by Gee, Maurice
Mrs Chalmers made well-bred faces at the names. ‘There are things more important, Mr Hedges. But, confining it to music, Irene shows excessive enthusiasm and I don’t care for it.’
‘She doesn’t feel it’s excessive.’
‘What she feels has no bearing on it. We feel – Mr Chalmers and I – that Irene has had all the music she requires. Moderation, we feel, is more important at this point. Much of what she played seemed so noisy. And it’s not as if she needs music as a livelihood, unlike Frau Stauffel. As a matter of fact, Mr Hedges, I’m pleased to have the instrument out of the house.’ She saw that Hedges did not understand. ‘I had some men take the piano away. It seemed the patriotic thing to do.’
‘Patriotic?’
‘It was a German one.’
‘But,’ Hedges said, and could say no more. He could not have been more appalled if she had told him Irene was to be kept on bread and water. However, he mastered himself and said dryly, ‘I hope you didn’t keep the money.’
‘As a matter of fact, I donated it to the Belgian Relief Fund.’ She picked up a little hand-bell engraved with forget-me-nots and tinkled it once. Nancy came in, and Mrs Chalmers said, ‘Show Mr Hedges out. And Mr Hedges, another word. Irene will be going to a private school very soon. Mr Chalmers will be in touch with you. Good day.’
He went out into the sunshine and felt he had come out of prison. A thrush was singing in a walnut tree, but that did not bother him. The bird had settled down here, unlike the woman in the house. England was ten thousand miles away, and English gardens, and the song it sang was a New Zealand one. Mrs Chalmers, playing ladies, was a foreigner – more foreign, he thought, than Lotte Stauffel. Unfortunately though, she could damage people.
He walked down from nob hill into the town, meaning to have a word with Chalmers, but when he reached the Council Chambers he saw Irene going in with Kitty Wix, and the girl had such a fierce look on her face he guessed she knew what had happened and was all set to do something about it. Best leave it to her. She was a tough little thing and no doubt could twist her father round. He felt sorry for the man, caught between self-important wife and strong-minded daughter, and walked on, grinning. He crossed the park and went along by the tidal stretch of the river, through the poorer part of the port settlement, and came out by the warehouses and wharves. This was his day for tackling problems. He was on his way to see Charlie Miller.
His Worship the Mayor, Francis Chalmers, was feeling groggy, and feeling mean, and feeling resentful – all by turns. He was conscious of his importance and couldn’t understand how his twelve-year-old daughter could reduce him to this state. Looking at her shrewish face, with snapping eyes and snapping mouth, over his desk, he found himself wondering where this fierce person lived, who she was, and what her relationship could be with the Irene who sat so quietly on the sofa at home. He knew he should be able to stop all this by raising his finger, looking stern, but she had a spell on him. He was paralysed. He was frightened, too, of what would happen when she found out what else her mother had done.
‘Now Irene, you know how she is when she makes up her mind. There’s no chance of going back to Frau Stauffel.’
‘Pa –’
‘Find something else, eh? Tell you what, I’ll buy you a kitten.’
‘I don’t want a kitten. I’ll drown it in the river.’
Kitty Wix spoke up. ‘I go to Frau Stauffel. My mother says she’s the best teacher in town.’
‘I’d sooner have a new mother than a new teacher,’ Irene said.
‘Now you don’t mean that, dear.’
‘I’ll run away from home. I’ll live with Frau Stauffel.’
Chalmers looked at her desperately. ‘A pony? And a saddle? A piebald pony?’
‘I hate horses.’
‘But Frau Stauffel,’ Chalmers cried, ‘she’s a German. And the piano…’ He hadn’t meant to say it, but it was out. Quickly he added, ‘It’s her doing, not mine.’
‘Yes? What?’ Now she had changed again. She was cold and dangerous. She was an adult.
Woefully Chalmers said, ‘She sold the piano.’
‘Sold it! My piano!’
‘We’ll buy another one. An English one.’
‘I don’t want an English one. I want mine.’
‘Don’t, love. Please don’t make a fuss.’ He was so pathetic, Kitty felt like going and holding his hand. He took off his glasses and wiped the skin round his eyes. She had never seen anyone look so naked or helpless. ‘She’ll send you away to school.’
