Fruit on the Bough: A heartfelt family saga about a brother and sister

by Ursula Bloom

  ‘The child will have to earn his living,’ said Isobel to her husband one wet March night. They were sitting before the fire, she knitting, George deep in one of Ouida’s romances.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What is he going to do?’

  ‘Time enough to think of that when he is old enough to do it.’ George returned indifferently to his novel.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said Isobel firmly.

  ‘I’m always wrong. I’m quite used to being wrong. It’s a funny thing that I’ve managed to live as long as I have, because I’m always so wrong.’

  ‘You’ve been lucky.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said George, sucking at his pipe (he was what is known as a ‘wet smoker’). ‘I’ve been hard-working. Twit can do what I did ‒ work for a living.’

  ‘Yes, but what at?’

  ‘There’s always the Civil Service.’

  Again Isobel persisted. ‘What branch of the Civil Service?’

  George tapped his pipe out on the hearth. ‘You’re so finicky. You got your pernickety habits from your mother. I won’t be catechised.’

  ‘Twit ought to go to school.’

  ‘I can’t afford it,’ said George, delivering his stock excuse.

  Isobel capitulated. ‘If I managed to save it from the housekeeping allowance, then you could afford it.’

  George surveyed her distastefully. He turned a vivid shade of plum, opened his mouth twice to speak, and finally his feelings became too much for him. ‘I always did think I gave you far too much. Now you dare suggest that you can save enough for the boy’s schooling. Why, you’d never get him in anywhere under forty pounds a year! It shows how you’ve been throwing money about.’

  Isobel let her knitting drop into her lap. She regarded him with mildly reproving eyes.

  ‘You allow me two hundred a year. We keep four maids, and feed three pupils. You cannot accuse me of being extravagant.’

  But George was sulky. He had returned to Ouida.

  It is doubtful whether he would have complied with Isobel’s repeated requests had it not been that one of the pupils complained of Twit. Mr. Jeffries had been entangled in a booby trap intended for Jill.

  Isobel pressed her point home. Mr. Jeffries paid well, and he had the north bedroom, which was difficult to keep tenanted, because it had no fireplace. As Mr. Jeffries was a paying proposition, George preferred to lose Twit. It was also convenient that Isobel had said that she would find the money out of the housekeeping. George began to look about him for a school.

  II

  The school materialised at Whoreham. It was a cheap seminary run by a dilatory clergyman for delicate boys. George went to see the place and conceived a violent and consuming passion for the clergyman’s sister, Miss Andrews. After that, George decided that the school was perfect, though he had never seen the dormitories, nor the gym, not a single class-room. He had sat in the Headmaster’s drawing-room, and had drunk execrable tea from a thin cup. He had talked the most absurd nonsense to an equally absurd maiden lady. In consequence George went home in a seventh heaven of delight, and decided that Twit should embark upon a scholastic career next term.

  Isobel was faced with fresh financial strain and a clothes list that was terrifying. She had her doubts about the school. Alone, she pored over the prospectus, and wished that she could have afforded to go to Whoreham and examine it. She had been so long the wife of George that she knew that she could never trust him at all. The one point remained uppermost in her mind, that if Twit did not go to this school, he would go to none.

  She marked his garments in marking ink. She made three sets of pyjamas in pink flannelette, and she decided that the requisite pants and vests would be impossible. Timidly she wrote to the matron and explained that Twit had three new pairs of good woollen combinations. Would these do? The matron wrote back and said that these would do very nicely.

