Читать книгу Head in Green Bronze - Hugh Walpole - Страница 10

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Maurice Blake, age a little more than ten, thought that there was nothing very strange in not having a mother. Other boys he knew (but he did not know very many) had mothers and talked about them a good deal. Because Maurice didn’t have one, they were fond of telling him how marvellous their mothers were. So Maurice, who had learned by this time to think for himself because he was so much alone, had long ago decided that mothers were a hindrance rather than a benefit. His mother, in fact, had died a year after his birth, and since he was seven his home had been in a large, dark house off Gramercy Park, which consisted almost entirely of big stone staircases and rooms so high that it hurt you to look at the ceiling.

His father wrote for the newspapers, and wrote so well and so brilliantly that he was in constant demand and almost always away from the big house. His father was rich and Maurice had everything that a boy could want, including Miss Brent, the governess, Mrs. Howard, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Howard’s little girl, Lucy.

He hadn’t gone to school as yet, because his father moved about the world so swiftly that he had no time to be definite about the kind of school that Maurice should go to. He was a big, broad man, with a brown moustache, bright, lively eyes, a booming voice, and he smelled, as Maurice well knew, of tobacco, shaving soap, and an especial kind of heathery scent, which last, Maurice was told, came from Scotland. On his brief visits to his home Mr. Blake, Sen., rushed about the big house, shouting at the top of his voice, and everybody rushed about with him. On these occasions the house was filled with people. There were lights and flowers and beautiful cars outside the door, and extra servants, and Maurice could have anything that he wished.

He did not want very much, and his great aim in life was to be with his father alone. There was no one, of course, in the whole world as magnificent as his father. Not only was he wonderful in himself, but his picture was constantly in the newspapers, and everyone admired him tremendously, especially ladies.

But, as Maurice often heard him say, the great thing was his splendid little boy. Where, he asked the many ladies, could you find a grander little boy, a wiser, a handsomer, a more perfectly behaved? And his father would shout out all these things, his eyes sparkling, his mouth laughing, and he would pick up Maurice in his strong arms and swing him in the air, and his sharp moustache, which was almost like a knife, would brush Maurice’s cheeks and eyes, and Maurice would swim delightedly in the tobacco and the shaving soap and the heather from Scotland. Oh, they were wonderful, these special moments! But the trouble was that there were always so many other people to share them.

Maurice had in his mind a daring plan of creeping one morning very early down the stairs, along the passage, down another short flight of stairs, and so into the room where he knew his father slept. He planned then to move with the utmost quietness across the floor and creep into the bed where his father was sleeping, and stay there waiting for his father to awake. This, indeed, he might one day have attempted, but most unwisely he confided his plan to Miss Brent, who was horrified at the idea.

‘Oh, that would never do!’ she cried in the sharp, shrill tones that were so like the striking of the big silver clock in the drawing-room. Miss Brent, who was long and thin like a beautifully rolled umbrella, had a perpetual smile that was full of brightness but no meaning. Maurice never trusted her smile. So now, when he asked why it was so horrible that he should creep into bed beside his father, Miss Brent murmured, smiling, that of course he mustn’t. ‘Your father wouldn’t want to be awakened,’ Miss Brent explained. ‘He sleeps late.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t wake him,’ Maurice observed. ‘I’d be as quiet as anything.’

‘Now, that’s enough of that,’ said Miss Brent sharply but still smiling. ‘Don’t you ever dare——’

Maurice thought that he might catch his father alone in his bath—surely he would not be sharing that with anybody else. For he could often hear his father’s bath-water running quite fiercely when he was in the middle of his lessons with Miss Brent. And he did, indeed, on one occasion, run for his life down the passage and push open the bathroom door. The room was filled with steam and a large, naked man was doing exercises, breathing deeply out of his nostrils and looking so completely unlike anything that Maurice believed his father to be, that he ran back to the schoolroom again with fear in his heart and a wonder as to whether he had ever seen his real father before.

There came a time then when his father was away for a very long while indeed, and Maurice found Miss Brent less than nothing of a companion. He was forbidden to go into the park around the corner from the house, and had, I’m afraid, the dullest of dull existences, and sought companionship with Mrs. Howard’s Lucy.

