“Good morning, my grandson,” she greeted him in a strong cheerful voice that showed her to be enjoying one of her good days. “Come and kiss me, do.”
Wary of the parrot, he put his smooth lips to her ancient cheek. “Morning, Gran.”
“Sit you down. I’m busy, as you see. But you can talk to me. Repeat some of your verses to me. I like poetry. Used to be able to rattle off pieces by Tom Moore. But I’ve forgotten ’em.”
“I remember, I remember, Gran.”
“Say a verse then — if you can.”
He repeated:
“I saw from the beach when the morning was shining,
A bark o’er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o’er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there but the waters were gone.”
She said, the tears springing to her eyes — “Good! Good boy! Ah, how I wish I could do it now. But me memory’s left me. I’m getting on, you know, I’m ninety-eight on this coming birthday. D’ye think I may live to see a hundred?”
“I’m sure you will, Gran.” A sudden pity for her made him put out his hand to take hers. What did it feel like to be old, he wondered, and what would he do in the long years that lay ahead of him?
Because of a feeling of sadness that had risen between them, he said to lighten it — “I know another.”
“What then?” she demanded eagerly.
Swinging her hand gently in his he half-chanted:
“I have a fawn from Aden’s land,
On leafy buds and berries nurst;
And you shall feed him from your hand,
Though he may start with fear at first.
And I will lead you where he lies
For shelter from the noontide heat;
And you may touch his sleeping eyes
And feel his little silvery feet.”
He asked — “Remember that, Granny?”
“I do. I do. And did you learn it from me?”
“Yes. I’ve a good memory, you know.”
“It’s a grand thing to have.”
He could not stop himself. He asked — “Do you remember what we talked of the other day? About making money in investments?”
“I do not.”
“Of course you do. The gold mine, you know. Huge profits just for the taking. Indigo Lake Mine. Magnificent vein of gold. You said you’d like to invest.”
At the word gold Boney shook himself so that his plumage vibrated with a rustling sound and shouted:
“Gold! Gold! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”
Though Eden’s words brought no recollection of the interview to her, the voice of the parrot did. She struck her hands together, her eyes brightened.
“I do — I do remember. I was going to invest in gold. That’s what it was. Gold!”
The parrot fairly shook himself off her shoulder.
“Gold!” he screamed. “Ruddy gold! Shaitan! Shaitan ka batka! Piakur!
Jab kutr!”
Eden drew the power of attorney from his pocket. “You can’t sell your own government bonds without signing this. Not unless you have your lawyer out.”
“He’d never let me. He’s an old slow-coach. Never risked anything. His wife never risked even one child. My mother had eleven.”
He spread the paper in front of her, his hands trembling a little. “This is what you must sign, Gran — if you want to invest in the gold stocks.”
“Gold! Gold!” shrieked Boney. “Ruddy gold!”
She peered at the paper. She seemed not to like the look of it and drew back. “I’d not be signing anything away, should I?”
“No, no, just giving me the power to sell government bonds for you.”
“I don’t want to sign anything away. I like to hang on to the bit I have.”
Eden folded up the paper. “All right, Gran. I’ll let someone else have the stock.”
“Gold!” cried Boney, pulling out a feather and letting it fall on her lap. “Gold — you old devil!”
Adeline took up the feather — itself of a bright gold — and flourished it. “It’s a sign,” she exclaimed. “A good omen. Give me my pen. I’ll put down my name.”
Eagerly Eden sought the pen and last discovered it behind Boney’s seed-box. He spread the power of attorney on her worn leather writing-folio, then discovered there was no ink.
“Will you use my fountain pen, Gran?”
“No, no. I don’t like these newfangled notions. My father always used a quill pen. And when he went to sharpen it —”
“Gran,” Eden interrupted. “I’ll fetch the ink. Just a jiffy and I’ll be back.” He darted from the room.
When he returned two minutes later, with the ink-bottle in his hand, he found Wakefield leaning against his grandmother’s shoulder and holding up his thin brown knee for sympathy.
“He’s given his knee a rasp,” she explained. “And he’s come to be comforted, bless his heart.”
