The Pandervils (31 page)

‘You'd better be off,' he advised. ‘Better go home.'

The blagg, encouraged by this mild cool voice, in which the trembling could hardly be disguised, began steadily and quickly climbing the slope.

‘Stand back,' cried Nicky, ‘or you'll get another one.'

Yet now, lacking unequivocal provocation, he could not bring himself to fling, from his greater height, another stone at this enemy. He stood in an agony of indecision and saw with dismay that the three other blaggs were following close in the wake of their leader, growling like dogs. He had almost forgotten Tooley, who lay strangely passive in the grass.

And now the foremost blagg was all but upon him. ‘'It 'im in the blurry eye, Sid, and 'ave done with it!' shouted his gallant supporters. And at this cry the attack suddenly and dreadfully quickened its pace. It seemed to Nicky that monsters from all sides were bearing down upon him. But they were not bearing down, they were bearing up; and in that simple distinction lay his one advantage.
Nervously at last, rather than with deliberation or intention, Nicky flung his stones. Both went wide of the mark, and the four threatening forms coalesced and became, in this fast gathering darkness, an octopus of horror. Nicky clenched his fists and struck out wildly; and at the same time there came a tremendous shout at his side and Tooley, making enough noise for an army, was laying about him furiously with his heavy stick. Nicky's fist reached something soft; the enemy scattered and gave ground. In ten seconds they were back on level ground at the bottom of the slope. Here they rallied and began a circling movement. Nicky, dancing round his burly but less nimble opponent, and not daring to come within reach of his long arm, saw in a quick glance to his left that the three others were closing murderously on Tooley. It became essential therefore that this big fellow should somehow be disposed of. There was no time to lose. Nicky ceased his cavorting and stood quite still, waiting for his opponent, who thereupon took up the dance and in a series of lurches and feints, withdrawals and advances, came at him with both fists threatening. Came nearer, but not much nearer; the fellow was taking his time, and Nicky felt as perhaps a mouse feels when the cat's paw stretches towards it. Quite suddenly he got sick of waiting. He crouched, darted at his opponent, seized him round the hams, and flung him on his back. It was all over in a second. The body had fallen with a thud; Nicky paid no more attention to it, but turned at
once to the rescue of his friend, to whose back a redheaded dirty-nosed blagg was clinging in an effort to throw him, while the other two, now armed with roughhewn cudgels, were rushing at him from the front. Nicky, wasting no time, thrust his hand under the chin of the climber and gave it a sharp jerk backwards; the fellow fell limply into the grass. It was all unbelievably easy; but Nicky judged, and judged truly, that this set-back, if it came short of finally defeating the enemy, would but infuriate them the more. It was on the tip of his tongue to say: ‘Quick, Tooley! Let's do a bunk for it!' But, as the two rascals picked themselves out of the grass, another idea visited him. He ran two paces up the slope, and making a trumpet of his hands called to the heights above: ‘Cooee, Brown! Cooee, Jones! Blaggs here! Up and at 'em!' He was back in the battlefield in time to see Tooley making gestures of derision at four retreating figures. The battle was over.

Vociferous, mutually admiring, and relating over and over again the chief incidents of the late war, the two boys hurried homewards.

‘I didn't half give him a wunner,' said Tooley. ‘But three to one was a bit too thick, it was. Lucky you came along when you did, Pandy.'

‘Funny the way my one flopped down,' said Nicky. ‘Like as if he was dead, almost. Flabby lot they seem when you get at them.'

And so on, a feast of triumph, excited rather than boastful, and already coloured a degree more richly than life by the artist hand of memory.
They burst into song, a topical song of which Edward the Seventh's hoped-for coronation was the theme:

We'll be merry
Drinking whisky, wine and sherry,
We'll be merry
On Coronation Day
.

‘Walloping for me very likely,' said Tooley. ‘Must be jolly late, you know.' They reached the end of Tooley's road and here their ways divided. ‘Glad it's Saturday to-morrow, aren't you?'

‘Yes,' said Nicky. ‘You coming out, I s'pose?'

‘You bet,' agreed Tooley. ‘Have you got to help your pater in the morning?'

‘Dessay I shall, but I'll be coming out some time ‘fore dinner.'

‘All right then. See you down Coppice.'

Nicky Pandervil walked thoughtfully on and turned into Farringay High Street. To his alarm he found Pandervil's Stores in darkness. It was after closing-time! Already conscious of being in disgrace he knocked at the house door his special knock—two short taps close together, pause, and two more. It was opened to him by Selina Bush the young woman of all work.

