Donkey Boy (25 page)

“There you are, you see!” said Mr. Muggeridge, removing his meershaum pipe, “what did I tell you?”

Running forward, while trying to unwind the coils round his hand, Richard let go the cord. Too late! The kite plunged into the middle of a game of tennis near the hut of the park-keeper. “Oh Lor',” he cried, fancying the work of several hours to be shattered.

The resilience of bamboo, and the strength of American wheat flour combined with the newsprint of
The
Daily
Trident,
however, had saved his kite. Apologising for having disturbed the game, Richard withdrew, followed by a band of small boys, who were inevitably attracted to anything out of the usual. Of course they wanted to help, and to ask questions. Richard did not reply, wary of making himself a mark on any future occasion when he should appear with his kite. He had learned his lesson during sledging on the Hill during the hard winter of '95; he had giyen some boys a “go”, as they called it, on his sledge, and for months afterwards some urchin or other was liable to recognise and make for his presence. Too much of a good thing, by half!

“I told you so,” remarked Mr. Muggeridge, with satisfaction: “Your loop was tied too low.”

Richard did not reply to this implied censure. The slip-knot on the twine had obviously slipped down the suspending loops, so that the pressure of air had been too heavy on the top section. It was easily adjusted; up the serpent rose again, to rise and fall, climb and drop away farther each slipping of the twine through his fingers, until it was beyond the tennis court, high over the building of the Lavatory with its bushes and flower beds, and away towards Pit Vale and the Heath beyond. Not that it could get so far, but that was the fancy of the flier, and the ambition,
too: for Richard intended to have, one day, one of the new box kites, perhaps two in tandem, held by fine steel wire on a windlass, to fly out of sight over the Thames. At night he would run up an Aeolian harp on the wire, by means of pulleys, and fill the air with mysterious music.

“That's better, Mr. Maddison. You've got the loop
attachment
right now.”

“I think it was right before, you know, only it slipped down, Mr. Muggeridge.”

“I pointed it out, if you remember, Mr. Maddison.”

Richard, the argumentative and stickler for details, was the first to resent what he called hair-splitting in others. He made no reply. He had four hundred yards of cord on his winder, and as that was the competition length possessed by Mr. Muggeridge, and it had been agreed that the kites must fly in the same air-stream, the two men stood side by side, yellow straw boater and black bowler, brown beard and black whiskers, brown tweed and black melton, white flannel and green flannel (
could
those unusual trousers of Mr. Muggeridge's have been made out of the old cloth of a billiard table?), two stalwarts of fresh air and
The
Daily
Trident
;
while their kites, equally adherents of the most successful journalistic venture of modern times, rode upon the summer winds of Kent.

In the midst of the sunlit evening scene there was a sensation on the Hill. It stopped even the tennis (some of it two-handed, since the local standards were hardly those of Wimbledon, or the brothers Renshaw) and set everyone, old and young, peering upwards. For, drifting over from the direction of the Crystal Palace, the sun glinting on the spheroidal grey of its serene approach, was a balloon, looking, Richard remarked to Mr. Muggeridge, as though St. Paul's Cathedral, in the great heat of the day, had blown a leaden bubble.

“Stunning, isn't it, Mr. Maddison, when you think of the wonders of science? Silk of the worm, gas out of the bowels of the earth, a basket made of willows by the river, and Man's ingenuity takes him right up there.”

“I wonder where he'll be by nightfall—over Hertfordshire, I expect. He'll have to get down, before he can get back.”

“You're postulating a hypothesis, Mr. Maddison. How d'you know he don't live in Herts?” Puff puff, of the curved yellow
meerschaum, with its dark-brown spreading stain below the wide bowl, the much-desired “colouring” of the meerschaum devotee.

Inwardly nominating Mr. Muggeridge to be an argumentative old ass, Richard replied after a pause, “Well, supposing he lives in Surrey, Mr. Muggeridge?”

“I see no objection to that contention, Mr. Maddison. None at all. The answer is equally simple—he may have friends in Herts, expecting him. He may even have telephoned from the Crystal Palace, before he cast off. Endless possibilities.” Puff puff of Hignett's
Cavalier
tobacco.

Endless for you perhaps; but you won't draw me, thought Richard.

The balloon moved over them, far above the kites. A drift of dust seemed to fall away behind it.

