Young Phillip Maddison (33 page)

In Mrs. Neville’s presence Phillip now talked freely, as he could not talk to his mother, and certainly never to his father. Mrs. Neville encouraged him to say anything he wanted to; she knew all about overbearing fathers and egotistical husbands, having suffered from, and left, both.

T
HE
two cabs were now approaching the bottom of Hillside Road. The rear one, an open growler, had the luggage in it, and what appeared to be a bundle of feathery grasses standing up in the back. A man followed it on foot, obviously hoping for a tip for helping with the luggage.

As they came up the road, Phillip saw that there was a second bundle, which he recognised as assegais, in the last cab, and more than that: for several striped cow-hide shields, and a cluster of knobkerries, were tied on top of a pile of portmanteaux. Then the flat dull notes of a kaffir cow-bell began to sound from the growler behind. When the leading cab pulled to one side, he saw a boy sitting up in it, shaking the bell. But he had a white face. Where then was the Zulu?

As the vehicles came nearer a head was poked out of the first one. Phillip saw a brown face with gold spectacles, open mouth showing gold teeth. What was the laughter for?

The man, wearing a Panama, got out, took off his hat and waved it while he shouted, “Hullo Mamma! Bless you, you don’t look a day older. Hullo, Papa! How are you, sir? Why, if it isn’t Hetty! Bless you, my dear sister! How are you? These your three kids? Here’s Flo, come on Flo, don’t be shy, come out and face the worst!” Then he laughed long and loudly once more.

Phillip saw that Grannie, beside Gran’pa on the balcony, was trying to say something. “Where is Hugh? Did you meet him?”

“We gave him a lift, Mamma, he’s in the cab with Flo. I’ll give him a hand out. Come on, Hugh, old man, take my arm.”

“What’s the gent done wiv my grid?” whined the telegraph boy, to Phillip.

“How should I know? Do you think he pinched it?” muttered Phillip as he watched Uncle Hugh being helped out of the cab. He was followed by a lady and a girl with a big red bow on her black hair. They must be Aunt Flo and Petal.

Uncle Charley helped Uncle Hugh to the gate of Gran’pa’s house, where Uncle Hugh rested.

“I’ll be all right in a jiffy, Charley old man, you attend to the others, really, I’m quite all right, a little blown, that is all.”

The out-of-work, who had followed the cabs from Waterloo, hovered only too eager to be of any help. Then, while greetings continued, he retired to a respectful distance.

“We weren’t expecting you quite so soon, Charley!” called out Gran’pa, from the balcony.

“Didn’t you get my telegram, sir?”

“We haven’t received any telegram. When did you send it?”

“About ten minutes ago, from around the corner, sir!” shouted Uncle Charley. “I intended our arrival to be a surprise, you see.”

“Oh,” said Gran’pa, and laughed. Suddenly Phillip remembered that he had it in his pocket. He decided to keep quiet about it.

“Please, sir, where’s my grid? And is there any——”

“Oh, was that your red bike, my son? It’s standing against the railings along the road there. I thought it was the fire-engine coming along.” Uncle Charley felt in his pocket, and pulled out half-a-crown. “Here you are, my lad. Don’t get drunk on it.”

The boy’s face went white. Then, as colour returned, he said,

“Please, sir, is there any reply?”

At the question Uncle Charley threw back his head and roared with laughter. Then he called up to Gran’pa, “This boy wants to know if you want to send any reply to my telegram notifying you of our arrival, sir. Ha ha ha!”

“He-he-he,” laughed Thomas Turney, thinking that Charley was the same harum-scarum boy that had gone away. He checked his thoughts, telling himself that there must be no upsets this time. Even so, he could not help feeling a weight of doubt come upon him: if that was the way Charley did business, he might very well soon be faced with having him, and his family too, on his hands, as he already had Hugh, as well as Dorrie and her children, for the past ten years.

“Welcome home, m’boy, come in and have some tea! I expect you’re all ready for some after your journey, eh? I’ll come down, Charley, and meet all your family. Why bless my soul, what’s that I see down there?” He pointed to the other cab, where a black face had appeared, only to disappear again immediately, among the trunks.

“That’s Kimberley, sir. Come on, Kimberley, don’t be shy.
He’s been hiding ever since the ragamuffins in the Old Kent Road saw him. Come on out, Kimberley, no one here will hurt you, my son.”

The black boy, with a wild glance at the out-of-work man, scrambled back among the luggage.

“Futsack, you!” cried Uncle Charley to the out-of-work.