‘If I don’t get my piano back I’ll go away to school,’ Irene answered. To Kitty it seemed she had grown up fifteen years. It made her shiver. She saw how little she knew Irene Chalmers.
A gentle little knocking came on the door, a secretary knock, and the man put his head in and coughed. That gave Francis Chalmers a chance to grow back to his full height. ‘Yes. What is it?’
‘Mr Marwick wants to see you, Sir. He’s very insistent.’
‘Tell him to wait.’
‘I don’t think he’ll do that, Sir.’
The door was pushed in roughly and the secretary hauled aside. Edgar Marwick stood there, hands on hips, chin thrust out. ‘I want to talk to you, Chalmers.’
‘You’ll wait,’ Chalmers said. ‘You’ll go back there and sit on a chair and wait your turn. Or else I’ll call a policeman and have you removed.’
‘You listen –’
‘At once! Do as I say.’
Edgar Marwick blinked. He took his hands off his hips. ‘All right,’ he growled, ‘but I haven’t got much time. So shake a leg.’ He turned and went back to the outer office and the secretary leaned in and closed the door.
Chalmers kept himself puffed up. He faced his daughter and frowned. ‘All right, young lady, I’ll think about your problems. Off you go.’
‘Daddy, I want my piano.’
‘Don’t speak to me in that voice, Miss. I’ll do what I can. Now, I’ve got business, as you can see. Here’s a shilling. Buy a bottle of fizz. Two bottles.’ He gave Irene the coin. ‘Don’t drink them in the street. Come back here.’
He shunted them out. Irene did not argue. She saw that she had done as much as she could, but she gave a cross look at the angry man, Marwick, as she went through the outer room. He had come and spoiled it just when her father was curling up.
Hedges pulled a face as he looked at the Miller house. It stood in a narrow street at the back of wharf sheds, the only occupied one in a line of derelict shanties. Fitter for rats than humans, he thought. The boards were rotten, broken away from the framing, the roof had patches of rust and dents as though a giant had punched it with his fist. The door, half open, was jammed on the floor, where it had worn a shiny, sickle-shaped groove. Charlie Miller’s empty handcart stood in a yard littered with cans and bricks and warped boards and bottles with yellow water and fungus in them. Hedges rolled them aside with his shoe. He knocked at the door. ‘Charlie?’
No answer came. He knocked again and called more loudly, then stepped inside. After the bright day, the room was as dark as a cave. It was furnished with two chairs and a table, one of whose legs had a fence paling tied on it as a splint. Two plates and two cups stood on a shelf, and a pot and pan were on a wood range let into the wall. A torn shin was drying on a wire rack by the chimney. Nothing covered the floor but grit and dust balls. But someone had made an effort to tidy the place. A tear in the curtain was sewn up with string. The table had a newspaper spread on it as a cloth. ‘British Forces Take Neuve Chapelle’, Hedges read, and he gave a snort of amusement. That showed a retentive mind, at least.
‘Miller,’ he called. He looked in a half-curtained alcove where a mattress lay on the floor with a blanket on it. He sniffed, expecting the place to reek of gin, but only picked up whiffs of grease and cabbage. Then he saw a sheet of paper spiked on a nail, and peered in the dim light and made out Halley’s Comet, long-tailed on a black sky. So, he thought, the little devil – but he was pleased.
Phil burst in. He came so fast he crashed into the door and sent it shrieking back two feet in its groove on the floor. He faced Hedges, panting.
‘What do you want?’
‘Ah, Phil.’ Hedges stepped out of the alcove. ‘I thought I’d have a word with your father.’
‘What for? You’ve got no right coming in here.’
Thomas Hedges was not used to being told by boys what he could do, but he kept his temper. He crossed the room and sat in a chair, which threatened to tip him off, it was so wobbly. ‘Where did you spring from?’ he asked Phil.
‘At my job. I saw you down the street.’
‘Job, eh?’
‘I clean the yard at Chalmers’.’
‘Pay you much?’
‘Sixpence.’