“My word, the fellow's possessed of intrepidity, Mr. Maddison! He's released sand, to rise higher! Perhaps he's out for a record, and is off to Scotland for the Twelfth. Did you read the article on grouse shooting in the
Trident
today? First class, I call it.”

“I haven't come to that page yet, Mr. Muggeridge. I leave it for the late evening, when the children are asleep. Well, how goes the time?” He opened his watch. “Twenty-five-minutes after eight. I shall haul in in another twenty minutes.”

Shortly after nine o'clock Richard walked down the gulley again. The seats were all occupied by couples, two to a seat, unspeaking as they sat close together with their arms around one another. Others, less conventional, were strolling over the grassy spaces, seeking places where they might lie down upon the earth and find a greater relaxation after the constrictions of the working week. Since it had become a London recreation ground, the Hill had lost its former evil reputation; it was now part of a police beat. A certain area had been set apart for Free Speech; other places for the playing of games. Richard preferred it in the old days, for then it was, to some extent, wild; he had to admit, however, that it was pleasant to have an hour or two now and again with a respectable fellow like Muggeridge.

S
TILL IN
the mood of the fine weather, and the success of his new, narrower design of paper kite, Richard changed his trousers to a pair of dark material, washed his hands, brushed and combed his beard and hair, suddenly having decided to go into Mr. Turney's to wish the two men in khaki good luck before they left for South Africa.

He was delighted, and surprised, by the welcome given by the several children opening the door for him. The food had been cleared away, the table was in process of having all its removable leaves lifted out and the frame screwed back, to provide more room for the guests.

There had been sixteen faces round the table: Sarah and Tom at top and bottom, each in their high-backed chairs, and next to Sarah the chief guest, an old gentleman, with flowing
side-whiskers
, who lived in a terrace cottage in Randiswell named Mr. Harcourt Newman.

Grace before meals, of course; and when dutifully bowed heads were lifted, young eyes surveyed the feast. The meal was of the simplest for the time of year: tongue, chicken, pressed beef, with hot new potatoes and a salad, followed by trifle, mince pies, plum cake, and ice-cream brought by Sidney from Buszard's in Oxford Street; Barsac or Medoc to drink, with lemonade for the children. Then bon-bons to pull, with toys, paper caps, and mottos, while nuts, raisins, figs, and preserved fruits were consumed. Afterwards the younger ones had to help carry the plates and dishes into the kitchen, cook having had the evening off. Cries, shouts, whistles came from them, released by the occasion of new and abounding life.

“Now,” said Thomas Turney, “the children can go into the back room, he-he, for I'd like to read ye something out of Shakespeare.”

So the children were sent to play in the end room, Sidney warning his wild boys, whose energy had released an equal
wildness in their cousin Phillip, “No hooliganism, mind!” The children departed with enthusiastic swiftness. The two elder boys, racing to be first, leapt down the three stairs and landed on the slippery oil-cloth below, to fall and slide into the closed door feet-first with a decided bang. This brought an immediate return of their father, clinking with burnished steel metal about the feet, to reinforce his warning about hooliganism; unfortunately for Sidney the rowels of his spurs, their swan-necks worn low down and loose upon the heel as was the regulation, clashed upon the second stair and he too fell, while his three sons, all wearing Eton jackets and trousers, fell upon him, while Phillip shouted out, “No hooliganism, mind!”

Sidney laughed, and ruffled the boy's hair, when the scrum was over. Then came a discreet knock on the front door; the boys raced to open it, scrambling upon the stairs. Phillip was pushed back and Gerry trod on his fingers. “You fool!” he shouted after his scampering cousin. “Oh—oh!”

Sidney tried to pick him up, but with face held in his arm the boy lay across the stairs, giving way to the pain. Meanwhile the door had been opened, and when the caller was recognised, he was invited in by three voices.

“Come in, Uncle Richard, come in do! I saw your socking great kite going past! Grandpa, it's Uncle Richard!”

“Oh, come in, Dick, come in!” said Tom Turney. “Glad to see ye, glad ye could come. Have ye had any supper? Did ye win your kite-flying contest? Dick, help yourself to a glass of port. Are ye sure ye wouldn't like a sandwich?”

“No thank you, Mr. Turney, really, thank you. I have only called in to pay my respects to the occasion.”

Richard helped Hugh to carry the leaves of the table outside, while the Cakebread boys helped. Soon it was done, and the door closed.

“Now find yourself a place, and sit down, boys. I am going to read some passages from Shakespeare. Fill your glass and find yourself a chair, Dick.”

