Young Phillip Maddison (19 page)

“Some ole rope tied rahnd the rims’ll hold ’em together, Phil.”

“We might get some from Hern,” said Phillip, hopefully. “Come on, all hands to the pump.”

They managed to get the waggon as far as Hern’s yard, while Cranmer went inside to see his master about rope.

Hern came out, apron’d and shirt sleeves rolled up, and looked at the damage. He advised blind cord, to be whipped tightly round the rims. The planks might be braced, he declared, with broomsticks.

“But here’s a better idea, Phillip. Why not take that old milkman’s push-cart standing doing nothing in my yard? You’re welcome to a lend of it. And while you’re deciding, what do you say to a tin of lemonade powder? Horace knows where the tap is. I’d like to help you lads if I can. And how about a packet of cube sugar? And a tin of cocoa instead of the tea you’ve lost? You don’t want to touch that sugar of yours, it may have splinters of glass in it.”

Hern gave them a pot of jam; and when all the
impedimenta,
as Phillip called it without any thought, or knowledge, of irony, had been transferred to the milk-cart, Phillip said, “On behalf of the Bloodhound Patrol, Mr. Hern, I would like to thank you for your great kindness. Invooboo!”

“Ya boo, Invooboo!” cried the others, while Cranmer threw up his hat and uttered an extra yodelling cry of joy. It was the first holiday of his life, to which he had been looking forward with an almost excruciating happiness; but above and beyond his own feelings was his desire to please Phillip. Then standing by the wall, Cranmer decided to give a show of his skill. Bending backwards until his palms were on the ground, he transferred the weight of his body from his feet to his hands, then walked up the wall with his feet until he was balancing upside down entirely on his hands. In this posture he walked slowly sideways along the length of the wall. Still upside down, he imitated the yelping of a cur-dog struck by a stone and fleeing down the street—familiar sight and sound in Skerritt Road.

Phillip wished that Cranmer would not behave like that, especially in uniform, and was glad when it was over. Another trick of Cranmer was to swarm up a lamp-post, and swing on the ladder-rest until his momentum flung him over backwards; and he would go over and over like a wheel for nearly half a minute.

After two mugs each of Hern’s lemonade, they set off once again, feeling that now their troubles were over. As an encouragement to his men, Phillip stopped at the main grocers in Randiswell, where Hetty also dealt, and bought a pound of Alphabet and Animal biscuits, asking that it be put down to Mrs. Maddison’s account.

Munching these crisp little objects, one only to be put in the mouth at a time, to make them last longer, ordered Phillip, the patrol entered the High Street, and proceeded south. When after
Fordesmill the biscuits were all gone, they began to whistle, pretending they were a drum and fife band. Cranmer was also the drum, beating time with a stick on the side of the baggage cart.

Soon the heat of noon made them silent. They walked on more slowly. Their faces were red when at last they turned up Whitefoot Lane, to rest in the cooler shade of the hedge, before going onwards and upwards, and to enter the northern strip of woodland from the edge of which could be seen, across the potato fields, beyond the red misty lines of new houses, far away in the summer haze the City of London from which arose, very small and blue, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

*

The blunt little chopper, in the shape of an axe, struck branches of trees at right-angles, merely banging them and leaving dints, so the idea of a leafy shelter to screen the white tent and the yellow milk-cart was abandoned. There were plenty of dry sticks for a fire, from which the aromatic smoke of hazel and oak wandered. No one disturbed them; only the wood pigeon’s wings smacked as he flew out, the jay screamed in the distance; a robin came near, to share crumbs with its new friends. The sun was brilliant in the treetops; then more golden as it moved away and down past the trunks; red-gold as the beams, concentrated in a fiery silken cocoon, sank down upon the horizon.

It was time for Phillip to return. He put off departure as long as possible.

“Well so long, men. I’ll be out early tomorrow. Don’t forget to clean your teeth with sticks beaten out on stones, like in the book.”

“So long, Phillip.”

