Читать книгу The Demon in the House - Angela Margaret Thirkell - Страница 4

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When Tony Morland wasn’t at school he lived with his mother in the country. His father had died so long ago that he couldn’t remember him, so he just thought that fathers were things other people had. As his three elder brothers were usually abroad or at sea, he missed the fraternal snubbing which is supposed to improve the character. His mother sometimes tried to be a little unkind to him, because she felt the responsibility of being a father and mother rolled into one, but she wasn’t very successful. Mothers, as far as Tony could see, were just things that everybody had. One put up with them as one put up with cricket, M. Dubois the French master, Mr. Prothero, who gave one impositions just for doing nothing at all, like pushing another chap at drill and drawing pictures on one’s Ovid, or as one put up with anything else that had obviously been there for ever and would go on for ever. Also he liked his mother very much, and sometimes hugged her to strangulation point, till she had to beg for mercy.

His mother wrote books to earn enough money to have a house in the country and send Tony to school. Tony had read some of her books, but did not think very highly of them. They all had a good deal of what he called Love Trash in them, a subject which his favorite authors scorned. But luckily Laura Morland didn’t in the least mind what Tony thought of her books, nor what any one else thought, so long as she could please the people who get books from the libraries. And luckily for Tony, the library people liked his mother’s books much better than he did.

Tony was rather an important person, as it was his last year before going on to the upper school, and he had trousers instead of knickerbockers in term time, and was a monitor.

“Being a monitor gives you great power,” he said to his mother while she was unpacking his trunk on the first day of the Easter holidays. “The little chaps are afraid to cheek you, and matron doesn’t mind if you bring hair fixative to school.”

“But I do mind if you bring it home,” said his mother, “especially if you don’t put the stopper in properly and it comes out all over your clothes. Look.”

She held up a white flannel shirt liberally stained with Butygloss Hair Fixative.

“I know,” said Tony. “Mother, can I have a bicycle these holidays?”

“We might hire one, but I’m not going to buy you one till your legs are longer. You know you still can’t manage a man’s size, even with the saddle put right down.”

“But two of the chaps have small size bikes, mother.”

“I dare say they have, Tony, but I can’t afford to get you a bicycle that you’ll grow out of in a year or two. Stretch your legs out a bit, and then I’ll think about it. We’ll go down to the village in a day or two and see what we can do.”

The village, at one end of which Mrs. Morland lived, was called High Rising. Tony’s special friends there were Mr. Mallow, the stationmaster, Sid Brown, the porter, and his brother, Mr. Brown, owner of the garage, Dr. Ford, Dr. Ford’s housekeeper, Mrs. Mallow, who was also the stationmaster’s aunt, and the two younger Vicarage girls, Rose and Dora. The chief quality which Tony required in his friends was an infinite capacity to listen to what he said. Most of his intimate circle were ready to be an admiring audience, but Dr. Ford and Dora Gould were unhappy exceptions. Dr. Ford either took no notice of what Tony said or told him to shut up, but he was a decent chap who would take one in his car if he happened to be going anywhere in the direction of where the hounds were meeting, or let one do chemistry in his little laboratory in the garden.

As for Dora Gould, though she had her uses she was undoubtedly a cheeky kid. Rose Gould, who was fourteen and a year older than Tony, admired him deeply and was content to sit watching him for hours while he laid out railway systems in his mother’s garden and talked aloud to himself about the electric engine he was going to buy when he had saved up enough pocket money. But Dora, who was twelve and a year younger than Tony, showed a lamentable want of interest in railways and talked a great deal about an imaginary country called Dorland, after herself, its population, industries, and chief physical features. In self-defense Tony had been obliged to create a country of his own, which he called Morland. He broke the news of this country to Rose and Dora when they were all upstairs in Tony’s playroom one day.

“You’re copying me,” said Dora indignantly, on hearing of Morland.

