06 The Whiteoak Brothers

by Mazo de La Roche

  Wakefield diligently searched his satchel. “I can’t find it,” he sighed. “I’m afraid my brother Finch has borrowed it. He’s very backward in arithmetic and it helps him to do problems out of my little book. Shall I go home and see if I can find it?”

  “No, no, no. We’ll do geography. Where is the map of Ontario I asked you to draw?”

  Wakefield instantly produced it.

  Mr. Fennel examined it, while stroking his untidy brown beard.

  “Why, this is beautiful,” he said. “But why is it signed Ernest Whiteoak?”

  Wakefield ran his hand through his hair. He said — “I asked my uncle to help me a little with it and he got so interested that he finished it, and he’s used to signing everything he draws and I didn’t like to stop him.”

  “I see. How much of the map is your own work, Wakefield?”

  “The lake, sir. I did all of the lake. I drew that little sailboat on it, the way they did in old maps. My uncle liked that.”

  “Well, I hope that next time he will leave you to do your own work. Now let us settle down to learn some history.”

  The remainder of the morning passed quite agreeably but Wakefield was glad when it was over and he was free. Mr. Fennel gave him a large greenish-gold pippin to take with him, but as he did not very much like pippins he fed it to the cow which was in the little field next the church. She seemed to have great difficulty in swallowing it and made such crude choking noises that Wakefield hurried on.

  He thought he would go into the churchyard for a little, and possibly even into the church. He never had been inside it alone and he thought 152 this might be a good morning for inspecting it. The gate that led into the churchyard closed with rather an ominous click, and there seemed to be a good many steps to mount before he reached the level of the churchyard. He gave no more than a glance at the family plot where lay buried Captain Whiteoak, his son Philip and Philip’s two wives, also several infant Whiteoaks who had preceded Eden in Philip’s second marriage. Wakefield knew the inscription on the granite plinth. He knew the names on each of the several headstones. There was nothing there to delay his intention of entering the church. A spiral of smoke was ascending like incense from a mound of leaves near the church, and a rake lying on the ground beside it showed that someone had been at work. Wakefield wondered if that someone had gone into the church, and he moved very quietly on tiptoe and gently pushed open the door. He closed the door as gently behind him and hesitated a moment in the porch.

  Certainly there was someone in the Church. Wakefield could make out soft shuffling noises and then an odd metallic sound. Fear quickened his heartbeat. He was ready to turn and fly. Then curiosity overcame fear and he opened the inner door, just a little way, and peeped in. The church looked brighter than usual and strangely smaller, though there was no congregation.

  But who was moving about? Yes, there was someone, at the very back of the church, so near the door that Wakefield could almost have touched him. It was disappointing to discover that it was Noah Binns, and Wakefield was about to steal away when he became fascinated by what Noah was doing. He had taken the Poor Box off the wall and was cautiously shaking it above one curved earthy palm. Then, out of the slot, a coin dropped — then another — and another. Noah peered at them, rather disappointed-looking, but, after a firmer shaking, a fifty-cent piece plopped out, and after it two quarters. There was not much money in the Poor Box but it looked a good deal to Wakefield and he envied Noah Binns for having come by such wealth with so little effort. He opened the door wider to have a good look at him.

  Noah must have felt that he was being watched, for he gave a start. Two of the coins fell from his palm and rolled under the nearest pews. His eyes and Wakefield’s met in a concentrated stare. Then Noah pocketed the coins, and still holding the box in one hand, shuffled forward and caught the little boy by the shoulder. He dragged him inside the church and shook him right off his feet. Wakefield would have fallen but that he was held up in that angry grasp.

  “Let me go,” he said, and would have screamed, but Noah now spoke soothingly and held him quietly.

  “Come, come,” he said, “don’t you be scared. I won’t hurt you. Sure I won’t.”

  Wakefield saw that Noah was even more frightened than he. His teeth were knocking together with fright. The Poor Box was rattling in his hand.

  “Let me go,” Wakefield repeated, in a quite different tone, this time one of authority and accusation. “I’ll tell what you did — see if I don’t!”