The way home lay between those familiar elms whose lower leaves in summer were grey from the road-dust which arose in long billowing clouds behind nearly every motorcar. Phillip noticed that motorists crept very slowly through the police trap, having been warned by A.A. men who held up white plates. Having got through the trap, the more sporty motorists moved down the levers of their throttles on the steering columns until their carburettors were hissing with the intake, as Phillip had often heard. Now, imagining himself driving a Napier, a Grand Prix Napier, three tons in weight, its bright driving chains crashing, a mile-long funnel of dust behind him swirling up to
the topmost leaves of the wayside elms, he pressed on homewards, pedalling his fastest, his thoughts away from reality; to be jerked back to reality as he came near the outer limit of the trap when he saw the figure of Father on the Sunbeam cycling towards him, well into the left of the road as usual. Father was unmistakable in the distance; no one else on a bike wore a brown Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers with brown stockings that had an adder-pattern around the tops. No one cycled so upright, in such a straight line, so near to the left of the road, as Father. As the figure came nearer, Phillip began to feel himself becoming all bits and pieces from what he had been in the woods, and he made up his mind to pretend not to see Father, not to salute him or to stop. He pedalled his very fastest, bending head and back over the handlebars, pretending to be racing home in the greatest hurry as he stared at the blurred grey of the front tyre, and heard the cyclometer below going
tick-tick-tick-tick
rapidly.

When he got home, his supper was on a tray ready for him—a slice of cold mutton, slices of buttered bread, and a jar of sweet chutney. Mother was next door, playing her nightly game of bezique with Gran’pa. Cocoa in the pot, already mixed with milk, stood on the gas-stove. A message on paper by his plate said, in pencil,
Back
soon,
don’
t
forget
to
keep
flame
low
under
cocoa
and
turn
out
all
taps,
Mother.

Phillip chewed his mutton in solitary enjoyment; it was nice to be alone in the house. He was eating his cold prunes and custard when Mother came in through the scullery and asked him how he had got on.

“Oh, all right, Mum.”

“Did you find a good dry site for the tent, dear?”

“Oh yes.”

“Good boy, you’ve turned out the gas at the main, as well as in front.”

“Just to prevent the prophesied paternal explosion.”

“Hush, Sonny!” laughed Hetty. “You must not laugh at your Father like that.”

“
I’m
not laughing; you are. Where is he? Kite-flying?”

“Oh, didn’t you see him, dear? He cycled out to look at your camp, to see if you were all right. He has slung the hammock under the tree in the garden, and says you can sleep out in it, if you like.”

“Oh lor’, I hope he won’t find our camp, and see Cranmer.”

“Well, perhaps he will then see what a nice boy he really is.”

“Huh. I think it’s beastly of Father to make me come back every night like this, when I am the patrol-leader.”

“Father is only thinking of your own good, dear, as you will realise when you are older.”

“How old, Henrietta?”

“Phillip, how dare you! Don’t you let your Father hear you calling me that,” laughed Hetty.

“I quite understand,” replied Phillip, as he went down the garden to look at the hammock.

He was lying in it, undressed and between a sheet and blankets, when his father returned. Hearing him walking down the grass, Phillip pretended to be asleep. He watched through his lashes Father quietly going back to the sitting room; then drawing a deep breath, he snuggled down to enjoy the deepening twilight alone.

Through the dusk lights in the back rooms of houses up and down the road were visible. He imagined the people within going to bed. There was no light showing at the back of Turret House; Mrs. Rolls’ cook-housekeeper and parlourmaid had already gone to bed, while Helena’s bedroom was in the turret in front of the house. He knew this because one morning, at half past seven, as he passed the house on his way to the Hill, to earn twopence by retrieving balls for the early morning tennis players, he heard Mr. Rolls from the main bedroom opposite call out, in a master-of-the-house voice that seemed to come itself from bedclothes, “Helena! Get up!” a lazy, easy voice. Mother said Mr. and Mrs. Rolls were a perfect love match. Phillip knew that Mrs. Rolls was going to have another baby.

Something was moving near the hammock, in the corner of the garden, where the fence was low. It rustled, then grunted. Peering over the smooth edge of the slippery esparto grass, gingerly lest he tip himself out, Phillip watched a dark shape moving over the lawn, around the base of the tree. It was only Father’s hedgehog, which he had had for years, sometimes feeding it with milk in a saucer.

Stars showed above the slated roofs and the black chimney stacks. He wondered how his men were getting on, in the gleam of the camp-fire just outside the tent.

