“Ah, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, Mr. Muggeridge!”
“Time will tell,” remarked Mr. Muggeridge, solemnly.
Richard’s friend was a thin man with a pale determined face, whose eyes, hair, and profuse side-whiskers were of deepest black. Mr. Muggeridge worked in the counting house of a Bermondsey potted meat factory; and although he was twenty years older than Richard, he had no grey hairs. This condition he ascribed to the healthy atmosphere of cooking mutton which pervaded the building where he had spent most of the last forty years of his living: mutton being the basis of the various potted meats. Mr. Muggeridge’s reasoning was simple. It was well-known, he said, that sheep had the largest amount of hair of any animal, and since the hair grew out of the resources of the body, so these resources, released into the atmosphere like the scent of hay, or the odour of flowers, most contain much essential virtue, which, breathed into human lungs, would enter the system and assure a good growth of hair, provided of course, that the roots were of good stock.
Mr. Muggeridge had expounded this theory to Richard, who had kept a straight face while with contented puffs of his meerschaum pipe, and rhythmic pulls on his string, the senior kite-flier had proved his point with a little tug of his flowing whiskers.
A queer old codger, thought Richard, with his frock coat, bowler hat, fancy waistcoat of cream cloth with faded red squares and brass buttons, green trousers, and brown boots. Mr. Muggeridge knew a little about butterflies, and had a smattering of knowledge about many subjects which made the desultory talk between them pass the time pleasantly enough. The real tie, however, was that both men had taken The Daily Trident from its first number, and swore by it.
The evening breeze freshened, and up went Richard’s kite. It had a bamboo frame tied in a cross, kept in position by taut string connecting the four bamboo ends. Upon this framework had been pasted, with a mixture of flour and water, several sheets of newspaper. The tail was made of wads of newspaper, graduated in size, strung upon fifteen yards of string.
Up went the kite, composed mainly of a score of issues of the Trident. It rose straight up in the wind, like a white serpent with a hooded head, its long white tail following it. Richard let the twine slip through his hands from the coils already laid upon the grass, the white serpent sank upon its skeleton tail again: but before it could touch earth he tautened the line, up it shot again. Richard wound the twine round his hand, for the pull was surprisingly heavy in the increasing wind; the kite rose up and then, without warning, described a semi-circle, and followed by its segmented tail, dived head-first to the ground.
“There you are, you see!” said Mr. Muggeridge, removing his meershaum pipe, “what did I tell you?”
Running forward, while trying to unwind the coils round his hand, Richard let go the cord. Too late! The kite plunged into the middle of a game of tennis near the hut of the park-keeper. “Oh Lor’,” he cried, fancying the work of several hours to be shattered.
The resilience of bamboo, and the strength of American wheat flour combined with the newsprint of The Daily Trident, however, had saved his kite. Apologising for having disturbed the game, Richard withdrew, followed by a band of small boys, who were inevitably attracted to anything out of the usual. Of course they wanted to help, and to ask questions. Richard did not reply, wary of making himself a mark on any future occasion when he should appear with his kite. He had learned his lesson during sledging on the Hill during the hard winter of ’95; he had giyen some boys a “go”, as they called it, on his sledge, and for months afterwards some urchin or other was liable to recognise and make for his presence. Too much of a good thing, by half!
“I told you so,” remarked Mr. Muggeridge, with satisfaction: “Your loop was tied too low.”
Richard did not reply to this implied censure. The slip-knot on the twine had obviously slipped down the suspending loops, so that the pressure of air had been too heavy on the top section. It was easily adjusted; up the serpent rose again, to rise and fall, climb and drop away farther each slipping of the twine through his fingers, until it was beyond the tennis court, high over the building of the Lavatory with its bushes and flower beds, and away towards Pit Vale and the Heath beyond. Not that it could get so far, but that was the fancy of the flier, and the ambition, too: for Richard intended to have, one day, one of the new box kites, perhaps two in tandem, held by fine steel wire on a windlass, to fly out of sight over the Thames. At night he would run up an Aeolian harp on the wire, by means of pulleys, and fill the air with mysterious music.
“That’s better, Mr. Maddison. You’ve got the loop attachment right now.”
