Little Nelson (8 page)

The actual breakdown, the public demonstration of pastoral incompetence, took place during a Civic Week sermon delivered to a congregation of neighbourhood tradesmen and borough councillors. It had already been a long and more than usually rambling
sermon when the preacher happened, in passing and purely by accident, to mention the credal belief in the Trinity. Why he should have done so he could not remember but, once he had uttered the words, they triggered something off and he was away again.

‘Are they, we ask ourselves,' he demanded rhetorically, ‘necessarily the same three, or could they not be a different three? Are they the three we keep reading about in the papers or another three who may crop up again at any moment? How many threes there are we may never know. And do we really need to know? Is it not perhaps better that we should leave to others what we do not know ourselves? Remember that hunting lionesses setting out as dusk

That was when the verger mounted the pulpit steps, and touched him gently on the arm. At first the Reverend Cyril Woods-Denton did not appear to understand. He insisted on finishing his next sentence, which was all in praise of Vaughan Williams. But the verger, though gentle, was firm. He switched off the pulpit light and unplugged the microphone. Then taking a firm grip on his charge, he led him down the twisting staircase and returned him, still audibly protesting, to his seat above the choir stalls.

Throughout the whole of this distressing incident Hilda had not moved. She had sat, isolated and rock-like. Indeed she did not leave her seat until the church had entirely emptied. Even then, with Cyril
beside her, she insisted on leaving by the vestry door. Her brother was quiet by now. Every so often he would mutter something about threesomes and gnome football matches. But, for the most part, he was entirely silent.

Once back home it came as a relief to Hilda to be in her own bedroom, alone with Little Nelson once more. Not that she had been neglecting him. He now had on a thick pullover in Fair Isle design that she had just finished knitting for him, and she was glad to see that he was wearing his admiral's hat.

It had been her great discovery, that hat. She had felt all the time that it must be lying about somewhere. It was, however, only on the second thorough search through the boxroom that she came upon it. And, sure enough, in the old trunk that had been Cyril's while at Oxford there it was, crushed flat, the gold of the braid reduced to a dull russet, and the plumes all tangled up and dishevelled. By the time she had ironed it out, however, going over each of the festoons with a tooth brush, it certainly once again looked very high-ranking and important.

And as soon as she saw him in that hat, Hilda decided she must have a photograph of him wearing it. This was not easy, however. She had not even got a camera of her own. There was, of course, her brother's. It was a large box-like affair that, as a curate, he had taken with him on school treats and
summer outings. But Hilda could not bring herself to ask him.

She decided therefore to do the daring thing: she would buy a camera of her own. It was not easy. There turned out to be so many different kinds of cameras and, in the end, she chose an automatic one because the assistant told her that she could not go wrong with it. The assistant, however, spoke in error. Things kept going wrong all the time, like accidentally pressing the button before she got the camera out of its case, or holding it back to front while taking a picture, or simply forgetting to remove the little rubber lens cover. But she persevered. It was made all the easier by the fact that Little Nelson simply loved being photographed. Tilting his admiral's hat, Beatty-fashion, he would cock his head back, put on a half-smile and stand there, smirking.

Hilda used up three new rolls of film on that one pose alone. There would, indeed, have been a fourth had not Little Nelson got hold of the camera first. He had blazed away with it at waist height. In consequence when the roll eventually came to be developed there was a whole album-ful of chair-leg studies, snap shots of the underneath of tables, and glimpses of skirting boards and bottom drawers.

As for Little Nelson himself, he could not have been happier or more occupied. Chess was now his favourite pastime and he sat for hours intent upon the game. It was not, of course, played according to
Federation rules. The pawns and pieces were all set out in their correct places, and he never forgot to make sure that there was a white square on the near righthand side. But there the resemblance ended. With him it was a game of charge and countercharge, combat and confrontation. The knights were the principal antagonists, bearing mercilessly down on enemy king and queen alike, scattering hostile pawns and bishops in their passage. Only the castles were left unassaulted.