  Noah’s face looked all mouth. He said — “It ain’t the way you think. I’ll tell you how it was. I come into the church to fix a window that was loose and I noticed a coin stuck in the slot of this here box. It was a fifty-cent piece. Well, that ain’t right, I thought, and I tried to push it in. It wouldn’t go in. Then I thought I’d shake it out but a few little ones come first. See? That’s the way it was.”

  Wakefield said nothing. He just stood speechless, his large eyes fixed on Noah’s scared face. A tiny brown fieldmouse moved across the matting of the aisle. Bright splashes of colour fell from the stained-glass window, in memory of Captain Whiteoak.

  Noah said — “You just come in time to see me put all the money back in the box. P’r’aps you’d like to put it back for me, eh?”

  “All right.”

  Noah dived into his pocket, brought out some of the coins — coppers, five- and ten-cent pieces. He held the box more steadily now, while Wakefield dropped them one by one through the slot.

  Now Noah was grinning. “There y’are,” he said. “Now we’ll put the box back on the wall, eh?”

  “Where’s the fifty cents and the two quarters?” asked Wakefield.

  Now Noah was laughing. “Well, I am a forgetful feller,” he said. “Did you ever see the like? To forget them quarters!” He took them from the depths of his pocket and gave them to Wakefield. “Here y’are! Put them in.”

  Wakefield dropped them though the slot. “Where’s the fifty-cent piece?” he asked.

  Noah was shaking with laughter. “Darned if I won’t forget my own head next!” he said. He recovered the large silver coin and Wakefield restored it to the box.

  “There are some on the floor,” he said.

  They went down on their hands and knees but Wakefield could not find the money. He was by this time more interested in finding the little mouse.

  Noah, first on his feet once more, said — “I found them coppers and put them back. Coppers — that’s what they was.”

  “Oh,” said Wakefield from under a pew, “just coppers.”

  “I’m going to make you a present,” said Noah, sucking the air through a broken tooth, “out of my own money, see?” He took two quarters from his pocket and put them into Wakefield’s palm. “That’s for being a good boy and helping me with my work.”

  Wakefield stared astonished at the money for a moment, then his fingers closed on it. “Thanks,” he murmured, “and when you want any more help let me know.”

  Noah’s attitude became suddenly firm, almost menacing. He said — “Don’t you go talkin’ about what happened here.”

  “No,” agreed Wakefield, not liking the look on Noah’s face.

  “I don’t want no enigmas to get around about me.”

  “No.” He backed away a few steps.

  Noah raised his voice. “This place is an awful place for talk,” he said, “and I don’t want no enigmas about me. If I hear of any, I’ll know who done it. I’ll get even with them. Nothing could be fairer than that.”

  Wakefield turned and ran out of the church. “Goodbye,” he called out and never stopped running till he was in the road. He then slowed down to a trot, adjusting his school satchel more comfortably on his shoulders, then examined the two bright coins in his hand. One of these had the King’s head on it, the other the head of Queen Victoria. Both were good to spend.

  He stook to look in at the window of the one little shop in the road. It was on beyond the blacksmith-
shop and its window was simply the window of the cottage. In this window stood a table and on it were displayed bottles of ginger ale, orange squash, and lemon soda, as well as a pan of homemade buns and two pies. Inside, on the counter, were chocolate bars and candies and fancy biscuits.

  The bell gave its small but peremptory clang when he opened the door. He thought it was rather a mistake to have placed the bell there, as otherwise the customer might have examined what was offered for sale at leisure, and even sampled the goods. But now Mrs. Brawn, red-faced from her oven, bustled in and enquired what he would have. He chose lemon soda, with marshmallow biscuits — which came to ten cents — and ten cents’ worth of mixed candies. These last were put into a paper bag to carry home, but he stood by the counter nibbling the biscuits and taking the drink through a straw. Mrs. Brawn knew him well and liked a little chat with him. When he had paid, she enquired:

  “How’s the lessons going?”

