Young Phillip Maddison (27 page)

“H’m,” she said, putting down the little green-covered magazine. “I wonder what’s in the back of his mind to write like that? Your Mr. Purley-Prout has got something on his conscience, I should not be at all surprised! And dear me, after what you and Desmond have told me—just listen to what he has to say next!

“‘Don’t think that every other scout in every other troop is your sworn foe. Remember that you are a
peace
scout: and if the other fellow seems to forget this, you can remind him of it by your actions—don’t jaw! The other Troops are not enemies of ours—they are friendly rivals: and I want all my North Western chaps to treat them as such, and as gentlemen. You must particularly remember to show great respect to the Scoutmasters of other Troops—just as much as if they were your own officers.

“‘We want to see our North Western setting a noble ideal of unity and concord before every district in England. And why shouldn’t it?

“H’m,” said Mrs. Neville, putting down the little magazine, “I don’t think there’s much affection about that gentleman. Why, when Desmond came home, he was starved, all skin and bone! There were dark rings under his eyes. And the grime on his body! If this Mr. Purley-Prout thought less of the soul, and more of the body—but perhaps he does, from all I hear,” she added, nodding significantly. What could she mean? But it was a grown-up’s remark, and Phillip thought no more of it.

*

After the Whitsun Camp he was not so keen on scouting as he had been. He did not know that this was due, in part, to fatigue. The boys had hardly slept during the four nights. Instead, he played cricket on the Hill; and sometimes, when it was wet, he and Desmond went to the twopenny seats of the Electric Theatre in the High Street. After the holidays, on fine Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, they cycled out to explore Reynard’s Common and the surrounding country, finding perfect companionship in viewing external objects together.

Desmond had a machine with dropped handlebars which gave it a racy appearance. Its badge was a red hand on the front pillar, while Phillip’s was a swift in flight. Phillip knew every speck on both badges: his eyes seemed to illumine every aspect of the marques. There were hundreds of other interesting things to be seen on their rides together.

Some of them were funny, such as the two horses in the lowest
of the Seven Fields, where the rifle range was. Near the post-and-rail fence at the bend of the road the two animals stood, necks crossed, nibbling energetically at one another’s hair. The boys watched for five minutes, wondering when the horses would stop; they left only when a Vanguard ’bus came along, steam blowing from its radiator, to race it up the hill.

The Vanguard, like the red General that sometimes came that way on Saturdays, could not do more than twelve miles an hour; the Swift could pass it, even if Desmond’s Rudge could not—just. But up the hill leading to Brumley they both won easily, as usually buses had to stop half-way up, after creeping at three m.p.h., their engines boiling furiously.

O
NE
early evening when Phillip returned, he found Mother and Mrs. Lower Low in the front room. Mother closed the door quietly as he stood wiping his boots on the mat. Phillip wondered what was up, for usually when Mrs. Lower Low called with her work she and Mother went into the kitchen.

“Phillip,” said Hetty, when Mrs. Low had gone, “could you spare me a minute, dear, from your homework?”

Since Mum could see that he was reading the latest number of
The
Scout,
Phillip thought this hint a little too obvious. What had he been found out about, now?

“You know I’m not doing it, so why pretend I am, Mother?”

“Oh, it was just a figure of speech. Politeness costs nothing, my son.” Then feeling she might have been too severe, Hetty kissed him on the top of his head. He wriggled away from the caress. How like Dickie he was sometimes, she thought, feeling rebuffed.

“Well, what is it? Come, speak out!”

Yes, it might have been Dickie speaking.

“Phillip,” said Hetty, taking a chop out of the safe in the larder, and putting it in a pan, “I would like to speak to you in the strictest confidence, dear. You are now fourteen, and soon will be growing up towards manhood. Are you listening, dear?”