‘The skinflint! I’ll have a word with him.’
‘No!’ Hedges raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s my job. I can look after myself.’
‘So you say.’ He looked around. ‘Only one mattress. Where does your father sleep?’
‘We share it.’
‘I see. And who does the cooking? And who does the housework?’
‘I do.’ Phil came further into the room. ‘It’s tidier than this most of the time.’
‘Yes, I see. I’m more worried about your education. Where is he?’
Phil looked down sullenly. ‘Work,’ he said.
‘His cart’s in the yard.’
‘He doesn’t do that any more.’
‘A proper job, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Phil said.
‘Does that mean he’s stopped drinking?’
‘Yes. He has.’
‘Good for him. Where’s he working?’
Phil shrugged. He turned to Noel, standing in the door. ‘Get out, Wix. I didn’t ask you in.’
Hedges saw the diversion. ‘Where, Miller?’
‘None of your business.’
Hedges banged the table with his hand. ‘Answer me!’
‘In the mill,’ Phil muttered.
‘What, White’s Landing? Over the hill? So you’re living alone?’
‘He sends me money. I can look after myself. I can cook stew. And cabbage. Potatoes.’
‘I’m sure you can. But you can’t live alone, boy. And you can’t do yourself justice at school. It’s getting something into your head I’m worried about.’ He thought he saw a smirk on the Wix boy’s face. ‘What’s the matter, Wix? You think because he needs a bath he’s got no brains?’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘He’s just as brainy as you. He’s almost as brainy as your sister.’
Noel said nothing and Hedges looked at him sideways. The boy was sulking. ‘What are you doing down here, anyway?’
‘I was helping Phil.’
‘I didn’t know you were friends. You were trying to break each other’s necks today.’
Noel shrugged. He wasn’t Phil’s friend, but knew he couldn’t say it.
Hedges watched them both – both of them sulking. He was amused, but had some affection for them, and a good deal of concern for Phil.
‘And where did you get to today? Sneaking off after swimming?’
‘Nowhere, sir.’
‘No such place, boy.’
‘Just another swim.’
‘You didn’t ask me, did you?’
They didn’t reply, and Hedges sighed. He knew he’d lost his chance of getting anywhere with Phil. ‘Well,’ he said, standing up, ‘don’t do it again. You drown and your parents will see me in prison. Come on now, the pair of you. Up the road and I’ll shout you a bottle of fizz. And Phil, I’ll tell you the secret of a stew, handed down from my Ma. Follow me.’
He knew Phil did not get many treats.
Edgar Marwick was getting nowhere with Chalmers. He remembered those prancing boys and felt their knees digging in his spine, and saw Hedges looking down at him, and he swelled with rage at the shame and insult. But Chalmers said, ‘It’s no good shouting. The court made its decision and I couldn’t change it even if I wanted. The river pools are vested in the city.’
‘You listen to me –’
‘No, you listen. The public have access to the river. You can’t put up a notice. If you do you’re breaking the law and we’ll call the police.’ Chalmers laid his hands on his desk to demonstrate the end of the argument.
‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?’
‘It is.’
Marwick looked at him with hatred. A little pink and white plump man with fat hands and a fat little voice, he stood for the town. Marwick wanted to smash him, open the case where his chain was hanging and throttle him with it. He leaned across the desk and was pleased to see Chalmers draw back. ‘You can think it’s finished if you like, but I’m not finished. There’s plenty of things I can do.’ He turned and went to the door, and stopped and pointed his finger, felt he had Chalmers speared on it. ‘You’ll find out.’ He strode out through the secretary’s office, thumped the door open with his fist, and went down the granite steps two at a time to the street.
Kitty and Irene were coming up with bottles of raspberryade. They saw the fierce-eyed man charging at them, and tried to jump aside. Kitty was slow. He walked straight through her, striking her midriff with his hip. She went flying back across the footpath. Her bottle made a neat double arc and smashed at her feet as she plumped down. Raspberryade ran fizzing in the dust. Edgar Marwick turned and snarled at her. Then he went on in his broken gait, half gallop, half wolfish padding, with his right arm raised like a club. Kitty, dizzy with the blow, seemed for a moment to be sitting in the gas-lit street outside the bakery. The time between had gone, and the man charging away seemed to have a black coat flapping round him and a ball of fire on his head. Irene ran to help her.
