What Timmy Did

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

  CHAPTER III

  After Timmy Tosswill had been to the village shop and done his mother'serrand, he wandered on, his dog, Flick, at his heels, debating withinhimself what he should do next.

  Like most children who lead an abnormal, because a lonely, childhood, hewas in some ways very mature, in other ways still very babyish. He was atonce secretive and--whenever anything touched his heart--emotionallyexpansive. To the indifferent observer Timmy appeared to be anexceptionally intelligent, naughty, rather spoilt little boy, too aptto take every advantage of a certain physical delicacy. This was alsothe view taken of him by his half-brothers, and by two out of his threestep-sisters. But the three who really loved him, his mother, his nurse,and his eldest half-sister, Betty, were convinced that the child waseither possessed of a curious, uncanny gift of--was it second sight?--ashis old nurse entirely and his mother half, believed, or, as Dr.O'Farrell asserted, some abnormal development of his subconscious self.All three were ruefully aware that Timmy was often--well, his mothercalled it "sly," his sister called it "fanciful," his nurse by the goodold nursery term, "deceitful."

  It was this unlovable attribute of his which made it so difficult to knowwhether Timmy believed in the positive assertions occasionally made byhim concerning his intimate acquaintance with the world of the unseen.That he could sometimes visualise what was coming to pass, especiallyif it was of an unpleasant, disturbing nature, was, so his motherconsidered, an undeniable fact. But sometimes the gift lay in abeyancefor weeks, even for months. That had been the case, as Mrs. Tosswill hadtold Dr. O'Farrell, for a long time now--to be precise, since March,when, to the dismay of those about him he had predicted an accident inthe hunting field which actually took place.

  Timmy walked on up the steep bit of road which led to the upper partof the beautiful old village which was, like many an English village,shaped somewhat like a horseshoe--and then suddenly he stopped and gazedintently into a walled stable-yard of which the big gates were wide open.

  Beechfield was Timmy Tosswill's world in little. He was passionatelyinterested in all that concerned its inhabitants, and was a familiar andconstant, though not always a welcome visitor to every cottage. Most ofthe older village men and women had a certain grudging affection for theodd little boy. They were all well aware of, and believed in, the giftwhich made him, as the nurse had once explained to a crony of hers, "seethings which are not there," though not one of them would have cared tomention it to him.

  Timmy had a special reason for wishing to know what was going on in thisstable-yard, so, after a moment's thought, he walked deliberately throughthe gates as if he had some business there, and then he saw that two men,one of whom was a stranger to him, were tidying up the place in a veryleisurely, thoroughgoing manner.

  The back door of The Trellis House, as the quaint-looking, long, lowbuilding to the right was incongruously named, opened into thestable-yard and by the door was a bench. Timmy walked boldly across theyard and established himself on the bench and his dog, Flick, jumped upand sat sedately by him. The little boy then took a small black book outof his pocket. The book was called "The Crofton Boys" and Timmy hadchosen it because the name of the new tenant of The Trellis House wasMrs. Crofton, a friend, as he was aware, of his godfather, GodfreyRadmore. He wondered if she had any boys.

  The two men, busy with big new brooms, came up close to where Timmy wassitting. When the child, obviously "one of the gentry," had walked intothe stable-yard, they had abruptly stopped talking; but now, seeing thathe was reading intently, and apparently quite uninterested in what theywere doing, they again began speaking to one another, or rather one ofthem, a hard-bitten, shrewd-looking man, much the older of the two, begantalking in what was, though Timmy was not aware of it, a Cockney dialect.

  "You won't find 'er a bad 'un to work for, m'lad. I speak of folks as Ifind them. I'm not one to take any notice of queer tales!"

  "Queer tales. What be the queer tales, Mister Piper?"

  Timmy knew this last speaker. He was the baker's rather sharp youngerson, and Mrs. Crofton had just engaged him as handy man.

  The older man lowered his voice a little, but Timmy, who, while his eyesseemed glued to the pages of the book he held open, was yet listeningwith all his ears, heard what followed quite clearly.

  "It ain't for me to spread ill tales after what I've told you, eh? Butthe Colonel's death was a reg'lar tragedy, 'twas, and some there were whosaid that 'is widder wasn't exactly sorry. 'E were a melancholy cove forany young woman to 'ave to live with. But there, as my old mother used tosay, 'any old barn-door can keep out the draught!'"