It was clear, however, that the new rules were being every bit as rigidly enforced as the old. The black and white distinction was closely observed and never once did the charging knight make an attack on one of his own colour.

The one thing that worried Hilda about Little Nelson's chess games was their intensity. Once bent forward over the board he became a different person, ruthless and destructive. It was like having a twenty four inch Genghis Khan with her in the bedroom. The casualties were certainly alarming. Here a chip off a black mitre, there a portion of the black queen's crinkly crown left lying on the board after play. The knights were, of course, the ones that suffered most and Hilda noticed that, at bed time, when Little Nelson came to put the pieces back in their box, he was always careful to conceal that one of the injured animals had already lost the tips of both ears through charging into battle too impetuously.

Even when he agreed to play with her, his chess games were not without their tensions. Trying to restrain him from snatching both kings off the board simultaneously, she could not prevent an imitation gold button from being ripped off her cardigan. Little Nelson could not have been more helpful, going down flat on his face, tunnelling under things, in search of it. But somehow it was never recovered. Hilda took it as a warning that in future she must do nothing to excite him.

It was because he seemed so ready otherwise to lead an entirely sedentary life that Hilda was delighted when he wanted to take his truck out onto the landing. She encouraged him. She was sure that it would do him good. It had to be arranged, of course, on those afternoons when Cyril was out on his duties and, even then, she was afraid that her brother might notice the scratches on the paintwork, even the small chunks of wood snicked out of the bannisters. Much as she was ready to indulge him, she had to admit that he was careless; careless, and unashamedly boisterous. He would get the truck going at full speed, then leap into it from behind and career down the length of the landing, ending up with a bump against the high Gothic chair at the far end. She did not mind much about the chair because it was a piece of furniture that she had always disliked. But she could not help being afraid
that Little Nelson might hurt himself, might damage his other eye or something.

And it was the same when he climbed up on the chair itself. He treated it like a steer in a rodeo. He would rock violently backwards and forwards until first the front legs and then the back legs left the floor completely, and then bring it down, rein it in as it were, with a jolt. This worried her, too. The chair was far from new, almost an antique, and she could not help noticing how it creaked when, at the end of the game, she put it back in its place.

Not that she need have bothered. Little Nelson was at the moment far too busy listening to the wireless to go near the chair. And for good reason. There had been three more gnome incidents – though only two of them were recognized as such at the time – and they were in every bulletin.

The first concerned the intended despatch of a flight of homing pigeons from Didsbury. Cooing contentedly, the birds had been delivered, six to a basket, all carefully labelled and stacked ready for the guard's van. They were highly trained and experienced birds, and they had all travelled by rail before. They knew that there was no cause for hurry or alarm. Allowing for staff shortages, industrial action, faulty rolling stock, points failures and non-functioning of signals, they reckoned that they had three, four, even possibly five hours of rest and
relaxation ahead of them. The older birds had, indeed, already tucked their beaks into their feathers and were asleep. Then, to their bewilderment, the bolts on all three baskets were simultaneously slid back and small, impatient hands were pulling them out onto the platform. Within seconds, and to the tumultuous clapping of wings, the birds became airborne. Airborne, but still confused. In close formation they shot down towards the Arrivals side, veered sharply, narrowly missing an in-coming commuter train, and made their way towards the main Exit. Then they soared. Soon they were at tree-top height and still circling. Ten minutes later, and no more than half awake, they were back in the loft that they had left less than half an hour before.

Station Master and Goods Porter alike were reprimanded, and it was only an eye-witness account of three mannikin-size figures, in green and scarlet uniform and all whistling like canaries, that had been seen scuttling across the footbridge that saved them from suspension; even possibly from dismissal.

The theft within the same week of a van left standing outside the Despatch Department of the Coronation Firework Corporation, Broxbourne, Herts, passed at the time unrecognized for what it really was. At Scotland Yard, Transport, Larceny, and Road Offences were all kept informed, but the National Emergency Headquarters was left entirely un-notified. The vanload had been a full one. And
it was valuable, It contained Sky Rockets, Catherine Wheels, Roman Candles, Thunder Flashes, Big Bangers, Celestial Fire, Golden Showers, Jumping Jacks and assorted Sparklers.

