He looked at his face in the looking-glass between the knobs of the coat-hangers, illumined by his pocket torch. Oh, did he look like that? It was almost a ghost’s face! With a sigh he turned away, to leap away from his thoughts, up the three steps and so to the merry throng in the kitchen.
Mother and Aunt Dorrie, who had been at the convent together, were talking about going to Midnight Mass in the Roman Catholic Church in the High Street. Mavis was going, too, and Hubert, to look after them. Why could he not go, as well? The Catholic service made him feel secretly like a bird must feel, very simple and clear. A wild bird’s soul must be like a clear raindrop hanging on a thorn after a shower, with the world inside it, a little world of leaves and sky and curved horizon. He could think his own thoughts during the Roman Catholic service, especially during the beautiful monk-like chants. Please, could he go too? Oh, must he ask Father? Even on Christmas Eve? Father would say no. Other boys at school went to it, or to the Watch Night Service in St. Mary’s, and the churches on the Heath. “Please ask Father, Mum.”
“Very well, dear, but it must be for the very last time. You are old enough to ask for yourself now.”
“Yes, don’t funk it, young Phillip!” grinned Hubert. “Beard the lion in his den!”
“You can say that, but your Father was not like mine,” retorted Phillip.
“Hush dear,” said Hetty. Aunt Dorrie smiled at him, and put her hand on his head. Phillip liked Aunt Dorrie, she was very like Grannie. But why was there a tear in her eye? It dropped, while she was still smiling. Would a tear freeze in frost, like any other water? Yes, it would, of course, because even the sea froze when it was cold enough.
*
Several tears froze that night on the grave of Sarah Turney, in the cemetery that once had been the Great Field, now entirely grey-white and spectral under the glazing stars. The children, left in charge of Hubert, waited outside while their mothers went into the graveyard, after knocking at the door of the guardian in the house by the gates. Hetty and Dorrie, holding hands, prayed silently before the marble stone, with their Mother’s name on it in letters of lead, with the text below, “Come unto Me”.
The stars burned dully in the sky as the children waited, in the expectant night. While they stood there, Phillip saw a figure passing on the other side of the road, under the lamplight. He recognised Cranmer. He crossed over to speak to him. Cranmer said he was going home for Christmas. Phillip told him about the sledge. Cranmer said he was learning boxing, in the Boys’ Club, and Pat O’Keefe, the middle-weight champion, gave them lessons. Phillip determined to learn boxing, too. The boys parted, as they met, full of warm feeling for one another. So it had always been; they had never fallen out; Phillip had never tried to boss Cranmer, nor striven to get his own way. His way had been Cranmer’s way also. Each made the other feel good. Even so, secretly Phillip looked down a little on Cranmer, as Cranmer looked up to Phillip. Mother had said once that she hoped Phillip would never say anything to hurt Cranmer’s feelings, because he happened to come from a different station in life.
Phillip felt that Hubert was something like Cranmer, although kind of broader. Perhaps it was because Hubert always seemed happy and unruffled, whereas Cranmer’s eyes looked sometimes as though they had been driven into his head. Most poor boys looked like that; but Cranmer’s eyes came out again when he and Cranmer met. In a way, he had never had any friendship so good as Cranmer’s. Desmond and Percy were nice to be with, but Cranmer was different.
“Well, Merry Christmas, Horace, and a Happy New Year.”
“Fanks, Phil. Same to you, and many of’m. So long!”
“So long!”
*
During the Midnight Mass, and the haunting monk-like singing, and the ringing of the silver bell which reminded him of the note of the great titmouse in spring among the new leaves on the elm, a sort of light-of-the-sky sound, Phillip thought more about Cranmer, and Hubert, and Gerry, and why they were nice, and why some boys were not nice, like Ching, and even Jack Hart. Why had he never liked Mr. Prout? Was Gran’pa nice? He himself was not really nice. He had always been unkind to his sisters, and to Mother; sworn, told lies, stolen; been a coward, and never really gone straight. What else? He could not think of any other bad points. He prayed to God to make him a better boy.
