Young Phillip Maddison (13 page)

“My little assistant,” said Mr. Pye, with a wide smile, before he turned out the gas.

There was a white sheet over the window, and a round yellow circle showed where the slides would appear. It was lovely in the dark, Phillip thought, with yellow marks on the walls and ceiling, from the chinks in the lantern. It smelled of colza oil, too, which reminded him of Beau Brickhill, when Percy had held Father’s dark lantern to look for sparrows in the ivy of the stables wall at night, and he had shot at them with the saloon gun.

Once, just after a fresh coloured slide had been put in, Phillip looked sideways at Mr. Pye, and saw he was standing behind Helena. His arms were round her, and his hands were kneading her bosoms, which had grown full lately, Phillip had noticed, owing to puberty. Phillip thought of a cat working its paws on a rug before a fire, and wondered whatever Mr. Pye could be doing. He thought no more about it, and did not look again, in case Mr. Pye’s eye should fall on him, and think he was not interested in the pictures, but in Helena. Phillip still suffered from what Mr. Pye had said, when the girl had boxed his ears after he had asked her brother not to stone a sheep.

*

Helena Rolls walked on down the road, while the smile remained on the face of the patrol-leader of the Bloodhounds long after she had turned the corner. Forgotten were sword, bottle, Father, his men, as he recalled the frank blue eyes and
dark lashes, the curve of cheek, the thick clusters of golden curls under her white tarn o’shanter. She had spoken so nicely to him. Was there shyness behind her smile, which would mean, as he knew from magazine stories, that she——. Trying to recall the exact amount of smile and interest in her greeting, he came to the deflating conclusion that she had remained cool and friendly only. She had looked straight at him, a level glance, which surely denoted absence of shyness or nervousness, which surely meant that she was fancy-free.

He saw his mother’s face reappear beside the old fern. She waved her hand, and smiled.

“No one turned up yet, Sonny? Never mind, dear.”

“Please don’t call me Sonny any more!” he whispered urgently, coming to the gate.

“Very well, dear, just as you like. I’ll try to remember to call you Phillip in future.”

He went into the garden, and stood under the window.

“Mother, did you see her go by? She didn’t say much, or turn back to look, at the corner. Is that, as a sign, good or bad, do you think?”

Phillip had often discussed his chances with Helena with his mother, advancing various observations to prove, and then to disprove, whether or not she was as keen on him as he was on her.

“Oh, I wish my men had turned up when she passed, Mum! Then I could have drawn my sword. I felt such a fool standing there alone, all by myself.”

“I expect they will turn up soon, dear.”

“They’re always late! There’s a rule of a ha’penny fine for being late, but no one will ever pay it.”

The figure of Gran’pa appeared on the balcony, out of his bedroom door.

“Ah, you have responsibilities now, Phillip, and must learn to be patient, m’boy!” said Gran’pa’s voice. Phillip ignored it, as he had ignored Gran’pa’s appearance. “What are you going to do today, chase spies, Phillip, he-he-he?”

Why did Gran’pa always laugh at his own jokes, and such silly ones, too?

Phillip answered shortly, “Oh Gran’pa! What do you think we are? We’re Scouts!”

“Oh, I see. He-he-he,” chuckled Thomas Turney. “Are you there, Hetty?”

“Yes, Papa.” She leaned out, looking upwards.

“I was just coming in to see you, to tell you about Hughie.”

“Oh Papa, what has happened?”

“He’s losing his sense of balance. Newman came to tell me that he saw ’im fall over, on the Hill this morning. Bolton dropped in just now, and suggested I get a man for him. What d’ye think, Hetty?”

“Oh, poor Hughie! Did he hurt, himself badly, Papa?”

“No, Hetty, no cause for alarm. I just wanted to talk things over with you. Is Dickie home?”

“I’m expecting him any moment now, Papa. I’ll come in and see you later in the afternoon, when I shall be alone.”

“Very well, Hetty. I want to discuss my new will with you, too. I heard from Grandison, the broker, this morning. He says there’s nothing to be done about those Canadian Pacifies. I ought to have sold my block when he advised, months ago. They’re not likely to recover now the company has gone into liquidation. Well, even Homer nods, he-he-he.”

“Oh Papa, perhaps they will recover! Even so, it is a terrible thing, I must admit.”

