Donkey Boy (20 page)

And there were hundreds and hundreds and
hundreds
of peoples, men shouting, with paper boards on them, men with pearly buttons on their coats and trousers, and hundreds more. The grass was trodden flat like on the Hill on Band Night when all the poor people came there to hear the band playing and Mummy told him not to speak to the poor children. Poor children were rude and nasty, and now Phillip did not speak to them. An old woman with a basket gave him a toffee apple on a stick and he said “Thank you” before she could say “What do you say?”, and the old woman said, “What a dear little gentleman you are, and what blue eyes you have. What’s your name, dearie?”

She had a brown wrinkled face, so she might be a gipsy. Frightened, Phillip replied, “I’m Mr. Cornflower.”

“Well well, fancy that now. Are you with anyone? Where’s your mummy?”

Phillip did not know what to say, so he said, “My mummy is dead,” and when she looked at him sadly and said “O-oh!” he believed that Mummy
was
dead after all.

“Are you all alone, ducks?” she said, holding his hand, which made him very afraid, for now he was sure she was a gipsy to steal him.

“My mummy isn’t in heaven really, she’s only in Quarantine.”

“And where’s that, ducks?”

“Near Brighton next week, I think.” Then raising his cap he said “Good-bye” to the old woman, and hurried away, before she could find out he was not Mr. Cornflower at all, but Phillip Maddison.

When he looked back, she and two other ladies were looking at him. He hurried on, to hide behind peoples. When he looked back again, the first old woman waved her hand. He waved back. She thought he was Mr. Cornflower, ha ha!

No one would know his real name was Sonny, no one could steal him now he was Mr. Cornflower! He found a piece of string, and to make himself look not like a boy who had run away, he tied it to Joey’s collar, then he could say he had come to get back Joey who had run away from Lady Catt.

Hardly had Phillip devised the excuse when Joey was pulling him on the string, as though he, Joey, had come to get back Phillip. The reason was soon apparent. There by a big yellow, red, and black coach was Lady Catt, smiling. Joey wagged his tail and Phillip raised his sailor cap, the new black round one with H.M.S.
Brittania
on the band. He said, “I found Joey, Lady Catt.” Lady Catt smiled, and her teeth looked like Joey’s teeth, yellow.

So Phillip’s day at the races turned out to be a good one, after all. Lady Catt let him stand on the box with Mr. Lady Catt who was called Sir Alfred, and he saw very thin horses running all together, their hoofs thundering. There were men in caps and coloured clothes, leaning on the horses, as though they were talking to the horses’ ears, but they could not hear if they were, as everyone was shouting. Then the horses were gone and a lot of bits of earth were in the air behind the horses. And men spying with telescopes.

Phillip remembered best the lovely sandwiches to eat, and the sweet cold lemonade to drink. Mr. Lady Catt Sir Alfred took him to a place behind a big sack on sticks and there was an ever so big hole in the grass full of yellow wee-wees and he widdled into the hole and did not wet his trousers. When they got back to the coach Lady Catt said, “Haven’t you got a whistle? I will buy you a whistle, and a lanyard, to wear with your sailor suit.” When he said “Thank you, Lady Catt,” she kissed him and said he was the best-mannered boy she had ever known, a perfect little gentleman, and he felt very good and quiet.

Aunt Victoria shook her head when he was taken home, and Lady Catt had said good-bye. Aunt Victoria said he was nothing but an anxiety, and no wonder his father was unable to do anything with him. And when next day Lady Catt called to give him a whistle Aunty was very nice and smiling to Lady Catt; but afterwards she said he did not really deserve it, for worrying everybody so.

“I shall not tell your mother this time,” she said, sitting at the table in the hall, her eyes wide, “but really, you know, you must try not to be so tiresome. It is perfectly plain to me that you have been indulged, given your head too much, and that is not good for either young horses or children, Phillip. Do you do as you please when you are with your mother? Do you take advantage of her kindness to you? If so, it is not playing the game, you know, old chap. Do you understand what I am saying, Phillip?”

“No, Aunt Victoria,” said Phillip, staring at her.

“No, I do not suppose you do, you funny boy,” said Aunt Victoria, with a faraway laugh. “And what’s more, if you did understand, I do not suppose it would make any difference to you, would it?”

Phillip did not know what Aunt Victoria meant, but her tone of voice indicated that he must say No, so he said “No, Aunt,” and continued to look up into her face in such a way that she smiled, in spite of herself. And she said, as she stroked his hair, “You’re a pickle, Phillip, that’s what you are. Now run along and have your cocoa, and for heaven’s sake, boy——” But Victoria by this time had forgotten, if she had ever known, what she was going to say. On impulse she kissed him; which perhaps was the best thing to do. He was much nicer a little boy after that, and came and told her things; but, oh Lord, he did not seem to have the slightest idea what was fact and what was fiction.