Phillip seemed intently to be reading something in the paper; but he was thinking rapidly. Had anyone told her that he and
Desmond sometimes went into the Randiswell Recreation Ground on Thursday nights, for the thrill of passing by the dark waiting figures of toms by the rustic bridge leading to Rushy Green—to hear the low-spoken, rather fearful invitation,
Want
a
sweetheart,
dear?
He and Desmond had pretended to be on their way to Troop Headquarters, but they had walked about instead, not wanting to see the brassy-haired Mr. Purley-Prout.

“Well, Mum, go on! I’m listening! I can’t wait all night!”

“It’s something to do with Lenny Low, Phillip. But first, will you give me your word of honour not to say anything to anyone else about what I am going to say to you?” Hetty lit the gas under the frying pan.

Phillip looked up, with puzzled expression. “Is that why Mrs. Lower Low came just now?”

“Yes, dear. Do you know anything about it?”

“About what, Mum?”

“Are you sure you don’t know, Phillip?”

“About
what?
”
he cried, in exasperation.

“Phillip, will you give me your word of honour to regard what I am going to say in the strictest confidence? It might cause very great trouble if you told anyone else, you see.”

“All right, I promise. Cough it up.”

“First, I must ask you if you knew anything about the money Mr. Prout gave to Lenny Low after the Whitsun camp?”

“Money? What money?”

By his face Hetty could see that he did not. She felt relief. How could she tell him about the very terrible thing Mrs. Low had confided in her? If Phillip’s Father knew, he might put his foot down, and cause all sorts of trouble. Ought she to confide in Mamma first? But Mamma was not well; Dr. Cave-Browne had said she had a clot of blood from the varicose veins on her legs travelling about, and she must on no account be worried. No, Phillip was old enough to be warned, at least, of the dangers that beset him along the road of life.

“What money, Mum. You do beat about the bush, so!”

“It was a very considerable sum for a little boy, Phillip, for that after all is what Lenny is still. Mrs. Low said it was a half sovereign.”

“Yes, Mr. Prout gave Lenny that, to do his good turn, in secret, to help Mrs. Low.”

“Then you do know about it then, dear? Who told you?”

“Lenny did. You told me yourself about the money she owed the money-lender, who charged her all that interest, ten per cent a month, or a hundred and twenty per cent per annum.”

“Is that all Lenny has told you, dear? I mean, was there anything else between him and Mr. Prout, that you know of?”

“No, Mum.”

Phillip looked puzzled, to Hetty’s relief.

“Well dear, perhaps that was the reason. Only Mrs. Low was very worried, you see.”

“Did she think Lenny had pinched the money?”

“Oh no, Phillip, nothing like that! Don’t you go saying anything like that, I beg of you.” Hetty hesitated. “Perhaps I should ask you one thing more, dear, though I am sure a son of mine would never do anything with anyone of which he would be ashamed, would he?”

Phillip wondered if his Mother was by chance referring to the remarks he had inked into
British
Birds.
He pretended to a naïve innocence. “In what way d’you mean, Mum?” as he opened his Algebra book.

“In any way, dear,” replied Hetty. She was unable to express her thoughts in words, “beating about the bush”, as Dickie often said. At the very moment that she thought of him, a key jingled in the porch. It was like telepathy!

“Now dear, I must see about your Father’s dinner.”

Hetty turned up the gas. The chop in the frying pan began to hiss more noticeably.

“And I must get on with my beastly Algebra,” said Phillip, sliding the folded
Scout
into his satchel. “Algebra—Algebra—it sounds like teeth being pulled out.”

When Father had gone out for his cycle ride, Phillip slipped through Gran’pa’s house and up the gully and through the thorns to the grass below the sheep-fold, and down behind the Grammar School to the cemetery lane, to find Lenny Low.

A green Dursley-Pedersen bicycle stood against the kerb outside Lenny’s house. Seeing it, Phillip at once turned and walked round the corner. To his relief he saw Lenny coming along by the railings towards him, a library book under one arm.

“Don’t recognise me,” Phillip hissed as Lenny walked slowly past him. “Follow me to the turning to Joy Farm.”