Then other thoughts came into his head, taking away the clear, rather sad but lovely thoughts about the coming springtime, with new buds to the trees and windflowers coming through the skeleton leaves on the woodland floor, and the first timorous singing of the willow wren, until the nightingale seemed to give the smaller bird confidence. The nightingale was like the Queen of the coverts, not the King, but a sort of Princess. He thought of the Oxford Local exam, and the mess he had made of it. Simply awful! He had cooked at least one of the Geography answers, saying one of the new chief exports from Mexico was dried flies for feeding fish in aquariums. Phillip had imagined that, in a land where millions of flies buzzed, someone would think of catching and drying them, like currants, and exporting them for goldfish, and even trout farms. Perhaps the examiner would think this was a new industry he had not heard of himself, and pass it. As for Latin, not one question had been answerable. Euclid—hopeless. French—no good. And it was very nearly the end of his five-year scholarship! Would he have to leave school, after the spring term, and start work? Gran’pa had said something about him going into the Firm. How awful!
Overcome by the prospect, Phillip yawned. The snow and the exercise had made him sleepy. It would be so nice to be in bed, wiggling his toes like a fish’s tail. The thought of Christmas presents made him perk up though he knew what most of them were.
All the snow echoed with church bells as they walked home; while from the lighted frowsty windows of the pubs came singing. Outside the Railway in Randiswell some children were waiting, holding hands, waiting for their parents inside to take them home. They looked very cold. It was very sad, said Mother, as they walked up Hillside Road, having said goodnight and Merry Christmas to the Cakebreads, but they must all look on the bright side.
Phillip fell behind, wanting to think his own thoughts, which were also sad, like the grey snow, and the loneliness of birds freezing on leafless branches, and children dreaming of Father Christmas outside the pub, and Grannie lying with her head on one side in the dark grave. He wished he had not always tried to get money out of her; but it was too late now.
Father, as soon as they got back, complained that Mother had kept the children up too late.
“Look at the boy’s face, he looks as though he had seen a ghost! He’s had a week of exams, and gone up past his bedtime every night for the past fortnight. And all this emotional Roman Catholic business is bad for young people, in my opinion. Come now, my boy, off with your boots! Then straight up to bed. Hetty, Doris has been nearly hysterical in your absence—in the end I had to speak firmly to her. Please do not leave me alone in the house with her again.”
Richard had read the last story of Sherlock Holmes, where he fell to death with Professor Moriarty in the Alps, with four interruptions from the disconsolate Doris; and reflecting in the armchair afterwards of the selfishness of his wife in leaving him alone with a wailing child on Christmas Eve, memories of his own childhood had drained him of energy.
Phillip went to bed without having kissed his Mother—he had deliberately avoided it—and without hanging up his stocking. Soon tears were running onto his pillow. Outside snow was falling, in the silence of a reborn world; and in the morning all was white, when he looked out. And there was a filled stocking, hanging on the bottom rail of his bed.
He had been asleep when Richard had crept down, to hang it there.
*
The traditional Christmas morning walk was to Cutler’s Pond, and back, while Mother cooked the turkey at home. Phillip had never remembered Mother coming with them to the Pond, or on any other walk, except upon the Hill, which did not really count.
Gloved, overcoated, and correct, Phill
ip walked on the outside, while Mavis and Doris walked with Father. Gone were the elms beyond the extension of houses on either side of the road; there seemed no trees anywhere, only heaps of snow-covered bricks, scaffolding, and tarpaulins tied down upon piles of wooden planks and posts. Wooden blocks had replaced the old grey road, which was now wide with kerbstones along the sides, and iron-grilled drains at regular intervals. The great new red brick ’bus depot covered more than two acres, said Father, who told them again about the snipe and herons he had seen in the meadows beside the Randisbourne when first he had come to live in the district.
“Every other man seems to be smoking a new pipe,” he said. “It does not need a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that this is Christmas morning.”
Cutler’s Pond was frozen over, and covered with stones and sticks flung on the ice. Some boys were venturing upon its black and white-bubbled surface near the bridge. Richard told them about boys in his young days who had fallen through the ice of a reservoir, and been unable to climb over the edge of the ice, as it had broken under their clutch; and all had been drowned.