  The younger man looked up:--"What sort o' tragedy?" he asked.

  "The Colonel pizened 'isself, and the question was--did 'e do it o'purpose? Some said yes, and some said no. I was in it by a manner ofspeaking."

  "You was in it?"

  The boy left off working, and gazed at the other eagerly:--"D'you meanyou saw him do it?"

  "I was the first to see 'im in his agony--I calls that being in it. AndI was called upon to give evidence at the inquest held on the corpse."

  The man looked round him furtively as he spoke. The little boy sitting bythe back door of the house caused him no concern, but he did not wantwhat he said to be overheard by the two new maid-servants who had arrivedat The Trellis House that morning.

  "There's always a lot of talk when folks die sudden," he went on, in asententious tone. "It was as plain as the nose on your face that theColonel, poor chap, 'ad 'ad what they called shell-shock. I'd heard 'ima-talking aloud to 'isself many a time. 'E was a-weary of life 'e was. So'tis plain 'e just thought 'e'd put an end to it, like many a better manafore 'im."

  And then the youth said something that rather surprised himself, but hismind had been working while the other had been talking.

  "Did anyone say different?" was his question and the other answered ina curious tone: "Now you're askin'! Yes, there was some folk as did saydifferent. They argued that the Colonel never took the pizen knowingly.'E was very keen over terriers--we bred 'em. The best of 'em, a grandsire, was the very spit of that little dawg sitting up on that therebench. Colonel bred 'em for profit, not pleasure. Mrs. Crofton, she'ated 'em, and she lost no time either in getting rid of 'em after'e was gone. They got on 'er nerves, same as 'e'd done. She give thebest--prize-winner 'e was--to the Crowner as tried the corpse. 'E'd known'em both--was a bit sweet on 'er 'isself."

  The youth laughed discordantly. "Ho! Ho! She's that sort, is she?"

  But the other spoke up at once with a touch of sharpness in his voice.

  "She's a good sort to them as be'aves themselves, my lad. She give me agood present. Got me a good, new soft place, too, that's where I'm goingto-morrer. I'm 'ere to oblige 'er, that's what I am--just to put you,young man, in the way of things. Look sharp, please 'er, mind yourmanners, and you may end better off than you know!"

  The lad looked at the speaker with a gleam of rather hungry curiosity inhis lack-lustre eyes.

  "Mark my words! Your missus won't be a widder long. Ever 'eard of a MajorRadmore?"

  The speaker did not notice that the little boy sitting on the benchstiffened unconsciously.

  "Major Radmore?" repeated the listener. "Folk in Beechfield did know achap called Radmore. Lives in Australia, he does. He sent home some moneyfor a village club 'e did, but nothing 'as been done about it yet. Somedo say old Tosswill's sticking to the cash--a gent as what they callstrustee of it all. But then who'd trust anyone with a load o' money? Thechap I'm thinking of used to live at Tosswill's a matter of ten yearsago."

  "Then 'tis the same one!" exclaimed the other eagerly, "and, if so,you'll not lack good things. Likely as not the Major's your futuremaster. 'E's got plenty, and a generous soul too. Gave me a present lastyear when he was a stopping at Fildy Fe Manor. The Major, 'e bought oneof our dawgs, and I sent it off for 'im to Old Place, Beechfield, damnme if I don't remember it now--name of Tosswill too." He stopped short,and then, as if he had thought better of what he
was going to say, heobserved musingly: "Some says Jack Piper's a blabber--but they don't knowme! But one thing I'll tell you. The're two after the Missus, for all theColonel's 'ardly cold, so to speak, but I put my money on the dark one."

  He had hardly uttered these cryptic words when a pretty young womanopened the door which gave on to the stable-yard from the house:"Dinner-time!" she called out merrily.

  Both men dropped the brooms they were holding, and going towards the doordisappeared.

  As they did so, Timmy heard the words:--"_She's_ a peach--thinks herselfone too--oh! the merry widder!"

  The little boy waited a moment. He took a long look round the sunny, andnow unnaturally tidy, stable-yard. Then he got up, shut his book, and putit sedately into his pocket. Flick seemed unwilling to move, so Timmyturned and called sharply:--"Flick! come along at once!"