Thomas Turney held an old duo-decimo volume, bound in leather and tooled in gold-leaf, one of a set which was reputed to be the first of its format, and printed during the active career of the actor-playwright. Tom had a habit of reading from this poet, on occasion after an evening meal; and the passages he
had chosen for this night were from
The
Life
of
King
Henry
the
Fifth.
He thought this appropriate, since the two soldiers were about to depart for the Field. Richard's unexpected arrival had set him back a little.

There was further delay while Richard went to greet his mother-in-law; thereafter to be introduced to Mr. Newman, a courteous old-world figure in thin grey serge frock coat,
high-cravat
and tall collar, who enquired after Richard's success with the new kite in a quavery tenor voice; and after shaking hands punctiliously, as befitted one born while the late Queen was but a girl, Mr. Newman sat down again. The newcomer, or latecomer as the host considered him to be, then made the round of greetings and hand-shakings all in turn—“How do you do” to Mr. and Mrs. Bigge, Mrs. Cakebread, Sidney Cakebread, Hugh and Joseph Turney, all in turn. At last it was over; and Tom Turney assembled himself to read from his chosen passage, the Chorus before Act IV.

He cleared his throat. But where was Hetty? Had she not returned? And where was Phillip?

“Hasn't Hetty come back? She must listen to this, it's too good to be missed.” Tom got up from his chair, opened the door, “Hetty! Are ye there?”

“I shan't be a moment, Papa,” came a voice from the kitchen. Tom went to investigate.

“What's the matter? Is the boy hurt?”

“No, Papa, it will soon be all right. He fell over, that is all. Please go on with your reading, Papa.”

“No, I'll wait. Plenty of time. We'll wait for ye, Hetty.”

“Oh Papa, please don't!” thinking of Richard. “I'll be along presently.”

“What's the matter with Phillip, eh?”

The boy was snivelling as his hand was being bathed in warm water and borax powder. “How did it happen?”

“That fool Gerry,” said Phillip. “Oh, it hurts!”

“Come come, my boy, be a man! Bring the boy in, Hetty. Would you like to hear the scene before a battle, Phillip, what say?”

“Yes, please, Gran'pa.”

“That's better. Now be a hero. Nelson didn't cry when he lost his arm, you know. Many a soldier in South Africa has a
worse hurt than you. Think how much more it would have been if a cannonball had struck your whole arm off.”

These words, meant to comfort by contrast, had the effect of quietening the boy.

“Now come in, and sit still beside your mother, Phillip, and don't crack any nuts while I'm reading, will ye?”

“No, Gran'pa.” Tom had seen that the pockets of the boy's long white trousers were wedged tight with brazil nuts, almonds, and raisins.

“That's right, come along in, then.”

At last, gold spectacle frame on the end of his bulbous nose, book open on cocked knee, Tom Turney prepared to read. First, he must acquaint the company with some details of the poet's life.

“As ye know, the identity of William Shakespeare is a mystery. Some say he was Francis Bacon. Others claim that the Earl of Oxford wrote, or rewrote, the plays already in existence, and hid his identity behind an actor of the name of Shakespeare. Others, including his contemporary Kit Marlowe, who was stabbed hard by here, in Greenwich during a brawl, have left evidence that Shakespeare, the actor, possessed in his person the genius of the supreme poet. However, be that as it may——” Tom peered benevolently over his spectacles at Phillip sitting cross-legged on the floor near him—“Shakespeare was a man who had the spirit of England in himself, in all its forms and fancies. As a little tot he must have been as sharp as a needle, listening to other men, observing their ways and their speech, taking it all in, whether they were farmers speaking, or great lords, or kings, or queens, or sailors, or huntsmen—Shakespeare had the ear for truth, my boy. He-he-he, what say?”

“Phillip didn't say anything, Papa,” said Hetty.

“I didn't say he did, my girl. How's your hand, better, my boy?”

“Yes, thank you, Gran'pa.”

“That's right. Let him answer for himself, Hetty. Now what's the matter, hey?”

“Please, we want to come!”

There was the noise of snuffling and tapping on the door. Two little girls, both wanting Mummy, disconsolately waited to come in. The boys were rough, they said. There was further disturbance
among the seated; spurs clanked on oilcloth and clinked gingerly down the stairs this time. Three brothers, in the back room, wrestling on the floor and banging about with cushions were cuffed lightly on cropped heads and nominated little devils. One gilt-framed picture, a steel-engraving of
Gainsborough's
portrait of David Garrick by the bust of Shakespeare, was hanging awry.