“They went up, you see, on a rumour that the Company was going to make an offer, and I hung on for a rise. The first loss should be the last loss. Never forget that maxim, Phillip! Then you won’t go through life blaming others for your own faults, m’boy, eh Hetty? He-he-he! Worry makes a man hesitant. There’s your Uncle Charley, silly fellow, chucking up his steady job with the mining people, and buying an import business—Charley, who knows nothing about business!”

Thomas Turney opened his snuff-box, took a pinch, sniffed it up first one hairy nostril, then another. He sneezed appreciatively, blew his nose rigorously on a red silk handkerchief taken from the breast-pocket of his blue serge jacket, and went on with his remarks. “You know, Hetty, children remain children to their parents all their lives. Anxiety never leaves a parent, anxiety absorbs thought, and thought is energy.” He looked down upon his grandson with a beam of benevolence. “Now you look out that you don’t get caught when you grow up, Phillip, by a pretty face. Never marry for excitement, m’boy, he-he-he, like your Uncle Charley did.”

“Oh shut up,” muttered Phillip to himself, with a glance of distaste at his mother. He was used to Gran’pa’s advice; he
never listened. He was beginning to side with Father against Gran’pa Turney. Gran’pa was always discussing the making of a new will with Mother; always coming in to see Mother about it. Before the old man could say any more, Phillip slipped away into the road, to look and see if any of his men were in sight.

The talk from the balcony continued. Oh why
must
they talk about him, and so near to the Pye’s house? And the Rolls’ too.

“This scout idea will keep him out of mischief, Hetty. Who is his Scout-master?”

“I don’t think they have one yet, Papa. Phillip is in charge,” she said proudly. “He’s taking his patrol for a field day this afternoon.”

“He’s too thin, Hetty. Don’t let him walk too far, at his age, or go too long without food. Once you let a bull calf shrink, it never makes up for it. It’s the same with human beings. We’re all mammals, y’know.”

You might be, but I’m not, thought Phillip. He was a little reassured by Mother saying, “Oh, Phillip is stronger than he looks, Papa. He’s got a pound of sausages in his mess tin, to cook round the camp fire.”

“Beef or pork?”

“Beef, Papa. Pork are rather expensive, at sixpence a pound.”

“Well, there’s staying power in beef, certainly, though not so much, I fancy, in this imported frozen stuff. I was going to ask ye, Hetty, what about that water-bottle Phillip has? A lot of fellows died of enteric in the war, you know, like poor Sidney. Has it been well disinfected?”

“Yes, Papa, I did it myself, with boiling soda water, then permanganate, as Dickie advised. Dickie is always very careful, you know.”

Thomas Turney did not think much of his son-in-law, a cross-grained fellow whose complaining voice was far too often audible in the adjoining house. Nowadays, however, he kept his opinion on the fellow to himself; and a little praise, where it was due, was always gladly given.

“Yes, Dick’s very thorough, I know that. You can’t be too careful. Well, a boy is only young once, Hetty. Let him make the most of it. Come in and play me a game of bezique tonight, will ye? Come to supper, do. There’s a macaroni pie, and some scallops, both easily digestible.”

Phillip, who by now had given up all idea of putting on his sword, started to walk down the road in a mood of aimlessness. Then he saw, to his delight, cousin Gerry turn the corner. He waved his pole, and uttered the patrol call,
Boo-hoo!
Gerry was accompanied by a small boy, whom Phillip had seen about, but never spoken to. The boy lived in one of the flats in Charlotte Road, built at the same time as St. Cyprian’s Church, in the space between the Wakenham and Randiswell stretches.

Phillip had wondered if Gerry would join the Bloodhounds and be the patrol-leader, he himself being corporal, but Gerry was too big; besides, he was in the cadet corps of St. Anselm’s College at Fordesmill, where Gran’pa had paid for him to go after he had failed to win a scholarship. Phillip loved being with Gerry, he was his favourite cousin, he always seemed amused at what he did. Gerry had a girl, and was not afraid of policemen or keepers on the Hill. Gerry was never afraid to fight if there was trouble. Though Gerry was not quarrelsome, nor did he behave like a hooligan. He always liked to shake hands after a fight if he could, which was being British, he said.

“Hullo, you bloodhound,” said Gerry. “Do you want a pup?”

“Father wouldn’t let me have one, Gerry. He dislikes London dogs.”

“I mean a recruit, you dough-nut,” said Gerry, pointing to the modest figure of the small boy beside him.

“Oh, I see, a tenderfoot. Yes, we do want another Scout.”