The seedy fellow, as eager as he was hungry, at once retired out of sight behind the other cab, wondering if the toff’s expression meant what it sounded like.

“I thought at first he had come over by mistake among the grasses, he-he-he,” said Thomas Turney, pointing at the black boy, whose curly mop and scared eyes were visible over one of the big corded boxes.

Mrs. Bigge, of course, long before this, had popped out of sight behind her awning, and now was regarding the scene from behind her Nottingham lace curtains. So was Mrs. Groat from the upstairs of No. 9; while Mr. Jenkins in No. 8 peered through a parting in his hedge extending behind the wooden fence belonging to his neighbour. One of the Higher Lows was looking from the bedroom window in No. 7. One door down, in No. 6, Mrs. Todd was also watching. Below her house, the people were strangers, as far as Phillip was concerned. Across the road, in her upstairs flat, Mrs. Neville, helped by a pair of opera glasses, was enjoying herself at the open window.

Then Phillip saw Mr. Bolton turn the corner. He walked up the road with his usual slow pace, one gloved hand held behind him for balance, the other holding the lead of Bogey the pug.

Feeling important with all these spectators, Phillip went down to speak to his new cousin Tommy. Tommy was attempting to pull the black boy from his refuge among the luggage.

“Come on, skellum!” he said, to which the black boy replied, “Futsack!” Good lord, was that African swearing? Phillip helped Tommy to pull Kimberley over the pavement to where the others were standing.

“Kimberley’s my part of the black man’s burden!” cried Uncle Charley, with more loud laughter. “Come on, shake hands, my son, with your new Auntie Hettie!”

Grinning, hand over face, Kimberley wriggled behind Uncle Charley. From there he tugged himself free from Tommy’s hold, and darted back among the luggage.

“Ha ha ha!” laughed Uncle Charley, throwing back his head. “Like a baboon back to the rocks! He’ll settle down. Well, this is my wife Flo, Hetty old girl. Kiss each other, for God’s sake, there’s too much constraint about. This is Pet, short for Petal, my daughter.”

Phillip thought that the new uncle was rather fun.

Hetty was smiling, a little strained. What did Charley mean when he said that the black boy—
could
it be? Oh, surely not! Kimberley was obviously so much younger than Petal—— At this point the telegraph boy, during a pause in the talking, asked again if there was any reply.

“Good God, you still here?” said Uncle Charley. “Are we coming or going?”

“Charley, I want you to meet Mr. Bolton,” Gran’pa’s voice called from the balcony. “I was telling him only this morning about your arrival, Charley. Mr. Bolton, here’s m’boy Charley and his wife.”

The introduction was a little premature. Mr. Bolton was still approaching the gathering, majestically it might appear, but in reality his slowness of gait was due to a permanently overloaded stomach and intestines. Mr. Bolton was no glutton; he ate moderately, in his own view, never more than a couple of pounds of meat a day, for luncheon and dinner. He believed in a good breakfast, of course, to start the day with—the usual bacon, eggs, sausages, and kidneys, with toast, butter, marmalade, and coffee; and porridge in winter. Thus fortified daily, at the age of sixty Mr. Bolton thought of himself as a dull old man, worthy of no woman’s regard. He had given up; but seldom a day passed without yearning for womanly beauty and care to revisit his life.

Bogey the pug was likewise overfed and slow, but with the difference that, having no speech with which to conceal his thoughts, he held his tail in perpetual query, his nose being as keen as ever.

After many bows, handshakes, hat-liftings and dignified remarks, Mr. Bolton proceeded on up the gully to the constitutional airs of the Hill.

*

Halfway up the gully he passed Richard, coming down with his swinging stride, straw-yard held in hand; and lifting his hat once more, Mr. Bolton paused and remarked, “The wanderer
has returned to the patriarchal bosom, I perceive, Mr. Maddison, and a fine afternoon for the occasion,” to which the non-committal reply, “Ah, I expect they will all be happy now, Mr. Bolton,” as Richard braced himself for the encounter, concealing under his aloof amiability feelings akin to those of Phillip when he saw Father approaching—the difference being that the boy always showed his feelings in his face. However, Phillip had learned that speech was given him to conceal his thoughts—at least, in the classroom, and at home.

*

“Well, I expect you will all have much to say to one another, so I must not keep you,” remarked Richard, as soon as he could politely get away. With a bow he went into his own house, to try and reassemble himself out of a hollowness which was literal, since his stomach was empty except for gas.

