Young Phillip Maddison (3 page)

“No, for you don't wash at all, do you?”

Polly laughed, and seeing her bright eyes, “How do you do,” said Phillip, very politely, acting the role of an imagined little gentleman. He held out a gloved hand to be shaken. “Busy with brush and palette, I see. What is this for, the dear vicar's bazaar?”

Then noticing the top of the window opened, his tone changed. “Who opened that window? It's bath night, and you know very well if the window's open the cold air comes in there, and chills the pipes.” He pushed up the window, and opened the lower sash frame. “There, if you must be fresh air fiends! I say, Polly, will you be long? I promised to take Peter Wallace his picture by six o'clock.”

“Go on, Phillip! We know you too well, old boy! We know who that Valentine is for!”

“I bet you don't!”

“Oh yes, I do. I bet it's for Helena Rolls!”

“You liar!”

“Ha ha, we know! That's why you've got your gloves on, to create an impression! You are going to call on Mr. Rolls, and ask him for his daughter's hand, ha ha ha! Do you remember what happened last time you wore your gloves, when you called on the Todds? Muriel's dog bit you, ha ha! Yes, Tiny nipped you in the leg.”

“It mistook me for someone else on that occasion,” said Phillip, glad of the chance to lead the talk away from Helena Rolls. “Yes, the little over-ripe banana-skin mongrel called Tiny, who lives at Number Six, Polly, was on that occasion entirely working by instinct,” exclaimed Phillip, with an animated glance at Polly's friendly face. “Tiny smelled my gloves, as belonging to the skin of an erstwhile rival.” He held up his hands. “They are made of dogskin, these gloves, you see. And the Todds' blinking mongrel, scared to death of my gloves when they were part of his old enemy, crept up behind me and snapped at the first thing it saw, which happened to be my leg. Look, I'll show you the scar,” and rolling up his trouser, he showed upon the calf of his right leg two slight depressions almost joined together. “Caustic silver stopped any ill-effects. Do you learn chemistry at school?” he asked Polly. “It comes in useful for making bombs or pills. Well goodnight, girls, if I don't see you again,” and bowing ironically to them, he withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him. For a moment he listened, to hear what might be said about himself; but a more urgent matter had come into his mind—the stomach-turning thought that soon he must return the library book which he had hidden under the Windsor side-board in the front room, and what would happen if the librarian spotted what he had written about various birds, including the Raven, the Gull, and worst of all, the Shag.

Father had said at breakfast that he might be home early; so there was no time to lose. He went into the front room, got down on hands and knees, and pulled the heavy book from under the cupboard. For safety, he took it upstairs, and hid it under his bed.

However hard Phillip had tried to erase the words he had written in
Birds
of
the
British
Isles,
he had not succeeded; the broad thick strokes of the relief nib, made with such hilarity, had remained. The idea of tearing out the offending pages had not occurred to him; he thought only that he must either rub
out what he had written, or return the book without his crime being discovered.

Having hidden the book, he returned to the kitchen, to do his homework. The girls left, to be with Mother in the sitting-room. Phillip seated himself at the table, and poured out the contents of his leather satchel. Homework, ugh! The written subjects had to be done, but the Shakespeare could be learned by heart tomorrow while walking to school. He knew he could not learn anything tonight, what with the Valentine to be delivered, and the ordeal of the library book. Golly, if he got put of it this time, he would never do it again.

While he was working at his Algebra, the door was slightly kicked, and Mavis' voice said, “Open the door, please”. Since it was Mavis speaking he let her wait a little, before getting up; and as she came in, carrying a sewing machine, he exclaimed testily, “How can I be expected to do my work, if you don't leave me alone?”

“I bet you're reading instead!” She put down the machine, and darted to his satchel. In it was concealed a copy of
Boy's
Life.
“There, I knew it! You just put it in there! It's warm! You thought it was Father, I bet!”

“Look, the ink's wet on this equation! Now apologise!”

“I won't, grumpy. Anyway, you know Father does not like you to read trash!”

“You spy! You want me to muck up my work, and get me expelled! Stop grinning at me, ugly mug! And take that awful sewing machine away.”

“Father doesn't like the noise in the sitting room, and I must get this done tonight, for someone's birthday tomorrow.”