“I think it was right before, you know, only it slipped down, Mr. Muggeridge.”
“I pointed it out, if you remember, Mr. Maddison.”
Richard, the argumentative and stickler for details, was the first to resent what he called hair-splitting in others. He made no reply. He had four hundred yards of cord on his winder, and as that was the competition length possessed by Mr. Muggeridge, and it had been agreed that the kites must fly in the same air-stream, the two men stood side by side, yellow straw boater and black bowler, brown beard and black whiskers, brown tweed and black melton, white flannel and green flannel (could those unusual trousers of Mr. Muggeridge’s have been made out of the old cloth of a billiard table?), two stalwarts of fresh air and The Daily Trident; while their kites, equally adherents of the most successful journalistic venture of modern times, rode upon the summer winds of Kent.
In the midst of the sunlit evening scene there was a sensation on the Hill. It stopped even the tennis (some of it two-handed, since the local standards were hardly those of Wimbledon, or the brothers Renshaw) and set everyone, old and young, peering upwards. For, drifting over from the direction of the Crystal Palace, the sun glinting on the spheroidal grey of its serene approach, was a balloon, looking, Richard remarked to Mr. Muggeridge, as though St. Paul’s Cathedral, in the great heat of the day, had blown a leaden bubble.
“Stunning, isn’t it, Mr. Maddison, when you think of the wonders of science? Silk of the worm, gas out of the bowels of the earth, a basket made of willows by the river, and Man’s ingenuity takes him right up there.”
“I wonder where he’ll be by nightfall—over Hertfordshire, I expect. He’ll have to get down, before he can get back.”
“You’re postulating a hypothesis, Mr. Maddison. How d’you know he don’t live in Herts?” Puff puff, of the curved yellow meerschaum, with its dark-brown spreading stain below the wide bowl, the much-desired “colouring” of the meerschaum devotee.
Inwardly nominating Mr. Muggeridge to be an argumentative old ass, Richard replied after a pause, “Well, supposing he lives in Surrey, Mr. Muggeridge?”
“I see no objection to that contention, Mr. Maddison. None at all. The answer is equally simple—he may have friends in Herts, expecting him. He may even have telephoned from the Crystal Palace, before he cast off. Endless possibilities.” Puff puff of Hignett’s Cavalier tobacco.
Endless for you perhaps; but you won’t draw me, thought Richard.
The balloon moved over them, far above the kites. A drift of dust seemed to fall away behind it.
“My word, the fellow’s possessed of intrepidity, Mr. Maddison! He’s released sand, to rise higher! Perhaps he’s out for a record, and is off to Scotland for the Twelfth. Did you read the article on grouse shooting in the Trident today? First class, I call it.”
“I haven’t come to that page yet, Mr. Muggeridge. I leave it for the late evening, when the children are asleep. Well, how goes the time?” He opened his watch. “Twenty-five-minutes after eight. I shall haul in in another twenty minutes.”
Shortly after nine o’clock Richard walked down the gulley again. The seats were all occupied by couples, two to a seat, unspeaking as they sat close together with their arms around one another. Others, less conventional, were strolling over the grassy spaces, seeking places where they might lie down upon the earth and fin
d a greater relaxation after the constrictions of the working week. Since it had become a London recreation ground, the Hill had lost its former evil reputation; it was now part of a police beat. A certain area had been set apart for Free Speech; other places for the playing of games. Richard preferred it in the old days, for then it was, to some extent, wild; he had to admit, however, that it was pleasant to have an hour or two now and again with a respectable fellow like Muggeridge.
Chapter 19
PARTY AT GRANDPA’S
STILL IN the mood of the fine weather, and the success of his new, narrower design of paper kite, Richard changed his trousers to a pair of dark material, washed his hands, brushed and combed his beard and hair, suddenly having decided to go into Mr. Turney’s to wish the two men in khaki good luck before they left for South Africa.
He was delighted, and surprised, by the welcome given by the several children opening the door for him. The food had been cleared away, the table was in process of having all its removable leaves lifted out and the frame screwed back, to provide more room for the guests.