  As the hour of parting arrived, Twit showed little chagrin. It was again Jill who wept. She opened the cheap jewel-case that her Aunt Mabel had given her (under the mistaken impression that Jill had jewels). She opened it with a small tin key, which she took great pains to hide from the servants. She believed that this was the proper procedure with the key of a jewel-case, whatever the case might contain. In this instance the contents were curious. There were six of her baby teeth rolling into the corners. A Christmas card sent to her by Emily one year. (She had taken a fancy to this because it had imitation frost on it and grated your finger in rather a pleasant manner when you rubbed it.) In addition to these there were a sample tube of Zam-buk sent to George, and rescued from the waste-paper basket, and a khaki soldier in sugar, a souvenir of the Boer War. Besides these valuable and useful mementos, Jill kept the whole of her worldly wealth in the red velvet dent of the top tray which the designer had intended to contain a watch. The fish business had done well. Jill had also taught herself to typewrite, on an old machine left by one of the pupils in the Christmas holidays. She had been paid liberally by George at sixpence for a thousand words (he doing the counting); a fair sum, therefore, had accrued. At the moment, she had one whole half-crown, two shillings, a sixpence, and some coppers. Jill magnificently presented the half-crown to Twit, for expenditure in the school tuck-shop. Twit accepted it glumly.

  III

  Twit went one Easter morning when the orchard was pink and pearl with the rosy snow of apple bloom. On the wide hall step stood Isobel and Jill to wave him good-bye. They both wept.

  ‘Well, you were the one who would keep harping on the boy going,’ said George cruelly, as they waited for the carrier’s cart.

  ‘I want him to do well.’

  ‘Then why howl about it? I’m sure I don’t understand you women. You always make a fuss.’

  The carrier’s cart lurched round the corner of the drive. Old Deacon had been bribed into coming all the way from the main road because of the difficulty with the luggage. The trunk was hoisted on to the back of the cart, and the tuck-box took its place by its side. There were blood-sodden sheepskins lying there, and four dismal hens in a too small box. There was other luggage, too. Deacon’s boy, Jo, took his place among it. He sprawled himself indifferently on the sacred tuck-box on which Isobel had expended her hardly-saved money. Inside the cart were old women going to market. Twit, with eyes becoming suspiciously moist, climbed up and sat himself down beside his father. George did not cry. He was thinking of Miss Andrews, whom he would see again that afternoon. Old Deacon whipped up the horses, and the rickety affair rolled off along the lane. It was Jill who turned sobbing to her mother.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let him go. He can’t see after himself. Oh, I wish Twit had never gone.’

  IV

  Twit arrived in no damper condition than did the forty-five other sons of gentlemen. A packet of butter-scotch, which had been the first investment of his sister’s half-crown, had eased the preliminary pangs. Then he had no idea that his home-made pyjamas were to be totted up against him. He did not grasp how unpardonable was the sin of three pairs of woollen combinations.

  Twit had never met his fellows before. Jill had been a vigilant sister, and she had never allowed any bullying to come his way. At the moment he suffered no disquiet, because he was entirely unsuspecting of what might lie before him. He sat mutely by his father’s side in the railway carriage, and he shared his butter-scotch with a youthful gentleman whose cap indicated that he also was bound for Whoreham.

  ‘So nice if you two can be friends,’ said George.

  But although the youthful gentleman showed every inclination to share the butter-scotch, he showed no inclination whatsoever to be friendly with Twit. On arrival at the station, a master met the sudden swarm of young gentlemen and conducted them to a brake. George negotiated with the only ‘fly’ which offered itself for hire. He and Twit solemnly drove towards the school. The cabman asked if he should wait. He was used to new boys, and fathers in a hurry to curtail the parting. But George dismissed the cabman. He was not con
cerned with the parting but only anxious to prolong the period with Miss Andrews.

  A maid ushered George and Twit across the hall into the small study beyond. They sat down contemplating each other in uncomfortable dismay. At this moment Twit longed for home with a deep, unassuageable longing. He took a violent dislike to the drab carpet and the dingy walls. He decided that he did not care about the hideous photographic groups displayed everywhere.

  ‘That’s Mr. Andrews,’ said George, and he indicated a series of photographs. First of all a smug-looking undergraduate with a fierce moustache; then a weak-looking curate who had got past the age when he defied the world by showing that he could grow a moustache; finally a portly bland clergyman in the corner.

  The door opened and a large benign man came in.

  ‘Ha, ha, my little man, and how are we to-day?’ said the large man.

  Instantly Twit knew that he hated Mr. Andrews.

