Young Phillip Maddison (36 page)

“Malaria from the Boer War,” said Charley.

The cabby made clucking noises of sympathy with tongue and teeth, before lifting the reins and preparing to turn round, already casting his eyes about for the next fare.

At the word
malaria
Gerry exchanged a glance with Phillip, and winked.

Hugh saw the wink. In sudden fury he cried to Gerry, “You young devil, you! Clear out of my sight, d’ye hear? I don’t want you near me! You’ll never be the man your Father was!”

Gerry looked with astonishment from one face to another.

“You two go and have a look at the sea,” said Uncle Charley, a hand on each boy’s shoulder, as he urged them to the kerb. “Uncle Hugh’s a bit upset, coming back after all these years, you see. We’ll meet on the promenade, down there by the sea, in half an hour. Don’t be late, or you’ll miss what I’m planning for you. Hugh’ll be all right when you return. He’s not feeling up to the mark, that’s all.”

*

“I say, Gerry, what
is
up with Uncle Hugh?” asked Phillip, as they stood on the promenade.

“Don’t you know?”

“Only what Mother said. He got rheumatism when he lived in a damp room by himself in London, after he’d left the Firm, didn’t he? Father never lets him come into our house, saying it’s catching, or something awful. Is it? Look, that’s a Rolls-Royce stopping! And crikey, a balloon! Look, over the sea!”

They stood by the railings. While they were staring at the balloon, some gentlemen got out of the motorcar, and came to the railings near them. Phillip could see at once that they were very high-up people.

“I bet it’s started from the Crystal Palace,” he said, wanting to show off his knowledge.

“Perhaps it’s trying for the Gordon Bennett cup,” said Gerry.

“Huh, the Gordon Bennett race is for motorcars, anyone knows that!” retorted Phillip, sharply, loud enough for the gentlemen beside them to hear.

“It’s also for balloons, young Phil.”

“What, motorcars and balloons racing together? You’ll tell me next that the Derby’s for horses and push-bikes.”

One of the gentlemen gave him a glance. Immediately he felt abashed. The big red face under a fur collar continued to regard him for a few moments, before he spoke.

“Your friend is right,” he said, with a faintly Irish voice. “The Gordon Bennett race for motorcars was abandoned two years ago. It was considered too dangerous for unclosed continental roads. The race is now the Grand Prix, on a closed circuit. You should read
The
Daily
Trident
and be sure that your knowledge is up-to-date in future, young man!”

Then he smiled so charmingly that Phillip forgot he was a very high-up person. He had on the longest overcoat he had ever seen, with a fur lining all the way down to his boots.

Before he could think, Phillip heard himself saying, “I do read
The
Daily
Trident,
sir, it’s my favourite newspaper.”

“Do you see other newspapers, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“In the Free Library, sir.”

“What do you like about the
Trident,
particularly?”

Phillip did not know what to reply. He was overawed by the magnificence of the gentleman; and when the others turned to look at him, he felt himself going pale. Then he remembered what Father had said once.

“It’s inspired by common sense, sir.”

The gentleman in the fur collar laughed; the others smiled.

“I am highly complimented that one of your generation should appreciate what I am trying to do.”

The gentleman held out his hand. Phillip held out his, expecting his bones to be hurt in a very manly handshake; but the gentleman bent down, and took his hand between his two hands, very gently, and said to him, “Don’t let anyone drive that clear, direct look from your face, with too much schooling, will you? Young men who get Firsts at the universities are burned up, their minds overstocked and legalised. The future requires new minds, to face the new patterns of nature. Now I am extremely interested in having met you, and before we part, do tell me, why do you
really
read the
Trident
?”

“Because my Father has it, sir.”

At this reply the others, as well as Gerry, laughed. Phillip wondered if he had given the wrong answer, and so made the gentleman feel disappointed. But the gentleman looked kindly as before, and said, “Do tell me your name.”

“Phillip Maddison, sir.”

“I will remember it. Mine is Castleton. Give my compliments to your Father, and thank him for his support. Is he in Fleet Street?”

“No, sir, he is in the Moon Fire Office.”

“Oh yes, I know it, just a little younger than the Sun.”