Eden, longing to take the child by the scruff and put him out, bent to look. He said, patting Wakefield’s back — “That’s a very small scratch. Do you feel able to walk as far as Mrs. Brawn’s for some pop and a chocolate bar?” He found some small coins in his pocket and put the necessary into Wake’s hand. “Better hurry or you’ll be late for lunch.”
“Thanks,” murmured Wakefield. “But I think I’ll go to Mrs. Brawn’s this afternoon. I want to be with my grandmother just now.”
“He’s the apple of my eye,” cried Adeline.
The power of attorney fell to the floor. The little boy picked it up and read — “Know all ye men by these presents.”
Eden snatched it from him.
Wakefield asked — “What is that paper, Grandmother?”
She answered blandly — “’Tis rubbish. Throw it in the wastepaper basket.”
Boney fluttered his wings and cried — “Iflatoon! Haram-zada!”
“Now look here,” said Eden sternly, leading his small brother to the door. “You’re to get out and stay out. Do you hear? I’m reading aloud to Gran.”
“But —”
“One word more and I take that money back.” Eden thrust him into the hall and shut the door on him.
“Now, Gran,” he said, cheerfully but masterfully, “let’s get this little job done.”
“What job? I’m tidying my drawer.”
He put paper before her and pen into her hand.
“Just sign here — like a dear.”
“Where? I don’t want to sign away anything.”
Exasperated, he cried — “My God — you’re not signing away anything! You’re only —”
“Don’t swear at me, young man. I won’t have it.”
“Forgive me, Granny. But you do remember, don’t you, about the stocks you want to buy? The shares in the gold mine?”
“Gold! Gold!” screamed Boney. “Pieces of eight!”
“Of course I remember.” She spoke brusquely, firmly. “Give me my pen.”
He dipped it in ink for her, showed her just where to sign. She gripped the pen-handle, made one or two false starts, then signed her name, Adeline Whiteoak, quite clearly.
It was done.
“Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Eden warned. “All the family will be up on their hind legs if they hear of it. Please remember, Gran. It’s our secret, isn’t it?”
“And I shall make a pot of money, eh?”
“You’ll double your investment.”
“Ha, that’s what I like to hear.”
Meg found them tidying the drawer together, Adeline’s best cap perched on Eden’s fair head, Boney busying himself with a crust of toast.
“And how did you get on?” cried Meg. “You do look happy.”
“Haven’t had such a good time in months,” said Adeline.
Boney cocked an eye from his toast. “Pieces of eight!” he screamed. “Gold! Ruddy gold! You old devil!”
VI
ROOM FOR SCOPE
&
nbsp; Oh, to breathe freely — away from that room — away from everyone!Eden fairly flung himself along the winding path across the fields. The sandy loam was hard and dry and warm beneath his feet. Among the shining spears of stubble, glossy black crickets darted. A daddy-long-legs, having lost one of them, steered a wobbling course. The wind, cool in the shadow, hot in the sun, blew against Eden’s body, and an answering movement stirred his spirit.
But, even while he reached out toward freedom, he thought — “All these experiences I pass through are making me into the being that will be the ultimate me. They are necessary to me. They are part of me.” Remote pictures, almost of babyhood, flashed into his mind — himself, tossed up and caught in his father’s hands — himself, carried on Renny’s shoulder, supporting himself by a clutched handful of Renny’s red hair — then a sudden vision of that middle-aged woman who had captivated him four years ago, not from love of her but from hers for him. He laughed when he thought of that affair, which now seemed almost as far away as childhood. The glory of the sun, the brightness an expanse of the fields ran through him like a poem and he longed to write something far, far better than he had yet done. For the hundredth time he thought of the verses he had sent to an American magazine more than a month ago, and no word of them yet. Time was as nothing to those editors, yet his impatience was almost unbearable, for he knew, yes, he was certain he had never written anything better than those verses. What he would write tonight was already stirring his imagination.