He went on slowly as though he were out for an ordinary stroll.

Out of sight, in the farm turning, he waited for Lenny.

“Mr. Purley-Prout is at your house! I saw his bike outside!”

Lenny looked afraid.

“What’s up, Lenny? You can trust me. I know about the money he gave you. Tell me, on your Scout’s honour, did Old Prout give it you, or did you sneak it?”

“Mr. Purley-Prout gave me it, Phillip. Only it isn’t that so much.” Lenny looked ashamed.

“Come on, out with it! I won’t split.”

“It was when I was in his bivouac.”

“What was?”

When Lenny had explained, Phillip said.

“Fancy Mr. Purley-Prout doing that! I didn’t think men did that, only boys. Ching tried to do it to me, once, under the bushes above the gully, but I told him off. It was then he spat in my eye. They say if you do it a lot, a long hair grows out of the middle of your hand. Do you believe it?”

“They say it gives you the palsy, too,” said Lenny, unhappily.

“My Father started to tell me about it once, when he said he’d seen something on the sheets of my bed. He couldn’t have done, because I can’t get anything yet.”

“Nor can I.”

“How did your mother find out about you and Old Prout, then?”

“She saw me in the bathroom, in the mirror on the wall, when she looked from her bedroom window.”

“Ah, you see, light reflects in equal angles! You want to be careful of mirrors, for if anyone can see
you,
you can see
them,
since the rays of light pass between you. Was your mother angry?

“No. Only when she asked me where I learned it from, I had to tell her. Then she asked me if Mr. Purley-Prout had promised me the money for that.”

“
Money
for
that?
”
said Phillip, incredulously. “I don’t believe it! And half a sovereign, too! When did he give it to you?”

“On the station, just before we came home by train after the Whitsun camp. I told him before that, you see, about the money my Mum owed, when he asked me to tell ’im all about myself, after he’d taken me into his bivouac, that wet night at camp.”

“Well, I think it was rather decent of Old Prout to give you the tin, anyway. Your mother won’t be worried about owing money any more.”

“My Father found out from my Mum, and created a terrible scene.”

“How did he find out? I thought he didn’t speak to your Mother.”

“Nor he does, usually, but he told my Mum this time he knew all about what she had been doing. My Father told my Mum he used to call in and ask the moneylender if she had paid the interest, so he knew all about it, and it served her right.”

Lenny was now crying, remembering the shouts at home, and his father’s angry face as he shook his fist at his mother.

“Well, Old Prout’s at your house now, Lenny. Let’s come and see him. Only let me explain.”

Phillip quivered as he said this, though he was not in the least frightened. He was rather enjoying the thought of standing up for Lenny Low. Perhaps Mr. Purley-Prout would see him, too, in a new light.

The two boys walked down to the cemetery gates. As they turned the corner, they saw Mr. Purley-Prout cycling towards them. He swerved over the road, leapt off his bicycle, and stopped. He wore a tweed suit, without a hat. His fair hair was ruffled. Phillip thought that his face looked rocky. His forehead was wrinkled up as well as his cheeks. His eyes had a faraway look.

“Good evening, boys,” he said hurriedly, “just the two I wanted to see. Phillip, can you spare me a minute or two? No, don’t go away, Lenny. Just wait here and guard my bike, will you? I want a word with your patrol leader.”

Mr. Purley-Prout set the pedal of the Dursley-Pedersen upon the kerb. Then he took Phillip’s arm and walked with him along by the cemetery railings. With head bent down, he spoke in a low voice close to Phillip’s ear.

“What’s the matter, Phillip, what’s the matter? Have you heard anything? My enemies are trying to ruin me, Phillip. They are jealous of the superiority of the Troop, you see.”

Phillip trembled, but his mind remained apart. He knew Mr. Purley-Prout was just saying that. It was strange, and rather enjoyable, to feel upright and confident, while Mr. Purley-Prout was bent and afraid.

“Is it about Lenny, Mr. Prout?”