“I know, it's for your beloved Miss Wendover! You're soppy about her.”

“Not half so soppy as you are about stuck-up Helena Rolls!”

Phillip's feelings burst into irritable rage. He threw his satchel at his sister, who fled from the room, crying, “Ah, you can be very brave, with girls to fight, but you can't fight your own battles with boys, can you? That's why you have to get Peter Wallace to fight for you!”

“Now children, children, you mustn't quarrel,” said Hetty, coming into the room.

“Why can't Mavis leave me alone? I've got my homework to do, and it's Latin tonight,” complained Phillip. “And French
irregular verbs, which I can't understand. You know how I feel, Mother, don't you?”

“Yes, dear, of course your homework must come first. Only your Father may be home any minute now, and he will want to be quiet, dear. It's a very quiet machine really, and Mavis is keen to get her work done tonight, before bedtime, Phillip. Oh, before I forget, have you changed the sawdust in Timmy Rat's box?”

“Not yet. Oh, I can't do Algebra!”

Phillip's head was now held in his hands, elbows on table, fingers plugged in ears. The Latin primer was open before him. Quietly his mother lit the gas jet in the scullery, filled a kettle at the tap, and returned with it to the kitchen, to set it on the range.

“Oh, curse this muck,” he muttered. “What's the use of the ablative absolute? What does it mean, anyway?”

“I expect it will have a use in after-life, dear.”

“Which one do you mean?”

“When you are grown up, of course, dear.”

“Oh, I thought you meant when I was dead.”

“Hush, Phillip!”

Hetty tried not to laugh, though she thought it was rather funny, the serious way he said it. He was, in many ways, like her brother Hugh. Poor Hughie! she sighed. What a wasted life, what a tragedy! Pray God that Phillip would never make the same terrible mistake that Hughie had made. It was rather a terrible thought, but often it seemed that it was the gay, the bright ones of this world who were destined to come to a sad end. Hugh had never found happiness; nor, for that matter, had Dora, whom Hughie had loved so dearly. Ah well, troubles in this world were sent to try us.

“Mother,” Mavis was saying, a strained expression on her face. “Please make Phillip let me have the Singer in here. I must finish my sewing tonight.”

“And I must finish my homework, Mum!”

“Yes, dear, I know. Mavis, can you wait just a little while? Then when Phillip has gone to the library, you girls can have the place again to yourselves.”

“You favour Phillip, it isn't fair!” cried Mavis. She was near to tears. “I shan't have time to finish it now! The others have got their presents for Miss Wendover already made!”

“Fancy being so potty on a games mistress!”

“Fancy you being potty on Helena Rolls!”

“I'm not!”

“You know you are! ‘The bluebell's blue, The rose is red, I love you true, I'm soft in the head! Ha ha!” Mavis laughed, with a quaver in her voice.

“You beastly little swine! You fool!”

Hardly had the insults been shouted, when there came a jingle of keys from the porch without, and the slight creak of paint parting from rubber beading as the front door was opened. Both children were immediately silent.

As he sat with Latin primer open before him on the kitchen table, Phillip heard the returning click of the Yale lock, then the soft sounds of Father’s boots being wiped on the cocoanut mat. He knew the noises with all his being. They were always the same. After the wiping of boots, the sides of each, followed by one toe, then a heel, then another toe and heel, there were the steps forward on the oil-cloth, followed by the little knock of Father’s umbrella handle striking its peg of the mahogany clothes rack; the slight
blonk
of the bowler hat following; the ruffle of his raincoat being withdrawn from his arms, the careful hanging of it by its black chain on another peg. Then the extra sounds tonight: rattle of match box, striking of match, little soft pop of the gas: Father pausing while he turned it down, to save gas.

Phillip waited in dread for what he knew was coming next. Father’s voice saying, “Phillip, did I hear you call your sister a fool just now?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Why, may I ask?”

“I beg your pardon, Father.”

“That’s all very well, but apologies for continual rudeness tend to lose their validity, you know. Do not let me hear you speaking like that to your sister again.”

“No, Father.”

“You will apologise to your sister, if you please.”

Well, I don’t please, muttered Phillip to himself; but aloud he said, “I beg your pardon, Mavis.”