The path led him into the pine wood, ancient trees of the primeval forest, with massive trunks and boughs heavy with pointed foliage. Here and there a fallen branch lay and, in one spot, a whole tree sunk down, not blown by a gale, but, from a rotting within, just sunk quietly to join the earth. About it there were a few bright-red mushrooms and a pallid plant called Indian pipe. He sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree, lighted a cigarette, and gave himself up to dreaming. All thoughts of the Indigo Lake Mine left him and the first lines of a poem sprang into his mind. Birds did not like this dark wood but now an unseen small bird, having found himself here, began a pensive song. Never did he get past his first lines but sang them over and over, while Eden sitting on the tree trunk got no further with his.
He heard steps approaching and turned a defensive face toward them. Finch appeared, scuffling the carpet of pine needles as he slowly advanced. Eden looked into Finch’s face, his own expression of defensiveness melting into interest. What an odd face the youngster had! Long and rather melancholy. But his eyes were a good shape and his nose too. Eden felt rather sorry for young Finch, sharing as he did a room with Piers and often roughly treated by him.
Finch raised his eyes and saw Eden. He quickened his steps, with a deprecating grin, as though to get himself as quickly out of the way as possible.
“Hello,” Eden called out, suddenly hospitable, as though the pine wood were his private room and the log his easy chair. “Come and sit down.”
Finch dropped to the log beside him, miscalculated its width and all but toppled over backward.
“Well,” remarked Eden affably — “holidays are nearly over. I suppose you’re counting the days till school opens. Nice thought, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh,” groaned Finch. And he added, like an elderly man — “it’s terrible how time flies.”
“What do you want to be, Finch?”
“I dunno. I’ve never thought.”
“Horse breeder, like Renny?”
“Gosh, no.”
“Go into farming, like Piers?”
“Gosh, no.”
“Lawyer — like me?”
“Gosh, no.”
“Look here, brother Finch, can’t you say anything but gosh no?”
“Gosh — I mean — I didn’t know I was. What I mean is I haven’t the least idea.”
“But you know what you don’t want to be.”
“That’s pretty well everything, I guess. I don’t seem to have an inclination to be anything I’ve ever heard of.”
“I remember when you wanted to be a railway engineer.”
“Gosh, I’d hate it now…. Eden, do you like the idea of being a lawyer?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then why —”
“Well, it seems an easy life, and I thought that as I shall probably have no clients it will give me plenty of time for other things.”
“Like writing poetry?”
“Doubtless. I shall likely come home to eat.”
“I guess you’ll be a famous poet some time.”
“Me! Never. But I like to hear you say it.”
After a slightly embarrassed pause Finch said — “There’s something sort of mysterious about words.”
“Yes?” Eden gave him an amused but penetrating look.
“They can turn things you know into something different. I mean more beautiful and better.”
“You feel a power working within you, eh, Finch?”
Scarlet from embarrassment Finch burst out — “I’m not like you.
I’m not talented. I’ll never be anything.” He got to his feet. “Well, I must be going. I’m on an errand for Meg.”
“Who isn’t? I’ve never knowing anyone who keeps so many others busy. What’s your errand?”
“I’m to find Noah Binns and tell him Meg wants him. He’s cutting down a tree for Mr. Warden.”
“Trees? What trees?”
“Those two silver birches.”
Eden sprang up. “No! He can’t do that. Why should he want to cut them down?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll go with you.”
The brothers, now as active as a moment ago they had been languid, strode along the bridle path together. They left the wood, crossed a field, and passed through a gate on to a country road. On its either side were scattered buses with well-kept gardens owned by retired farmers or business men retired from city life. In front of the most pretentious of these lay two birch-trees, not quite full grown, their pure white stumps, now no more than two ridiculous white posts, standing beside them. Resting on his axe was the middle-aged labourer, Noah Binns, triumphant but panting a little, his parted lips showing his black teeth.
Not waiting to open the gate in the neat white picket fence Eden vaulted it and demanded:
“Why the dickens have you done this?”
Noah Binns grinned. “Hired to. That’s why. Hired by the owner.”
“He must be mad. There weren’t two lovelier trees in the countryside.”
“Well, they’ll be firewood now and serve ’em right. They ate the good out of the ground.”
Eden gazed down at the two fair forms bright in their summer leafage. “It’s a crime,” he mourned.