“A warning to you, my boy, not to venture on any more thin ice!” laughed Richard. Phillip ignored Father’s joke. He was thinking of the party in Gran’pa’s that afternoon, and hoping that Father would not come, although he had been invited, and so spoil the fun.
He hoped, too, that Father would not grumble if the turkey was not cooked to his liking. Last Christmas Mother had cried, because he had found some small smuts on one of the plates. Father wore spectacles to find the smuts, but Mother had not got any, though her eyes were not so strong as they had been. She always tried to be cheerful, though Father was beastly to her.
All three children had one thing in common agreement: Father’s beastliness to Mother. They were now imbued with resentment, dull as it was silent, towards Father; and this resentment at times rose in Phillip to active hatred. His world was entirely detached from that of his Father’s, since affection, or love, had been denied in the forming early years. This had also happened with Doris, who had never, unlike Phillip as a small child, known her Father’s affection. As for Mavis, she too was sealed off from her Father.
Standing by the pond with their Father in the bright exhilarating air of a white Christmas, each child was as a prisoner, its true self shut away in solitariness.
Cutler’s Pond had a new brick high wall above it, raised to the new road level. There was a spiked iron railing above the brickwork. It looked rather beastly, said Father, but such things were deemed necessary in the cause of progress. Phillip understood that it was all due to that little Welshman, Lloyd George, who did not even know that pheasants did not eat mangold-wurzels, said Father.
*
Back home again, the girls went to help Mother bring in the dinner. The sprouts were a little watery, explained an anxious Hetty, owing to the frost. She did so hope the bird was cooked to his satisfaction. Phillip, who carried in the hot plates in a cloth, saw that they were clean. Father had the yellow-grey eye of a heron, peering down to inspect them. Phillip winked at his Mother. All was well.
The Christmas plateful had to be eaten with due regard to its rarity. A forkful of potato went into Phillip’s mouth first, then a little bread-sauce. Then half a sprout, after inspection lest an old shrunken caterpillar be found in it. (Father had once found one in a sprout on his plate). Even spiders did not like caterpillars. Then a sip of water, to continue the dullness. More potato, while pretending there was no turkey. Then some sausage, and a bit of chestnut stuffing. Having mortified his taste, Phillip then put a slice of white breast on his fork, with potato in gravy, some more sausage, and some sprouts. This was the first real mouthful; and looking round at Mother with approval, he started to wolf his Christmas dinner.
Afterwards, into the front room, while Father had a sleep alone in the sitting room. On the front room table were plates of tangerines, raisins, peeled almonds, and Carlsbad plums; and a pile of old Strands on the wickerwork table to read.
Before a blazing fire, Phillip examined his presents carefully. There was a wooden model aeroplane, with steam-twisted propeller, driven by elastic. The wings were of thin varnished wood, and the bigger wing was at the back. He would keep it until the snow was gone, lest water warp the dihedral angle. Flight was now regularly studied in the Public Library, with The Autocar. Phillip knew all about nacelles, under-carriages, elevators, rudders, and skids. Players Cigarettes had a series on Aeroplanes, from Montgolfier to Santos-Dumont, Paulham, Bleriot, the Wright Brothers, Lilienthal, and the Curtis biplane. Balloons were now a thing of the past.
Good! they were going to have tea next door!
*
Gran’pa had a new housekeeper, called Miss Rooney, a small, sweet-faced, white-haired Irish woman who had been one of the hundreds replying to Mother’s advertisement in the Daily Telegraph. Mother presided at tea next door, while Miss Rooney looked after everybody. Uncle Joey was staying there, with Aunt Ruth and cousin Arthur, and Arthur’s two smaller sisters. Uncle Charley had sent a telegram of good wishes to all, from Brighton. Gran’pa looked cheerful, as always.
After tea the children played games, all over the house. Phillip and Gerry became rowdy, and a wild chase took place. Cushions were hurled, until a vase crashed and the fun was stopped. Then they went into Uncle Hugh’s room, and opening the stained glass window, shot peas at the opposite window, behind which Father was sitting. Phillip was a little anxious about this, although he had not shot any peas at the window. Seeing his face, Gerry said that perhaps they had better not do it any more.