  The dog jumped down and ran up to his master. Timmy walked across thebig, flat, white stones, kicking a pebble as he went. At last, when hegot close to the open gate, he hop-scotched, propelling the pebble farinto the road.

  He was extremely disturbed and surprised. He went over and overagain what he had heard the two men say. The absurd suspicion of hisfather filled him with angry hurt disgust. Why only yesterday the planof the village clubhouse had come from the architect! And then thatextraordinary disconcerting hint about his godfather? Godfrey Radmorebelonged in Timmy's imagination, first to himself, secondly to hisparents, and then, in a much less close way, to the rest of the Tosswillfamily. A sensation of strong-dislike to the still unknown new tenant ofThe Trellis House welled up in his secretive little heart, and instead ofgoing on round the village, he turned back and made his way straighthome.

  As he walked along the short avenue which led to the front door of OldPlace he saw his mother kneeling on her gardening mat. He stepped up onto the grass hoping to elude her sharp eyes and ears, but she had alreadyseen him.

  "Hullo, Timmy!" she called out cheerfully. "What have you been doing withyourself all this time?"

  "I've been sitting reading in the stable-yard of The Trellis House."

  "That seems rather a funny thing to do, when you might have been herehelping your Mummy," but she said the words very kindly. Then suddenlythe mention of The Trellis House reminded her of Godfrey Radmore. "I'vegot a great piece of news!" she exclaimed. "Guess who's coming here tospend the week-end with us, Timmy?"

  He looked at her gravely and said:--"I think I know, Mum."

  She felt taken aback, as she so often was with her strange little son.

  "I don't think you do," she cried briskly.

  "I think it's"--he hesitated a moment--"Major Radmore, my godfather."

  She was very, very surprised. Then her quick Scotch mind fastened on theone unfamiliar word. "Why _Major_ Radmore?" she asked.

  Timmy looked a little confused. "I--I don't know," he mutteredunwillingly. "I thought he was a soldier, Mum."

  "Of course he _was_ a soldier. But he isn't a soldier now."

  "Isn't it tea-time?" asked Timmy suddenly.

  "Yes, I suppose it is."

  As they walked towards the house together Janet was telling herselfuneasily that unless Timmy had met Dr. O'Farrell, it was impossible forhim to have learnt through any ordinary human agency that Godfrey Radmorewas coming to Beechfield. Though a devoted, she was not a blind mother,and she was disagreeably aware that her little son never "gave himselfaway." She did not wish to start him on a long romancing explanationwhich would embody--if one were to put it in bald English--a lie. So shesaid nothing.

  They were close to the door of the house when he again took her aback bysuddenly saying:--"I don't think Mrs. Crofton can be a very nice sort oflady, Mum."

  (Then he had seen Mrs. Crofton, and _she_ had told him.)

  "Why not, Timmy?"

  "I have a sort of feeling that she's horrid."

  "Nonsense! If only for your godfather's sake, we must all try and likeher. Besides, my boy, she's in great trouble. Her husband only died twoor three months ago."

  "Some people aren't sorry when their husbands die," remarked Timmy.

  She pretended not to hear. But as they walked through into the hallshe heard him say as if to himself: "Some people are glad. Mrs. GeorgePott"--the woman who kept the local beer-shop--"danced when _her_ husbanddied."

  "I wish, Timmy," said his mother sharply, "that you would not listen to,or repeat low village gossip."

  "Not even if it's true, Mum?"

  "No, not even if it's true."

  When Janet had first come to Old Place as a bride, eager to shoulder whatsome of her friends had told her would be an almost intolerable burden,her husband's six children had been a sad, subdued, nursery-brought-upgroup, infinitely pathetic to her warm Scotch heart. At once she hadinstituted, rather to the indignation of the old nurse who was yet tobecome in due time her devoted henchwoman, a daily dining-room tea, andthe custom still persisted.

  And now, to Timmy's surprise, his mother opened the drawing-room doorinstead of going on to the dining-room. "Tell Betty," she said abruptly,"to pour out tea. I'll come on presently."

