To You, Mr Chips (6 page)

'Well, Dick. D'ye think he'll get in?'

'We're doing our best, Tom.'

'It'll be a touch-and-go with him, anyway. T'other Candidate's gaining ground.'

'A carpet-bagger, Tom, if ever there was one--a carpet-bagger.'

'They do say he's got one o' them motorcars.'

'He 
would
 have. Anything to make a noise.'

In the morning the rumour was confirmed. The Other Candidate had a motor-car, and it was one of the very first motor-cars to appear in most of the streets of Browdley. Gerald, in secret, would not have minded looking at it; but because it belonged to the Other Candidate he pictured himself driving an express train and overtaking it, along a parallel road, so quickly that he could hardly see it at all. But, no, perhaps that was too easy. He was riding Uncle Richard's tricycle instead, and even 
that
 overtook it. And the Other Candidate scowled and shouted after him: 'Who will rid me' (like Henry II and Thomas à Becket in the history book) 'of this turbulent young man who rides a tricycle so fast that I cannot catch him up in my motor-car?' (Eight knights sprang forward and ran after Gerald, but they could not catch him.)

Actually Gerald spent most of his time in the streets near Uncle Richard's house. Sometimes, if it were raining, he played in the greenhouse; there were red and blue panes of glass in the greenhouse door. If you looked through the red, everything was hot and stormy; if you looked through the blue, it was like night-time. That was very wonderful.

One day he had a tremendous adventure. Browdley lies in a valley, and beyond the town, steepening as it rises, there is a green-brown lazy-looking mountain called Mickle. A few scattered farms occupy the lower slopes, and at one of these, Jones's Farm, it had been arranged that Gerald and Olive should leave some bills. A pony-cart drew up outside Uncle Richard's house soon after breakfast, and the journey began at a steady trot through street after street that Gerald had never been in before. The horse swished its tail from side to side, waving a red rosette tied on to it; big posters decorated the cart. The man who drove was called Fred. It was a lovely blue sunshiny morning, and when they had climbed a little way and looked back, they could see all Browdley flat below them, covered with a thin smoke-cloud, the factory chimneys sticking out of it like pins in a pincushion. Above them, very big now, the mountain lifted up. Gerald had never been close to a mountain before. He felt madly happy. The lane narrowed to a stony track where Fred had to get down several times to open gates. At last they reached the farmhouse where Mrs. Jones lived. She was standing at the doorway wiping her arms on an apron and smiling at them; she was very fat and had hair piled up on top of her head. When Gerald and Olive got down from the cart she hugged them. 'Well . . . well . . . well . . .' she began, leading them inside the house; and just as they got into the kitchen a tabby cat suddenly moved from the hearthrug towards Gerald, tail erect. Gerald loved cats and stooped to stroke it, but he hadn't to stoop far, because (so the thought came to him) the cat was quite as large as a dog. Then he reflected that that wasn't a very sensible comparison, because dogs could be of all sizes, whereas cats had only one size, whatever size they were. Was that the way to put it? Anyway, Mrs. Jones's cat was a monster. It lifted up its head and met his hand in a warm, eager pressure that was beautiful to him. 'Isn't she a big pussy?' said Mrs. Jones, standing with her fists at 'hips firm,' as they called it at Grayshott.

'She's a big cat,' said Gerald gravely.

'Her name's Nib,' continued Mrs. Jones, and began to say 'Nibby, Nibby, Nibby,' in a high-pitched voice. But the cat, after one shrewd upward glance, knew that this was all nonsense, and continued to heave up to Gerald's hand. While Gerald was thus entranced, Olive remembered the bills they had brought and handed them over. 'Lawks-a-mussy,' said Mrs. Jones, glancing at them, 'it's Jones as'll read these, not me. A Liberal 'e is, that's very sure, even if it was his dyin' day.'

Then she waddled away to a farther room, the cat abruptly following her, and presently returned with pieces of cake, glasses, and a jug. 'Nettle-drink,' she said. The cat was purring loudly. 'Sup it up--it'll do you good.'

Gerald was looking at the mountain through the doorway. In the sunlight it looked as if it were moving towards him.

'Is it the highest mountain in England?' he asked.

'Nay, that I can't say for certain--it'll happen not be as high as some on 'em.'

'Isn't it the highest mountain of anywhere?' asked Gerald desperately; but neither Mrs. Jones nor Fred seemed to understand. Fred said: ''Tis only Mickle--I wouldn't call it much of a mountain at all.'