The kitchen door opened wide.

“Anyone would think you two children were deadly enemies, to hear you speak to one another. Why,” exclaimed Richard Maddison, moving to shut the bottom of the kitchen window, “when I was a boy, neither I nor any of my brothers would have dreamt of talking to one of our sisters the way you do, Phillip. Nor would your Aunts ever have thought of retaliation, in the unlikely event of one or another of the brothers being rude to them. Where you, Phillip, get it from beats me! Not from my side of the family certainly, nor do you get it from your Mother. In future let there be a great improvement in the matter—please! Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Father.”

Hetty came cheerfully into the kitchen. “Well Dickie, I’ll soon have your meal ready. I do hope the fog did not delay you.”

“Oh, it is hardly more than a mist. Well, I was about to remark to Phillip that I saw a big dark bird flying over the Hill just now, but perhaps he is too deep in study to take it in.”

Phillip pretended to be studying gerundives, pluperfects, and past participles.

“Phillip dear, your Father——”

“Oh, don’t disturb the student——”

Phillip looked up. “Oh, I hope it was a tawny owl, Father!”

Both father and son tried to pretend to themselves that their surroundings were still part of the country.

“I fancy it was larger than a tawny owl. They live in the big trees in Twistleton Road, I have heard them ever since the time when I played tennis there, years ago. No, this bird was a big fellow—possibly an Eagle Owl, or a Snowy Owl. Are there plates of any owls in that book you got from the library last week?”

“I don’t know, Father,” Phillip replied, in a weak voice. He pretended to be studying the primer; but sat brittle and thudding.

“Has it gone back yet?”

Richard sat down to remove his boots. Phillip did not know what to answer.

“I don’t know, Father.”

“You don’t know?”

“I mean—I mean——”

“He’s trying to learn his Latin, Dickie,” said Hetty.

“Oh, I see! Your best boy has turned over a new leaf, evidently! Well, I’ll disturb him no more.”

Phillip sat easier as Father, having changed his boots for carpet slippers, went upstairs to wash. When he came down again, he wore his smoking jacket, which he put on when he was in a good mood. It was of dark blue velvet, an old one which Uncle John had sent him. Phillip felt that Father wasn’t so bad when he put on the “smoker”, as he called it. The frogs across the front made Richard think of Sherlock Holmes, of a world quite different from the one he was living.

When Father’s tray had been taken down by Mavis, and all was quiet down in the sitting room, Phillip said, to his Mother making some coffee, “I think I’ll go to the Library now, Mum.”

“Very well, dear. Don’t be late, will you?”

“No, Mum.”

Outside in the hall Polly beckoned to him. She held out the card. The sitting room door was shut. Phillip pulled the mantle chain, to get more light by which to examine the precious Valentine. There it was, on thick white album paper; a bunch of bluebells, and the poem underneath, in neat black writing. Polly had an envelope, too, addressed to Miss Helena Rolls. Was it all right? Yes, said Phillip, it was wonderful.

“Now I’ll slip up and put it in the letter box. I hope their bulldog doesn’t bark! Wish me luck, Polly. You know how I feel, don’t you?”

“I think so. She is pretty, isn’t she?” said dark little Polly.

“She’s wonderful! Of course, I’ve no chance. Still, one day, perhaps. I hope it’s foggy, then no one will see me. So long!”

He put on his coat. He was shivering. “I’ll be back in half a mo. Then I must hop along to the library, and get rid of that awful book. My lord, if I escape this time, I swear I’ll never do it again.”

“Why did you, Phillip?”

“For fun, you know. Of course it’s the Shag that’s dangerous. I could be sent away to the reformatory for that. Oh dear. What shall I do?”

“Well, deliver the Valentine first, and I’ll wait in the front room, and let you in when you come back. Then get the book, and change it, but look ordinary when you do so, then they won’t think anything’s the matter.”

“All right. See you later.”

*

If you open a letter box in a door on a cold foggy night, and you feel a warm air on your brow above your eyes and you hear charming voices and see a well-lighted hall and a dining room door open, and smell a roasting chicken—a house where they have dinner at night, and not just cold mutton for supper—it is like seeing into an enchanted palace until with a growl and a pattering of slipping claws on oil-cloth a bulldog rushes at your eyes behind the open letter-box and you turn tail and run away in alarm into the fog, knowing that if you are not quick the thick fat spring on the gate will send it back with a clash and catch the back of your heel.