At the time of the theft the driver was in the staff canteen building up his strength in readiness for a trip to Reading and back, some thirty-six miles each way. He was a large man, and his consumption was correspondingly heavy. About to start on his mince tart and custard – he had already finished his second helping (free) of Chef's Special – he was interrupted and informed that his van had gone missing. Not at first believing what he had been told, he finished the tart and the cup of strong Indian tea that had been waiting at the side. Then, when he had paid, he went out into the yard to find himself faced by the empty spot where the load of fireworks should have been. By the time that he was satisfied that there was nothing there, the Corporation's delivery van was already far off and speeding up the motorway.

It was not until a full forty-eight hours later when the van – a total write-off by now – was discovered upside down in a small ravine in Cheshire, that the truth became apparent. The fireworks had all been removed, but certain significant clues remained. No fewer than four plastic cushions on the front seat had been removed and stuffed up against the back padding of the driver's seat, as though otherwise the
driver might have found it impossible to reach the steering wheel. Moreover, skilfully carpentered blocks of wood attached to the pedals confirmed the impression that extreme smallness had been one of the problems that had to be overcome by the hijackers.

The third incident carried its signature upon it from the outset. An articulated lorry belonging to Allied Egg Distributors had left the Company's West Country Depot at Taunton to begin its long journey to the metropolis. It was early morning, and the roads were still empty. Everything proceeded smoothly as far as Devizes. It was then that the driver became aware that one of the rear doors must have become loose and was banging against the side of the trailer. He pulled in at the next lay-by and re-secured the door, pulling down the closing handle with all his weight. By Trowbridge, however, the door was banging about again – clearly opened from the inside. And worse. Cardboard egg crates, each containing one gross of Grade A free-range farm-house eggs, were leaving the lorry at the rate of one every few hundred yards. In consequence, the traffic had built up by now, and other vehicles were swerving wildly to survive the bombardment. There were skids, jack-knifings and crashes. For more than half a mile the roadway was one long shining carpet of custard-coloured confusion. And, all the while, so other motorists attested, three smaller-than-school
boy figures could be seen working flat out like heavy camp labour, shoving the crates out one by one, and whistling cheerfully as they pushed and heaved.

Little Nelson appeared unusually pensive and preoccupied. His games of chess were as fierce and intense as ever but less frequent, and he did not always seem to be listening properly while Hilda was reading to him. Even
Swiss Family Robinson,
hitherto his favourite story book, no longer gripped his attention.

What Hilda had, of course, not appreciated was that it was still only the early part of the week. Mondays to Fridays were all the same to her. But not to Little Nelson. Friday was set entirely apart. It was the day when Hilda and the Reverend were both out and Mrs Mewkes, evil and inquisitive, would continue with her spying.

But this Friday Little Nelson was ready for her. From 10.30 onwards he had everything prepared and, as eleven o'clock approached and he could hear her ponderous footsteps plodding up the stairs, he was all keyed-up and alert.

First he heard her drag up the Gothic vestry chair. It made an unmistakeable creaking noise as it was pulled along the worn strip of carpet. Then Little Nelson recognized the heavy laboured breathing as Mrs Mewkes hauled herself up onto the red velvet seat cushion. He waited. And he knew just how it
would be. It would take at least a full minute for her to get her breath back. And then would come the final effort, the climax when she would stand up so that she could achieve her aim at peeping in through the fanlight.

This was the moment for which Little Nelson had been waiting. He was already in the wardrobe with the pillow slip pulled down over his head. Through the gap by the hinge he could see everything. And as Mrs Mewkes's disagreeable face came slowly into view, he leapt out. His good arm was held out in front like a rhinoceros horn and, on the other side, he had painted two staring eyes with Hilda's shoe polish. Head down, he charged towards the door.