“I’m not. Morland is a real name; and as a matter of fact it was called after us hundreds of years ago. Dorland is just a silly make-up name. How high is the highest mountain in Dorland?”

“How high is the highest in Morland?” asked Dora cautiously.

“Six miles.”

“Well, the highest mountain in Dorland is six and a half miles high.”

“I know,” said Tony, “but that’s counting from sea level. I count mine from where it rises from a very high plateau in the middle of the island, so really it is seven miles high. Mother is going to get me a bike these hols.”

“Oh, Tony,” said Rose, “one of your own?”

“Well, practically, because she is going to hire it. You’ll see me scorching through the village at about twenty-five. Twenty-five m.p.h.,” he added, seeing Rose’s look of perplexity. “Oh, well, if you can’t understand anything, twenty-five miles an hour.”

Dora’s face of admiration and subsequent, though temporary, silence were tributes to Tony’s powers of boasting. Rose, who had been mildly jealous of her younger sister’s inventive powers, cringed openly before Tony.

“May I come into Morland, Tony?” she asked humbly. “Dora won’t have me in Dorland.”

“By all means,” said Tony graciously. “I’ll give you a bit of land for yourself called Rosebush.”

“Oh, thank you, Tony, what a lovely name.”

“I know. It’s really a place in Pembrokeshire. You get there by the South Wales Express as far as Carmarthen, and then you take a rail motor. Do you know what a rail motor is?”

“No.”

“Well, you wouldn’t understand if I explained. The South Wales Express is a stupid name, because it is only express as far as Cardiff, and then it stops everywhere and takes hours. But all the same, the Great Western is the best railway in England. If I had a lot of money I’d buy it, and run aluminum stream-line engines like the new American ones. I’d break all the records. And I’d have air-conditioned coaches.”

“What are they like?” asked Rose.

“Coaches that are air-conditioned, of course.”

“All the Dorland coaches are like that,” said Dora, recovering her poise.

“I know,” said Tony. “But they can’t be because it’s a new invention and all the new inventions get to Morland first, and Dorland is years behind. Would you like a snack?”

Rose and Dora said they would.

“All right,” said Tony, “I’ll go down and get something, and you can let the train go around the lines while I’m away, but don’t alter the points or put the engine into reverse.”

Tony leapt and clattered downstairs and into the kitchen, where Stoker, Mrs. Morland’s very fat middle-aged maid, was making pastry. Stoker had been with Mrs. Morland for a great many years, and though she was fond of Tony’s three elder brothers, who were now grown-up and scattered about the world, her chief devotion was for Tony. For him she made special puddings, substituted fried potatoes for boiled, took up breakfast on a tray if he was late, listened endlessly to his talk, and imparted to him the folklore of Plaistow, her unromantic eastern birthplace.

“Well, Master Tony,” she said, “how’s the railway this morning?”

“It’s all right. Oh, Stokes, could I have some snacks for me and the girls? They are frightfully hungry.”

“I dare say they are,” said Stoker, who lived in permanent feud with the Vicarage cook. “There’s many a morning when those poor young ladies can’t eat what’s set before them, I’ll be bound. What do you want. Bread and dripping?”

“Oh, good for you, Stokes.”

Stoker heaved herself up and fetched from the larder a bowl of excellent beef dripping with those rich, dark patches in it, so dear to the connoisseur. While she was spreading it thickly on three large slices of bread Tony sat on the table and ate the odds and ends of uncooked pastry that lay about.

“I’m going to have a bike these hols, Stokes,” he announced.

“First I’ve heard of it,” said Stoker, showering pepper and salt onto the dripping. “Who’s going to keep it clean?”

“I am, of course.”

“So you say,” remarked Stoker without heat.

“That’s wrong, Stokes. You ought to say ‘Sez you.’ ”

“Say what you like, Master Tony, I know what bikes are. Just like rabbits and canaries. It all means more work for your poor mother and me. Take your dripping up to the young ladies and don’t eat any more of that pastry, it might swell in your inside. I had a cousin carried off that way.”

