Well, that ought to be easy. You’ve just had one.”
“Oh, but that’s different. When you sit down to write about it, it all seems stupid. You begin, I set out one fine spring morning,’ and then you can’t think of a single thing to write about.”
“Why not write about me?”
Wakefield gave a jeering laugh. “Who’d want to read about you! This comp. stuff has got to be read, don’t you see?”
Conversation was impossible for a space, while the blacksmith hammered the shoe into place. Wakefield sniffed the delicious odour of burnt hoof that hung almost visibly on the air.
Chalk put down the large foot he had been nursing, and remarked:
“There was a man wrote a piece of poetry about a blacksmith once. ‘Under a spreading chestnut tree,’ it began. Ever read it? He must have wrote it to be read, eh?”
“Oh, I know that piece. It’s awful bunk. And besides, he wasn’t your kind of blacksmith. He didn’t get drunk and give his wife a black eye and knock his kids around—”
“Look here!” interrupted Chalk with great heat. “Cut out that insultin’ kind of talk or I’ll shy a hammer at you.”
Wakefield backed away, but said, judicially, “There you go. Just proving what I said. You’re not the kind of blacksmith to write comp. or even poetry about. You’re not beautiful. Mr. Fennel says we should write of beautiful things.”
“Well, I know I ain’t beautiful,” agreed Chalk, reluctantly. “But I ain’t as bad as all that.”
“All what?” Wakefield successfully assumed Mr. Fennel’s air of schoolmasterish probing.
“That I can’t be writ about.”
“Well, then, Chalk, suppose I was to write down everything I know about you and hand it to Mr. Fennel’ for comp. Would you be pleased?”
“I say I’ll be pleased to fire a hammer at you if you don’t clear out!” shouted Chalk, backing the heavy mare toward the door.
Wakefield moved agilely aside as the great dappled flank approached, then he set off down the road—which had suddenly become a straggling street—with much dignity. The load of care that he had been carrying slid from him, leaving him light and airy. As he approached a cottage enclosed by a neat wicket fence, he saw a six-year-old girl swinging on the gate.
“Oo, Wakefield!” she squealed, delightedly. “Come an’ swing me. Swing me!”
“Very well, my little friend,” agreed Wakefield, cheerily. “You shall be swung, ad infinitum. Verbum sapienti.”
He swung the gate to and fro, the child laughing at first, then shrieking, finally uttering hiccoughing sobs as the swinging became wilder, and her foothold less secure, while she clung like a limpet to the palings.
The door of the cottage opened and the mother appeared.
“Leave her be, you naughty boy!” she shouted, running to her daughter’s assistance. “You see if I don’t tell your brother on you!”
“Which brother?” asked Wakefield, moving away. “I have four, you know.”
“Why, the oldest to be sure. Mr. Whiteoak that owns this cottage.”
Wakefield spoke confidentially now. “Mrs. Wigle, I wouldn’t if I were you. It upsets Renny terribly to have to punish me, on account of my weak heart—I can’t go to school because of it—and he’d have to punish me if a lady complained of me, of course, though Muriel did ask me to swing her and I’d never have swung her if I hadn’t thought she was used to being swung, seeing the way she was swinging as I swung along the street. Besides, Renny mightn’t like to think that Muriel was racking the gate to pieces by swinging on it, and he might raise your rent on you. He’s a most peculiar man, and he’s liable to turn on you when you least expect it.”
Mrs. Wigle looked dazed. “Very well,” she said, patting the back of Muriel, who still sobbed and hiccoughed against her apron; “but I do wish he’d mend my roof, which leaks into the best room like all possessed every time it rains.”
“I’ll speak to him about it. I’ll see that it’s mended at once. Trust me, Mrs. Wigle.” He sailed off, erect and dignified.
Already he could see the church, perched on an abrupt, cedar-clad knoll, its square stone tower rising, almost menacing, like a battlement against the sky. His grandfather had built it seventy-five years before. His grandfather, his father, and his mother slept in the churchyard beside it. Beyond the church and hidden by it was the rectory, where he had his lessons.