“Well,” said Gerry, “you can have the blisters, but I prefer two penn’orth of dark at the flicks. Think of me in the dark with a belle, being an ordinary sort of dog myself. So long, hounds!”

“So long,” replied Phillip, proud that the new man had seen what a fine cousin he had.

“I say, have you been to the Electric Theatre?” he said to the newcomer when they were alone.

The boy shook his head. “Mother is afraid of my weak chest. I might get the germs of scarlet fever, whooping cough, or diphtheria, so I am not allowed to go.”

“Nor am I, not from germs, though. I went with Gerry one Saturday, soon after it opened, and stayed from two o’clock until it ended at ten, so my Father was crusty, and put the kibosh on me going again. It was a very funny film. There was a man on a motorbike who rode everywhere—through houses
and rooms, bumping into carts and upsetting them, and into men carrying huge cans on their shoulders, lettered ‘Alcool’, which is French for ‘Alcohol’. Coo, there was some sport!” said Phillip, reminiscently.

The newcomer looked at Phillip with awe. Phillip examined him, as he stood before him. He wore a grey flannel suit, and carried an overcoat, neatly folded, over one arm. His grey worsted stockings showed his brown bony knees. Rather nervously, the boy said, “Please, Phillip, Mother says, may I join your patrol.”

“Yes, of course you can, we need a sixth man, only”—doubtfully—“you’ll have to get a uniform, you know, and pay a penny a week subscription.”

“Yes, Mother says I may do that.”

“We’re going scouting this afternoon, you can come with us if you like. What’s your name? How old are you?”

“I’m nine, and my name is Desmond Worsley Whickham Neville.”

Phillip thought that was a rather grand name.

“All right. I hereby pass you into the Bloodhounds.” Phillip lifted his pole, and touched him on the shoulder with the pennant. “Got your penny on you? It’s for the Tent Fund. In case you’ve heard any remarks from the Wallace brothers, I do NOT spend it on suckers for myself. If I have borrowed a bit now and then, it is all down in this book. And what’s more, the money is covered by my grant, in the Post Office Savings Bank. Figures cannot lie.”

Phillip showed the new recruit the notebook.

“Now, you’re a witness that I have entered up your name, Desmond, and penny. Hullo! The other men are coming, after all!” and funnelling his hands around his mouth, Phillip cried,
Boo-hoo!
Boo-hoo!

The noise was answered by two boys standing at the bottom of the road.

“That’s the bay of a bloodhound on the trail, Desmond. It sounds a bit eerie, I admit, but that’s how we recognise one another in the woods, when we’re tracking, without wanting to let it be known that we are human. Those two who just bayed are Peter and David Wallace. Freddy Payne ought to be coming along soon. He’s got a bugle, so I let him join. He’s only a little tich, he can’t play for toffee, so I do it for him. Of
course I can’t play it properly, Father won’t let me practise when he’s home. Even when I went into the coal-cellar, with a candle, he stopped me. Well, if Mahomet won’t come to the mountain, the mountain must go to Mahomet. We’ll parade by the church, our usual place.”

“Will it be all right if I come on parade with my coat?” asked Desmond, diffidently.

“Oh yes, for the first afternoon. As a tenderfoot, of course, you’ll have to walk behind when we march off. Can’t you leave your coat somewhere? It won’t rain.”

Desmond looked unhappy. “Mother said I must carry it. I’ve had bronchitis, and have a weak chest.”

“Oh, in that case it might be safer to carry it. We are going to buy capes when we get some tin, and carry them rolled under our haversacks. At Murrages you can buy dark grey capes, made of old uniforms, one-and-six each. They shoot off the rain from your shoulders.”

“Have you read Sherlock Holmes in ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’?” went on Phillip. “It’s an eerie story. I want to get some luminous paste, for use on my face during night-work. It’ll put the fear of God into anyone after us, should we be hard-pressed at any time!
Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!
”

Phillip walked down the road, the new tenderfoot beside him, following the two other scouts towards the church.

They stopped by the right-of-way which led down to the lane behind the cemetery wall. The patrol usually marched that way, to meet Cranmer, who awaited them by the stonemason’s yard opposite the main gates.

“You men are awfully late, you know. We’ll never get to Whitefoot Lane woods this way.”

“We had our dinners late,” replied Peter Wallace.

“Oh, I see. Anyway, why don’t you salute when you see me coming on parade? You should, you know. I told you that last time. This is our new man, Desmond Neville. Carramba! Do you see what I see? Freddy Payne’s got a real wide-awake!”