Collected Stories (25 page)

“What's wrong with it?” Terry asked indignantly. “'Tis a fine boat.”

“A wonder it wouldn't sail properly so,” she said with an accusing, schoolmarmish air.

“How could it when the water is too fast for it?” shouted Terry.

“That's a good one,” she retorted in pretended grown-up amusement. “'Tis the first time we ever heard of water being too fast for a boat.” That was another very aggravating thing about her—her calm assumption that only what she knew was knowledge. “'Tis only a cheap old boat.”

“'Tisn't a cheap old boat,” Terry cried indignantly. “My aunt gave it to me.”

“She never gives anyone anything only cheap old things,” Florrie replied with the coolness that always maddened other children. “She gets them cost price in the shop where she works. Everyone knows that.”

“Because you're jealous,” he cried, throwing at her the taunt the village children threw whenever she enraged them with her supercilious airs.

“That's a good one too,” she said in a quiet voice, while her long thin face maintained its air of amusement. “I suppose you'll tell us now what we're jealous of?”

“Because Auntie brings me things and no one ever brings you anything.”

“She's mad about you,” Florrie said ironically.

“She is mad about me.”

“A wonder she wouldn't bring you to live with her so.”

“She's going to,” said Terry, forgetting his promise in his rage and triumph.

“She is, I hear!” Florrie said mockingly. “Who told you that?”

“She did; Auntie.”

“Don't mind her at all, little boy,” Florrie said severely. “She lives with her mother, and her mother wouldn't let you live with her.”

“Well, she's not going to live with her anymore,” Terry said, knowing he had the better of her at last. “She's going to get married.”

“Who is she going to get married to?” Florrie asked casually, but Terry could see she was impressed.

“A man in England, and I'm going to live with them. So there!”

“In England?” Florrie repeated, and Terry saw he had really knocked the stuffing out of her this time. Florrie had no one to bring her to England, and the jealousy was driving her mad. “And I suppose you're going?” she asked bitterly.

“I am going,” Terry said, wild with excitement to see her overthrown; the grand lady who for all her airs had no one to bring her to England with them. “And I'm getting a bike of my own. So now!”

“Is that what she told you?” Florrie asked with a hatred and contempt that made him more furious still.

“She's going to, she's going to,” he shouted furiously.

“Ah, she's only codding you, little boy,” Florrie said contemptuously, splashing her long legs in the water while she continued to fix him with the same dark, evil, round-eyed look, exactly like a witch in a storybook. “Why did she send you down here at all so?”

“She didn't send me,” Terry said, stooping to fling a handful of water in her face.

“But sure, I thought everyone knew that,” she said idly, merely averting her face slightly to avoid the splashes. “She lets on to be your aunt but we all know she's your mother.”

“She isn't,” shrieked Terry. “My mother is dead.”

“Ah, that's only what they always tell you,” Florrie replied quietly. “That's what they told me too, but I knew it was lies. Your mother isn't dead at all, little boy. She got into trouble with a man and her mother made her send you down here to get rid of you. The whole village knows that.”

“God will kill you stone dead for a dirty liar, Florrie Clancy,” he said and then threw himself on her and began to pummel her with his little fat fists. But he hadn't the strength, and she merely pushed him off lightly and got up on the grassy bank, flushed and triumphant, pretending to smooth down the front of her dress.

“Don't be codding yourself that you're going to England at all, little boy,” she said reprovingly. “Sure, who'd want you? Jesus knows I'm sorry for you,” she added with mock pity, “and I'd like to do what I could for you, but you have no sense.”

Then she went off in the direction of the wood, turning once or twice to give him her strange stare. He glared after her and danced and shrieked with hysterical rage. He had no idea what she meant, but he felt that she had got the better of him after all. “A big, bloody brute of nine,” he said, and then began to run through the woods to the cottage, sobbing. He knew that God would kill her for the lies she had told, but if God didn't, Mrs. Early would. Mrs. Early was pegging up clothes on the line and peered down at him sourly.

“What ails you now didn't ail you before?” she asked.

“Florrie Clancy was telling lies,” he shrieked, his fat face black with fury. “Big bloody brute!”

“Botheration to you and Florrie Clancy!” said Mrs. Early. “Look at the cut of you! Come here till I wipe your nose.”