“Tell them to come in and listen, Sidney,” the voice of Grandfather called from the front-room.

“And you damn well sit still while the Old Man elocutes, or I'll know the reason why!” whispered the father.

At last, before the assembled and heterogeneous company, Tom Turney took up the little faded duodecimo again, its pages yellowed by acid and impressed by irregular type, and glancing through the ground pebbles in their thin gold casing astride his nose variously coloured by toddy, port wine, and Hollands gin, all taken in moderation, prepared himself to read.

Theodora, whose eyes had not so far met those of Sidney, sat with her hands upon her lap, feeling that she did not belong to anybody any more. She was suffering from the reaction of so many people's feelings since her departure from her friend in Clifton. A line of Browning's ran through her head,
Never
the
place,
and
the
time,
and
the
loved-one
altogether
again.

“This is the night before the battle of Agincourt, nearly five hundred years ago,” said grandfather, looking around over his spectacles. “And it might be today, in South Africa at this very moment, since the sun rises upon almost the same line of
longitude
. Before I begin, boys, just think that, five hundred years ago, Englishmen who were a-bed in England then, are, through the children of their children's children, acting much to-day as they were then. The Turneys,” he said, taking off his glasses, “were yeomen farming land then, as they are farming land today, some of it the same land.”

“Surely, sir,” interrupted Hubert Cakebread, who resembled his father in some ways, “a generation of farmers who farm their land while lying in bed, do not last for so long, as farmers I mean?”

Everybody laughed at the courteous gravity of the question, including Tom Turney.

“How right you are, m'boy! I was thinking of another speech of King Harry's, about gentlemen lying a-bed in England on St. Crispin's day. However, this is before the battle. Imagine the scene: the dark night, the camp-fires winking in the valley, the horses at the picket lines, the sentries moving up and down. But listen to Shakespeare——

Sarah, I think it would be better by candlelight, let's turn the gas out, shall we? Sit still everyone. Have you a candle handy?”

“There's one on the kitchen chimney-piece, Tom.”

“Fetch it, will ye, Hetty, like a good girl.”

Hugh got up off the floor, and opened the door for his sister.

“All these interruptions are bad for your aesthetic nerve, sir,” his voice said gravely. “Besides, the form of the entertainment is not classical.”

“What do you mean by that expression, m'boy?”

“The best turns go on last, not first, sir,” replied Hugh. “The incomparable beauty and precision of the passage you are to read us, to our lasting benefit no doubt, should follow, not precede, the rougher, rowdier elements of any show. So with your permission, while footlights are being arranged, I will entertain the company on the banjo. Then your lines, sir, with their sublimity and appositeness, will suitably crown the evening.”

The Cakebread boys approved this. “Good old Uncle Hugh!”

They could now wriggle, and talk freely. They had heard Uncle play and sing often enough, and always with the keenest delight. Hugh Turney, had his anxiety and versatility not
overborne
him, might have been a success on the halls in the character of his simple self, with banjo or violin. He had a dry wit, and his manner of speaking was in the nature of parody of himself in the character of a gentleman of culture and education. He enjoyed making his gravely humorous, slightly pedantic little speeches; and his audience, including his father and brothers-in-law, enjoyed the fun with him. Richard was surprised at this aspect of Hugh Turney.

“My respected parent, and pater of paters, happily fondling his duodecimo, to the consternation of the worm that channels in the binding, having agreed to assume his rightful place in the
programme, the top of the bill, I will now proceed to tell you, in music, how I came to take the Queen's shilling and to wear the Widow of Windsor's uniform, in conjunction with my
respected
colleague and brother-in-law, Sidney Puddingtart, Esquire——”

They all laughed, and seeing Father laugh, Phillip wanted to show him how he could make him laugh too, at jokes, and jumping up, he shouted, “Sidney Baconfish!” and bobbing down, promptly disappeared under the table, overcome by the enormity of what he had done.

Encouraged by the laughter, he tried again. “Sidney
Cheese-bone
!” And withdrew once more to think out more funny names.

“No more, Sonny, that's enough!” said Hetty, not wanting him to excite himself too much. Besides, he might very well use some of the crude expressions he had picked up from boys on the Hill lately.