W
HEN
she was out of quarantine, Hetty and her mother had a week together by the sea at Brighton. Hetty felt better than she had done for a long time. She loved Brighton, having spent several holidays there as a child. The fishermen, the cobs with their brown sails, the capstans by which they were hauled up the shingle out of the battering waves, the brown nets hanging out to dry, and the dim green Aquarium, with fishes swimming in the tanks; the strange Pavilion, with its domes and Eastern-looking architecture, the sea-front and the groins, the spray shooting up and falling over the road in a gale; the electric railway by the sea, the piers, and the theatres! Doctor Brighton was the best doctor of all.

The day approached when she would be returning home, and fetching the children from their aunt at Epsom. Hetty was a little apprehensive whenever she thought of her husband’s relations. After some discussion on the subject of Etiquette with her mother, she wrote a letter to her sister-in-law, fully conscious that she had never met her. She hesitated many times over the question of whether to begin
Dear
Victoria,
or
Dear
Mrs.
Lemon,
and after spoiling three sheets of writing paper, finally got something finished.

“I expect,” said Victoria, in the garden on the Thursday morning, “Hetty did not have a time-table to hand, for she has not said what time her train will arrive. Otherwise I could have sent down word to the station fly to bring her here.”

“Perhaps she would rather find her own way, and walk up,” said Beatrice.

Victoria did not reply at once. Her
idée
fixe
was bothering her; she was thinking of her brother, and what a pity it was. But then, she told herself, everyone had to make his or her own life.

“Anyway, I expect she will be here sometime. I have arranged for a cold luncheon. I hope she can eat salmon, there’s a ham, and a tongue, as well. I thought it would be nice to have a simple meal out here. What do you think, Hilary?”

“Oh yes, it is a very pleasant place, Viccy.”

The three were sitting in the arbour, an affair of rustic poles and palings, overgrown with rambler roses and honeysuckle. It was built in the Black Forest style. It occupied one flank of the lawn, which was also a tennis-court. Hilary was lounging in the hammock. He had brought three hammocks home from the tropics, one for Dickie, another for George, and the third for himself.

Bee and Viccy were sitting on cushions laid under the rustic seat. It was a pleasant retreat, half in sun and half in shade. A goldfinch had a nest in an adjacent apple tree. The twitterings of the fledglings was audible every few minutes, when the parent
birds flew, quite fearlessly, to their young. Victoria was fond of goldfinches, and could not bear to see them or any wild birds, in cages.

They were talking about the theatre. Recently Hilary and Bee had been together in London, and had seen several shows, including
Messenger
Boy
and
Floradora
at the Lyric. Victoria listened to their conversation, while wondering if Bee would be able to settle down with Hilary, after the excitement of her life on the stage. And why had she, suddenly, married a man so much older than herself, and a woolmaster from Bradford, of all things? He had been a worthy man, in his way, but he had been nearly thirty years her senior. Bee could have married almost anyone she had liked: then why John Murgatroyd? Could it have been for his money, or because her own father had deserted his family when Bee was only three years old, and so had lacked all her life a father’s affection?

Victoria’s fingers were busy at her crochet-work, as she half-listened to the twitter of the goldfinches and the inconsequential talk of Bee. She was now speaking about a friend of hers who had been the centre of a ridiculous case about a year previously, when the landlady of a public house, or an hotel, appropriately named “The Hautboy”, had had the sense to refuse refreshment to that friend of Bee’s, who certainly should have known better, for appearing in what she had the effrontery to call “rational cycling dress”. It had been quite a
cause
célèbre,
and George’s firm had briefed counsel. She had told George at the time that no action for damages could possibly succeed, and events had proved her right. Lady Harberton had lost the case. Victoria recalled the unhappy argument with George, after the verdict, George declaring that it was bad law, that the Judge had misdirected the Jury. How
could
he have been so obdurate as to miss the
obvious
rightness of the verdict?

What Victoria had deplored was the lack of responsibility shown to society by one who should have known better. A woman, particularly a titled woman, should set the best example to others, in all things. She must uphold the traditions of her class, not debase them. Lady Harberton had revealed her lack of the sense of responsibility in other ways. She had started what she called
A
Sanitary
Congress,
and had demanded that women should all wear short skirts!

George had declared that it was a hoax, but she had not believed it. It was a craving for sensationalism in a thoroughly vulgar age! The idiotic song people were singing, it rang through her head at times, and now Phillip had got hold of it, through Jessie, she supposed—a perfectly absurd little jingle,
Daisy,
Daisy,
give
me
your
answer
do
…
stylish
marriage
…
can’t
afford
a
carriage
…
only
a
bicycle
made
for
two!

How splendid was the spirit of the old Queen, by contrast! Victoria recalled the remark the Queen had made during the last Christmas, at the time of the black news after the lost battles in South Africa—
No
one
is
depressed
in
this
House.
We
are
not
interested
in
the
possibility
of
defeat.
But at the same time it really had been an eye-opener to read that, of the first hundred thousand recruits for the new army, two thirds had been pronounced to be unfit. Now
that
was something that
did
need rectification!

“What do you think, Viccy? Shall I, or shall I not?”

“I am afraid I was day dreaming, Hilary——”

“I was asking Bee if she would like me to buy a self-propelled carriage.”

“A self-propelled carriage? You’re not serious, surely, Hilary?”

“Why not? We have self-propelled ships, so why not such vehicles on the road?”