‘Where you bin,' said Selina, ‘this time of night? And just look at them dirty boots on my nice clean floor.'

Nicky estimated these reproaches at their true worth and significance, which was nothing at all.
He knew that he could get round Selina, and that Selina enjoyed being got round. ‘Where's Ma?' said he. ‘I say, Selina, is she in an awful wax about me?'

‘Your Ma's ill-a-bed. Took worse she is, and calling people out of their names something dreadful. If it wasn't for your poor father I wouldn't stay another minute, and I don't care who knows it.'

To this recital the boy paid but little attention: he had heard it all so often before. That his mother was ill did not surprise or alarm him; she was always more or less ill. ‘Where's Dad?' said he.

‘In the kitchen at his supper,' answered Selina. ‘Where else? And you just wash them hands, me lord, before you takes a single bite. Why, what's this?' She seized Nicky by the shoulders and drew him towards the jet of gaslight that dimly lit the little hall. Nicky, flinching under her scrutiny, became aware of his swollen underlip. He wriggled free and plunged into the kitchen to greet his father.

‘Hullo, Dad!'

His father, thin, grey-whiskered, elderly, was seated at the kitchen table munching bread and dripping, with one eye on his newspaper, which was propped against the loaf. At his son's entry he looked up, peered over the rims of his reading spectacles, and gazed in mild surprise. It was his customary welcome, for he had never, it seemed, quite outlived his astonishment at being the begetter
of so young and lively a thing as Nicky. Always when taken unawares, as now, he had the air of seeing the miracle for the first time.

‘Well, my boy?' said he. Then, remembering something, he shook his head gravely. ‘Where've you been all this time? Didn't I tell you you got to be in at seven o'clock sharp? And your lip's swollen, if I know anything.'

‘Yes, but you see, Dad, me and Tooley got into an adventure …'

‘I dessay you did,' said his father grimly. ‘But that doesn't answer my question. Seven o'clock sharp means seven o'clock sharp, and it doesn't mean half-past eight, not by any manner of means. See?'

Nicky saw. He was silent. He took his place at the table without a word, but during the next five minutes he shot many a shy tentative glance at his father, who, having resumed his reading, contrived to appear not to notice these mute appeals, and made a stern show of opening out the newspaper, re-folding it at a new page, and holding it before his face.

Presently Nicky ventured to say: ‘Hullo, Dad!'

‘Well?' said his father.

‘Tooley and me,' said Nicky, ‘we had an adventure to-night down Coppice.'

‘H'm!' Mr Pandervil did not raise his eyes from his reading. ‘Down Coppice Piece?'

‘Yes,' said Nicky. And then he achieved a phrase that had been running like music in his mind for
half an hour past. ‘We had a brush with the blaggs, Dad.'

His father let fall the newspaper and leaned forward. ‘A brush with the blaggs, eh? Let's hear about it, my boy.'

After that grim experience school was for a while a definitely pleasant part of life, not merely something neither good nor bad that was taken for granted. All the world, it seemed—a world comprising the thirty-three boys in Nicky's form— was talking of Tooley and Pandervil's marvellous exploit: how they had assaulted and put to flight a dozen large and dreadful blaggs. It was Hart who, in the excess of his devotion to Pandy, had multiplied the number of blaggs by three: not in a spirit of mere mendacity but because he was carried into a poetic flight by the exuberance of his feelings. Hart was a small, dark, dynamic creature, and Pandy's special friend in school and playground, Tooley being his boon companion only out of school hours. To Tooley, who was a Fifth Form boy, Nicky Pandervil was a mere kid, and it was only the accident of their homes being so near each other that drew them together. Tooley was a home friend; Hart, who lived two miles in the opposite direction, was a school friend; and Nicky, who had never given to this distinction, or to the paradox arising from it, a moment's thought, was yet aware of it. The paradox was that with
Tooley, who was merely ‘a chap he knew', he was on visiting terms, whereas of the domestic life of Hart, his sworn chum, he knew and was content to know nothing at all.

‘Did you hit him on the nose, Pandy?' Days had passed since the great event, but Hart had not yet tired of it.

‘Well,' said Nicky, ‘it
felt
like a nose, but I couldn't exactly see.'

‘Good man!' Hart's eyes flashed in vicarious triumph. ‘Did it bleed a good lot, d'you think?'