“What about Lenny, Phillip, what about him? Tell me, quick. The future of the Troop is at stake. What do you know about Lenny, Phillip?”

“Well,
you
know, don’t you, Mr. Prout?” replied Phillip, in a kind of wonder that he seemed so weak and frightened.

“What do you mean, Phillip? Why
should
I know anything? I gave Lenny that half-sovereign to help his poor Mother! I swear that was all! It was my good turn, Phillip. Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, Mr. Prout, I do.”

Mr. Purley-Prout looked into his eyes. Even then, his eyes did not seem to be seeing him. “You are a good Scout, Phillip,” he said earnestly. He put his arm around Phillip’s shoulder. “Are you my friend?”

“Yes, Mr. Prout.”

“Then help me, Phillip! A man like me has many enemies! Tell me what they are saying? Has anyone been to see you?”

“No, Mr. Prout. I heard about it from Lenny.”

“What did Lenny say, Phillip? What did Lenny say?”

“He said you wanked him, Mr. Prout, in your bivouac.”

Mr. Purley-Prout held Phillip’s arm tighter, and bent his head more as he said, “I don’t quite follow you, Phillip. What does that expression mean?”

Phillip felt awkward.

“Well, it’s what they say—only no one believes it—well, you know—a long hair growing out of the middle of your hand, Mr. Prout.”

“I am afraid I don’t understand, Phillip.”

“It’s what’s supposed to be bad for your health,” said Phillip, lowering his gaze.

Mr. Purley-Prout took his arm off Phillip’s shoulder. After a few paces he said. “Is that all Lenny said?”

“Yes, Mr. Prout.”

“I see. Now I want a frank reply to my question, please, Phillip. Do you think I would do such a thing as that, Phillip? On your Scout’s honour, now!”

Mr. Purley-Prout was now upright.

Remembering what Mother had told him—to be very careful what he said—Phillip began to feel anxious.

“I don’t know, Mr. Prout.”

“Lenny is imagining things, Phillip. He is younger than you, and probably got an idea into his head from someone else. Do you know if anyone has been questioning him?”

“Only his Father, Mr. Prout.”

Mr. Purley-Prout thought again. “Ah, I begin to see daylight at last! It was a very stormy night, and I was worried about
more than one thing, if you remember, Phillip. We were liable to be attacked at any moment. The other Troops envy us, you see. Also, I wasn’t sure of the water supply, it had to be boiled before you scouts drank it. Then again, the heavy rain would mean no fires in the morning. All sorts of responsibilities weigh upon me, as Scoutmaster, Phillip. Knowing you were overcrowded, I offered a share of my bivvy to one of your patrol, hoping among other things, to keep you quiet! I expect as I tossed and turned in the flea-bag, half asleep, Lenny put a certain interpretation on it. So if anyone asks you questions, you will tell them the truth of our very disturbing night, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Prout,” said Phillip, thinking that Lenny’s side of the case was the true one, all the same. He had seen it in Mr. Prout’s face. Mr. Prout was not really what he pretended to be.

They went back to Lenny Low, who was subduedly standing on guard by the two bicycles.

“I would like to give every one of my scouts a bike like your new Swift, Phillip, if I had the money. But I suppose that good action would be misconstrued, without the shadow of a doubt! Well, Lenny, I have told your patrol leader the truth, and he believes me, so don’t—for you are only one against many, you know!—please don’t, for all our sakes, repeat what you have been saying any more. Some people might misconstrue it as blackmail, you know, and that is a very serious thing, indeed. Now if you, Phillip, had exercised proper judgment in buying your tent, we would all have enjoyed a good night’s sleep in camp that first night, and none of this storm in a teacup would have happened!”

Turning to Lenny Low, Mr. Purley-Prout said, “Now, Lenny, we have a duty to your parents. This is a moment for courage of a high order. You must come with me to your Father and Mother, and tell them that you imagined the whole story, then we can all forget it. Phillip here will bear me out, won’t you, Phillip?”