“She said my aunt wasn't my aunt at all,” he cried.

“She what?” Mrs. Early asked incredulously.

“She said she was my mother—Auntie that gave me the boat,” he said through his tears.

“Aha,” Mrs. Early said grimly, “let me catch her round here again and I'll toast her backside for her, and that's what she wants, the little vagabond! Whatever your mother might do, she was a decent woman, but the dear knows who that one is or where she came from.”

A
LL THE SAME
it was a bad business for Terry. A very bad business! It is all very well having fights, but not when you're only five and live a mile away from the village, and there is nowhere for you to go but across the footbridge to the little railway station and the main road where you wouldn't see another kid once in a week. He'd have been very glad to make it up with Florrie, but she knew she had done wrong and that Mrs. Early was only lying in wait for her to ask her what she meant.

And to make it worse, his aunt didn't come for months. When she did, she came unexpectedly and Terry had to change his clothes in a hurry because there was a car waiting for them at the station. The car made up to Terry for the disappointment (he had never been in a car before), and to crown it, they were going to the seaside, and his aunt had brought him a brand-new bucket and spade.

They crossed the river by the little wooden bridge and there in the yard of the station was a posh gray car and a tall man beside it whom Terry hadn't seen before. He was a posh-looking fellow too, with a gray hat and a nice manner, but Terry didn't pay him much attention at first. He was too interested in the car.

“This is Mr. Walker, Terry,” his aunt said in her loud way. “Shake hands with him nicely.”

“How're ye, mister?” said Terry.

“But this fellow is a blooming boxer,” Mr. Walker cried, letting on to be frightened of him. “Do you box, young Samson?” he asked.

“I do not,” said Terry, scrambling into the back of the car and climbing up on the seat. “Hey, mister, will we go through the village?” he added.

“What do you want to go through the village for?” asked Mr. Walker.

“He wants to show off,” said his aunt with a chuckle. “Don't you, Terry?”

“I do,” said Terry.

“Sound judge!” said Mr. Walker, and they drove along the main road and up through the village street just as Mass was ending, and Terry, hurling himself from side to side, shouted to all the people he knew. First they gaped, then they laughed, finally they waved back. Terry kept shouting messages but they were lost in the noise and rush of the car. “Billy! Billy!” he screamed when he saw Billy Early outside the church. “This is my aunt's car. We're going for a spin. I have a bucket and spade.” Florrie was standing outside the Post Office with her hands behind her back. Full of magnanimity and self-importance, Terry gave her a special shout and his aunt leaned out and waved, but though Florrie looked up she let on not to recognize them. That was Florrie all out, jealous even of the car!

Terry had not seen the sea before, and it looked so queer that he decided it was probably England. It was a nice place enough but a bit on the draughty side. There were whitewashed houses all along the beach. His aunt undressed him and made him put on bright blue bathing-drawers, but when he felt the wind he shivered and sobbed and clasped himself despairingly under the armpits.

“Ah, wisha, don't be such a baby!” his aunt said crossly.

She and Mr. Walker undressed too and led him by the hand to the edge of the water. His terror and misery subsided and he sat in a shallow place, letting the bright waves crumple on his shiny little belly. They were so like lemonade that he kept on tasting them, but they tasted salt. He decided that if this was England it was all right, though he would have preferred it with a park and a bicycle. There were other children making sand-castles and he decided to do the same, but after a while, to his great annoyance, Mr. Walker came to help him. Terry couldn't see why, with all that sand, he wouldn't go and make castles of his own.

“Now we want a gate, don't we?” Mr. Walker asked officiously.

“All right, all right, all right,” said Terry in disgust. “Now, you go and play over there.”

“Wouldn't you like to have a daddy like me, Terry?” Mr. Walker asked suddenly.

“I don't know,” replied Terry. “I'll ask Auntie. That's the gate now.”

“I think you'd like it where I live,” said Mr. Walker. “We've much nicer places there.”

“Have you?” asked Terry with interest. “What sort of places?”

“Oh, you know—roundabouts and swings and things like that.”

“And parks?” asked Terry.

“Yes, parks.”

“Will we go there now?” asked Terry eagerly.

“Well, we couldn't go there today; not without a boat. It's in England, you see; right at the other side of all that water.”