“Where did they carry him?” asked Tony, getting off the table.

“London hospital. And what they done to him no one knows, nor ever will, but his wife never set eyes on him alive again.”

“Did they kill him then?” asked Tony, with shining eyes.

“No, it was her got killed. Knocked down by a motor car the day he come out of hospital. She had a lovely voice and used to sing like a lark. Get along now, Master Tony, or I’ll never get on with lunch.”

The bread and dripping was gratefully received, and Tony added a new town called Drippingham to his country in its honor.

After lunch his mother told him to come to the village with her.

“Oh, mother, need I? I had something frightfully important to do.”

“No need if you don’t want a bicycle,” said his mother coldly.

“Oh, good for you, mother. Let’s go to Mr. Brown. He might have one at the garage.”

Accordingly Mrs. Morland and Tony set out for the garage. Mr. Brown unfortunately had only a full-sized man’s bicycle in stock, and though the saddle was lowered as far as possible, Tony’s legs did not reach the lowest point of the pedals. Mr. Brown offered a lady’s bicycle, but Tony’s despair at the idea of this humiliation was so deep that his mother weakly consented to search elsewhere.

“You see, mother, I couldn’t possibly ride a girl’s bike,” he explained as they walked towards the general store where Mr. Reid occasionally had an odd bicycle. “They aren’t strong enough, and I couldn’t get up speed properly. Besides, what would people think if they saw me on a girl’s bike?”

“I shouldn’t think they would take any notice at all.”

“Oh, mother, they would. All the kids would laugh at me if they saw me on a girl’s bike.”

Mr. Reid had just let his own bicycle out to a visitor for the whole of the Easter holidays, but suggested that Sid Brown, the porter at the station, might be willing to hire his out for a week or two. As Sid Brown was a little man, Mrs. Morland thought it worth trying, so she and Tony walked on to the station.

“Mother,” said Tony, “you know Morland?”

“Your country do you mean?” asked Laura.

“Of course. Well, I’ve got a new town there now, called Drippingham. It’s because old Stokes gave us a snack of bread and dripping, to me and Rose and Dora. You see, Drippingham because of dripping. Isn’t it a good name? The ham part doesn’t mean ham of course, but just the sort of ham that you get in real names.”

“Like East Ham?” said his mother.

“Yes. Don’t you think it’s an awfully good name? And I let Rose have a bit of my country and call it Rosebush. There is really a station called Rosebush and you can only get there by a rail motor. Mother, why don’t we have a rail motor on our line? I’d love to see a rail motor. I’d like to drive one, and I’d simply whiz up and down the line. How do you think rail motors are worked, mother?”

“I don’t know. Come along, Tony, and don’t gabble so much, and we can see the down train go through.”

When the down express had successfully torn on its way through the station Mrs. Morland approached Sid Brown, who said he didn’t rightly think he could spare his bike, but his cousin Henry had a racing bike, and as he had broke his ankle and wouldn’t be about for a bit, perhaps he would consider letting the younger gentleman have it. Tony’s eyes glowed at the thought of a racing bicycle, and he implored his mother to hire it at once. Sid’s cousin Henry lived a mile or so away, near Low Rising, so the Morlands set off on their journey again. Owing to his broken ankle Henry Brown was at home and quite willing to let Tony have the bicycle if he could ride it. The saddle was lowered. Tony fell off three times and declared it a perfect fit. An arrangement was then made by which Sid’s cousin Henry was to have five shillings a week for the use of his bicycle, and Tony was to keep it clean and restore it in good condition.

“Can I ride it home now, mother?” said Tony.

“I suppose so,” said his mother with resignation. “But do for goodness’ sake be careful with motors.”

Tony mounted his steed and dashed off down the road towards High Rising, wobbling violently as he went. He rapidly disappeared around a bend in the road and his mother walked on after him, telling herself that she really must remember that boys were not brought home dead on a shutter simply because they rode bicycles.