The air was cool and clear to breathe, so much nicer than in the bedroom, even with the window wide open. Pleasantly tired
by the day’s exertions, he fell into a deep sleep, from which he awakened soon after dawn.

*

In this chill, steel-clear morning air Phillip got out of the hammock, dressed, and with boots in hand crept to the door by the back steps leading up to the porch. His bicycle stood in the porch. He had oiled the lock the previous morning, meaning to leave early, with no sound. Lifting his bicycle down the path between the rockery, he carried it over the lawn, and under the railing to Gran’pa’s lawn. The reason was in the gates; No. 12 stood permanently open, held by a brick, while his own had a heavy coiled spring along the hinge to the post, to keep it always shut. It might go bang, and waken Father. Phillip was taking no chances of being stopped getting to his men for breakfast round the camp fire.

Boots tied round his neck, he cycled down the pavement to Randiswell, feeling himself like Mr. Mundy the vicar, only he didn’t take off his boots and sling them round his neck. Feeling delightfully free, Phillip sat on the pavement by Hern’s, and put on his boots. Then he cycled onwards, fast through the solitary clear morning, into the High Street and so to the main road damp with dew.

Smoke was rising from the rear chimneys of the big walled house at the corner of Whitefoot Lane, and sinking down broadly, like the grey chiffon scarf worn by Mrs. Rolls, among the cedars in the park on the right of the sandy lane. He passed the tall hollies in the hedge, seeing the haystacks across the paddock, on the other side, the field of Sheppherd’s farm. Sheppherd was said to chase away all who trespassed on his farm with the aid of a very big and fierce dog. Sheppherd was also rumoured to shoot at boys’ trousers, as they ran away, with a gun loaded with tintacks.

Phillip hid his bicycle just inside the wood, and having covered it with green leaves, he went forward along the path trodden among the trees, walking on tip-toe, feeling himself to be part of the silence of the new morning. He looked about him, ready to freeze if he saw any movement; perhap she would see a fox, stealing home with a rabbit in its mouth. He had gone fifty yards or so down the path when he stopped still, his nostrils expanded, every sense alert: for he had smelled tobacco smoke. Someone must be in the wood!

Remembering the wrinkle in
Scouting
for
Boys
how to find the wind’s direction, he wetted an index finger and held it up. It felt cold to the east, from the direction of the low sun, shining direct into his face. He could see nothing in that direction, and could easily be seen. He dropped on hands and knees, and began to creep forward with extreme care, first picking up and removing any twigs on the path before him. He reached the shelter of a big oak, and looking at ground level to his right, saw a man in shirt-sleeves standing by an upturned bicycle, repairing a puncture. He had a big pink face, and wore dark blue trousers. With alarm Phillip saw a policeman’s helmet and tunic hanging on a branch-stump beside him. Christmas, a bobby!

He lay on the ground, wondering if he would be seen if he crept back to his bicycle, to make his escape while he could. But supposing the patrol started to make a noise, singing, or Cranmer imitating a stoned dog? Would the tent be confiscated, if they were summoned for trespass? What should he do? Go back to the bike, or creep on to warn the patrol? Any moment Cranmer’s idiotic yelping might come through the trees. Would his bicycle be confiscated by the policeman if he saw it, in order to force him to claim it, and so give himself away for trespassing?

The bike was well hidden, and nowhere near the gap by which the policeman probably had entered. With relief he heard him whistling the tune of
Three
Juicy
Juicy
Jews,
a comic song the red-wigged funny man had sung in the Merry Minstrels; and though this might be a trap to lure him to be careless, perhaps after all he had not seen him. He crept on until he was well out of sight, then rising to his feet, went on tensely and fast, beginning to enjoy the adventure the more because he had been saved by his sense of smell and deduction, like a real scout.

With relief he saw that the tent was still where it had been the evening before. It was closed. The fire was out before it. He felt the ashes. They were cold. The robin was waiting for him, perched on a nearby branch. That seemed to show that all was well; and peeping through the flap, he saw that the others were asleep inside, all looking tumbled up as though bent, for the tent was only four feet in diameter. Cranmer’s face with open mouth lay between the boots of Desmond and Jones. His face looked swelled.