‘That’s him,’ Kitty whispered. ‘That’s the man who knocked me down before.’
Chapter Five
The Letter
She told no one. Irene thought she should tell Mr Wix, but when Kitty said, ‘Would you tell your father?’ agreed that parents were unlikely to believe. Kitty, though she classed her father as much superior to Mr Chalmers, knew that adults wanted evidence and wouldn’t be satisfied with just a feeling, with a flash of knowledge – for that was what it was, and though it stayed with her, she saw it would convince no one else. Irene was convinced, but she had been there, and seen the man charge off and had felt something like that flash of knowledge herself. And Irene was her friend. They understood each other, and liked each other, and felt intensely loyal, and did not think it strange that all this had come about in less than a day.
Irene asked her mother if Kitty could stay the following night. Mrs Chalmers agreed, for it got them off the subject of pianos. She said she would drop a note to Mrs Wix in the morning. The girls sat together under the lime trees next day and exchanged sandwiches. Irene said her father had promised her a Broadwood, but not another Bechstein, and not her old one back, and no more lessons with Frau Stauffel. ‘But I’ll go back, you wait and see.’
‘Did you faint last night?’
‘I’m saving that up.’
‘You’d better do it now. Here comes Bolters.’
‘Irene, Kitty,’ Mrs Bolton cried, ‘you’re late for rehearsal. I don’t expect this sort of behaviour from you, Irene.’
‘We were practising our lines, Mrs Bolton.’
‘Oh, that’s different. I’m glad you’re setting an example.’
Meanwhile, Phil was in Hedges’ room, looking at a star chart spread on the table. He had been sour at first to be called in from the playground, but had to admit the chart was interesting.
‘There,’ Hedges said, ‘the Southern Cross. This is the Alpha star, this is the Beta. Those are Greek words meaning first and second. All the constellations are numbered in that way, from the brightest star down. These,’ he touched them, ‘are first magnitude stars.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘They’re in the class of brightest st
ars.’
‘What are constellations?’
‘Groups of stars. See, here.’ He pointed them out.
‘Have they all got names?’
‘Yes. Greek names. And individual stars have got names too, the brightest ones. Comets, now, they’re named after the people who see them first. Halley’s Comet. You’ve got a picture of that, haven’t you? – torn from one of my magazines.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Phil wondered if he’d been called in for punishment, but Hedges seemed calm enough about it. ‘I only took it because I remember.’
‘You’d only have been about six.’
‘I still remember. I sat on the roof and watched it with Dad one night.’
‘Ha! Good!’ Hedges was pleased the boy had memories of that sort. ‘I watched Halley’s Comet through the observatory telescope. Made some notes for the Institute.’
‘Can I look through the telescope?’
Hedges grinned. He was getting somewhere. ‘You take this chart. Memorise those constellations. Then we’ll see.’
Suddenly Mrs Bolton filled the door. ‘Mr Hedges! I need this boy for rehearsals. We’ve lost a quarter of an hour. Miller, this is not good enough. I’ve a good mind to replace you.’
Hedges sighed. ‘My fault, Mrs Bolton, don’t blame him. Off you go, Phil. I’ll leave this chart in my drawer. Take it when you want it.’ He watched out the classroom window as Mrs Bolton led Phil over the grass to the rest of the cast under the trees. She held a corner of his shirt between thumb and forefinger, making it plain he was in disgrace and that he was a grubby thing too, not to be touched. Hedges snapped his teeth. Sooner or later something would have to be done about Mrs Bolton.
The rehearsal was a read-through, but Noel had brought along a Prussian helmet with a spike on top and Mrs Bolton had given Kitty the school flag to drape on her shoulders. Some of the boys had wooden rifles.
‘Might is right,’ Noel declaimed. ‘Power is my reward. I trample through the green fields of France. I tear this poppy Belgium from her stem. My heel shall grind her petals in the mud.’ He screwed his foot in the grass, grinning fiercely.