When Tony had begun his bicycling career she had tried to take up bicycling again herself, so that she might accompany him, and at least be in at his death, but the plan was not a success. Laura Morland, who had hardly bicycled since motors became common, was extremely frightened. Any expedition that included a main road was agony to her, as she pedaled desperately away, hugging the edge of the road, her teeth painfully clenched, her hands on both brakes, terrified of death before and behind her. Tony’s methods were not helpful to her. He either scorched past her at reckless speed or rode at a snail’s pace, frequently turning around in the road. When he was speeding his unhappy mother could not keep up with him. If he went slowly she had to ride on ahead, sending despairing glances backwards from time to time to see if he had been run down by a motor-coach while performing his evolutions.

After a terrible day on which Tony had ridden, like John Gilpin, into the country far away, while his mother sat and cried with mingled rage and fear halfway up a steep hill, Laura had renounced bicycling for ever and given her bicycle to one of Rose and Dora’s elder sisters. For the future, she decided, it would be better to wait at home for the news of Tony’s death or mutilation than to be left crying by the roadside.

By this time Laura had reached the bend of the road, but there was no sign of Tony in the half mile of straight road which lay between her and High Rising. The well-known agonizing symptoms of anxiety began to make themselves felt. Instinctively she walked a little faster, as if by hurrying she could overtake whatever evil fate was threatening her youngest son. A car approached from the village. As it came within hailing distance it slowed down, and Dr. Ford waved from the driving seat.

“Have you seen Tony?” she shouted.

Dr. Ford put on the brakes violently. His car put all its four feet together, slithered, and came to a standstill.

“What?” shouted Dr. Ford, getting into reverse.

“Have you seen Tony anywhere, or a bicycle?” she repeated, feeling thoroughly ashamed, but unable to restrain herself.

“Not yet,” said Dr. Ford. “If I pass him I’ll tell him to hurry up,” with which kind though uncomprehending remark he sped away towards Low Rising.

Mrs. Morland plodded feverishly on, her throat beginning to feel thick and choked with hasty walking and suppressed tears. She had a burning desire to be very angry with someone, but no one was at hand. “Men are all selfish,” she said aloud, lumping Dr. Ford and Tony together in this sweeping statement.

A bicycle bell behind her made her start and dash to the side of the road. A bicycle flashed past her, and to her relief and fury she saw Tony, well bent down over the racing handles, his feet going madly. Before she could recover her voice he had slowed down, turned, and was by her side.

“You didn’t expect me, mother, did you?” he asked proudly.

“I didn’t.”

“I knew you wouldn’t. I went on like mad as far as the Vicarage and simply whizzed down the lane and along the field path and got back into the road. I saw Dr. Ford. What do you think Dr. Ford thought when he saw me on the bicycle, mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“I expect he thought I looked like a real racing bicyclist. Mother, did you know that racing bicycles don’t have free wheels? They have fixed wheels. Why do you think they have fixed wheels, mother?”

“Perhaps it’s easier to race with a fixed wheel,” said Mrs. Morland, in whom relief had now got the upper hand of anger.

“Yes, I know. But it’s jolly hard work, I can tell you, to keep one’s feet going. I had to pedal away like anything going down the Vicarage Lane. I expect Rose and Dora would be very interested to see me pedaling away so quickly, wouldn’t they? Mother, can I stop at the Vicarage and show them the bicycle?”

“All right, but be back for tea.”

“Oh, mother, need I?”

“Well, you must be back by six. If you aren’t I shall disgrace you by coming to fetch you,” said Mrs. Morland. Tony was riding around and around her as she walked, and the effect of addressing him at all points of the compass was making her feel a little giddy.

“Good on you, mother,” said Tony cheerfully, and rode off.

