Donkey Boy

by Henry Williamson

  Richard saw his younger brother at the same time, and getting down from his stool, walked over to Hilary with a slight smile upon his face. After greetings, Hilary realised that Dick would not want to be kept very long from his work, and so suggested he should come back for him at his lunch hour, and take him out. Richard demurred; he was not used to such an irruption in his life. Hilary saw this, and as he had plenty of people he wanted to see, he did not press his older brother, but suggested he should call for him at six o’clock, and take him out to dinner at his club. This invitation likewise disturbed Richard, because he had no evening clothes, and furthermore, he knew that Hilary was a member of the Voyagers, to which some of the directors of the office belonged. It was not a place, he considered, where he should show himself.

  “Well, anyway,” said Hilary, observing his brother’s hesitation, “I’ll call for you at six o’clock, old man, and we’ll go somewhere quiet. Then I’ll run you home afterwards with the parrot. Six o’clock then. Au revoir!”

  At six o’clock there was a surprise for Richard. A motor car stood outside the Moon Fire Office, shaking with metallic heart-beats. It was painted blue, and lined-out in red, the colour of the russian leather upholstery of the high padded seats. A crowd was collected about it. Two polished brass oil-lamps gave the panting monster a look of the East. Richard thought of Aladdin’s lamp. Hilary was to him a sort of wonder boy, visitant from an Eldorado of open skies and deep blue water, coral isle and pagoda, gold and lapis lazuli. By contrast, he himself was an automaton of sooty air, imprisoning railway carriage, a failure of drab suburban existence.

  “Jump in, Dick, she’s a good ride. An improved model of Panhard et Levassor, with poppet valve, and a grilled-tube radiator! She’s a continental, of course, and absolutely reliable.”

  “Wherever did you get her, Hilary?”

  “In Marseilles, on the way home. She was a present from a Nabob. Pretty, isn’t she?”

  “A present, Hilary? It must be worth a small fortune!”

  “A mere flea-bite to a Bombay merchant nowadays. I did him a small service, and he was duly grateful,” Hilary laughed.

  “Am I expected to ride in this?” asked Richard next. He was considerably disturbed, and a little afraid. What would happen to the family if he were killed?

  “Yes, safe as houses.”

  “But do you understand the London traffic, Hilary?” Richard had always imagined his brother travelling by rickshaw in the East. “What about the horses, Hilary?”

  “Horses never so much as looked at me, coming here from the Voyagers Club in Pall Mall.”

  This was true. The cab and bus and dray horses were more used to the new style of horseless vehicles upon the cobbles and wood-blocks of the twentieth-century street surfaces of London than was Richard, who, so far, had not trusted himself to a steam-driven omnibus.

  It was therefore with some trepidation that he climbed up and into the lobster-blue unfamiliarity and, feeling much as a lobster with human mentality might have felt before entering hot water, seated himself upon the crimson leather. Once there, his fears lessened. It had such a wealthy feel and look about it, a solid assured feel, a Board Room atmosphere of Directors, famous and noble names signing policies placed, with silent respect, before them on the big Board Room table, swiftly to be blotted, removed, and replaced. After twenty years of sedentary life Richard felt a slight sense of importance, mingled with guilt, finding himself seated in such a thing of wealth and distinction, and before the very entrance to the Head Office in Haybundle Street, not a stone’s throw from the Royal Exchange and the Bank of England.

  Such constrictions of behaviour in the mind would have been unintelligible to Hilary. His mind had been formed upon the reflections of another world altogether. Aboard ship he had made many friends among the temporary inhabitants of state-room and promenade deck, one or two of whom had taken to the handsome young officer for his gaiety of spirit combined with a sense of propriety and unfailing good manners, which never for a moment permitted the ships’ officer to presume upon an accidental acquaintanceship. The world upon a great liner of the Merchant Navy of the most powerful nation ruling the seven seas, carrying members of the richest country upon earth, was one of relief and stimulation for the passengers. They lived a fabulous existence after the first few days of every voyage. Freed from terrestrial perplexity, freed from contact with the world of business, from the complications of ordinary human relationships, the healthy among the voyagers were translated to another plane. They were guests of sempiternal sun, sea and air. Wireless telegraphy had not yet been installed in the “floating white cities” of the MacKarness Line. Prices of bourse and stock exchange had not yet come through the ether, to extrude from ticking machines in worms of tape, to become parasitical upon the mind, to rugate the brow, to cause fingernails to drum on state-room tables in indecision. The seas of China, India, and vast Pacific Ocean were still remote and paradisal.