All at once Gerald realised that it didn't matter how they answered: it 
was
 the highest mountain, the highest in the world, and he was going to climb it, like the men in the snowstorm in his geography book.

He put down his glass and walked to the doorway. 'I'm going up there,' he said.

'Nay, you can't, you'd get lost on Mickle,' said Mrs. Jones.

'But I want to see what's over the other side,' Gerald went on.

'Take 'em both up, Fred, if they want,' Mrs. Jones then said. 'It'll be a bit o' fresh air for 'em.'

Fred nodded and began to trudge slowly up the steep track, Gerald and Olive following. But after a little while Gerald scampered ahead, because he liked to think that nobody had ever climbed the mountain before. It was a dangerous thing to do, and only he, the famous mountaineer and engine-driver, dare risk it. Up, up, scrambling through bracken and heather; there were tigers, too, that you had to watch out for. His blood was racing as he reached the smooth green summit. The earth was at his feet, the whole earth, and over the other side, which he had been so curious about, a further mountain was to be seen--doubtless the second highest mountain in the world. Far below he could make out the tower of Browdley Church, with a tramcar crawling beside it like a red beetle.

Suddenly he saw a halfpenny lying on the ground. 'Look what I've found!' he cried, triumphantly; then he lay down in the cool blue air and waited for the others to come up.

Fred smoked in silence while Gerald talked to Olive.

'What makes your father a Candidate?'

'Because there's an election.'

'But what's that?'

'It means he has to get in.'

'Where does he get in?'

'In the house.'

'Can't anybody get in?'

'Only if you're a Candidate.'

'Does he ever have a special train?'

'A special train? I--I don't know.'

'Don't know what a special train is? Do you like trains? When I came here there was a Four-Four-Nought on our train. Bet you don't know what that means.'

No answer.

'Are you afraid to touch a snail?'

'No. And I'm not afraid to touch a bee, either. Even a bumble-bee. I don't suppose you've ever seen a bumble-bee.'

'Oh yes, I have. It's like a piece of flying cat. I wouldn't be afraid to touch one. But I'll bet you'd be afraid to stand on the edge of the platform while the Scotch express dashed through at sixty miles an hour. I did that once. I stood right on the edge.'

'Why?'

'It was a test. None of the others could do it. My father couldn't. Or Uncle Richard. Even the stationmaster couldn't.'

'Why not?'

'Because the train was going too fast. It was really going at eighty miles an hour, not sixty.'

Then there was a long silence, while Gerald lay back staring at the sky. He was very, very happy.

When you are a child, everything you think and dream of has a piercing realness that never happens again; there is no blurred background to that stereoscopic clarity, no dim perspective to drag at the heart's desire. That little world you live in is the widest, the loveliest, and the sweetest; it can be the bitterest also.

To Gerald, alone in his own vivid privacy, everything seemed miraculously right except the Other Candidate, who was miraculously wrong. The warm red room with the brass rail over the fireplace, and the greenhouse with the tricycle in it, and the parrot who never forgave him and whom he never forgave, were part of a secret intimacy in which Uncle Richard and Olive and Aunt Flo were partners (in descending order of importance), and over which, only a little lower than the angels, loomed the Candidate. Gerald could never catch a glimpse of the Candidate, though, after Uncle Richard's hint, he always looked out for him on the stairs. He knew that the Candidate lived in Uncle Richard's house, working in the front parlour with the door always closed, and sleeping in the front bedroom over it; yet he could never (and it must have been pure chance) see him entering or leaving the house, or passing from one room to another. Partly, of course, this was because of Aunt Flo's continual fidgeting. 'Mind now, Gerald, be very quiet, and no playing in the passage--the Candidate'll be in any minute.' Or: 'Gerald, time for bed now--must have you out of the way before the Candidate comes in!' Long after she had put him to bed and turned out the light, Gerald would he awake, thinking and listening; often he 
heard
 the Candidate, but it was never any words--just the mix-up of footsteps and talk. Once he said to Uncle Richard: 'Can't I ever 
see
 the Candidate?'--and Uncle Richard answered: 'Not now, my boy--he's far too busy. But I'll take you out tonight and you'll see him then.'

So that night Uncle Richard took Gerald to the market-place, which was full of a great crowd of people. Uncle Richard hoisted him on to his shoulder so that he could see; and far away, over all the cloth caps, a man was standing on a cart and shouting something. Gerald could not hear what it was he was shouting, because people round about were shouting much louder. 'Aha, we're in good time,' said Uncle Richard, in Gerald's ear. 'That's only old Burstall--don't you take any notice of 
him.
 He'll only go on till the Candidate comes, that's all. Watch out--you'll soon see the Candidate!'

