A Song of Sixpence (15 page)

A somewhat hollow silence followed this remarkable demonstration. It was broken by my mother calling me from the head of the stair. Apparently we had been pressed to stay the night with Uncle Bernard but to my disappointment, since I harboured an extraordinary inclination to resume my acquaintance with Nora in the hen house, Mother had declined. And now, as it was past four o'clock, she said we must leave for our train.

While she was getting her coat and hat Leo, who had not spoken to me once, had not even appeared aware of my existence, came slowly towards me. While his tall, sad, enigmatic presence loomed above me, he produced from his shiny trouser pocket a short handful of silver amongst which, after a diligent search, he found a threepenny bit.

‘Here, boy,' he said. ‘Don't waste it. It's hard-earned money. And always remember this. Your best friend is your own bank book.'

So far I had not been at all favourably impressed by Uncle Leo but now, discovering him to be so poor—a suspicion I had already entertained—yet willing to spare me this coin, albeit the smallest in the realm, and as I now observed, thin, darkish in colour and slightly bent, all of which made me dubious of its negotiability, I felt a twinge of sympathetic pity and thanked him profusely.

‘It seems Bernard has put you in hand,' he said impassively, though his lips were twitching again. ‘There's no end that he means to do for you. I've a poor sort of business myself, but if ever you should need a job or want to learn a trade, come to me. I've told your mother.'

Without saying goodbye he turned and went off.

Nora and Terence, now released from duty by his father, came with us to the station. How pleased I was when Nora took my hand, swinging it as we walked along. I reddened with gratification when Terry asked me if I could still run fast. It was good to be in the open again with a fresh breeze to blow away all the strange and conflicting impressions so summarily forced upon me. Mother's step seemed lighter too, as though she had not been at ease in Bernard's house, and that while she had supported it with calm and fortitude the day had been for her a fearful ordeal.

Seated together in the corner of a third-class compartment she did not speak. Gazing intently into her face I felt sadness descend upon her. What were her thoughts? Of my father no doubt, and perhaps of how blessedly different he had been, as was Simon too, from those other brothers. Or did she think of the strangeness of her life, contrasting her upbringing and early background, both so proper and correct, with all that she had experienced and endured today? I could not guess. Then, all that mattered was that she held me close to her as the train rumbled past the Lomond Vaults and, gathering speed, bore us through a pale serene sunset towards the darkening valley of the Fruin beyond.

In the second week of April Mother and I moved down to Miss Greville's house—a memorable transition, not in domicile alone, but also in our lives. The accommodation so graciously offered was pleasing and, everything considered, well suited to our needs. At the back of the first floor of the spacious maisonette we had two nice rooms, not large but well lit and cheerful since both overlooked the lawn, and an adjoining smaller room, actually a deep alcove which Miss Greville, by installing a gas cooker and a porcelain sink, had converted to a small but practicable kitchen. A bathroom, too, was conveniently near on the half-landing. Care had undoubtedly been taken and thought expended to make us comfortable and while I had no exact knowledge of the sum Mother paid in rent it must of necessity have been disproportionately modest, representing, in my view, Miss Greville's wish to help us, rather than any sordid desire for gain.

Here, then, in this miniature lodging, our new life began. Every morning Mother rose at seven o'clock and made our breakfast. Usually I had a cereal called grapenuts, then we each had a boiled egg and hot buttered toast. I drank a glass of milk while Mother had several cups of very strong tea. She confided in me that she could never do without her morning tea. It seemed to brisken and fortify her, although she still looked sad. She had not yet lost the pinched look that startled me when I returned from Port Cregan.

After breakfast she washed the dishes and I dried them, then, while I finished dressing, she put on her new business suit, a costume of dark grey material, and how relieved I was to see her out of that sinister funeral black, which she had wisely decided would be prejudicial to her work. At quarter past eight we left the house together, Mother resolutely to take the eight-forty train for Winton, I reluctantly, to go to school. I need hardly add that I was still attending St Mary's—our position at the moment was too uncertain to justify any change to a better school.

