Young Phillip Maddison Read online

  “Is Mr. Newman here yet?”

  “Not yet, Master Phillip. But your Gran’pa and Grannie are in the dining room.”

  Phillip found them, sitting in their chairs before the fire. As usual Gran’pa had Sammy the cat on his knee. Sammy stared at him, though without much interest, for it was only in the gardens and Backfield, where the cat went to hunt mice and birds, that Phillip chased Sammy, and flipped pebbles at him from his catapult. Sammy was a big animal, a neuter who had been seen-to. Sammy hunted other cats and howled at them, sometimes biting them. Once in the Backfield Phillip had stalked Sammy as Sammy was stalking cat-lovers in the long grass, and to his delight he saw them turn on Sammy, and chase him away. Mrs. Rolls’ cat, a mother one, hated Sammy, and hissed at him whenever she met him. Phillip was always tenderly protective towards Mrs. Rolls’ cat, which had a small head and one blue and one brown eye, since it was nice in itself, but chiefly because it belonged to Helena Rolls.

  “Well, m’boy,” said Thomas Turney. “How did you get on at school today?”

  “Very well, thank you, Gran’pa.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh,” said Gran’pa, with a short laugh. “Then what did they try and teach you?”

  “Latin, Geography, History, and Mathematics, Gran’pa. And some mouldy French.”

  “Are they going to teach you Spanish at your school, m’boy?”

  Gran’pa always asked him this question, so Phillip thought he would give a different answer this time, more interesting to Gran’pa.

  “I think so. I heard two masters discussing it after lunch today. But it might have been something else they were saying,” he added, remembering the new leaf he had turned over.

  “Spanish is the language of the future, m’boy. South America will be the coming focus of world trade. Their natural resources are hardly known, let alone developed.”

  “I know some Spanish already,” said Phillip, thinking of the Spanish pirate, on the hulk in the Sargasso Sea, in that wonderful serial, the end of which he would never know, as Boy’s Life was now no more.

  “Oh,” said Gran’pa. “Let’s hear you, then.”

  “‘Quando tiempo’ is all I know, and ‘Carramba’.”

  Thomas Turney chuckled.

  “Do you know what that means, eh?”

  “What time is it, and A curse on you, Gran’pa.”

  “Well, both are useful expressions, sometimes, m’boy, he-he-he! Take my advice, and learn some more. Be prepared for the future, Phillip.”

  “Yes, Gran’pa. I would like to speak Spanish in the Boy Scouts. I want to be a Scout, and have a patrol. The motto of the Scouts is ‘Be prepared’. It’s all in Scouting for Boys. I am going to save up to buy a copy.”

  “You can get thirty-three and a third per centum trade discount if you get it through the Firm,” said Gran’pa.

  Phillip disregarded these figures. He had no money, what he wanted was Grannie to say she would buy the book for him.

  “Yes, Gran’pa, but you see I’m saving up for a new bike. My old one isn’t safe.”

  Gran’pa laughed again. The apparent non sequitur had enabled him to read his grandson’s thoughts.

  “Ah, you can’t spend the same money on two things at once, m’boy.”

  “It’s a wonderful book, all the same.”

  “Well, you save your pennies, and then you’ll be able to own it. There’s no satisfaction in life like that of the reward of hard work, or thrift.”

  “Do not tease Phillip,” said Mrs. Turney, softly, as she peered at the boy’s shoulders. Were they uneven, had he a hump? Surely not, she would have known of it from Hetty, long ago. But one shoulder did look slightly thicker than the other.

  “I’m giving Phillip a simple lesson in money, Sarah. You must save up, m’boy, if you want to acquire anything. Get it with your own efforts, that way brings the only satisfaction.”

  Thomas Turney got up, holding the cat in his arms, and put it carefully, not to disturb its peace, in the chair behind him. “I’m going to get some claret, to warm it on the chimney piece. Never drink claret cold, Phillip, it’s indigestible unless brought to an equable temperature, besides being rough on the palate.”

  “I like stone ginger beer best, Gran’pa.”