Lucy was a thin little girl with somewhat protruding, anxious eyes. She was pretty in a way, because she had pale flaxen hair and was always very neat. Her mother adored her. Mr. Howard, Lucy’s father, had vanished one morning after eating a hearty breakfast, and gone off with a lady to South Africa. Mrs. Howard, whose second name was common sense, had washed up the breakfast things and before evening found a job as housekeeper with Mr. Blake. She’d been with him ever since and, so long as Lucy was well, was perfectly happy.

As her mother worshipped Lucy, so did Lucy worship Maurice. But she was a speechless child, unable always to express her feelings. She had been taught, of course, from the very earliest age, that she must never bother Mr. Maurice. But the boy was so often alone that he liked to go up to the room at the top of the house which was Mrs. Howard’s sitting-room, and he would play with Lucy in a mild, quiet fashion, Mrs. Howard sitting in a chair sewing and wondering once in a while why the two children were so quiet and ‘hadn’t a bit of life between them.’

Mrs. Howard was, however, immensely genteel and loved Lucy to be what she called ladylike. What she liked best was to brush Lucy’s beautiful flaxen hair, which she did by the hour, her matter-of-fact, sensible eyes staring into the room, seeing, perhaps, the past with the figure of the wicked adventuress in the foreground, but much more likely soberly thinking of the present and wondering whether the new kitchen-maid was up to any mischief and what she was going to have for dinner.

There was, however, for Maurice something comfortable and friendly about Mrs. Howard’s room. The rest of the house was so large and so empty. He picked up somewhere a copy of Bleak House, and the illustrations therein of Chesney Wold with a gloomy avenue of trees, the marble statue at the corner of the stairs, the rays of sunshine breaking in through the latticed windows, all seemed to him very like his own home.

He lived, in fact, in a state of passionate desire for his father. Love, except with the aged, flourishes best through long absences. He’d never been with his father long enough to become accustomed to him. And there was something so heroic for Maurice in the vitality and high spirits of that large, broad-shouldered figure.

And then one day, without a moment’s warning, he came back from his walk with Miss Brent in the park, to find two men meeting him on the stairs. Two very large men, they seemed to him, and behind them a stir of bustle, a sense of invading light, a richness of promise all about the house. Miss Brent fell back; Maurice took a step or two up the stairs and then stopped, staring.

The two men also stopped, and then both of them began to roar with laughter. The noise filled the whole place, like the roar of lions or tigers in the very heart of the jungle. One of the big men, quite the largest Maurice had ever seen, leaned forward and picked Maurice up, held him in the air, looking at him with warm, kindly eyes that beamed out of his rosy face. Maurice stayed there, between the two great hands, patiently without moving.

‘This must be Maurice!’ cried the giant. ‘Don’t you know who we are? We are your Uncle Blair and your Uncle Stephen.’

And the other man, who was not so big as the first one, but quite big enough, cried out, ‘I’m Uncle Stephen.’

Maurice was instantly reminded of Tweedledum and Tweedledee in Through the Looking-Glass. But he liked the warmth and pressure of Uncle Blair’s hands about him, the sense of strength, the promise of companionship. So he said nothing, but laughed and kicked a little with his legs. Uncle Blair then gathered him against his chest and carried him as though he were a small Pekingese dog down into the hall; then he set him on his feet.

‘You’re a fine young man. Let’s take a good look at you. My, you’re swell! Surprised to see your old uncles? All the way from Alaska I am, and the other one is from California, where the sun never stops shining. A lot of other things happen there too—don’t they, Stephen?’ And he roared with laughter. ‘We’ve come to stay with your father a bit and stir this old house up. Aren’t you glad we’ve come? Hasn’t it been dull without us? You’ll see how exciting it’ll be.’

All this and ever so much more poured out in a tumultuous flood. Yes, just as though it were really a river flooding the hall, sweeping into the dining-room, beating down the door that led into the servants’ quarters, and with its swelling waters bringing such a force of life and energy that Maurice was almost breathless. The hall-door opened, and there was his father, looking so smart and so fresh and, to Maurice, so wonderful. Maurice stood there looking at him, forgetting altogether his two uncles. It was so utterly unexpected. He was so happy.

‘Hello, kid,’ said his father. ‘A bit of a surprise, isn’t it?’

Maurice had been told by Mrs. Howard how to behave. He walked slowly forward. ‘Yes, Father,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re quite well.’