Now his footsteps lagged. He was before the shop of Mrs. Brawn, who had not only sweets but soft drinks, buns, pies, and sandwiches for sale. The shop was simply the front room of her cottage, fitted with shelves and a counter, and her wares were displayed on a table in the window. He felt weak and faint. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth with thirst. His stomach felt hollow and slightly sick. Plainly, no one on earth ever needed refreshment more than he, and no one on earth had less means for the payment for such succour. He examined the contents of his pockets, but, though there was much in them of great value to himself, there was not one cent in hard cash, which was all that Mrs. Brawn really cared about. He could see her crimson face inside the window, and he smiled ingratiatingly, for he owed her thirteen cents and he did not see where he was ever going to get the money to pay it. She came to the door.
“Well, young man, what about that money you owe me?” She was brusque indeed.
“Oh, Mrs. Brawn, I aren’t feeling very well this morning. I get these spells. I dare say you’ve heard about them. I’d like a bottle of lemon soda, please. And about paying—” He passed his hand across his brow and continued hesitatingly: “I don’t believe I should have come out in the sun without my cap, do you? What was I saying? Oh, yes, about paying. Well, you see my birthday’s coming very soon and I’ll be getting money presents from all the family. Eighteen cents will seem no more to me than thirteen then. Even a dollar will be nothing.”
“When does your birthday come?” Mrs. Brawn was weakening.
Again he passed his hand across his forehead, then laid it on his stomach, where he believed his heart to be. “I can’t exactly remember, ‘cos there are so many birthdays in our family I get mixed up. Between Grandmother’s great age and my few years and all those between, it’s a little confusing, but I know it’s very soon.” As he talked, he had entered the shop and stood leaning against the counter. “Lemon soda, please, and two straws,” he murmured.
Peace possessed him as Mrs. Brawn produced the bottle, uncorked it, and set it before him with the straws.
“How is the old lady?” she inquired.
“Nicely, thank you. We’re hoping she’ll reach one hundred yet. She’s trying awfully hard to. ‘Cos she wants to see the celebration we’ll have. A party, with a big bonfire and skyrockets. She says she’d be sorry to miss it, though of course we won’t have it if she’s dead, and she couldn’t miss what never really happened, could she, even if it was her own birthday party?”
“You’ve a wonderful gift of the gab.” Mrs. Brawn beamed at him admiringly.
“Yes, I have,” he agreed, modestly. “If I hadn’t, I’d have no show at all, being the youngest of such a large family. Grandmother and I do a good deal of talking, she at her end of the line and I at mine. You see, we both feel that we may not have many years more to live, so we make the most of everything that comes our way.”
“Oh, my goodness, don’t talk that way. You’ll be all right.” She was round-eyed with sympathy. “Don’t worry, my dear.”
“I’m not worrying, Mrs. Brawn. It’s my sister does the worrying. She’s had a terrible time raising me, and of course I’m not raised yet.” He smiled sadly, and then bent his small dark head over the bottle, sucking ecstatically.
Mrs. Brawn disappeared into the kitchen behind the shop. A fierce heat came from there, and the tantalizing smell of cakes baking, and the sound of women’s voices. What a good time women had! Red-faced Mrs. Brawn especially. Baking all the cakes she wanted and selling all those she couldn’t eat, and getting paid for them. How he wished he had a cake. Just one li
ttle hot cake!
As he drew the lovely drink up through the straws, his eyes, large and bright, roved over the counter. Near him was a little tray of packets of chewing gum. He was not allowed to chew it, but he yearned over it, especially that first moment of chewing, when the thick, sweet, highly flavoured juice gushed down the throat, nearly choking him. Before he knew it—well, almost before he knew it—he had taken a packet from the tray, dropped it into his pocket, and gone on sucking, but now with his eyes tightly closed.
Mrs. Brawn returned with two hot little sponge cakes on a plate and set them down before him. “I thought you’d like them just out of the oven. They’re a present, mind. They’ll not go on your account.”
He was almost speechless with gratitude. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” was all he could say, at first. Then, “But what a shame! I’ve gone and drunk up all my soda and now I’ll have to eat my cakes dry, unless, of course, I buy another bottle of something.” His eyes flew over the shelves. “I believe I’ll take ginger ale this time, Mrs. Brawn, thank you. And those same straws will do.”