Finch came and stood beside him. “They don’t know yet what’s happened to them,” he said.
Noah chuckled in derision. “But they will when the hot suns blasts ’em. They’ll wilt then, dang ’em.”
The door of the white house opened and Mr. Warden, its owner, came out. He was a large gentle-looking man with a greyish cast on the skin, as though from suffering. He had a speaking acquaintance with the brothers and now gave them a polite good morning. He was a widower.
He said — “I’m afraid you are not pleased by what Noah’s been doing but those trees had become a nuisance. I can’t persuade the grass to grow under them. Time and again I’ve sown the seed. The grass comes up and it dies. If there’s one thing above another I’ve set my heart on it’s a nice green lawn.”
“But anyone,” cried Eden “can have a lawn. “Those birch trees — look at them, Mr. Warden — why, I’d give a year of my life to see them, standing again!”
“Ah, no, you wouldn’t. That’s just talk, young man. As for life — it’s given me a new lease of life to see them taken down.” Raising his head as though he breathed more freely and putting his shoulders back, he left them with dignity and went into his house.
Looking after him, Noah Binns remarked — “What
he needs is more room for scope.”
Finch gave a snort of laughter which caused Noah to repeat with great firmness — “Room for scope. That’s what he needs.” He began with ferocity to lop off the delicate branches of the nearest tree.
The brothers turned away. Suddenly Eden began to laugh.
“I suppose that’s what we all crave,” he said. “Room for scope.”
They walked in silence for a space, enjoying the free movement of long legs in unison over the quiet country road, Finch happily aware that Eden was pleased by his company. He moved closer to Eden as though he would touch him. At last Eden spoke.
“You know that Aunt Augusta is coming and bringing a forty-second cousin with her — Dilly Warkworth?”
“Yes, I know,” Finch groaned. “I wish she weren’t.”
“My God, so do I…. I don’t mean Aunty. Just the horrible girl. She’s been jilted or something.”
Finch gave a giggle of delight. “Lovesick damsel in the house, eh?
Hell — what a thought!” Then, seriously — “Did you ever see one?”
Eden said — “I don’t remember seeing one. I ran away when I perceived the sickness developing.” He spoke in a pompous tone, putting on an act for Finch.
“All love is rather sickening, isn’t it?” Finch gave his brother a sidelong glance.
“My advice is — keep away from it.” Now Eden spoke as the experienced lover of a dozen affairs.
“Never shall I fall in love.”
Eden gave him a smile of pity. “My poor Finch, why should I waste advice on you? You’ll be helpless. Victim of the first female who goes for you — tooth and claw. As for this Dilly, she’ll forget the lad she left behind once she sets eyes on our red-headed brother. Mark my words.”
VII
A SECRET AMONG THEM
With the power of attorney signed it was all so easy for Eden, with Mr. Kronk’s accomplished help. Adeline’s government bonds, to the amount of ten thousand dollars, were sold and the money reinvested in Indigo Lake Mines. Eden’s intention had been to deposit all that he acquired on commission into a savings account and watch it, bit by bit, increase, till he had enough saved for the trip abroad. Once abroad, who knew what might happen? But, with this investment of his grandmother’s, his savings account reached such proportions that boyishly he one day boasted of it to Mr. Kronk, who showed, by the way he spoke rather than by what he said, how short-sighted he considered this. What he said was that it reminded him of peasants who hoarded their gold in a stocking. Eden, who had taken a serene pleasure in watching his little pile increase and had examined his deposit book at least five times a day, now swept all from the bank and handed it over to Mr. Kronk to invest in Indigo Lake. Mr. Kronk could not resist pointing out to him what he had lost by not investing it earlier. By the time the first leaves were beginning to fall the stocks of the Indigo Lake Gold Mine had soared to a still more spectacular height. Typewritten reports arrived at intervals giving this exhilarating “market information.” Eden, Piers, their uncles, and their grandmother were walking on air — if a woman of almost one hundred years could be said to walk on air. So eager was Piers to make more money to invest that he was ready to do the work of two on the farm. Renny was actually worried about this boy and his passion for work combined with his parsimony.
06 The Whiteoak Brothers Page 7