This seemed marvellously funny to his two uncles, who shouted with laughter and called out both together, ‘He hopes he’s well! He hopes his father’s well. Can you beat it!’

But his father bent forward, as he always did, and kissed Maurice first on one cheek and then on the other, and said, smiling, ‘Been a good boy? I hope so.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘I must ask Miss Brent.’

Then Blake looked over his son’s head to his two brothers. ‘How do you like your uncles? Ever see anyone so big in your life? Blair, you’re a disgrace! You’ve got a stomach like an elephant’s.’

He walked past Maurice, put his hands on the shoulders of his brothers, and they all walked up the stairs together, all of them talking at once, while Maurice stood staring up after them, alone in the hall, the noise of the rushing waters still sounding in his ears.

Then came Miss Brent’s sharp, tinkling voice: ‘Maurice! Maurice! Where are you? Come and take your coat off at once!’

‘Yes, Miss Brent.’

He gave a little sigh. Would he ever be alone with his father, even for a moment? Still, it was rather exciting to have two new uncles. Perhaps something was going to happen. He felt in his heart that it was.

What happened, in the first place, was the wonderful new life in the house. Always when his father came home everything seemed to spring into life and gaiety. But this time there were three of them ... three enormous men.

Fresh servants were engaged, and Mrs. Howard was so busy that, as she said over and over again, ‘If it goes on like this for long, I’ll drop in my grave.’ The only person who was quiet and undisturbed was Lucy. Maurice still went up to her room to play with her, but she was only a shadow to him. His whole heart was set toward his father.

It was as though with the arrival of his two uncles he saw clearly how deep his adoration of his father was. For they were big and handsome men, too, and smelt splendidly of tobacco and shaving soap, were laughing and jolly and friendly. But they were not his father. They, themselves, seemed to feel that, for he was the only one they listened to, looked up to.

But here was an ironic thing: It was more than ever difficult for Maurice to be alone with his father; but he could be alone with his uncles whenever he pleased. They made a fuss over him. They took him to the circus. Uncle Blair often seized him to take him driving in the car.

So, with this attention from his uncles, Maurice’s life blossomed. It was all gay and exciting now. But the one thing in the world that he wanted he couldn’t have—his companionship with his father. It seemed to be forever on the verge of happening. His father would say, ‘Hello! Want to come for a drive? Be ready in half an hour.’ But then when the half-hour was over and Maurice was there all dressed and eager, something would have happened. There would be a telephone call or, worst of all, a lady would arrive.

Maurice’s father seemed to be forever in the company of beautiful ladies, and oh! how Maurice hated them. Sometimes they did not notice him at all. Sometimes they would treat him as a baby, crying out in hard, cooing voices, ‘Oh, the darling! How old is he? ... Not really!’ Sometimes they really liked him and wanted him to go with them. But he always refused and was sulky, because they were his enemies and kept him from his father.

With the spring came Maurice’s birthday. May the 2nd. It so happened that never so long as he remembered had his father been home for his birthday. It had been quite a pleasant event without him, because the cook made a cake and people gave him presents. But always he had longed for his father to be there.

Once there had come all the way from a place called South Africa a telegram wishing him many happy returns and asking Mrs. Howard to give him five dollars. What an event that had been! It had, however, happened only once. In the other years there had been silence.

But now, miracle of miracles! On a sunny morning, there appeared in the schoolroom Uncle Blair and his father. (Never his father alone. Why couldn’t he come to the schoolroom just once by himself?) Miss Brent and Maurice were doing geography and were trying to come to some decision as to what the purpose of the River Amazon really was. Then there was Uncle Blair’s roaring voice: ‘Say, kid, I hear you’re to be ninety-nine two weeks from Tuesday. We must celebrate.’

And his father, looking so beautiful in a dark blue suit, so distinguished, so greatly superior in every way to Uncle Blair, coming over to him, said, ‘How old will you be in two weeks’ time, Maurice?’

‘Eleven, Father.’

‘Eleven? Can it be possible? Why, it seems only yesterday you were sucking your thumb.’ Then he turned away, looked for a moment at Miss Brent, as he always looked at every woman, to see whether by any chance she might, in a miraculous way, turn out to be attractive. He decided very quickly that that was the last thing that she would ever be and went on: ‘We must have a birthday party. A grand birthday party. Would you like that?’

‘Yes, Father, I would.’

‘What do you want for a birthday present?’