“But if they are not stopped, they will spoil the countryside, Hilary! Look at the dust they kick up, apart from the noise! Do you like the beastly things, Bee?” she asked, expecting to be supported.

“I think they are great fun, Viccy! Four of us had a wonderful run down to Henley last year. I nearly eloped with the driver, only he, dear boy, was already bespoke by Rosie Shoon.”

“Rosie Shoon?”

“A very good friend of mine, at the Gaiety.”

“Oh.”

“And who was the driver. Come on, tell us,” said Hilary.

“A Cornet of Horse named Footeweke.”

“The Marquis of Footeweke? So that’s the sort of gal you are, is it? ‘Stage-door Johnnies.’ I thought you’d given up your fast living!”

“Well, you may as well know the sort of person you’re marrying! Anyway, I was the chaperon, you see. J. M. was alive and kicking then, and he made no objections.”

Victoria thought that this was hardly the way to refer to one’s late husband, even if he had been a woolmaster; but she said nothing.

“And did you get so far as Henley?” asked Hilary. “I’m interested in the internal-combustion engine. So is my chief, Robert MacKarness.”

“But they make such a foul noise, and kick up such a dust!”

“The dust will abate quite a lot, Viccy, now that there’s a law passed saying that only smooth tyres may be used.”

“Well, I cannot say I approve the idea, anyway! You asked my opinion, and there it is.”

Victoria felt that the two together, Hilary and Bee, were, in a way, in league against her. Beatrice realised this and said, “You must see
Flor
adora
,
Viccy! I am sure it would delight you. We must take her to a matinee, Hilary.” Beatrice sang softly,

and then hearing, during a pause, a movement on her right hand—Victoria was on her left—she glanced slowly sideways and saw, through a gap in the light green leaves of the rose briars, a little face watching her.

It vanished. She smiled to herself, but said nothing. The watch hanging on her bodice by its golden bow told that it was eleven o’clock, the boy’s bedtime; he would be so excited that his mother was coming, that enforced rest would do more harm than good. She thought of her own two little tots, at home in Tenterden in Kent, in the care of their nannie, and her mother. She was taking Hilary there to see Mamma shortly. At the end of her year of (official) mourning they were to be married.

There was the ring of a bell in the house. Beatrice saw, through the gap in the pergola, the boy running tiptoe over the lawn towards a clump of snowberry bushes.

“I wonder if that can be Henrietta?” said Victoria, getting up, and going towards the firench windows. Left with Hilary, Beatrice said:

“I wonder what she’s like, darling?”

“We’ll soon see, won’t we? I don’t suppose my brother Dick had any reason for hiding her. I’m just going upstairs, Honey Bee; I’ll be down again in a minute.” And kissing Honey Bee, Hilary went into the house by another way.

Left alone, Beatrice arranged the shoulder frills of her black silk muslin blouse. She was entirely self-assured in what she called to herself her war-paint. Her
ensemble
had been carefully chosen. Yoke and neck-band were of black silk net, transparent to the top of her collar bones; below was finely pleated muslin, crossed by bands of black velvet sewn with sequins, a black silk stomacher for her twenty-one-inch waist, and a velvet hip-band lying close upon her black silk skirt. Her figure had hardly suffered from child-bearing; and on seeing her clad in this Parisian creation by Worth et Cie of New Bond Street, Hilary had risen, and so had come to the gaff. Thus Beatrice thought of it, lightly within herself.

Hilary, self-assured, and with a fine conceit of himself, had seen it another way: that his own splendid life could be made finally perfect by having the Honey Bee always to return to, in a home of his own. Were they not, in everyway, and particularly in the basic way from which life flowed, perfectly matched? So, almost casually, these two experienced people had come mutually to the idea of marriage.

Beatrice’s hat had been chosen to set off her fair hair and blue eyes. It was of black scalloped straw, with a cluster of small black aigrettes rising from a jet paste buckle on the crown of the hat. It was a hat smaller than the current fashion, an affair of
chic
and lightness of heart. From the brim in front hung a fine-gauze veil, which when tied under her chin added lure and mystery to her oval face, which had a kind of glow about it, a softness due to washing only in cow’s milk, she believed. Beatrice also liked to believe that the colour of her eyes was of that uncommon china-blue tint which had characterised the great courtesans of history. She regretted only one thing about her person: that her hair was not raven-black, but of a commonplace honey-paleness. To be sure, it was soft as silk—and since it pleased the men she liked, it did not worry her unduly.

“After all, life is short,” said Beatrice to herself, as she got up to shake out her fine feathers, “and if one has got to be sad, one may as well be sad with a certain gaiety.” And in this mood, carrying her parasol, she walked to the clump of snowberry bushes where Phillip had hidden himself in sudden agitated inability to face his mother.

“Phillip,” she said, “your Mummy has come.”

There was no answer.

Beatrice parted the bushes, and saw him sitting there, unmoving. She thought to herself, Stage fright!

“Come on, darling, Mummy will be simply longing to see her little boy again.”

“No, no,” he said, “I do not want to see her.”

From the house, from a bedroom with all the windows open, could be heard the joyful cries of Mavis.