friend with him after the first outing, also from the red-bricked flats, each group bearing on their common front wall a large yellow stone plaque with a sunflower emblem.

Three mothers were watching the parade from their upstairs-flat windows beside the stone sunflowers. In Hillside Road Thomas and Sarah Turney, beside their daughter Hetty, looked down from the balcony above, as the boys gave their patrol leader the special salute he had taught them.

Cheers and waggling of starched cricketing hats on poles, while the Maximum Bloody Dog gave them the scout’s salute.

Phillip had his bicycle with him, he explained to his men, for fast advance scouting. The rival Greyhound Patrol, under Peter Wallace, might be about, and it was as well to find out their whereabouts beforehand. The Bloodhounds would not be caught napping. There must be a sentry outside the tent at night. Subscriptions for the Tent Fund having been collected, he gave the order to come to attention. By the right, dress! Left turn! No mucking about! Bloodhound Patrol, advance!

On either side of the waggon, to restrain it, the boys went down the road and so to the corner, where Phillip gave a final wave to the spectators in the balcony.

“I’ll free-wheel down, past Peter Wallace’s house, and see if
the coast is clear. You others follow, but take care with the waggon. I leave Corporal Cranmer in charge.”

Mistaking the order, the remaining boys arranged themselves on box, running boards, and front axle. Corporal Cranmer held the loop of clothes-line, by which to steer. He sat in front, his feet on the axle which was held to the body by the single nail.

As motion increased, the combined weights of four boys (although one was but nine, and another ten) upon the chassis of two deal boards one-inch thick laid side-by-side, together with the weight of the box filled with loaves, sugar, jars of jam, potatoes, sausages, eggs, tea, bacon, and a long yellow bar of Sunlight soap, was greater than the tensile strength of the boards, which were, moreover, heavily knotted.

They sagged; they creaked; the waggon had no brakes. “Billo mate!” shouted Cranmer to a kitten standing staring in the road. The waggon just missed it, as spokes began to thrust themselves through the rim of the off-fore wheel, already, like its fellows, partly shattered by several years’ vibration under the weight of babies, coal, potatoes, firewood, and miscellaneous Cranmer cargoes. The surface of the road was stony and uneven; while the law of gravity remained immutable. The vehicle, twanging and scraping and shedding its crew en route, ran away, Cranmer alone remaining upon it in a wild hope of bringing it safely around the double corner beyond which lay the hamlet of Randiswell.

*

When Phillip, who had waited in vain on Randiswell Bridge for sight of his patrol, returned to find out the reason for delay, he saw the remains of the baggage waggon scattered around one of the chestnut trees of Charlotte Road. The body had left the chassis. Upon the pavement lay the broken jampot. The bacon had skidded beyond it. The sugar was scattered with the tea. One loaf was soggy with milk, a string of bedraggled sausages lay in the gutter.

Cranmer’s face showed the marks of tears. One boy had a bruised knee, bound by a handkerchief. Desmond limped, his face was greyer than usual.

“We’re awfully sorry, Phillip.”

“Is the tent all right, that’s the main thing?” The tent was Mother’s.

Tent and blankets were all right. So was the bar of Sunlight soap. “Hur, that’s the only thing that didn’t matter.”

Phillip turned to Cranmer. “Why ever did you try and ride on the waggon? You’ve no sense of responsibility, you know. Just look what you’ve done now!”

At these accusing words Cranmer began to cry. There was a bluish lump on his forehead. His hands were bleeding, where they had scraped on the kerb. But he was used to physical pain; it was Phillip’s reproach that broke him.

“It’s all our faults, Phillip,” said Desmond. “We didn’t know.”

“How about my Red Cross tin, is that mucked up too?”

Phillip’s mother had given him the tin, containing bandages and ointment and black “new skin” plaster for cuts. He was not concerned with first aid, only with Mother’s gift.

“Look, ’ere it is, safe and sound!” cried Cranmer, relief on his face.

Phillip felt happier. “Lucky there are no beastly Randiswell kids about to come around like flies.”

“Vat’s right,” said Cranmer. “Vere’s the Mission treat today, vey’r all gone to Elmer’s End by train vis morning. I seed’m go off.”

They stood together, looking at the wreckage. Then Phillip went round their scratches with the Zam-Buk ointment. But what about the waggon?

“What shall us do, can’t us mend it?” asked Cranmer at last.

“H’m,” replied Phillip. “It’s had too bad a biff on the boko, if you ask me.”

Cranmer began to collect the scattered things. Examination of the waggon revealed that both planks had broken at knot-holes. One front wheel was hopelessly buckled; the others, though loose of spoke, were all right.