“Are you the man that's going to marry Auntie?” Terry asked, so flabbergasted that he lost his balance and fell.

“Now, who told you I was going to marry Auntie?” asked Mr. Walker, who seemed astonished too.

“She did,” said Terry.

“Did she, by Jove?” Mr. Walker exclaimed with a laugh. “Well, I think it might be a very good thing for all of us, yourself included. What else did she tell you?”

“That you'd buy me a bike,” said Terry promptly. “Will you?”

“Sure thing,” Mr. Walker said gravely. “First thing we'll get you when you come to live with me. Is that a bargain?”

“That's a bargain,” said Terry.

“Shake,” said Mr. Walker, holding out his hand.

“Shake,” replied Terry, spitting on his own.

He was content with the idea of Mr. Walker as a father. He could see he'd make a good one. He had the right principles.

They had their tea on the strand and then got back late to the station. The little lamps were lit on the platform. At the other side of the valley the high hills were masked in dark trees and no light showed the position of the Earlys' cottage. Terry was tired; he didn't want to leave the car, and began to whine.

“Hurry up now, Terry,” his aunt said briskly as she lifted him out. “Say night-night to Mr. Walker.”

Terry stood in front of Mr. Walker, who had got out before him, and then bowed his head.

“Aren't you going to say good-night, old man?” Mr. Walker asked in surprise.

Terry looked up at the reproach in his voice and then threw himself blindly about his knees and buried his face in his trousers. Mr. Walker laughed and patted Terry's shoulder. His voice was quite different when he spoke again.

“Cheer up, Terry,” he said. “We'll have good times yet.”

“Come along now, Terry,” his aunt said in a brisk official voice that terrified him.

“What's wrong, old man?” Mr. Walker asked.

“I want to stay with you,” Terry whispered, beginning to sob. “I don't want to stay here. I want to go back to England with you.”

“Want to come back to England with me, do you?” Mr. Walker repeated. “Well, I'm not going back tonight, Terry, but if you ask Auntie nicely we might manage it another day.”

“It's no use stuffing up the child with ideas like that,” she said sharply.

“You seem to have done that pretty well already,” Mr. Walker said quietly. “So you see, Terry, we can't manage it tonight. We must leave it for another day. Run along with Auntie now.”

“No, no, no,” Terry shrieked, trying to evade his aunt's arms. “She only wants to get rid of me.”

“Now, who told you that wicked nonsense, Terry?” Mr. Walker said severely.

“It's true, it's true,” said Terry. “She's not my auntie. She's my mother.”

Even as he said it he knew it was dreadful. It was what Florrie Clancy said, and she hated his auntie. He knew it even more from the silence that fell on the other two. His aunt looked down at him and her look frightened him.

“Terry,” she said with a change of tone, “you're to come with me at once and no more of this nonsense.”

“Let him to me,” Mr. Walker said shortly. “I'll find the place.”

She did so and at once Terry stopped kicking and whining and nosed his way into Mr. Walker's shoulder. He knew the Englishman was for him. Besides he was very tired. He was half asleep already. When he heard Mr. Walker's step on the planks of the wooden bridge he looked up and saw the dark hillside, hooded with pines, and the river like lead in the last light. He woke again in the little dark bedroom which he shared with Billy. He was sitting on Mr. Walker's knee and Mr. Walker was taking off his shoes.

“My bucket,” he sighed.

“Oh, by gum, lad,” Mr. Walker said, “I'd nearly forgotten your bucket.”

E
VERY
Sunday after, wet or fine, Terry found his way across the footbridge and the railway station to the main road. There was a pub there, and men came from up from the valley and sat on the wall outside, waiting for the coast to be clear to slip in for a drink. In case there might be any danger of having to leave them behind, Terry brought his bucket and spade as well. You never knew when you'd need things like those. He sat at the foot of the wall near the men, where he could see the buses and cars coming from both directions. Sometimes a gray car like Mr. Walker's appeared from round the corner and he waddled up the road towards it, but the driver's face was always a disappointment. In the evenings when the first buses were coming back he returned to the cottage and Mrs. Early scolded him for moping and whining. He blamed himself a lot because all the trouble began when he broke his word to his aunt.