Unanswerable question. ‘First it felt sort of hard and then it felt sort of soft, like … like bread and milk.'

‘Oo!' cried Hart. ‘P'raps you
broke
his beastly nose for him, hey?'

Nicky shook his head. ‘I don't think so,' he said modestly. He was surprised and a little repelled by Hart's pleasure in the slaughter, though warmed by his admiration. ‘There goes first bell.'

First bell was a warning tinkle; second bell, longer, was a summons. The noise in the playground did not perceptibly diminish, although plump Mr Glove, the youngest of the three masters, stood watchful in the schoolroom doorway with the bell in his hand ready to ring again.

‘I say, Pandy!' A rawboned lad with red ears and prominent teeth came running up. ‘Have you and Hart seen what old Mountain's been and written up in the lavvatry?'

‘No,' said Nicky. ‘What has he?'

Red Ears giggled. ‘Come and have a squint at it.' Nicky made no response. ‘Come on, Hart!'

‘If it's so funny, tell us, can't you!' suggested Nicky. ‘First bell's gone.'

‘Oh come on, Pandy,' said Hart, pulling at his arm.

Old Mountain, whose age was twelve and a half, was still admiring his own handiwork when Nicky and Hart joined his audience. They pushed forward to get a clear view of the masterpiece. Nicky rather disliked Mountain, but he was curious to see what he had written. He saw, and made a grimace at what he saw. It was the usual thing and just like Mountain, thought Nicky; and he felt a twinge of shame for his now satisfied, or frustrated, curiosity. He suddenly wanted to take it out of that swanker Mountain, who was now adding to his laurels by reciting all the naughty words he knew.

‘Do you call that funny! I don't,' said Nicky.

The recitation went on unchecked.

‘I know something funnier than that,' said Nicky contemptuously. ‘Got a pencil on you, Hart? Gimme!'

‘Bell's gone!' shouted a boy at the edge of the crowd. But only the most timid were deterred from pressing forward to see what Pandervil was up to, him that had fought twenty blaggs down Coppice. ‘What's he written?' Loud laughter in anticipation of delight. ‘Let's have a look at what Pandy's put!'

Nicky's inscription was a great success with its
public. They howled and hooted and jeered, the jeers being directed against Mountain, who, flushed to the ears and scowling, was almost the last to read the writing on the wall. Nicky had written:
Mountin is a dirty tike
. A very sober statement of fact, but it passed for wit among Mountain's former admirers. It was, oh, terribly funny; and, in view of the respective sizes of the two boys, almost unbelievably rash on Pandy's part. Mountain was in the Lower Fifth and was a notorious arm-twister. The world waited expectantly for the slaughter of the innocent.

Mountain looked ugly and threatening. ‘Pay you out for that, after!' he promised. Second bell had gone, and they were all in danger of being late for roll-call. That fact only, in the general opinion, had saved Pandervil from immediate extinction, although … after all, he had made pretty short work of those blaggs down Coppice Piece.

Eighteen boys were late for roll-call, the earliest of them arriving only in time to see the door of the schoolroom shut against them. They stood outside and trembled at thought of the wrath to come. Both Nicky and Hart were of the company of the damned. Inside the big yellow room, with its rows of worn desks, and its walls decorated with advertisements of the British Empire, Mr William Beddo, the principal, was calling the roll. This ceremony would be followed by prayers, after which—‘Here he comes!' said Hart, and the sound of a turning key attracted all eyes to the door. Mr
Glove, a youngish man whose hands and face seemed to ooze out of his clothes as though he were made of underdone pastry, stood with pencil and notebook in hand to take the names of the delinquents as they filed past him up the steps. ‘Ah, Pandervil, I thought
you
would be among the late ones! Wasn't it your little legs I saw gambolling across to the lavatory after first bell? I think so. I think so. And you too, Master Hart. We must learn to regulate our bodily functions with more discretion. Musn't we, Mountain? What, Benson, too! And Gray, and Oxenham, and Madders. Musn't we, Poole? I think so. I think so.' Wilting under the stern eye of Mr Beddo, who glared at them from his throne, the late boys, their names duly noted in Mr. Glove's little book, attached themselves to their respective classes. They despised Mr Glove more than they hated him, recognising his dreary facetiousness as but a poor imitation of another and more tolerable master, Mr Stagg, on whom this comparative newcomer was sedulously modelling himself. Mr Stagg had been at the school as long as even the oldest of the boys could remember, and it was he who took charge of Nicky's form for the first hour of this morning.