This was a joke Phillip could understand, and he laughed freely with the wonderfully nice gentleman.

“That balloon up there,” the gentleman went on, in the same friendly voice, “belongs to the Comte de La Vaulx, who is attempting to break the world’s record of one thousand, one hundred and ninety three miles made last October. I hope we shall meet again sometime. Au revoir!”

Both Phillip and Gerry raised their caps. Silent, side by side, prim with best behaviour and entirely overcome by the most friendly presence of the important personage, they stared out to sea until, hearing the Rolls-Royce blow its horn, and waiting for it to glide some way away, they dared to turn their heads and look upon the departing splendour.

“I suppose you know who that was?” asked a man, coming up to them. He had been standing by the railings, listening. “That was none other than the great Sir Wilfred Castleton who
spoke to you, the millionaire owner of
The
Daily
Trident.
I’ve seen him about here before, he usually stays at the Royal York Hotel over there. Every celebrity in the world comes to Brighton, sooner or later, and stays there. Castleton took quite a fancy to you, I could see that. That’s why he asked you your name. He never forgets a face or a fact. That’s why he’s got on. There now, don’t you feel proud, to know who he was?”

As soon as they saw the uncles approaching, the boys ran to tell the exciting news. They sat on a seat. When Phillip had finished his story, Uncle Hugh said,

“Castleton and his Yellow Press! A catchpenny Empire of Money, Bluff and Blarney! I wouldn’t touch his dam’ Daily Liar with a barge pole.”

Phillip was puzzled by Uncle Hugh’s remark. He felt that it reflected, too, on Father and Mr. Rolls, who both took
The
Daily
Trident.
They were easily the best men in Hillside Road. Then Gerry whispered to him, “Tell him he couldn’t use a barge pole if he tried.”

Phillip did so, and Uncle Hugh replied, as he shrugged his thin shoulders, “Even you, Marshal Ney, whom I raised in my tent?”

Phillip did not know what this meant, but he could feel that Uncle Hugh was somewhat disappointed in him when he went on, “Yes, as you so kindly suggest, I am a wreck all right. I couldn’t handle a Boy Sprout’s broomstick, let alone a barge pole.” Uncle Hugh looked yellow about the face, with his upturned black moustache ends waxed to points.

“Now you two boys run away and play,” said Uncle Charley. “Wait a moment. Here!” He felt in his pocket, and gave Gerry the return halves of their excursion tickets. “In case you get lost, we’re going back on the six-twenty.” Opening his sovereign purse, he gave Gerry a coin. “Buy yourselves some tuck with this. Now listen carefully to what I have to say. We’ll meet you two by the West Pier, at the turnstile, at three o’clock. Remember that, both of you. West Pier, three p.m. sharp, and no excuses for being late. Have a good time, watch the traffic, keep your eyes skinned for road-hogs when you cross the road. Don’t forget to visit the Aquarium, and the fish market down below the promenade. And for God’s sake keep out of mischief! Remember I’m responsible to both your mammas, you young rips.”

Uncle Hugh added, “Have a ride on Volk’s electric railway
—that’s a family institution—but don’t try any tricks, like touching the live rail with wet sea-weed! I tried it once, remember, Charley? I thought my blasted arm was broken.”

“Au revoir, Uncle Charley. Au revoir, Uncle Hugh.”

*

On the way to the Aquarium, Gerry opened his palm, and showed Phillip—a half-sovereign. They hastened on with visions of sharks, electric eels, seals, porpoises, octopuses; and in the background ice-cream, ginger-pop, Brighton rock, and fried fish and chips for lunch, or failing that pease-pudding and bacon. Both sorts were tasty and cheap, said Gerry, and the advantages of saving on lunch meant more cash for other things. How about a sail in the Skylark, for instance?

Gerry quoted the old familiar rhyme.

“Couldn’t we buy some lines, and spin for mackerel as we sail, Gerry?”

“I don’t know, ask me!”

“Oh, be serious for once!”

“Course we can! Only there isn’t much time. Here’s the Aquarium. Hi Cockalorum, isn’t this a ripping day?”