He still took the quarter-pound Player’s Navy Cut tobacco tin box, filled with marmalade sandwiches, for his luncheon every day. He was still saving for a rainy day. Like Mr. Bolton, fifteen years his senior, Richard had given up hope of love in his life. Confound all the Turneys! He wanted to change and have his tea, then to cycle into the country, to get away from them all. There he could lie on the earth, face held to the sun, and be alive for awhile. For what? Oh well, sufficient unto the day——

In the slight pause after Richard’s departure, the wretched telegraph boy made another attempt to be heard.

“Please, sir——” he began, but his small voice was unheeded in the general unloading of luggage. A strained anxiety remained unobserved upon the insignificant face.

Someone else was feeling anxiety, too.

“I had better go in now, Papa, for Dickie will be wanting his tea,” said Hetty. “Come on, Phillip, Mavis, Doris. Say goodbye to Tommy and Petal for the moment, dears. Well, Charley and Flo, you must be very tired after your long journey. Tommy is to sleep on the folding bed in Phillip’s room, it is all arranged with Mamma. I’ll come and see you as soon as Dickie has gone off for his ride,” and so saying, Hetty turned away, to hurry into her house.

Richard heard what she said, since all the bedroom windows upstairs were open, including the balcony door. Could not a fellow have a little privacy? The departure of Mr. Turney from
his section of the balcony enabled him quietly to adjust this thoughtlessness on Hetty’s part, before he went downstairs again.

“I am so sorry not to have had everything ready for you, Dickie. You must be tired. Charley’s arrival was a little unexpected.”

“Oh,” replied Richard. “I thought you had all decided this morning that he would be here about five o’clock. It is now a quarter after five.” He confirmed the time of the hall clock with his watch.

“Yes, Dickie, but Papa was expecting them to come by train from Randiswell, but they came all the way instead by cab. We were expecting a telegram, too, but Charley decided to make his coming a surprise, I think. Then he changed his mind, apparently, and sent one from Wakenham station, on the way here. So you see, the telegram arrived at the same time as the cab. It was all a little unexpected.”

“It must be the Irish blood coming out,” remarked Richard.

“Yes,” laughed Hetty, relieved by his tone. “Now you will be wanting your bath, dear. Phillip, run up and turn on the tap for your Father.”

Phillip, eager to be of service, leapt up the stairs.

“Steady, boy, or you will pull out the banister rail!” called out Richard; and Phillip slowed instantly. “And don’t forget to put in the plug first.”

“No, Father.”

“I’ll soon have the kettle boiling, and your meal ready, dear. I expect you are hungry.”

“Oh, don’t put yourself out on my account,” he replied. “Blood is thicker than water. Phillip! Only half bore, the cold tap, remember!”

“Yes, Father.”

Pleased with the way Hetty had remembered his bath, and set about telling Phillip what to do, Richard said to her, “I have a jolly good mind to stop at the rifle range under the Seven Hills this evening, and enquire about the possibility of joining the club. The members fire a course of the new charger-loading service three-o-three, for the Bisley competitions, I am told. I always wanted to join such a club, you know, ever since Lord Roberts sponsored the idea about ten years ago. You may recall that I read out to you, from the
Trident,
the particulars of the Rifle Association, at the time.”

“Yes, dear, I think I do, now you come to mention it. Mavis, put on the kettle, fill it from the tap nearest the wall, put it on the big ring, and light the toasting bar, too.”

“This German challenge is no myth, you know! You ought to read what the
Trident
has to say about the subject today! Many of the younger fellows in the office are in the Territorials, but I’m too old for them, more’s the pity. However, the Rifle Clubs are not to be sneezed at, should any trouble arise. What do you think?”

“I think it a splendid idea, Dickie,” replied Hetty. What the poor man needed was a hobby that would take him among other men.

“Oh Mavis, fill a pan and put it over the toaster, for your Father’s egg,
there’s a good girl.”

“Well, I’ll go and have my tub, Hetty.”

*

Richard had recovered his equilibrium. He could hear by the hiss that the cold tap was not turned on enough: and having adjusted it, he went into his room to undress. From there he tip-toed into Hetty’s room. There would be no breach of manners by taking a brief look, he thought. Down in the road the cabbies were being paid off. The black boy stood by a pile of luggage, looking as though he were afraid to leave it. Poor little fellow, thought Richard, what a shame to bring him away from his own people. The cab-men touched their tarred bowlers, apparently well-pleased with the tips they had received. Then mounting, they turned round the horses, and went away down the hill.