  As soon as the door was shut behind his grandfather, Phillip’s manner changed. Grannie might buy him a wide-awake hat, as well as the book, and with luck, a wooden water-bottle, of the kind advertised, from the Boer War. In the past Grannie had bought all his fret-work articles, but since losing interest in that hobby, he had had nothing to sell her.

  “Tell me about the Boy Scouts,” said Grannie. He needed no further encouragement. He deemed it wise to recount the Scout’s virtues.

  “Sir Robert Baden-Powell, the Chief Scout, says that the Boy Scout mustn’t swear or smoke, Grannie, or have bad thoughts. He must do at least one Good Turn every day. Boy Scouts are in patrols, with names of birds and animals. They have to learn to imitate the cries, and they wear shoulder ribbons, with the colour of the bird or animal of their patrol. Which would you like to be, Grannie, if, say, you were going to be a Boy Scout? Wait a mo’, before you choose, I’ll tell you what there is to choose from. There’s the Lion Patrol, the Bear Patrol, the Otter Patrol, the Wolf Patrol, and the Bloodhound Patrol! Which would you like, Grannie? Look, I’ll give you the cries first, then you can choose which you’ll be. But first I must tell you what birds there are. There’s the Woodpigeon, with grey shoulder ribbons, with its cry of Book-boor-ro; the Owl, boo-hoo, boo-hoo; the Kestrel, with kek-kek-kek, just like they do over the Backfield sometimes. You must have heard them, haven’t you, Grannie?”

  “Why yes, of course, dear. And well I recall hearing them over the fields and spinneys at home, and especially round the corn stacks, when I was a girl. The mouse-hawk we called it, and sometimes the windhover. Why yes, my father shot one once. It was taking mother’s chicks. He shot a cuckoo too, the same day, and had both set up in a glass case.”

  “I wish I had a gun, Gran, then I’d have a lot of stuffed birds.”

  “Perhaps you will, when you are a man, dear.”

  “I know, Gran, but I would so like one now. I wouldn’t break any windows with it, as I did with Father’s air-rifle, when I was inexperienced. There are some spiffing walking-stick guns in Murrage’s catalogue, only seven and sixpence, Belgian-made. If I had one I would be ever so careful.”

  Sarah Turney was concerned for her grandson’s happiness, for she had suffered, with her daughter, when in the past the little fellow had been caned so often for his naughtiness. She wondered how she might get the idea of a dangerous walking-stick gun out of his head.

  “Do you remember the wild animals and birds in the Duke’s park, when you went to stay with your cousins Percy and Polly at Beau Brickhill, dear?”

  “Yes, Gran. I saw emus and gnus, bison, antelopes and several other kinds of deer, as well as a lot of silver and gold pheasants. It simply swarmed with all sorts, Grannie. And there were so many flies along the drive, buzzing out from the trees.”

  “They have a sanctuary there, Phillip, no one ever shoots them. The Duchess goes out in a green costume and watches them, also taking photographs. That is much nicer than shooting them, I think.”

  “But how can you shoot flies?” cried Phillip; and at the very idea Sarah began to laugh. He pretended to be holding a tiny gun between his finger-tips.

  “Ping, got that blue-bottle, ping, down comes a gnat, twip-twip, two daddy-long-legs!”

  Sarah laughed until she ached, while he displayed before her. At last, getting herself together, she said that what she meant was that the animals in the Park were not shot.

  “But they do shoot them, Gran! Uncle Jim Pickering told me so! They have platforms in the trees, and stand up there, and shoot the driven deer, to keep down their numbers! Uncle Jim says he sometimes gets a haunch of venison from the Head Verderer!”

  “Y
es dear, you are quite right. I was thinking of the other animals. The deer must be kept down, of course. But I know her Grace does not like shooting them,” said Sarah, gently. She thought awhile. “Now I must not forget to tell you what I would like to be, if I were a Boy Scout, what bird or animal, I mean, must I? I expect you will want to be getting back to your homework soon.”

  “Oh no, Gran. I say, d’you remember the Hound of the Baskervilles? Well then, what do The patrol leader has an orange head of a blood-hound on his pennant, and orange shoulder ribbons, to distinguish it from other patrols. I like orange. I shall call my patrol the Bloodhounds! Doesn’t it sound wonderful, Gran?”