  The Headmaster patted him and stood with his hand leaning heavily on Twit’s shoulder. Mr. Andrews mouthed out commonplaces. He told Twit that his school days would be the happiest in his life. He talked about the honour of the dear old school, and the glory of wearing the magenta and mauve cap. He alluded to the splendour of the badge that it bore ‒ a leopard’s head between two foxes ‒ a badge that Mr. Andrews had had much difficulty in choosing. He mentioned the splendid spirit behind the motto: Quo fas et gloria ducunt. None of this impressed the wretched Twit. He didn’t like the cap. He didn’t understand the motto. He wanted to go home.

  Mr. Andrews suggested that George should have tea. He would find Miss Andrews in the drawing-room, whilst the Head handed the little man over to the Matron. George, settling his tie, artfully chosen to suit the lady’s taste, scuttled off. Twit found himself taken possession of by the Matron.

  Matron was sorry for new boys, but she felt that they gave her a great deal of trouble, and she did not like people who were troublesome. Grudgingly she showed Twit his bed in the dormitory, his desk in the classroom, and the locker where he would keep his shoes. Then she pushed him out into the playground, where some ten or twelve young gentlemen were at play. They were kicking a ball about, running together, or standing in little groups. Twit approached an onlooker of about his own age. The onlooker had light red hair sticking out from under the magenta and mauve school cap. He was sucking a stick of pink rock.

  ‘I say,’ said Twit, ‘what do I do next?’

  The onlooker turned his back contemptuously and went on sucking at the stick of rock.

  ‘What do I do next?’

  ‘New bug,’ said the onlooker unexpectedly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘New bug,’ and he walked away.

  Twit approached another young gentleman, who treated him in the same manner. If he addressed anyone, they retaliated with ‘New bug.’ It seemed that there was a special convention ordaining it to be infra dig. to speak to a new boy.

  Twit was bewildered by the alien surroundings.

  V

  A bell clanged for tea. Not wishing to be left behind, Twit ran with the rest. The dining-room was dingy, and the tea was not inspiring. At the time Twit had no idea that it was the best tea of the term, for there was always the chance that a parent might see it. He found himself wedged between a couple of complacent boys who ate stolidly. Here, over doorsteps and mugs of tea, their manner melted a little. His right-hand neighbour, who admitted the manly name of ‘Stinker,’ even inquired as to his tuck-box. School was not so bad after all. Twit had no sentimentality, therefore he did not fret for the home people. He disliked being uncomfortable, but he believed that, when he got to know his companions, school would be no worse than home. It might even be nicer. After tea he went with his new-found friend to open his tuck-box. The friend said that as Twit was a new bug and did not know the ropes, he would undertake to keep his jam for him. The trusting Twit committed the three pots of jam to the charge of the inimitable Stinker. He never saw his jam again.

  VI

  Before bed they were given water to drink and a thick slice of stale bread. Twit left his. He found himself that night in the cold and inauspicious dormitory in the company of nine other little gentlemen. Never before had he undressed in public. There had been nothing of the team spirit in his training. Twit began to disrobe unwillingly. He laid his garments one by one on the stool placed for their reception. Matters proceeded serenely enough until he stood in the offending glory of the combinations. Stinker, who slept alongside, spied them.

  ‘Look at him!’ screamed Stinker. ‘He’s got his sister’s combies on!’

  ‘Look at him!’ derided the dormitory.

  They swooped down upon him like so many monkeys. They gibbered derisively. They prodded him with inquisitive fingers. ‘Sister’s combies … girl’s combies … Yah … Good old combinations.’

  Never before had Twit been assailed in so merciless a manner. He broke into frenzied and noisy tears.

  ‘Shut up, or Matron will be round.’

  ‘Shut up. Combinations.’

  A curious little gentleman, who had hitherto kept in the background, suddenly pounced on the pyjamas and held them up. They were as a red flag brandished before a tormented bull.

  ‘His Mummy made his pyjamas too.’