  She shut the door, and going over to the roomy old sofa, sat down, andleaning back, closed her eyes. It was a very unusual thing for her todo, but she felt tired, and painfully excited at the thought of GodfreyRadmore's coming visit. And as she lay there, there rose up before her,wearily and despondently, the changes which nine years had brought to OldPlace.

  Janet Tosswill, like all intelligent step-mothers, sometimes speculatedas to what her predecessor had really been like. Her husband's elderchildren were so amazingly unlike one another, as well as utterly unlikeher own son Timmy.

  Betty, the eldest of her step-children, was her favourite, and she hadalso been deeply attached to Betty's twin-brother, George. The two hadbeen alike in many ways, though Betty was very feminine and Georgeessentially masculine, and each of them had possessed those specialhuman attributes which only War seems to bring to full fruition.

  George had been out in France seven months when he had been killed atBeaumont Hamel, and he had already won a bar to his Military Cross by anaction which in any other campaign would have given him the VictoriaCross. As for Betty, she had shown herself extraordinarily brave, cool,and resourceful when after doing some heavy home war work, she had goneout with one of the units of the Scottish Women's Hospital.

  But Janet Tosswill admired and loved the girl more than ever sinceBetty had come back, from what had perforce been a full and excitinglife, to take up the dull, everyday routine existence at Old Place where,what with a bad investment, high prices, and the sudden leap in theincome-tax, from living pleasantly at ease they had become mostunpleasantly poor.

  Jack, who came next to Betty, though a long way after, and who had justmissed being in the war, was a very different type of young Englishmanfrom what George had been. He was clever, self-assertive, and alreadyknown as a brilliant debater and as a sound speaker at the Oxford Union.There need be no trouble as to Jack Tosswill's future--he was going tothe Bar, and there was little doubt that he would succeed there. One ofhis idiosyncrasies was his almost contemptuous indifference to women. Hewas fond of his sisters in a patronising way, but the average pleasantgirl, of whom the neighbourhood of Beechfield had more than its fullshare, left him quite cold.

  The next in age--Dolly--was the most commonplace member of the family.Her character seemed to be set on absolutely conventional lines, and thewhole family, with the exception of her father, who did not concernhimself with such mundane things, secretly hoped that she would marry ayoung parson who had lately "made friends with her." As is often the casewith that type of young woman, Dolly was feckless about money, and wouldalways have appeared badly and unsuitably dressed but for the efforts ofher elder sister and step-mother.

  Rosamund, the youngest and by far the prettiest of the three sisters, wassomething of a problem. Though two years younger than Dolly, she hadalready had three or four love affairs, and when only sixteen, had beenthe heroin
e of a painful scrape--the sort of scrape which the peopleclosely concerned try determinedly to forget, but which everyone aboutthem remembers to his or her dying day.

  The hero of that sorry escapade had been a man of forty, separated fromhis wife. On the principle that "truth will out even in an affidavit,"poor Rosamund's little world was well aware that the girl, or rather thechild, had been simply vain and imprudent. But still, she had disappearedfor two terrible long days and nights, and even now, when anythingrecalled the episode to her step-mother or to Betty, they would shudderwith an awful inward tremor, recollecting what they had both gonethrough. That she had come back as silly and innocent a girl as she hadleft, and feeling as much shame as she was capable of feeling, had beenowing to the tardily awakened sense of prudence and honour in the man towhom she had run away in a fit of temper after a violent quarrel with--ofall people in the world--her brother Jack.

  Rosamund now ardently desired to become an actress, and after much secretdiscussion with his wife, her father had at last told her that if shewere of the same opinion when she reached the age of twenty-one he wouldput no obstacle in her way.

  As to Tom, the youngest of Janet Tosswill's step-children, he was "quiteall right." Though only fifteen months younger than Rosamund, whereas shewas as much of a woman as she ever would be, he was still a cheery,commonplace schoolboy. He had been such a baby when Janet had marriedthat sometimes she almost felt as if he were her own child and thatthough Tom's relation to her own son was peculiar. Theoretically thetwo boys ought to have been pals, or at any rate good friends. But inpractice they were like oil and water--and found it impossible to mix.When Tom was at home, as now, on his holidays, he spent most of his timewith a schoolfellow of his own age who lived about two miles fromBeechfield. In some ways Timmy was older now than Tom would ever be.