There had been sixteen faces round the table: Sarah and Tom at top and bottom, each in their high-backed chairs, and next to Sarah the chief guest, an old gentleman, with flowing side-whiskers, who lived in a terrace cottage in Randiswell named Mr. Harcourt Newman.
Grace before meals, of course; and when dutifully bowed heads were lifted, young eyes surveyed the feast. The meal was of the simplest for the time of year: tongue, chicken, pressed beef, with hot new potatoes and a salad, followed by trifle, mince pies, plum cake, and ice-cream brought by Sidney from Buszard’s in Oxford Street; Barsac or Medoc to drink, with lemonade for the children. Then bon-bons to pull, with toys, paper caps, and mottos, while nuts, raisins, figs, and preserved fruits were consumed. Afterwards the younger ones had to help carry the plates and dishes into the kitchen, cook having had the evening off. Cries, shouts, whistles came from them, released by the occasion of new and abounding life.
“Now,” said Thomas Turney, “the children can go into the back room, he-he, for I’d like to read ye something out of Shakespeare.”
So the children were sent to play in the end room, Sidney warning his wild boys, whose energy had released an equal wildness in their cousin Phillip, “No hooliganism, mind!” The children departed with enthusiastic swiftness. The two elder boys, racing to be first, leapt down the three stairs and landed on the slippery oil-cloth below, to fall and slide into the closed door feet-first with a decided bang. This brought an immediate return of their father, clinking with burnished steel metal about the feet, to reinforce his warning about hooliganism; unfortunately for Sidney the rowels of his spurs, their swan-necks worn low down and loose upon the heel as was the regulation, clashed upon the second stair and he too fell, while his three sons, all wearing Eton jackets and trousers, fell upon him, while Phillip shouted out, “No hooliganism, mind!”
Sidney laughed, and ruffled the boy’s hair, when the scrum was over. Then came a discreet knock on the front door; the boys raced to open it, scrambling upon the stairs. Phillip was pushed back and Gerry trod on his fingers. “You fool!” he shouted after his scampering cousin. “Oh—oh!”
Sidney tried to pick him up, but with face held in his arm the boy lay across the stairs, giving way to the pain. Meanwhile the door had been opened, and when the caller was recognised, he was invited in by three voices.
“Come in, Uncle Richard, come in do! I saw your socking great kite going past! Grandpa, it’s Uncle Richard!”
“Oh, come in, Dick, come in!” said Tom Turney. “Glad to see ye, glad ye could come. Have ye had any supper? Did ye win your kite-flying contest? Dick, help yourself to a glass of port. Are ye sure ye wouldn’t like a sandwich?”
“No thank you, Mr. Turney, really, thank you. I have only called in to pay my respects to the occasion.”
Richard helped Hugh to carry the leaves of the table outside, while the Cakebread boys helped. Soon it was done, and the door closed.
“Now find yourself a place, and sit down, boys. I am going to read some passages from Shakespeare. Fill your glass and find yourself a chair, Dick.”
Thomas Turney held an old duo-decimo volume, bound in leather and tooled in gold-leaf, one of a set which was reputed to be the first of its format, and printed during the active career of the actor-playwright. Tom had a habit of reading from this poet, on occasion after an evening meal; and the passages he had chosen for this night were from The Life of King Henry the Fifth. He thought this appropriate, since the two soldiers were about to depart for the Field. Richard’s unexpected arrival had set him back a little.
There was further delay while Richard went to greet his mother-in-law; thereafter to be introduced to Mr. Newman, a courteous old-world figure in thin grey serge frock coat, high-cravat and tall collar, who enquired after Richard’s success with the new kite in a quavery tenor voice; and after shaking hands punctiliously, as befitted one born while the late Queen was but a girl, Mr. Newman sat down again. The newcomer, or latecomer as the host considered him to be, then made the round of greetings and hand-shakings all in turn—“How do you do” to Mr. and Mrs. Bigge, Mrs. Cakebread, Sidney Cakebread, Hugh and Joseph Turney, all in turn. At last it was over; and Tom Turney assembled himself to read from his chosen passage, the Chorus before Act IV.
He cleared his throat. But where was Hetty? Had she not returned? And where was Phillip?