  Hilary Maddison was always easily conscious that he was armigerous, that he was the son of a gentleman, a landed proprietor; and any defects in his own education due to later impoverishment of the family had been made good, in his own estimation, by the proper use of the faculty of imitation. The great ones of the earth, ambassadors, viceroys, and governors-general, walking the promenade deck of the Phasiana, had been his models. His ambition was to be recognised and accepted as one of themselves. This had been achieved in sufficient manner. Standing invitations to houses in London and the country had followed; a noble marquis had put him up for the Voyagers; Sir Robert MacKarness himself had proposed him for the Oriental. And Hilary had his own home in Hampshire, conveniently near the Solent, where Bee, his beautiful wife, welcomed him after his voyages to the Far East. Profiting from advice given by the more communicative among the passengers, Hilary had seen his investments more than trebled since the turn of the century; and that was only the beginning, in his own estimation.

  Beside him in the Panhard et Lavassor sat Richard, clutching the edge of the seat, his mind between anxiety and pleasure, and with memory of that horseless carriage of long ago, bombarded by the filth of the streets—nearly ten years, a whole decade, previously. It really was a pleasant experience to be passing the Royal Exchange in such elevation. What would the fellows at the office think, who had seen him in such splendid state? It was remarkably smooth to ride in, quite different from what he had imagined; the propulsive noises of the engine did not disturb one, as he had thought, nor were they at all vibratory in the frame. The feeling of speed was very great; it was advisable to hold to the brim of one’s hat; the thing simply sped past cabs and carts and omnibuses, doing at times nearly twenty miles an hour. In a moment they were under St. Paul’s, and hardly had one time to say Jack Robinson when there was Ludgate Circus, and the vista of Fleet Street before one. Here they had to wait, for the cross traffic over Blackfriars Bridge, while the brass lamps jigged up and down. Hilary pulled on the long handle of the hand-brake.

  “Nice little motor, isn’t she, Dick?”

  “Well, I certainly see it from a different angle now, Hilary, though there is comparatively no dust in the London streets, I’ll admit. In Kent nowadays, when one is out for a cycle ride …”

  “Ha ha, the thing is to leave your dust behind for others, Dick!”

  That is all very well, thought Richard, who more than once had been one of the others to be half-suffocated in white dust kicked up by the beastly things on country roads. Road hogs, he called them.

  Hilary drove up Fleet Street, and along the Strand, turning down a side-street in order to leave his Panhard in a space beside the new gardens on the Embankment. He intended to take Dick into the Hotel Cecil. They alighted. He mentioned it to his brother, who showed reluctance.

  “I’m not used to such places, Hilary, old chap.”

  “As you like, Dick. There’s a comfortable little place in the Strand, Simpson’s, where the saddle of mutton is good. Or Rule’s, if you like, there’s more l
ife there, theatrical people, you know, only they come in later. How about Romano’s?”

  “Will your motor car be all right? Won’t anyone steal it?”

  “Good Lord, no. There’s only four like it in England. No thief would be able to dispose of a Panhard et Lavassor! Hi, there! Keep an eye on my motor, will you?”

  The cab-runner sprang forward. Hilary had selected him from others waiting at the back of the hotel because his boots were polished and his clothes brushed.

  “Keep an eye on her, will you? Keep the boys away, and don’t let anyone go near her.” Hilary jerked his head towards a subdued queue of poor children lined up along a wall for the kitchen waste that would be available round about midnight.

  “Leave it to me, sir. Thank you, sir,” said the man, eager gratitude in his face.

  Simpson’s it was. A sherry before the soup, another glass with it, to prepare the stomach for the roast. And what mutton it was, brought on a wheeled trolley, under a German silver cover, a flame of alcohol licking the chafing dish below. Generous thick slices, carved by the under-chef. As the trolley moved on, a waiter discreetly dobbed two tablespoons of redcurrent jelly upon each plate; another followed with baked potatoes, floury under their crisp brown crusts, breaking at a touch; and a braised onion as large as a boule used in play on the Mediterranean coast where the onions had been grown.