Nevertheless, if that cherished dream seemed deferred, I was amply compensated by a new and striking departure from my dull routine. Since my poor mother was away all day, did not in fact get home until six o'clock at night, and made the best of some kind of lunch at one or other of the city tea rooms, Miss Greville had suggested, had indeed insisted, that I take my midday meal with her. Lunch with Miss Greville became then the fascination and, at least in the beginning, the bane of my existence.

On the first day, when I arrived, breathless at half past twelve, having hurried all the way back from school for fear of being late, she was waiting for me in the dining-room, standing erect with her thumb in her waistband. She glanced at the curious bronze and porcelain clock on the mantelpiece.

‘Good. You are punctual. Go and wash your hands. And brush your hair.'

When I returned, she indicated my place. We sat down. The food, served by Campbell, the silent elderly maid who behaved as though I did not exist, was delicious, hot, and startlingly strange. The table appointments, among which twin silver pheasants were outstanding, no less than the arrangement of the heavy silver cutlery, embarrassed and intimidated me. I dropped my stiff napkin and had to grope under my chair. When I had retrieved it Miss Greville addressed me pleasantly.

‘We are going to have our first little talk, Carroll. You observe that I call you simply Carroll. As you are now the only Carroll in this vicinity you have no claim to be known as
young
Carroll.'

To a boy endearingly denoted Laurie, and only on the strictest occasions referred to as Laurence. I could only regard this repeated use of my second name a brutal assault on my feelings.

‘To resume. When we go to table you must in future withdraw my chair and see that I am properly seated before
you
seat yourself. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Miss Greville,' I said, abjectly.

‘Again, during our lunches, which I trust will always be agreeable to you, we must cultivate the art of conversation. We shall talk of current events, of sport if you wish, of natural history, books, music, and of people. The first person to be discussed, Carroll, is you.'

I turned hot all over.

‘To begin, I assume that you have no desire to become a confirmed brooder. You know, of course, what that is?'

‘Some kind of a hen,' I faltered.

‘Apt, Carroll, if erroneous. A creature perpetually wallowing in self-pity. Would you wish to be like that?'

‘No, Miss Greville.'

‘Then you must stop being sorry for yourself. Fond though I am of your mother I regard you as suffering from an excess of maternal leniency. I therefore propose to introduce you to the Spartan ideal. Doubtless you know of the Greek city of Sparta, where weak children were simply exposed and left to perish? Or better still, simply thrown over the cliff.'

‘Oh, no,' I gasped.

‘I,' said Miss Greville coldly, ‘have seen the actual cliff. Now, Carroll, do you want to be thrown over the cliff or to live like a real Greek boy?'

‘And how
did
he live?' I tried to express contempt.

‘From the day he went to school at the age of seven he spent a considerable part of each day exercising under trained supervision, in the palaestra. He wrestled, ran, punched a ball filled with fig seeds, rode bareback, learned to throw missiles and ward them off, his interest being kept alive by innumerable competitions for boys of different ages. But enough of history. For the present it will suffice to suggest to you the virtue of a cold bath every morning, of strenuous exercises, of endurance tests that harden the body and summon up the blood. The uncomfortable truth is, Carroll, that I find you a soft, spoiled, spineless, and abnormally solitary boy.'

Outraged beyond belief, I felt my eyes fill with water.

‘If you weep, Carroll,' she said firmly, ‘I shall, from this instant, utterly disown you.'

Repressively, I bit my lip hard. Cruelly maligned though I was, I did not, strangely, wish to be disowned. Besides, indignation was beginning to seethe in me. The phrase ‘abnormally solitary' stuck in my throat.

‘Perhaps you will tell me,' I said carefully, so as not to break down, ‘how a boy in my position can help it. Who can he not be solitary with?'

‘With me. I am going to take you in hand.' Miss Greville regarded me calmly. ‘Do you know anything of botany?'

‘No, I don't,' I answered sulkily.

‘Then tomorrow, as it is Saturday, you shall begin to learn. Be ready at nine sharp. And now you must have another cutlet. Only, remember that your fork is not a shovel. The prongs are to be utilized. Do not scoop. Impale.'