  At his wits’ end, Twit screamed. In at the far door came Matron. She had been having her supper on a tray, and the Andrews had sent her up corned beef. It was too bad of them, beginning the term with corned beef. Last term they had started with ham, and had only descended to German sausage in the last three weeks. Beginning with corned beef meant bread and cheese before the summer holidays. In upon her natural resentment against the Andrews there came the sound of booings and screechings from the dormitory. Matron was in the mood to let somebody ‘have it.’

  ‘Now, what’s all this fuss?’ she demanded sharply.

  ‘That boy pinched me,’ explained Twit. ‘They were laughing at my combies. That boy says my pyjamas are homemade.’

  The whole dormitory took in a long breath. The sneak! He’d better wait! That was all. To give Twit his due, he had never been rebuked for sneaking. He had no idea that it was wrong. Isobel had been so afraid of any ill befalling her delicate boy that she had always lent a willing ear. Matron wheeled round sharply.

  ‘Let the child alone, do,’ she said; ‘if there are any more disturbances I’ll report the dormitory to Mr. Andrews. And as to you’ ‒ she turned on Twit ‒ ‘stop that howling. Remember when you come to school it doesn’t pay to tell tales.’

  She went out and slammed the door on them. She had the satisfaction of knowing that she had worked the corned beef off on somebody.

  To Twit it seemed as though the fiends in hell were let loose upon him. They jeered at him. They promised him all manner of diabolical punishments. He got himself into his home-made pyjamas and was kicked into bed by Stinker. A little gentleman called Bouncer pulled the despised combinations on himself and paraded up and down in them, receiving immense applause. Into the midst of this scene walked Mr. Andrews to put out the lights. Bouncer made a dash for his bed, and spent the rest of the night woefully entangled in Twit’s combinations.

  ‘Well, good night, my little men. All well, I suppose, and glad to be back in the dear old school, eh?’ inquired Mr. Andrews.

  Twit began to speak. It was Stinker who shot out a hand and gripped his arm. ‘You do!’ murmured Stinker between his teeth.

  That night Twit howled himself to sleep.

  CHAPTER III

  ‘I should advise a friend never to begin a defence of his conduct before he is accused of error.’ ‒ Captain Ball to Lord Nelson.

  BLIND ALLEY.

  I

  From that day the bottomless pit of hell yawned before the wretched Twit. His world was alien. Isobel had been quite right in her grave misgivings about the place. Whoreham was hopelessly mismanaged. The food was bad and the tuition even more deplorable. The boys had named him ‘Combies,’ and ‘Combies’ he remained to the bitt
er end. Within a week they had bullied him into their code, but during that week Twit learnt much. The so-called school for delicate boys was criminal in its carelessness. He brought his obstinacy to bear upon his misery. Twit’s obstinacy was his strong point. He had been sent to this hell. He made up his mind that he would not learn anything, that he would not gain one fragment of knowledge from it. Twit took up a position at the bottom of the second form, and there he patiently sat for three entire years.

  They had sent him here to learn. Very well! He’d show them! Twit’s reasoning was illogical, and turned on himself. From his own distorted viewpoint it was a form of grim retaliation.

  There were prefects in the school. The god of them all was Martin. Martin was grown-up, he was seventeen and he shaved. Every morning hot water was brought to Martin and this splendid operation proceeded. Martin seldom looked at such small fry as Twit. He lived with the seniors and he talked an entirely different language. He even alluded to the Head with a splendid intimacy as ‘Old Andrews.’ Martin slept in Twit’s dormitory, with the cherry tree growing under the windows. It lifted kind branches to the ledges. At night, when the world slept, Martin would lower his splendid young person into these branches; he would lever himself down to the drive beneath and hie him away to the village a mile distant. Martin, who shaved, had a girl!

  There was dirt enough in the school if you wanted it. Twit had not been there a week before he discovered new angles of life. Sex did not interest him. If either of them had inherited George’s amatory instincts, it was Jill, not Twit. At the moment he was mainly absorbed in his own miseries. He hated the masters, all of whom gave their services in return for the smallest possible remuneration. Therefore they gave grudgingly, hating their job. Some of them were admittedly cruel. Twit learnt to prefer abuse to the cynicism of Mr. Andrews. Anything was better than that.