“Uncle may think it was sparrows,” he suggested.
They went back to the front room, where the table was being laid for supper. There was a ham, a cold turkey, mince pies, pressed beef, a pork pie, and many other things including cakes and jellies, and a huge dish of fruit, with grapes and nuts, bonbons, everything. There was red wine, with water, for the boys, ginger and raisin wine for the girls, claret and port for the men. They ate in candle-light, with paper caps on their heads. The Christmas pudding came in flaming, and contained many bright silver shillings, with the new King’s head on them. Where had Gran’pa got them from? He-he, said Gran’pa, that’s a secret. He had a friend at court, said Mother. In the Mint, you mean, don’t you, Aunt Hetty? asked Hubert. Hubert wore a new suit, with a man’s high collar.
They drank to absent friends, including Ralph, who was at sea, and Charley and the others at Brighton. Phillip managed to swallow two glasses of port, unseen by Mother.
Snapdragon! Hubert went outside. Candles were put out. The room was lit only by firelight. He came in with the big dish, leaping with blue flames. Raisins were under the flames. You had to pick one out, and eat it while the blue flame played on your fingers and ran over your nails, but did not burn them if you blew quickly. Dare he do it?
“Wait a minute, boys, let our respected Patriarch speak his lines first!” cried Uncle Hugh.
Gran’pa began to sing, in his throaty voice, a song Phillip had not heard before.
“‘Here he comes with flaming bowl,
Don’t he mean to take his toll:
Snip! Snap! Dragon!’
“Now, everyone, all together next time when we come to Snip! Snap! Dragon!
“‘With due regard don’t take too much,
Be not greedy in your clutch:
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
With his blue and lapping tongue,
Watch out or you’ll be stung:
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
For he snaps at all that comes,
Snatching out his sugar plums:
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
’Tis Old Christmas makes him come
With his snorting fe-fi-fum!
Don’t ye fear him, but be bold,
Out he goes, his flames are cold:
SNIP! SNAP! DRAGON!’”
followed by the laughter of all but Phillip. He was listening to the words.
The party ended disastrou
sly for him. When the others had gone down into Uncle Hugh’s room, for the clearing of the table, Phillip slipped back, and raising the empty snapdragon dish on high, drank the spirit lying in the gravely-bowl at one end. It tasted raw and nasty, rather like bullaces or wild plums at Beau Brickhill on the hedges, but he had swallowed an egg-cupful before he tasted it. It burned his inside. Half an hour later, after he had been very sick, and was shuddering with cold, he went home with Mother to be put to bed, clutching a hot-water bottle. He was sick again and again, all froth; but Richard said nothing, as he returned to his chair by the fire. He thought, however, of his Father’s death from alcoholism, and wondered if Phillip, now at the age of adolescence, had inherited that fatal trait.
Chapter 27
A VISIT TO SPARHAWK STREET
THE great titmouse sang its gay bell-like notes about the nesting boxes Phillip had put up in his elm tree at the bottom of the garden; while the louder ringing of the muffin-man, wares on head in the tray covered with green baize cloth, gave some interest out of gas-lit school. On one Wednesday afternoon, when the ground was too hard for football, Hetty and her Papa took Phillip up to London to look round the premises of the Firm. The thought of finding Hubert there made the idea less unattractive than it would have been had the prospect been only of dull streets and houses, poor people working in the large rooms of the tall dreary building, and Mother and Gran’pa to talk to.
They went by tram, by way of Camberwell—“Father and I were married here, dear,” whispered Hetty, while Gran’pa, muffled and wrapped in a thick dark long coat to his ankles, was talking to someone else on the seat beside him; and “Oh,” replied Phillip laconically. They rode over the river by Westminster Bridge, then along the Embankment, past Cleopatra’s Needle, to alight by Blackfriars Bridge, with its view over the river of tugs and barges, and a great effigy of Johnnie Walker about to stride over the rim of a tall factory chimney, apparently having drunk too much of his own whisky, said Gran’pa, he-he’ing at his joke.
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