The talking and shouting went on, and Gerald, perched on Uncle Richard's shoulder, began to feel very sleepy. Everyone seemed to be smoking pipes and cigarettes, and the smoke rose in a cloud and got into his eyes, so that it became hard to keep them open. The man on the cart continued to talk, but he wasn't interesting either to watch or listen to . . . and still the Candidate didn't come. . . . Then suddenly, with a jerk, Gerald felt himself being lowered to the ground and Uncle Richard was stooping and shaking him. All around were the legs of people hurrying past. 'Why,' exclaimed Uncle Richard, 'I do believe you've been asleep! Didn't you see the Candidate?'

Then Gerald realised what had happened. Uncle Richard laughed heartily. 'Well, I don't know--you are a rum fellow, and no mistake! Badgering me all the time to see him, and then when he does come you drop off to sleep!'

'I couldn't help it,' answered Gerald miserably. 'I didn't know. . . . Why didn't you nudge me?'

'Nudge you? God bless my soul, I thought you were wide awake!' Uncle Richard went on laughing as if it were a great joke instead of something very sad. 'Well, my boy, you missed something good, I can tell you. The Candidate's a treat--a fair treat!'

Days went by, and the chance did not come again. All the commotion of shouting and singing and waving red rosettes was reaching some kind of climax that Gerald, even without understanding it, could clearly sense; every morning the magic was renewed, and Uncle Richard tapped the barometer with more zest for the day ahead.

In Gerald the desire to see the Candidate had grown into a great longing. It coloured all Browdley in a glow of excitement, for, as Uncle Richard had said: 'You'll see him, my boy, if you keep your eyes open! Ha, ha--if you keep your eyes open, eh? That hits the mark, eh? Wuff-wuff. . . . He's everywhere in Browdley--you're bound to see him. But mind, now, no hanging about the passage--that would only annoy him. He's putting up a hard fight--we've all got to help.'

That was so, of course, and it was for that reason he and Olive kept on putting bills in letter-boxes. It was like the Secret Service, where you did things you didn't properly understand because the King ordered you to; though you never really saw the King till afterwards, when the danger was all past and he received you at the Palace and conferred on you the Most Noble and Distinguished Order of the Red Rosette.

So Gerald wandered about, eager and happy and preoccupied, full of thoughts of his mission and stirred by wild hopes that some time, any time, on the stairs or at the corner of the street, the Candidate might suddenly appear. A vision! It was terribly exciting to think of--quite the most exciting thing since Martin Secundus had measles and went to the sanatorium, and Gerald used to wait about outside thinking that Martin would probably die and would want to give him a last message from his death-bed.

One afternoon Gerald was alone in the house, reading the Yearly Report of the Browdley and District Friendly and Cooperative Society, which he had found under the cushion of a chair, and which seemed to him, for the moment, of engrossing interest. There was a picture in it of the first train entering Browdley station in 1853, and beside it, a picture of the first shop opened by the Browdley and District Friendly and Cooperative Society in the same year. A long, long time ago, before Uncle Richard was born. Gerald began to think about a long, long time ago, but it was hard to think like that. He was relieved when the tinkle of a bell in the street outside reminded him of his unique position--he was alone in the house, and the bell belonged to the ice-cream cart that visited the Parade every afternoon. Gerald had a passion for ice-cream, and one of his constant puzzlements was that grownups, who had pockets full of money and complete freedom to do anything they liked, didn't eat ice-cream all day long. Aunt Flo, for example, would nibble at a spoonful and say she 'didn't care for it much--it's too cold' (what a ridiculous thing to say!) and Uncle Richard wouldn't have any at all. Profound mystery of human behaviour! Sometimes, however, they had allowed Gerald to go out into the street with a cup and buy a halfpennyworth. Now, with a sudden consciousness of his great chance, Gerald reached down from the dresser the largest cup he could find and took two pennies carefully out of his purse. Then he ran down the passage and out at the front door. The ice-cream cart, drawn by a little donkey, stood in the middle of the roadway, with the ice-cream man sitting perched up inside it. It was a beautiful cart, covered with coloured pictures and gilt lettering, and with four bright brass pillars holding up a flat roof. It made the ice-cream man, whose name was Ulio, look like a king on his throne. 'Two-pennyworth,' said Gerald, a little nervously, lest Mr. Ulio should see into his inmost heart. But Mr. Ulio just jabbed at his ice-cream and scooped a few slices into the cup--and not very much more, Gerald thought, than he had formerly got for a halfpenny.