  “Yes dear, but you must not let it interfere with your lessons, will you?”

  “No. Scouting makes a boy work all the better. He has to keep fit, to be a good Scout, you know. Well, I must go now, I think. Good night, Grannie,” he said, hurriedly kissing her. “Sorry I can’t stay any longer. Oh, would you like to see Timmy Rat?” and he pulled the animal from under the shoulder of his jacket.

  “Well, do you know, dear, all this time I have been wondering why you had a hump there! Isn’t he clean and white? Well, good night, dear. Thank you for coming in to see us, and for letting me see your pet. It is so nice when the young folk remember the old.”

  “Well, I always like seeing you, you see, Gran. Goodnight.”

  Outside the door, he listened a moment to Gran’pa talking in angry tones to Uncle Hugh down in the garden room. They were always having rows; and unconcerned with them, Phillip slipped through the kitchen and so back into his own house, bolting the door behind him and putting Timmy Rat back into its box. He lingered a moment to scratch its ears, then went into the hall, to see, by the presence of bowler hat, overcoat, and umbrella on the coat rack, that Father had come home.

  Subdued, he returned to the kitchen, lit the gas-mantle, and opening his satchel, settled at the table to do his homework. He spread around him various printed school books. The lid of the inkwell was lifted open, a pen stuck in it. Thus prepared, he placed the empty satchel beside him on the table, ready to slip The Scout into it at the first warning.

  *

  While he was reading, there came a loud thump on the front door, followed by a ring of the bell. Running to the door, he opened it to see the peaked cap and face of Carter Paterson’s man, standing there with his leather apron and jacket with brass buttons. He had a large something beside him, covered with brown paper and tied with string. His boy, who always stood at the back of the covered van, holding to a rope from the roof, when it was going, now stood beside him.

  “Package from the Stores.”

  “I’ll tell my mother, just a jiffy.”

  Mother came to the door. The leather-aproned driver touched the peak of his cap. The peak had a little metal band on its edge. Phillip wondered if it was there to prevent the peak wearing out; for Carter Paterson’s man made calls at people’s houses all the time, and each time he probably touched the peak when they came to the door.

  “Whatever is it, driver?”

  “Looks like furniture to me, mum.”

  Hetty looked at the label. Yes, it was addressed to Dickie, and came from the Stores.

  “Better tell your Father, dear,” she said to Phillip.

  But Richard was already on his way to the door, unhurrying, with an air of complacent mystery. He turned up the gas, so that the Veritas mantle glowed white; then he lit the mantle in the front room, a thing which in itself showed that something very out of the ordinary was about to happen. Having done this, he helped the carter and his boy to lift the package into the doorway of the front room. The carter remained on the mat, cap in hand, having sent his boy back to stand by the horse; not that it was likely to move, as it used such pauses for sleep; but the carter wanted any tip for himself.

  Meanwhile, Richard was examining the delivery sheet carefully. Then he took out his stylo pen from his pocket. Writing the word unexamined in the space for his signature, he signed. Then he felt in pocket for twopence, the price of a pint of beer, and gave it to the man. Touching his forelock, plastered down on his brow, the man in the leather apron departed.

  “Now,” said Richard, pulling the chain of the gas, to keep it on the by-pass, “I will get on with my tea.”

  Phillip was almost screwed up inside with curiosity, but he knew it might be almost fatal if he asked Father. So he waited until he was in the kitchen with his mother.

  “I’ve no idea, dear. I expect your Father has his reasons for not saying anything at the moment. Perhaps it is a surprise, dear. Let us wait, shall we, until he has had his meal. He is tired, you know, when he gets home from the office, and likes to rest awhile after his meal.”

  Phillip knew from the gas being left on the by-pass that something was coming. What a day of wonderful events! First The Scout, now this mystery. The object had four legs; it looked like a small cupboard of sorts.

  He waited as patiently as he could, meanwhile making some attempt to do his homework.