There was nine-and-eight change from the half sovereign; and this pocketed, they entered a long underground gloomy hall of green plates of glass enclosing on each side misty sea-water in which languid shapes moved slowly, or rested on sand and rock behind bubbling streams of air. They passed dogfish, cuttlefish, rays, skates, wrasse, pollock, cod, turbot; paused to admire the delicate sea-horses, like rusty curls of iron-work moved by whirring propellers; then on to the crabs, lobsters, eels, octopuses—from window to window they went, saying that they would like to stab that ugly brute, smash the other’s fearful face, shoot the shark between the cruel button eyes.

“I say, Gerry, let’s go to a shooting gallery. I’d give anything to fire off a revolver!”

“There’s one on the West Pier, where we’re going this afternoon. Have you had enough? This way out. How about a ride on the electric railway? The tide’s in, and swoosh! we may be drenched!”

“Ripping! Let’s buy some fishing tackle, too, and fish off the groins.”

“They’re dangerous, and you can’t swim yet. The waves sweep over them, and suck you under.”

Phillip had tried to learn in the Randiswell Baths, which had white tiles, which often showed the dirt on the bottom, at least in the second class; but he had been too afraid of the water, and of being ducked by roughs. Now, with his new sense of freedom, he thought that if he made himself swim when in the water, he would be able to keep up all right; for he knew the strokes.

“There are two quays, sort of, over the sewers, with walls, we can fish from them. One is just by the West Pier. We’ll have a go early afternoon.”

The ride on Volk’s electric railway was exciting. They sat in front, by the driver. The tide was in, and waves slapped against the wall of the esplanade, throwing up water, spume, and shingle. The glass windows were crusted with salt, where they were not being wetted anew. Blue flashes and trails of sparks came off the live-rail; they could smell ozone. They went all the way to Black Rock, then returned.

Seeing a man with a white barrow selling ices, they dashed away through the turnstiles to secure large vanilla cornets; and licking these appreciatively, decided to see what was interesting down below, where nets were spread to dry, and tarred fishing boats with brown sails drying were drawn up by windlass out of the rearing plunge of waves, beyond the snarl of brown shingle. This was the fish market. Passing through it, some boxes of fish laid on planks decided them to try their luck as soon as possible.

They went into the smaller streets across the promenade to seek a tackle shop. There they passed an oyster bar, and saw, through the wide glass window, the uncles sitting at a table, a bottle of wine between them. They hurried past, lest they be called in, and asked to account for the change so far.

“How about going to the Bioscope?” suggested Gerry. “Though we can see the flicks at home anytime. I’ll tell you what, Ralph told me there’s a place where you can see waxworks, absolutely lifelike, girls nearly naked, breathing and smiling and their eyes turn and look at you. It’s here somewhere, run by a Frenchman.”

“All right,” said Phillip, feeling very daring.

A tackle shop, however, changed their thoughts. There were
rods, reels, paternosters with gimp wire and leads, baskets, folding canvas seats, and a whole cardboard of Redditch sample hooks, from tiny sneck bends to huge swivelled conger hooks six inches long. Phillip could hardly wait to buy some; but there were too many in boxes on the counter, too many kinds of line, in all colours, plaited, twisted, and woven, hemp, hunk, and cord, to choose from. In the end they bought two plain winders, already assembled with spreaders, gut, hooks, and leads. These cost sixpence each. Worms could be bought a penny the tin, from men down by the fish-market.

When they had bought the bait—purple-red, hairy lugworms with thin green tails—they wandered about the High Street, staring at motorcars and noting their makes and numbers; and feeling hungry, decided it was time to have dinner. They must not spend much time eating now, said Gerry, but save up for a big tea on the pier. Also fish came in to feed on the high tide, which was the best time to try and catch them. He bought a packet of Ogden’s Tabs, to keep them going between bites, he said. With these in his pocket, hidden from any slop they might encounter, they sought a restaurant.

Finally they stopped by one which had all sorts of shell-fish in the window, which was curved, and had gold lettering on it. Behind the glass were lobsters, crabs, smoked salmon, with prawns and escallops, all among sea-weed. The lobsters were blue, and their claws tied with string. Some moved red feelers.

“They boil the feelers first, to prevent them knowing what’s to come, I suppose,” said Phillip. “Ugh, I don’t think I’d like to eat any.”