When Laura got home she had some tea and felt more composed. Tony could not come to any harm at the Vicarage, so she could write letters or read in peace till six o’clock. Accordingly she sat down at her desk, but even as she wrote to Tony’s headmaster about a scholarship exam which Tony was to sit for—though more as a gesture than with any hope of getting him through—a horrid thought intruded itself. Supposing Tony had not gone to the Vicarage. Supposing he had gone off on his own. No one would know where he was. His corpse would probably not be found till the following morning. Just as she was telling herself that she must not ring up Mrs. Gould and enquire if Tony was with Rose and Dora, Stoker came in to clear away the tea-things.

“Shall I leave something out for Master Tony?” asked Stoker.

“No, Stoker, he has gone to the Vicarage to show his bicycle to the little girls. We managed to get one from Sid Brown’s cousin Henry. He has broken his ankle and can’t get about at present.”

“I used to do a bit of biking myself,” said Stoker.

“Did you, Stoker?”

“When I was a girl I did. Around the Victoria Park, you’ve no idea. Daisy they used to call me at home, out of the song, you know—‘A Bicycle Made For Two.’ I’d need a bicycle made for two to carry me nowadays,” said Stoker with a music-hall wink. “Tricycle’s more my style. Always try a tricycle before you buy a bicycle, as the saying is. Well, I’ll do an extra lot of pancakes for tonight. Master Tony will need something after tea at the Vicarage. Grocer’s cake as likely as not.”

“Oh, Stoker,” said her mistress as she was leaving the room with the tray, “would you ring up the Vicarage and ask Mrs. Gould to see that Tony leaves at six sharp?”

Stoker put her tray down with a bang on a chest in the hall.

“Now, don’t you commence to worry,” she said, with hearty scorn for Mrs. Morland’s anxiety. “Master Tony won’t come to no harm, bike or no bike, and there’s no call for you to waste money ’phoning up the Vicarage.”

Laura meekly accepted Stoker’s advice, and was rewarded by the return of her youngest son at a quarter to six, bursting with information.

“Mother,” he began, “we had a splendid time. I simply whizzed up and down the lane for the girls to see, and after tea I showed them how slowly I can ride and how to turn in the narrow part of the lane, and they thought it was jolly good. I told them I was going to be a professional and do dirt track racing. Dora wants to have a dirt track in Dorland, but I told her she couldn’t because they aren’t invented in Dorland yet. I shall have a splendid one in Morland, about ten miles around, and I’ll go whizzing around it. What’s the fastest a racing bike can go, do you think, Mother?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“But about how fast should you think?”

“I don’t know. As much as twenty miles an hour?”

“Oh, mother!”

“Well, fifteen then.”

“Oh, mother! Fifteen! Mother, I bet you I could do forty, easily, on a good dirt track with a motor bike in front of me. Mother, wouldn’t it be splendid if we could have a dirt track in the garden?”

“You look like a dirt track yourself,” said his mother dispassionately. “What on earth have you got on your hands and jersey?”

Tony’s blue eyes shone with innocence.

“On my jersey, mother? Oh, that’s only oil. I was showing Rose and Dora how to oil the bike. It will be useful for them when they have bikes of their own. One ought to keep one’s bike well oiled, you know,” he added virtuously.

Mrs. Morland drew her son nearer to her and examined his jersey. It and his hands were liberally smeared with a thick green mixture which she recognized as motor grease.

“But you don’t oil bicycles with motor oil,” she said.

“I know. But we hadn’t any bike oil, so Dora gave me some of her father’s lubricating oil out of the garage. I thought you’d like me to keep the bike oiled, mother, considering we’ve got to let Henry have it back in good condition. It’s running splendidly now, mother. Come and look.”

Tony led the way to the back yard, where the bicycle stood propped against a wall. Every part of it which could conceivably be thought to require oil was plastered with lubricant. Tony wheeled it around to let his mother see his handiwork.