Maurice thought. Then his eyes became full of light. His hand trembled a little against the paper. ‘What I’d like better than anything else, Father, would be a train. A real electric train with tracks that would run all around the schoolroom.’

Maurice’s father laid his hand on Maurice’s head and said, ‘A train it shall be.’ ...

From that moment an idea took possession of Maurice like a little demon.

What he saw was one of those wonderful railways running right round the room, with stations, signal-boxes, and bridges. An electric train with little red and green cars, his father on his knees beside the railway, and Maurice close up against him. The two of them alone, no one else there, watching the train pursue its perilous journey. That would be heaven.

He formed in his mind the idea of what he would say: ‘Could we do it together, Father, do you think? Just the two of us? I would like that.’ And he would lead his father up to the room, see that there were no ladies there to disturb him—he might even lock the door.

So, during this two weeks, he thought of nothing else. He even dreamed of it.... He and his father, kneeling side by side; they two in perfect companionship.

The birthday arrived, as everything arrives in this only too punctual world. It was a May day of absolute splendour.

Maurice, as soon as he was awake, dressed and came into the schoolroom. And there was Miss Brent, his breakfast, and a pile of delightful presents done up in paper.

Miss Brent gave him a book, Don Quixote. There was something from Mrs. Howard, the cook, John, the new butler, and from Lucy a little train with two cars and the engine. The cars were painted a deep red.

‘How funny!’ he began. ‘Lucy——’ and then he stopped. Because, after all, his father might not give him a train, as he promised. But there was something pathetic about this little affair. Somehow, in some curious way, it resembled Lucy. He put it on the carpet and wound it up. It fussed along toward the table, suddenly made an eccentric turn, and tumbled over on its side, where, Maurice couldn’t help feeling, it looked more like Lucy than ever.

‘I must go and thank her,’ he said. He went round the house thanking everybody, and when he came to Lucy, who was just going off to school, all he could say was, ‘Thank you so much, Lucy. That’s awfully kind of you.’

Lucy stared at him as usual, speechless. She had her hat on, an ugly one. ‘Mother said that she heard you wanted a train.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘I went out and bought it myself with my own money.’

He felt that she wanted him to say something, just as he wanted to be alone with his father, but he couldn’t say anything. He only grinned and ran off, Lucy staring after him. Then, when he came into the schoolroom again, Miss Brent informed him that there was to be a surprise.

‘We’re to go out and take a walk and not come back until twelve,’ she said.

Maurice said not another word, and together they went off into the green park. Here they sat on a bench. Maurice stared in front of him, while Miss Brent looked about her with the air of one who expects a romance at any moment but is determined to reject it when it comes. Maurice was thinking of nothing but the wonderful event that was shortly to occur. It would need a little courage, but he was determined on what to do. When he came into the schoolroom, saw the train there and his uncles and his father, he would, after thanking them, say to his father, ‘Would you mind if we were alone for a moment? I have something I want to say to you.’

And his father would answer, ‘Of course!’ And then he would turn to Maurice’s uncles and say, ‘Leave me alone with the kid, will you?’ And his uncles would leave the room.

On returning from the walk he ran up the stairs ahead of Miss Brent and then paused outside the schoolroom. Within, there was apparently much jollity. He opened the door and went in.

An amazing sight met his eyes. The schoolroom table had been removed. Around the floor from end to end, in a great glittering circle, ran a railroad track. On the track was the most glorious train, something quite beyond anything he’d ever imagined. It had about everything that a train ought to have. A superb engine—indeed, two—one at each end. The cars were brilliantly coloured, the trucks laden with coal. Along the line there were bridges, signal-boxes, railway platforms, and even, at one end, a marvellous tunnel.

Kneeling on the floor beside the railway were his two uncles, their broad backs presented to his full gaze. At the other end of the room, looking down upon the scene, was his father, quietly smoking his pipe. He heard one uncle say, ‘Not that way. Look here! I’ll show you!’ And one huge uncle shoved the other huge uncle.

His father said, ‘I don’t think either of you knows anything about it. Let me try!’

Maurice moved timidly forward. The three men all looked at him. The two uncles shouted together, ‘Why, here’s the kid! What do you think of it?’

And his father, suddenly going down on his knees beside his uncles, looked at him and said, ‘Here’s your birthday present, Maurice. I hope you’ll like it.’