A dark figure loomed; the boy’s arm, Valentine in hand, was caught and held.

“What were you doing there?”

“Nothing, sir.”

It was Mr. Pye, who lived next door to the Rolls. The houses were attached; and Mr. Pye’s, the lower, had steps up to his front door. The steps were always well hearth-stoned.

“Who is it, Phillip?”

“Yes, Mr. Pye.”

Mr. Pye’s voice spoke quietly. “Why were you spying through the letter-box? It’s not exactly the thing to do, is it? It is not a pleasant role, that of a peeping Tom, Phillip, to add to that of a boy who has his battles fought for him by someone else, I have noticed, let me tell you!”

Phillip could not speak.

The worst happened. The door opened. Mr. Rolls stood there, the light behind him.

“Hullo!” his rich and easy voice said. “Oh, it’s you, Pye. I wondered what was happening, with Mike skidding about all over the place.”

“Oh, we just happened to meet,” replied Mr. Pye, in the same easy voice, but more level, not so rich as Mr. Rolls’. “Our young friend and I happened to meet outside your gate, in fact we bumped into each other. It’s Phillip Maddison.”

“Oh, Phillip, how are you,” said Mr. Rolls. “Not hurt, I hope? It certainly is a dark night. Well, I must not keep you. Goodnight, Pye! Good night, Phillip.”

Mr. Pye raised his big grey felt hat—a cigar hat Phillip had
thought of it ever since he had seen a poster of a brown-faced jovial man on an ocean liner by the rails in such a hat, a globe-trotter smoking a cigar, the wind on his cloak. Mr. Pye sometimes wore such a cloak on the Hill when walking with his wife, who was deaf, and his children. The tweed cloak had an extra cape over the shoulders to shoot off the rain.

Phillip raised a cap that was not there. The door of Turret House closed.

“Well, young man,” said Mr. Pye, shortly, in a low voice, “I will bid you goodnight. And take my advice, don’t go spying on other people in their houses again. The next time you may not escape so easily.”

“No, sir.”

When Phillip got back, almost breathless with joy because the great Mr. Rolls had spoken so nicely to him, Polly was there to open the door for him. He told her the amazing adventure. The Valentine was still in his jacket pocket.

“You know, Polly,” he concluded his whispered story in the dim secrecy of the front room, “the funny thing is, I swear Old Pye had an envelope in his hand, and had come to put it in the letter-box! Only he didn’t! Now, if he had come to deliver a note, why didn’t he give it to Mr. Rolls? That’s what puzzles me. It’s a mystery, isn’t it? Oh, I never liked Old Pye. He’s so fat, almost oily.” Phillip thought a moment, then burst out, “Do you think he was going to slip in a Valentine, too? Do old men send them?”

“I think some do, Phil. To their old sweethearts. Perhaps it was to Mrs. Rolls, she is very pretty, isn’t she?”

“Him!” exclaimed Phillip, with disgust. “What—to Mrs. Rolls! Why, Pye’s a fat old slug! Not likely!”

“What are you going to do with yours?” asked Polly. “Go back later?”

“No jolly fear! I’ve had one narrow escape! Oh damn, now I’ve got the book to take back. Oh Lord, if I get out of this, I’ll never have another book out, I swear it!”

“Shall I come, Phil? Aunty might let me, if you ask her.”

“No, thanks. I must tackle this alone. The book’s under my bed. If I’m discovered, I shall have to run away to sea. What shall we do with the Valentine? I know, let’s give it to Mother! After all, she deserves a little consideration. Will you write out another envelope, and drop it in the hall, as though it’s come
through the letter-box? It will be a nice surprise for her, won’t it? So long, Polly, you are a good sport, you know.”

He crept upstairs; and a minute later was on his way to the Free Library. He did not want Polly with him, as he had a secret meeting at the Library every Friday night with Cranmer, with whom Father had forbidden him, on pain of a caning, to associate.

Cranmer was a poor, ragged boy, living in slum-like dwellings in Skerritt’s Road, near the Library.