“Hasn’t Hetty come back? She must listen to this, it’s too good to be missed.” Tom got up from his chair, opened the door, “Hetty! Are ye there?”
“I shan’t be a moment, Papa,” came a voice from the kitchen. Tom went to investigate.
“What’s the matter? Is the boy hurt?”
“No, Papa, it will soon be all right. He fell over, that is all. Please go on with your reading, Papa.”
“No, I’ll wait. Plenty of time. We’ll wait for ye, Hetty.”
“Oh Papa, please don’t!” thinking of Richard. “I’ll be along presently.”
“What’s the matter with Phillip, eh?”
The boy was snivelling as his hand was being bathed in warm water and borax powder. “How did it happen?”
“That fool Gerry,” said Phillip. “Oh, it hurts!”
“Come come, my boy, be a man! Bring the boy in, Hetty. Would you like to hear the scene before a battle, Phillip, what say?”
“Yes, please, Gran’pa.”
“That’s better. Now be a hero. Nelson didn’t cry when he lost his arm, you know. Many a soldier in South Africa has a worse hurt than you. Think how much more it would have been if a cannonball had struck your whole arm off.”
These words, meant to comfort by contrast, had the effect of quietening the boy.
“Now come in, and sit still beside your mother, Phillip, and don’t crack any nuts while I’m reading, will ye?”
“No, Gran’pa.” Tom had seen that the pockets of the boy’s long white trousers were wedged tight with brazil nuts, almonds, and raisins.
“That’s right, come along in, then.”
At last, gold spectacle frame on the end of his bulbous nose, book open on cocked knee, Tom Turney prepared to read. First, he must acquaint the company with some details of the poet’s life.
“As ye know, the identity of William Shakespeare is a mystery. Some say he was Francis Bacon. Others claim that the Earl of Oxford wrote, or rewrote, the plays already in existence, and hid his identity behind an actor of the name of Shakespeare. Others, including his contemporary Kit Marlowe, who was stabbed hard by here, in Greenwich during a brawl, have left evidence that Shakespeare, the actor, possessed in his person the genius of the supreme poet. However, be that as it may——” Tom peered benevolently over his spectacles at Phillip sitting cross-legged on the floor near him—“Shakespeare was a man who had the spirit of England in himself, in all its forms and fancies. As a little tot he must have been as sharp as a needle, listening to other men, observing their ways and their speech,
taking it all in, whether they were farmers speaking, or great lords, or kings, or queens, or sailors, or huntsmen—Shakespeare had the ear for truth, my boy. He-he-he, what say?”
“Phillip didn’t say anything, Papa,” said Hetty.
“I didn’t say he did, my girl. How’s your hand, better, my boy?”
“Yes, thank you, Gran’pa.”
“That’s right. Let him answer for himself, Hetty. Now what’s the matter, hey?”
“Please, we want to come!”
There was the noise of snuffling and tapping on the door. Two little girls, both wanting Mummy, disconsolately waited to come in. The boys were rough, they said. There was further disturbance among the seated; spurs clanked on oilcloth and clinked gingerly down the stairs this time. Three brothers, in the back room, wrestling on the floor and banging about with cushions were cuffed lightly on cropped heads and nominated little devils. One gilt-framed picture, a steel-engraving of Gainsborough’s portrait of David Garrick by the bust of Shakespeare, was hanging awry.
“Tell them to come in and listen, Sidney,” the voice of Grandfather called from the front-room.
“And you damn well sit still while the Old Man elocutes, or I’ll know the reason why!” whispered the father.
*
At last, before the assembled and heterogeneous company, Tom Turney took up the little faded duodecimo again, its pages yellowed by acid and impressed by irregular type, and glancing through the ground pebbles in their thin gold casing astride his nose variously coloured by toddy, port wine, and Hollands gin, all taken in moderation, prepared himself to read.
Theodora, whose eyes had not so far met those of Sidney, sat with her hands upon her lap, feeling that she did not belong to anybody any more. She was suffering from the reaction of so many people’s feelings since her departure from her friend in Clifton. A line of Browning’s ran through her head, Never the place, and the time, and the loved-one altogether again.
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