  *

  At last footfalls in the passage told that the great moment had come. He was required to help in carrying the object down into the sitting room. And when Richard unpacked the “surprise” in the presence of the three children and their mother, he did so far too slowly for Phillip: he folded the sheets of brown paper carefully, as he removed them, after unpicking every knot, and making little loops of the string for use another time: but at last it was done, and there stood, not a musical box like the polyphone in the front room, but a shining cabinet gramophone: and when Richard put on a record, letting it spin while winding the spring in case it should break, such music filled the room that Phillip had never imagined to be possible in the world.

  Richard had warned them that they must not speak, or make a sound, while the gramophone was playing; but there was no need for this warning coming from what was a shy and often excruciating sensibility centred upon itself. Phillip sat entranced, in another world. The only other music he had heard had been in school or church, from Italian barrel-organ, Salvation Army band in the High Street, pantomimes at Christmas, Mother playing the piano in the front room, Uncle Hugh his violin, Mr Bigge his harp; and, of course, the thin steel discs of the polyphone that crinkled as they turned, and made a sort of music that did not last as music very long, it was too mechanical.

  Hetty and Richard watched the children’s faces. Phillip sat staring, his dark blue eyes open wide, his lips parted. Mavis was pensive, her eyes dreaming; Doris sat with her finger pointing at the open doors. Phillip looked at Mother, and seeing the gentle smile on her face, suddenly tears came in his eyes. He turned away quickly, before Father could see. He was imagining white angels, everything shining and beautiful high up in the sky, beyond the stars. There, too, was Minnie, his nurse of long ago, who had held him close and warm and safe when he was frightened of the dark, and of the dark loud noise of Father’s voice to Mummy.

  Richard stopped the motor, and changed the record; then he stood back to gaze from face to face, with anticipation in his eyes, as though beaming upon them the unique joy and beauty of the composition he had heard that midday for the first time. He had spent his luncheon break of three quarters of an hour in the Stores in Queen Victoria Street, listening to the same records, foregoing his light midday meal in a dream of chivalry, tenderness, and aspiration in the pictured English country of his birth and breeding. There and then he had made a decision: to buy the case of records, and the cabinet gramophone, and go hang to the expense!

  *

  There had been only one thing to mar, but slightly, his pleasant talk with the shop assistant, an amateur musician like himself. The shop assistant had mentioned with half-concealed enthusiasm that Mr. Elgar, the composer, was a great friend of George Bernard Shaw; and then, seeing the customer’s face, he had said no more, lest the customer make a complaint to the management, and he be dismissed.

  Richard had no use for G. B. Shaw. The Daily Trident had long exposed hi
m as a charlatan who found nothing good in the country which had given him hospitality, and a certain competence—why didn’t he go back to Ireland, if he found in England so much to complain of and sneer about? Richard did not like the Irish; was not Mr. Turney, his father-in-law, half Irish, through his mother, according to Hetty? For himself, Richard half-believed—a belief fully held by his sister Victoria—that the old man was entirely bogus, a Jew who had adopted an English name, who had lacked the courage to be loyal to his own origins. As proof of this contention, was the dark appearance of that bounder Hugh, who—it went without saying!—was an admirer of G. B. Shaw, another impostor, who wrote his plays with his tongue in his cheek! A cross between Jew and Irish—what a mixture! No wonder Phillip was such a cross-grained little funk!

  Richard, however, had not got all his ideas about the renegade Irishman from The Daily Trident. In his youth, as a special constable on duty in Trafalgar Square on Bloody Sunday, when Cunninghame Graham and John Burns had incited the mob to violence, he had heard it said that the red-bearded anarchist was present with the insurrectionists. Later, he had learned that the anarchist had not even had the courage of his opinions; he had kept well clear, looking after his own precious skin, after egging-on others to do his mischief for him. How Elgar could be “a great friend” of such a character, Richard could not understand; however, it was Elgar’s music that mattered; and obeying his desire, he had spent nearly five pounds that midday—one-eighth of a half-quarter’s salary, but never matter! He would debit his savings with the expenditure, then it could not be thought that he had made his purchase at the expense of wife and family, out of income.

  Thus, honourably with his conscience, The Enigma Variations had been purchased, together with the gramophone.