‘Oh, it’s wonderful,’ Maurice sighed. He advanced a little nearer. But now three broad backs seemed to present an insuperable obstacle.

‘Now I’ve got it!’ Uncle Blair cried. ‘Couldn’t understand it at first. Now she’s off!’ And, indeed, the engine gave an extraordinary, enginelike scream, moved a little forward, then stopped again.

‘There you are!’ the other uncle cried. ‘That wasn’t the way!’

Maurice thought of the little speech that had been in his mind: ‘Please, Father, let us do it together alone. Can’t we?’ But he couldn’t say it. Those broad backs defeated him. He did, however, manage to bring out very quietly, ‘May I look at the engine?’ Nobody heard him.

Uncle Blair, who was now lying flat on his stomach, so that he seemed to spread across the entire floor, muttered, ‘It’s that little wire. It’s got loose.’

‘No, it hasn’t!’ said the other uncle. ‘It’s nothing to do with the wire. Something is stuck in the funnel.’

‘Might I see the engine?’ Maurice said again, this time rather more loudly. Uncle Blair heard him and shouted, ‘Why, of course, kid. It’s your birthday present, you know.’ However, no one moved.

Maurice stood beside them, hesitating. It didn’t seem as yet like his railway at all. But perhaps it soon would.

‘Now it’s off!’ Uncle Blair shouted, suddenly heaving himself up. ‘There she goes!’ And the train did move with a wonderful miracle of ease and naturalness. ‘All aboard!’ both uncles cried together.

Maurice caught his father’s sleeve. ‘Thank you very much, Father,’ he said.

His father, also on his knees, turned round towards him. They were now almost of a height, so that their faces were close together. Maurice saw his father’s face as he had never seen it before. It was kind, indulgent, wise, but somehow remote. The eyes into whose depths Maurice could so profoundly look, were distant. They seemed scarcely to be aware of Maurice at all.

Maurice had a frantic temptation. His heart hammered. The temptation was that he should bend forward and kiss his father’s cheek. He had never kissed his father, only been kissed by him. And he’d long ago been told that manly little boys didn’t kiss anybody. But this was a special occasion—his birthday. The moment was there; it was gone. And, instead of kissing him, he said, ‘Can I look, Father? May I?’

The train was rushing along the line like a superb master of its craft. When it passed the signal-box a little red sign jerked forward and then back again. When it passed the station platform a small automaton stationmaster jumped out of his box and then back again, and it disappeared into the tunnel. Maurice squeezed in between his father and Uncle Blair.

‘I say, that’s good!’ he heard his father murmur. ‘Best I’ve ever seen.’

‘It ought to be,’ Uncle Blair roared. ‘It cost a pretty penny. Now it’s round the bend!’ Uncle Blair shouted, beside himself with excitement. ‘Didn’t it take that bend grandly?’ And he heaved against Maurice, who had to step back. Now the railroad track was entirely obscured from him.

But his father may have been conscious of something, for he turned, and with that kind, beneficent look in his eyes which had won for him the confidences of so many beautiful ladies, he said, ‘Do you like it, Maurice? Do you really? I hope you do.’

Then was the moment for Maurice’s sentence. He caught his father’s arm. ‘Could we do it together, Father, just you and I—nobody else?’ he murmured. But the small, hesitating tones were lost entirely in the shouts of both uncles. For the train began to spurt and snort and make extraordinary chuckles. It reared itself on its hinder end and then stayed there at a full stop—half of itself in the air.

‘My gosh!’ one of the uncles shouted. ‘What’s gone wrong now?’

‘Don’t touch it! I’m the only one here who understands the thing.’

‘No, you’re not!’ shouted the other uncle. ‘It was I who started it just now.’

They moved, both of them, off together toward the engine, and once more Maurice said, ‘Don’t you think, Father, that you and I—’ But he never finished his sentence. For, in moving, his sleeve had caught the track, jerked a piece crooked, and the train, suddenly coming to life again, was dashing forward.

‘Look out!’ Uncle Blair cried in an ecstasy of panic. ‘What are you doing, Maurice? Leave the thing alone. Here, get back! Get back! Don’t touch it!’ And, with his uncle’s vast body rushing toward him, he hurried himself out of the way.