  “I’m doing Latin,” he answered with dignity.

  “Latin! Well, I never! At your age!”

  “Mr. Fennel thinks they don’t begin it soon enough in the schools.

  My brother Finch didn’t begin it till he was twelve. By the time I’m that age I shall be able to converse in it. Do you know what converse means?”

  “Well, I should hope so. I’ve had some education. It means have a conversation. Let’s hear you say some Latin.”

  He drew up the last of the lemon soda with a sputtering sound before he said — “Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant.”

  “Well, I never,” declared Mrs. Brawn. “Whatever does it mean?”

  “It’s different ways of saying I love you.”

  She gaped, then frowned. “I call that shameful,” she said. “Putting such ideas into the head of a little boy. The rector ought to be ashamed of himself. Time enough for you to talk about different ways of loving when you’re twenty.”

  “I guess that Mr. Fennel thinks as I’m not likely to live till I’m twenty, I may as well begin early.”

  Pity filled Mrs. Brawn’s eyes with tears. “My, it’s too bad you’re so delicate.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” he agreed, then added — “I think I’ll have a bottle of ginger ale now. And will you please charge it?”

  As she set it in front of him she reminded him — “You owe me ten cents already. Don’t forget that.”

  He applied himself to the ginger ale for a moment before answering — “I won’t forget. And there’ll be plenty of money in our house after the Horse Show. My brother Renny will take a lot of prizes, you know.”

  “Ah, he’s a fine figure on horseback. I see him pass most every day and that lady visitor too. I guess there’s a lot of talk about horses in your house just now.”

  “There’s nothing else. Everybody’s going to the Show every night excepting me, and I’m going twice. And even my grandmother talks of going because of her new fur coat.”

  “Lands sakes — would she go?”

  “We’re trying to make her understand that church is better for her — but it’s not easy.”

  With such amiable conversation his visit to the little shop ended and he found himself again crossing the field on his way home. With mild surprise he came upon his arithmetic textbook, little the worse for lying there all the morning. He replaced it in his schoolbag and trotted on and at last into the house. There he encountered Wragge, who said:

  “You’ll be eating in the kitchen, young shaver. The three gentlemen ’as all gone into town. Also Miss Warkworth. Your grandmother ’as gone to lunch with the Miss Laceys, and your aunt and Miss Whiteoak gone with ’er. And a solid two hours it took to get her dressed and into the carriage. Wot ’as come over ’er I don’t know, but she gets livelier every day. She says to me yesterday, ‘Rags, I’m making money, I am.’ Fancy that, at her age.”

  Down in the kitchen Mrs. Wragge asked Wakefield what he would like for lunch.

  “A sandwich, with plenty of mustard, and a piece of pumpkin pie.”

  “That ain’t much of a dinner.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “It’s all the studying,” cried Mrs. Wragge. “That clergy-man works him too hard.”

  “What did you learn today?” asked Rags.

  Wakefield perched himself on a corner of the kitchen table. He said — “Mr. Fennel wore his surplice today.”

  “When did he wear it?”

  “All the while he taught me.”

  The Wragges gave each other a look. “Never ’eard of such a thing,” said he. “And why did Mr. Fennel do that, I’d like to know.”

  “Just to look holy,” replied Wake.

  The cook screamed with laughter. “He must be crazy. No wonder you ain’t hungry.”

  “Was he teaching you out of the Bible something special?” asked Rags.

  The sandwich was ready and Wakefield bit into it with interest. He then said — “The first question Mr. Fennel asked me was, what is the difference between a hackney and a hunter.”

  “The man’s out of his mind,” said the cook.

  “And did you know?” asked Rags.

  “Of course I knew.”

  “And what was his next question?”

  “He asked me, what are the points of a harness horse.”

  “He’s demented,” said the cook.

  “I’ll bet you didn’t know,” said Rags.

  Wakefield said, through a mouthful of sandwich — “He must lift his feet high enough to kick flies off his belly. He musn’t plait or dish or go wide behind.”