Having thus reduced me, Miss Greville now appeared to withdraw into herself. With a faint, peculiar smile on her lips, her mood seemed focused on the invisible. Her eye, however, remained on the clock. When it struck one she rose and, taking the cup of coffee that had been served her, advanced to the window. Spellbound, I watched her take her stand behind the long lace curtain where, partly concealed, she slowly sipped her coffee. Suddenly the cup was arrested, her smile deepened, remained. At last she turned and with a satisfied, almost a gay expression, put down her cup.

‘You may go now, Carroll,' she said pleasantly. ‘And don't forget. Tomorrow morning at nine.'

That afternoon in school, instead of attending to Sister Margaret Mary who was endeavouring to instruct us in the principles of compound fractions, I brooded darkly, almost heroically, on the insults I had received, and in the evening, when Mother returned from Winton, I informed her that I wished to be no party to the plans Miss Greville had conceived for me.

‘I think you should go, dear,' Mother said soothingly. ‘I'm quite sure Miss Greville means well by you.'

Thus it became apparent that Mother was in league with my detractor.

Next morning, between apprehension and expectation, I kept my appointment. Miss Greville presented a somewhat singular figure. She was wearing an oatmeal Harris tweed skirt much shorter than I thought proper, revealing muscular calves encased by a strong pair of weather-beaten high-laced brown boots. Her green Tyrolean hat, turned up at one side and perched on her head, sported a bushy ornament indistinguishable from a shaving-brush, and over her shoulder was rakishly slung a curious black japanned container.

‘That
,' she explained, reading my expression, ‘is a vasculum. And
this
is our lunch. You may carry it.'

Handing over a bulging knapsack as weather-beaten as her boots, she helped me to strap it on my back, then we strode off at a cracking pace along the Terrace and into Sinclair Road which led straight up the hill, Miss Greville using a curious spiked walking-stick covered with little silver badges. I wanted to ask what they were, but so furious was her assault upon the slope, I thought it wiser to save my breath. Besides, I was horribly conscious of the odd glances directed towards us by the passers by, looks of amused recognition which my companion disdainfully ignored.

Up we went, without a word exchanged between us. Soon we had passed the last big villas that were widely spaced in their extensive grounds among the first of the big pine trees. Civilization now lay behind us. We were totally in the pine woods. Sweat had started to run into my eyes, my breath made a sharp whistling tune, and when I saw that even this remote wood was not far enough, that she meant to take me to the high moors, I almost wilted. But I would not give in. Whatever puny spirit I possessed had been ignited by this abominable yet absorbing woman. I meant to show her that I was not the sort of boy to be chucked off-hand over that Spartan cliff.

With a dry throat and a pumping heart I kept on, sometimes at a half-trot, refusing to lag behind, and when at last we broke out of the woods on to that great wide expanse of moorland that ran on and on for many miles, free and undefiled across Glen Fruin to the shores of the Loch, I was still, though completely blown, at her side.

Here, mercifully, she drew up, looked at me, then took her watch out of her waistband.

‘One hour and twenty minutes,' she announced. ‘Not altogether bad. We'll do better as you progress. Are you fagged?'

‘Not in the least,' I lied.

Inspecting me closely, for the first time, she actually smiled.

‘Then we'll start on the real business of the day.' She spoke with animation. ‘It's been an open winter and with luck we should find some interesting things for your collection.'

Without enthusiasm. I followed her as, with bent head, she stalked off slowly into the heather.

‘You know, I'm sure, the commoner heath flowers. The ericas, not yet out, the yellow gorse, the broom and the cotton grass—these white tufts blowing in the wind.' She paused. ‘But have you seen this?'

‘No, I haven't,' I said sourly.

Kneeling down she had parted the grass and exposed a delicate little plant with pointed green leaves and starry, bright golden-yellow flowers.

‘The bog asphodel.
Narthecium ossifragum.
One of the
Liliaceae.
'

Quite against my wishes and inclination. I was impressed, not only by her manifest erudition, but by the sudden uncovering of this hidden, sparkling and wholly unsuspected flower.