“All right.” And Mrs. Brawn opened another bottle and plumped it down before him.
The cakes had a delicious crisp crust and, buried in the heart of each, about six juicy currants. Oh, they were lovely!
As he sauntered from the shop and then climbed the steep steps to the church, he pondered on the subjects assigned for today’s lessons. Which of his two most usual moods, he wondered, would Mr. Fennel be in? Exacting, alert, or absent-minded and drowsy? Well, whatever the mood, he was now at the mercy of it, little, helpless, alone.
He trotted through the cool shadow of the church, among the gravestones, hesitating a moment beside the iron fence which enclosed his family’s plot. His eyes rested on the granite plinth bearing the name “Whiteoak”; then, wistfully, on the small stone marked “Mary Whiteoak, wife of Philip Whiteoak.” His mother’s grave. His grandfather lay there too; his father; his father’s first wife—the mother of Renny and Meg; and several infant Whiteoaks. He had always liked this plot of ground. He liked the pretty iron fence and the darling little iron balls that dangled from it. He wished he could stay there this morning and play beside it. He must bring a big bunch of the kingcups that he had seen spilled like gold along the stream yesterday, and lay them on his mother’s grave. Perhaps he would give a few to the mother of Renny and Meg also, but none to the men, of course; they wouldn’t care about them; nor to the babies, unless to “Gwynneth, aged five months,” because he liked her name.
He had noticed that when Meg brought flowers to the graves she always gave the best to her own mother, “Margaret,” while to “Mary”—his mother and Eden’s and Piers’s and Finch’s—she gave a smaller, less beautiful bunch. Well, he would do the same. Margaret should have a few, but they should be inferior—not wilted or anything, but not quite so fine and large.
The rectory was a mellow-looking house with a long sloping roof and high-pointed gable. The front door stood open. He was not expected to knock, so he entered quietly, first composing his face into an expression of meek receptiveness. The library was empty. There lay his books on the little desk in the corner at which he always sat. Feebly he crossed the worn carpet and sank into his accustomed chair, burying his head in his hands. The tall clock ticked heavily, saying, “Wake-field—Wake-field—Wake—Wake—Wake— Wake—” Then, strangely, “Sleep—sleep—sleep—sleep...”
The smell of stuffy furniture and old books oppressed him. He heard the thud of a spade in the garden. Mr. Fennel was planting potatoes. Wakefield dozed a little, his head sinking nearer and nearer the desk. At last he slept peacefully.
He was awakened by Mr. Fennel’s coming in, rather earthy, rather dazed, very contrite.
“Oh, my dear boy,” he stammered, “I’ve kept you waiting, I’m afraid. I was just hurrying to get my potatoes in before the full of the moon. Superstitious, I know, but still— Now, let’s see; what Latin was it for today?”
The clock buzzed, struck twelve.
Mr. Fennel came and bent over the little boy. “How have you got on this morning?” He was peering at the Latin textbook that Wakefield had opened.
“As well as could be expected, by myself, thank you.” He spoke with gentle dignity, just touched by reproach.
Mr. Fennel leaned still closer over the page. “Um-m, let’s see. Etsi in his locis — maturae sunt hiemes — ”
“Mr. Fennel,” interrupted Wakefield.
“Yes, Wake.” He turned his shaggy beard, on which a straw was pendent, toward the boy.
“Renny wondered if you would let me out promptly at twelve today. You see, yesterday I was late for dinner, and it upset Grandmother, and at her age—”
“Certainly, certainly. I’ll let you off. Ah, that was too bad, upsetting dear Mrs. Whiteoak. It must not happen again. We must be prompt, Wakefield. Both you and I. Run along then, and I’ll get back to my potatoes.” Hurriedly he assigned the tasks for tomorrow.
“I wonder,” said Wakefield, “if Tom” (Mr. Fennel’s son), “when he’s got the pony and cart out this afternoon, would drop my books at the house for me. You see, I’ll need both dictionaries and the atlas. They’re pretty heavy, and as I am late already I’ll need to run every bit of the way.”
He emerged into the noontide brightness, light as air, the transportation of his books arranged for, his brain unfired by encounters with Caesar or Oliver Cromwell, and his body refreshed by two sponge cakes and two bottles of soft drink, ready for fresh pleasurable exertion.