  Mrs. Wragge said — “This whole thing is a make-up. I don’t believe a word of it. Come now, eat your pie and move on. I want to clean up my kitchen.

  Wakefield ate half his piece of pie as he walked slowly through the hall. In the library he presented the other half to Boney, the parrot. He then sat down to consider the fact that he had the house to himself. He could not remember this having happened before. He savoured the largeness and silence of the house for a short while, then, with the slow majestic walk of complete possession, he set out to explore.

  Boney, his beak plastered with pumpkin pie, looked after him quizzically, tried to speak, but could utter no sound.

  Wakefield thought he would begin at the very top, in Eden’s room. The door of this room was usually kept shut, excepting when Eden was in bed, for he liked to sleep in a draught. Wakefield went in and closed the door behind him. The window was wide open and it was pleasant up there among the treetops. He opened the drawer of the desk and saw Eden’s latest verses, written in pencil on pages from a notebook. There were poems in typescript too and several printed slips beginning with the words — “The Editors have read your manuscript with interest but regret …” It was very dull, with the exception of the poems which had been printed in magazines. These Eden had cut out and pasted in an ordinary school scribbler. Wakefield like achievement and these printed poems made him feel proud of Eden, as he knew Meg and the uncles were.

  He sprinkled his hair with a nice-smelling toilet water that was on the washstand. He then strolled into the bedroom where Piers and Finch slept. He found nothing of interest there except half a chocolate bar which he nibbled, then liked so well he finished it.

  He slid down the banisters to the floor below. He had suddenly remembered his saving bank which Meg kept in her room and the twenty-five-cent piece he had been given by Noah Binns. He found the bank in Meg’s clothes-cupboard. It was in the shape of a little house and you dropped the coin down the chimney. But first he turned the bank upside down and gave it a good shaking to see if it would render up its contents, as had the Poor Box. The bank, however, was obdurate. Nothing came through the chimney. He frowned and said aloud — “No enigmas, please.”

  Suddenly, inexplicably, he decided against putting the money in the bank. He returned it to his pocket and the bank to the clothes-cupboard. It was wonderful having the house to himself. He ran along the passage, waving his arms and chanting — “No enigmas, please
.” He threw his leg over the banister and slid to the hall below. As he arrived on the newel post he was startled to hear the piano being softly strummed. He scrambled down and glided to the door of the drawing-room and put his eye to the keyhole. He could make out the figure of Finch seated at the piano. Finch — of all people, who couldn’t play a note! But the strumming was soft and rather pretty till it became a torrent of strange and noisy chords.

  Wakefield opened a door and went in. He stood just behind Finch till his hands rested on the keyboard, then he said in a highfalutin tone:

  “Very nice, my boy. Very nice, indeed.”

  Finch wheeled on the seat and faced him.

  Wakefield produced the silver coin. “Here’s a quarter for you,” he said grandly, “for playing such a pretty tune.”

  “I like your cheek,” said Finch. “Who do you think you are?”

  “Your Uncle Wakefield, dear boy.”

  “Where did you get the quarter?”

  “Out of the church Poor Box.”

  “You little liar.”

  “No enigmas, please. Do you want the quarter?”

  Finch took it from him, caught him by the arm and put the coin down inside his collar. He said — “That’s how much I want it. And look here, don’t mention to anyone that I was at the piano, will you? I know I can’t play, but — well, don’t mention it.”

  Wakefield could feel the coin slide down his spine. He wriggled and it appeared from beneath his shorts. He pocketed it and said, eager to be on a confidential footing with Finch — “All right. I won’t say, Finch. Let’s have a secret together. Let’s do something together. You know the sort of thing.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s see what Gran keeps in the small drawer in the wardrobe.”

  “I’ve never noticed it.”

  “I have, and yesterday she shut it quickly when I peeped in. Let’s go and see — together!”

  Finch leaped past him, then halted. “Where is she?”

  “At the Laceys’ with Meg and Aunt Augusta.”

  Finch opened the door of the bedroom. Wakefield pressed close beside. He said — “I believe it’s a skull.”