  For wine, Hilary chose a claret, which was carried to the table horizontally in a wicker basket, for the dark-red crust to remain unbroken upon the inner glass. The cork being drawn, it was regarded by the host before the wine was poured, in small measure, into a glass. Hilary sniffed it, sipped it, rolled it round his mouth, and looking up at the wine-waiter, gave a nod of approval. The wine-waiter, subdued pleasure on his face, bowed to Hilary, and poured a little wine into a fresh glass placed before the host; and the honours being done, he proceeded to the guest, to fill his glass three parts full. Then Hilary’s glass was filled. With a slight bow the wine-waiter retired, leaving the bottle in the basket by Hilary’s hand, which had slipped half-a-crown into his palm.

  Food and drink soon released their generosity of life in Richard.

  “Viccy’s little girl must be three years old now. The last time I saw her, she was crawling all over the garden. Have you been to see them recently, Dick?”

  “I don’t think I’ve been there since Hetty had scarlet fever, Hilary. One gets out of touch, you know, in my sort of life, more’s the pity.”

  “That’s some time back, isn’t it—let me see, it was before the old Queen died. Yes, my god-daughter Virginia Lemon must be three now.” Hilary took out his note-book. “How old are your children now, Dick? When are their birthdays?”

  “You really should not bother about them, Hilary. You must be a very busy man——”

  “Not too busy to take an interest in my nephew and nieces, Dick. Phillip was born in April, eighteen ninety-five, I know that. Mavis?”

  Richard told him the date in June 1897; and Doris’s birthday in 1901; and protested once more what was, in effect, a disturbance of his own life. He was outside the rest of the family now; he was a failure.

  “I’m told John has changed a lot since Jenny’s death, Dick. Let himself go completely. William, his son, was born after Phillip, wasn’t he, in the winter of ’ninety-six? I must go and look him up. How about coming down with me one week-end? I could run you over, you know, and back again, without any trouble.”

  “I hope that isn’t too literal an offer!” and Richard laughed at his joke, hoping thereby to divert his brother’s intention. He could not bear the idea of seeing his old home again.

  “Why are you laughing? Oh, I see! No fear of that! The Panhard’s as safe as houses. You must also come with me to the Lemons. You’re Viccy’s favourite brother, you know. In fact, to all us three younger ones you were our hero.”

  “Oh come, my dear fellow! I?”

  “It’s a fact, all the same, Dick. You were the big brother, helping Father to keep the old place together.”

  *

  It was eight o’clock when they left. The sky beyond Nelson’s column was nearly drained of colour. Spots of yellow light were dancing with the jingle of hansom cabs in the street. Shops were being shuttered, with clank of iron bar, and roll of iron wheel. They walked down to the Embankment, seeing the river gleaming on the flood. The faithful runner stood by the mechanical horses. He too received half-a-crown, rare receipt equal to a day’s pay for a labouring man. The runner added God’s blessing to his thanks, declaring that he knew a real gentleman the moment he saw him. With the greatest eagerness he leaned forward to give unspoken sympathy to his benefactor heaving at the handle cranked to shaft and massive flywheel.

  “Stand back, you boys!” he cried, glaring around. “Can I help, sir?”

  “It might break your wrist if the engine fires on the wrong stroke.” Hilary tugged again. Suddenly he fell back as the thing spat, hissed, and clattered at him.

  He tried again, after retarding the spark. An enormous bang followed. This, he said, was due to the spark being too retarded. Adjustments were made. Once again he turned, licking his lower lip. With a soft connecting sound the engine set its superstructure dancing; power thumped confidently. Hilary lit the oil lamps. The brothers Maddison climbed up. A scraping of cogs followed; a heartier thumping; and then four thin grey rubber tyres, taking the weight of successive vertical spokes of ash upon the lowest section of their containing rim, rolled in the direction of the Houses of Parliament, dark against the lowering west. The parrot in its cylindrical cage, covered with green baize secured with string, was waiting with the porter in his lodge within the wide doors of the Voyagers. Held on Richard’s lap, it travelled upright in the Panhard steering for Westminster Bridge. River lights were left behind, to be succeeded by a far converging avenue of yellow twinkles remote and brown in the dim dark distance of the Old Kent Road.