He returned the way he had come, only pausing once to let an importunate sow, deeply dissatisfied with the yard where she was imprisoned, into the road. She trotted beside him for a short distance, pattering along gaily, and when they parted, where an open garden gate attracted her, she did not neglect to throw a glance of roguish gratitude over her shoulder to him.
Glorious, glorious life! When he reached the field where the stream was, the breeze had become a wind that ruffled up his hair and whistled through his teeth as he ran. It was as good a playfellow as he wanted, racing him, blowing the clouds about for his pleasure, shaking out the blossoms of the wild cherry tree like spray.
As he ran, he flung his arms forward alternately like a swimmer; he darted off at sudden tangents, shying like a skittish horse, his face now fierce with rolling eyes, now blank as a gambolling lamb’s.
It was an erratic progress, and, as he crept through his accustomed hole in the cedar hedge on to the shaggy lawn, he began to be afraid that he might, after all, be late for dinner. He entered the house quietly and heard the click of dishes and the sound of voices in the dining room.
Dinner was in progress, the older members of the family already assembled, when the youngest (idler, liar, thief, wastrel that he was!) presented himself at the door.
II
THE FAMILY
THERE seemed a crowd of people about the table, and all were talking vigorously at once. Yet, in talking, they did not neglect their meal, which was a hot, steaming dinner, for dishes were continually being passed, knives and forks clattered energetically, and occasionally a speaker was not quite coherent until he had stopped to wash down the food that impeded his utterance with a gulp of hot tea. No one paid any attention to Wakefield as he slipped into his accustomed place on the right of his half sister Meg. As soon as he had begun to come to table he had been set there, first in a high chair, then, as he grew larger, on a thick volume of British Poets, an anthology read by no member of the family and, from the time when it was first placed under him, known as “Wakefield’s book.” As a matter of fact, he did not need its added inches to be able to handle competently his knife and fork now, but he had got used to it, and for a Whiteoak to get used to anything meant a tenacious and stubborn clinging to it. He liked the feel of its hard boards under him, though occasionally, after painful acquaintance with Renny’s shaving strop or Meg’s slipper, he could have wished the Poets had been padded.
“I want my din
ner!” He raised his voice, in a very different tone from the conciliatory one he had used to Mrs. Brawn, Mrs. Wigle, and the rector. “My dinner, please!”
“Hush.” Meg took from him the fork with which he was stabbing the air. “Renny, will you please give this child some beef. He won’t eat the fat, remember. Just nice lean.”
“He ought to be made to eat the fat. It’s good for him.” Renny hacked off some bits of the meat, adding a rim of fat.
Grandmother spoke, in a voice guttural with food: “Make him eat the fat. Good for him. Children spoiled nowadays. Give him nothing but the fat. I eat fat and I’m nearly a hundred.”
Wakefield glared across the table at her resentfully. “Shan’t eat the fat. I don’t want to be a hundred.”
Grandmother laughed throatily, not at all ill-pleased. “Never fear, my dear, you won’t do it. None of you will do it but me. Ninety-nine, and I never miss a meal. Some of the dish gravy, Renny, on this bit of bread. Dish gravy, please.”
She held up her plate, shaking a good deal. Uncle Nicholas, her eldest son, who sat beside her, took it from her and passed it to Renny, who tipped the platter till the ruddy juice collected in a pool at one end. He put two spoonfuls of this over the square of bread. “More, more,” ordered Grandmother, and he trickled a third spoonful. “Enough, enough,” muttered Nicholas.
Wakefield watched her, enthralled, as she ate. She wore two rows of artificial teeth, probably the most perfect, most efficacious that had ever been made. Whatever was put between them they ground remorselessly into fuel for her endless vitality. To them many of her ninety-and-nine years were due. His own plate, to which appetizing little mounds of mashed potatoes and turnips had been added by Meg, lay untouched before him while he stared at Grandmother.
“Stop staring,” whispered Meg, admonishingly, “and eat your dinner.”
“Well, take off that bit of fat, then,” he whispered back, leaning toward her.
She took it on to her own plate.
Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna Page 59