“I’ll tell Stoker to find some rags for you,” she said, “and then you can wipe all that grease off the bicycle. And then wash your hands in the scullery and take your jersey off and give it to Stoker before you come into the house at all.”

“Oh, mother! Oh, all right then.”

Laura went into the kitchen and told Stoker to find some old cloths for Tony and see that he washed before he came into the house.

“Of course,” said Tony’s voice from the yard, addressing an invisible friend, “if people make one ungrease one’s bike, they can’t be surprised if it doesn’t work properly.”

At half-past seven Stoker rang the bell for supper. As there was no sound of Tony his mother went into the dining room and found him sitting in his chair with a pink, cheerful face. He was in his shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders. His hands were exquisitely clean, but his arms and shirt were nearly as dirty as his jersey had been.

“What have you been doing?” said his mother. “I thought I told you to get clean before you came in.”

“I did, mother. I washed my hands like anything.”

He exhibited his spotless hands with pride. His mother said nothing, but continued to eye him and his shirt with disfavor.

“Well, I couldn’t help getting my shirt dirty,” said Tony in an aggrieved voice. “I took off my jersey and gave it to Stoker, just as you told me to, so then of course the oil got on my shirt.”

“But, you idiot, I didn’t tell you take off your jersey till you had finished cleaning the bicycle. Now Stoker will have to wash the shirt as well. Go into the scullery and take off your shirt and wash your arms. And then go up and get a clean shirt. And hurry up,” she added, as Tony rose with an ill grace.

But nature has seen to it that boys shall not be overdriven, by making it quite impossible for them to hurry or to concentrate over things that don’t interest them. It was after a quarter to eight before Tony, shiningly clean, sat down to supper. All evening he was so angelic that his mother reproached herself bitterly for quick temper and fault finding. When he had finished his supper, he took his mother’s hand, led her to the drawing room, pushed her into an arm chair, kissed her so hard that her face was nearly driven in, brought her the reading aloud book, and only interrupted her once, to ask if he could get his drawing things.

“Bedtime now, Tony,” said Laura as she shut the book.

“Oh, mother! Mother, can I just show you what I have been drawing? I’ve done a new map of Morland with four dirt tracks in it. Look, there’s one near Drippingham—you remember Drippingham, don’t you, mother?—and three others. The biggest is twelve miles around and the smallest is four miles around. I shall let Dora come over from Dorland and look at them. I shall have a special chromium-plated bike and simply dash around them. I really need a stopwatch to time the rounds. Do you know how much a stopwatch costs, mother?”

“No.”

“Well, anyway I shall save up and get one. There’s a chap at school whose brother has a stopwatch. He’s one of the little chaps, only seven and very nice. I help him with his Latin prep. sometimes. He is awfully funny, mother. He goes about making awfully funny faces. I wish you could see him. Mother, if I save up and buy a stopwatch, will you time me, or would it make you too tired?”

Laura was so touched by this sudden thoughtfulness that she nearly cried, but pulling herself together, she expressed willingness to time him as much as he liked; a willingness which was certainly increased by the extreme improbability of his ever possessing a stopwatch. When he had gone to bed she rang up the Vicarage and had a talk with Mrs. Gould about lubricating oil. Rose and Dora appeared to have come off more lightly than Tony in the matter of actual dirt, but the Vicar had been very angry and forbidden the garage to all three children, a piece of news that Laura was delighted to hear.

“Mother,” shouted Tony from upstairs.

“What is it? Go to bed.”

“I am, but I thought you liked me to say good night.”

“Good night, darling. Oh, and Tony, Mr. Gould says none of you are to go into the garage again.”

There was a brief silence, during which Tony was evidently considering this statement.

“In Morland,” he said carelessly, “I have seven million garages and I go into all of them, so it really doesn’t matter. Besides, mother, Mr. Gould has such rotten oil. Someone really ought to tell him that one doesn’t keep lubricating oil for people to oil their bikes with. He simply seems to know nothing. Good night, mother.”