  The Daily Trident had from the first sponsored the new motoring. The “craze” had been one of the things Richard had never been able to understand in an otherwise sensible newspaper with its feet properly on the ground. During his ride through the dusk, in the cool air of the streets, with the feeling of being remote from the squalor and thus able to enjoy its picturesqueness, he had, as he told Hilary while crossing Randisbourne Bridge, to revise his opinion. He had had a wonderful experience.

  “Will it be able to get up Hillside Road?”

  “Well, a model has crossed the Alpes Maritimes and then the Massif Central, so we shall probably manage to get there without the need to shove.”

  As they turned the corner and chugged up Hillside Road, a surprise met Richard. The bedroom window of his house was lit up. Burglars? Hetty was not expected home until the morrow. Then her figure was seen in the window, looking at the approaching noise. What could have happened?

  Mrs. Bigge came to the gate as he got down from the Panhard, the cage in his arms.

  “My,” she said, “I wondered whatever it could be coming up our quiet little road! Surprise on surprise, Mr. Maddison! First Mrs. Maddison returned a day early, owing to whooping cough in the country, now a motor coming up! Why, whatever have you got there, Mr. Maddison, a parrot?”

  “Yes,” said Richard. “You must come in and see it one day soon. I think it is asleep now.”

  A wild scream came from the cage. “Oh, my!” said Mrs. Bigge. “Polly’s woken up. Well, I think you’ll find all all right, Mr. Maddison, so good-night!” and Mrs. Bigge tactfully retired.

  Richard put the cage upon the lawn behind the privet hedge, as Phillip ran down the porch and to the gate. He stared at his father and uncle, and at the motor car.

  “Coo, I say, look at that!”

  “Hullo, young fellow,” said Hilary. “D’you remember me, eh?”

  “Yes, Uncle Hilary. Is it yours?”

  “Say ‘How do you do’ properly to your Uncle, Phillip,” said Richard, annoyed by the boy’s gaucherie.

  “How do you do, Uncle Hil
ary?”

  “Well?” said Richard. “What else?”

  The boy did not speak.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything to me?”

  “Yes, Father.” He remained silent.

  “Have you lost your tongue while you’ve been away?”

  “I don’t know, Father,” he said, twisting his hands before him.

  “Well, open the gate, my boy.”

  Phillip held back the gate. Richard waited for his brother to enter first.

  “Aren’t you pleased to see your father?” asked Hilary, ruffling the boy’s hair as he passed.

  “Yes, Uncle Hilary.”

  “Well then, say ‘How do you do, Father’ to him.”

  “How do you do, Father.”

  “That’s better. And how are you, Phillip?”

  “Quite all right, thank you, Father.”

  Richard stepped back and lifted up the cage. He carried it past a wide-eyed Phillip. Many times he had imagined Hetty and the three children coming into the sitting-room and seeing the parrot in its cage on the table in the corner beside the fireplace, and visualised the surprise and pleasure on their faces. The picture was shattered.

  Sarah Turney was in the kitchen, giving the little girls their bread and milk. Richard went into the front room, and lit the gas.

  “Sit down, Hilary,” he said. “I’ll be back soon. Would you like to see the paper?” He put The Daily Trident on the table. “Now, if you will forgive me, I’ll go and find out what’s happened.”

  “I’ll just check that the Panhard is all right, Dick.”

  Hardly had he gone outside, when Hetty came into the room. She looked well and smiling, to Richard’s relief, for that aspect of her homecoming fitted into his mental picture. Polly Pickering, it appeared, had developed signs of whooping cough, so they had all left Beau Brickhill a day early.

  “I did not send a telegram, Dickie, not wishing to alarm you. I do hope our coming will not put you out in any way.”

  Mavis and Doris ran into the room, with glad cries of “Daddy!” Richard knelt down and kissed Mavis; he loved his elder daughter. Doris’ head was patted.