Now he was entirely isolated. The three men were so completely occupied that they had forgotten him. He waited, his small hands clenched. They’d all forgotten him. Then he heard Miss Brent in the doorway:

‘Come, Maurice. You can play with your beautiful train later.’

He suffered himself to be led away. Luncheon was an especially fine one, with roast chicken and ice cream because it was his birthday. But after lunch, when he thought that he might go and examine the railroad quietly, Miss Brent said to him, ‘Your father thinks it’s better, darling, that you shouldn’t play with the train until to-morrow. He’s got a party to-night and he thought some of the ladies would like to look at it. So, as they got it running at last just before lunch, he doesn’t want it disturbed again.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Maurice.

‘Would you like to go to the Zoo this afternoon?’ Miss Brent asked.

‘Yes, if you like,’ Maurice said. At ordinary times, he adored the Zoo. But he didn’t enjoy it at all that afternoon.

He had his supper and was put to bed, fell asleep, and then awoke abruptly to the fact that there was a great deal of noise going on in the schoolroom. Loud voices, screams of laughter, and once and again he fancied he heard his father’s enchanting tones. He told himself that he must not listen, and he hid his head under the bed-clothes.

Then he could endure it no longer. He jumped out of bed, hesitated for a moment, standing there in his pyjamas; then timidly he opened the schoolroom door.

What a sight met him there! There was the railroad track and there was the train buzzing around, and there were ladies and gentlemen, all in the most brilliant evening clothes, his two uncles, each of them with an arm around a lady, some ladies and some gentlemen on their knees, and a perfect babble of cries:

‘Oh, look! Isn’t it marvellous?’

‘Don’t touch it, darling.’

‘There—it’s stopped!’

‘Give it a push!’

‘Look out! You’ll upset it!’

And then his father suddenly dropped on to his knees and cried out, ‘It’s done that twice! We had a terrible time this morning with it.’

Then his father looked up. He saw his son, very small in his striped pyjamas, staring at him. He jumped to his feet. ‘Why, it’s Maurice! What the devil——!’

Everyone turned and looked. But Maurice saw only his father.

‘Please, Father,’ said Maurice.

‘Here, what are you doing? You ought to be in bed. I’ll go and put you there.’

Maurice’s heart beat wildly. Was it, after all, to happen? But a beautiful lady, on her knees beside the engine, looked up and cried to Maurice’s father, ‘Look here, silly; I found out what’s the matter.’

‘Oh, have you?’ said Maurice’s father, his eyes suddenly becoming tender and translucent. He moved across to her.

Maurice closed the door and went back to his room. His eyes were filled with tears, so that he saw but indistinctly. Nevertheless, very clear to him was Lucy’s little train, lying on its side on the floor. He knelt down and picked it up and turned the little wheel on its side. With a ridiculous clicking noise, like an old lady whose false teeth were not securely fastened, it started across the carpet. Maurice looked at it....

Poor, sad, neglected little boy.... That might be the end, as it has been of so many stories. A remarkable thing, however, occurred. Maurice discovered that although his eyes were filled with tears, his heart was unexpectedly filled with rage. Why, it was his train, his birthday! His train—nobody else’s! His train! And he hadn’t been allowed even to touch it the whole day long!

He stood up. Suddenly he moved back to the schoolroom again. In another moment—and it was as though he were not truly himself—he was standing there. Now they were almost all on their knees, crowding the railway line, even pushing one another to get nearer to it. He cried out in a voice shaking with temper:

‘It’s my train! It’s my train! I haven’t been near it all day!’

Everyone looked up. There was a kind of spiritual gasp. Some lady said, ‘Doesn’t he look sweet?’

But his father had sprung to his feet and was staring at him as though he’d never seen him before. ‘Why, Maurice——’

Maurice’s fists were clenched, his eyes glared at his father. ‘It’s my train! You said it was! Why shouldn’t I play with it?’

His father looked at him, went across to him, picked him up, and rested him on his shoulder. ‘By George! He’s right! It’s right what he says. Look here—get out, all of you! Go downstairs and make merry. I’ll be with you later. Meanwhile, Maurice and I are going to have this to ourselves. Go on—clear out! Clear out!’

With laughter and cries and a general kind of orgy of merriment, out of the room they all went. Maurice was put down on the floor.

‘And now,’ said his father, his arm around his son, holding him close to him, ‘let’s make this thing work properly. It’s been sticking all day. What it really needed was you to attend to it!’