Lantana Lane (12 page)

Whatever his parents may have endured, the rest of the Lane (with one exception) quite enjoyed Tony's fife, and took a benevolent interest in his progress. Since distance lends enchantment to a view, it may, in like manner, soften the impact of sounds upon the ear; at all events, the intimations of immortality which Tony had always exuded were, if anything, enhanced by the sweet and plaintive notes of his fife. Those who dimly recalled their poetry lessons at school found themselves thinking vaguely and sentimentally about Pan, and shepherd lads, and some boy or other who came piping down a valley wild.

Joy, however, did not like the fife. It provided her first experience of that terrible obsession known as Art, which causes otherwise normal people to become queer and distrait, and to go away into a world of their own, and cease to be conscious of anything outside it. All these symptoms Tony was now exhibiting. Daphne and the twins were rather taken aback when they found that he no longer wanted to play with them, but they just played together and—if the truth must be told—sometimes felt that things were simpler and cosier without him, if less exciting.

Joy, however, was in a terrible state. Tony was not aware of her any longer; he was aware of nothing but his fife.

A woman scorned is popularly supposed to be fury personified, but she is a dove compared with a woman ignored, and on this memorable evening Joy had reached a stage where she would have stopped at nothing to detach Tony's attention from the fife, and transfer it to herself. There he was, sitting under the mulberry tree, tootling away at some notes which did not, as yet, seem to have any idea of co-operation, and looking rapt. She simply could not bear it. She tried singing a song at the top of her voice to drown his music, but he didn't seem to hear. She tried throwing pebbles at him, but he didn't seem to feel. Then she tried falling down and pretending she had hurt herself so werry, werry indeed badly that she couldn't get up again, but he didn't seem to see. This was so dreadful that she was just wondering if she could find his football and hammer a nail into it, when Ding happened to hit what would have been a sixer if Tony had not been in the way. The ball caught him on the wrist, knocking the fife out of his hand, and he sprang up wrathfully, yelling: “Hey! Cut it out!”

Joy went into action so fast that only a blur on the landscape betrayed her strategic move to a position behind him. While he was still stamping about, shouting revilements at Ding, and clutching his bruised wrist, she pounced, seized the fife, and ran.

She got away to a good start because for a few seconds Tony remained unaware of his loss. Then, with a vengeful cry, he gave chase. But she had disappeared round the back of the house, and when he turned the corner he could not see her anywhere. He looked behind the mango tree, he ran up and down the pineapple rows, he poked about in the lantana; he summoned Daphne and the twins, and they all searched too. The sun went down. Daphne called, scolded and threatened. At last, addressing the empty air, she announced loudly:

“All right, I can't wait any longer—I'm going without you, and you'll have to come home by yourself in the dark.”

Whereupon the door of the dumpty flew open and Joy shot out, bawling; but, alas, without the fife.

The full truth of this deplorable affair is so securely hidden in the centre of the universe that we doubt if it will ever become known. To the question : “Did it fall, or was it dropped?” we shall never really know the answer. But we have it on Heather Arnold's authority that Joy reached home still bawling, continued to bawl until bedtime, and refused to compose herself for sleep until she had been assured—not once, but twenty times—that she was a werry, werry indeed good girl. From this we may draw our own conclusions.

But there is no doubt at all that Tony's dynamo, stimulated by crisis, went into operation so powerfully that his parents, to this day, remember the occasion as one when they felt themselves driven and dominated by an irresistible force. They were reclining in their chairs, exhausted by a particularly tough day's work, when he presented himself before them wearing an expression compounded of outrage and invincible determination. He said bitterly:

“That beastly damn kid, Joy, dropped my fife down the dumpty.”

“Tony,” yawned Sue mechanically, “don't say . . .” She blinked, sat up, looked at him, and asked :“What?”

“Joy,” repeated Tony with terrible restraint. “My fife. Down the dumpty. And I want to practise, so come on.” And then he burst out with sudden ferocity: “What's so funny?”

For his parents—revealing a callous lack of sympathy which shocked him to his soul—had actually begun to laugh. Aunt Isabelle, however, had greeted his news with exclamations of dismay, and was now giving a rapid sketch of her views on the matter, which were that this instrument, though of an inferior kind not hitherto used, or even recognised, in her family, had nevertheless cost money, and was not to be flung away—and into such a place,
pfui!
—by a naughty and undisciplined child, for that little Joy there was, and had always been of the most mischievous, and could with advantage undergo chastisement which she herself would willingly administer, though it must be understood that she did not, as a question of principle, favour the punishment corporal, and had so repeatedly informed Henri when he had lifted his hand against
ce pauvre
Tony, who had now been so maliciously deprived of his instrument which, though of an inferior kind not hitherto used or even . . .

Tony, glad as he was to find himself with at least one ally, felt that this had gone on long enough, and could not be allowed to begin all over again, particularly as it seemed to be increasing his parents' scandalous mirth, rather than arousing them to a proper sense of the urgency of the situation. So he interrupted hotly:

“Mum, I never gave it to her! It just fell out of my hand, and she sneaked up and grabbed it and ran away with it I You're always telling me I mustn't meddle with other people's things, but when she does it, you only
laugh!
 . . .”

Sue, smitten by the justice of this, remembered her maternal duty, wiped her eyes, and said soothingly:

“No, darling. I mean, yes, darling. I mean it was very naughty of her, and we're all very, very sorry.”

Henry, belatedly contrite, reached behind his chair and patted Tony's leg.

“Yes—bad luck, old chap. But she's only a little girl, and I expect she didn't mean . . .”

“Didn't
mean
 . . . !” snorted Tony fiercely. “She meant it all right! And I was just beginning to learn
Sweet and Low
!”

At this, Henry, for some inexplicable reason, suffered another paroxysm of misplaced hilarity, and Sue went off into a veritable fit of hysterics. Aunt Isabelle, eyeing them with astonished indignation, bade Tony rest tranquil, for although his parents appeared insensible of the anguish which such a loss must occasion to one of the artistic temperament, she was of a nature more
sympathique,
and would, at the first opportunity, buy him a new fife. . . .

“I don't WANT a new fife!” roared Tony. “There's nothing wrong with my old one, and I want to do some practice, so come
on
!”

Henry turned slowly in his chair, stared hard at his son, and enquired cautiously : “Come on . . . where?”

“To get it, of course,” said Tony.

There was a long, hushed pause. Then Sue said briskly:

“Oh, come, darling, don't be silly!”

Henry was heard to chuckle indulgently; but from the way he settled himself on his shoulders and propped his slippered feet on another chair, it was plain that he had no intention of coming on anywhere. Tony stood looking at them in silence for a moment, drawing deep breaths and gathering his forces for battle. Within him the throb of his dynamo grew faster and stronger until the whole room seemed so charged with power that his parents exchanged glances of alarm, and shifted uneasily in their chairs. Sue—though she has described the later events of the evening with precision—has never been able to recall very clearly the exact details of the awe-inspiring struggle which now ensued. She knows that Aunt Isabelle vaccillated, sometimes declaring that the child's resolution was
magnifique,
and repeating (with that air of triumphantly settling a matter which proverbs lend to those who quote them) “
Qui ne risque rien, n'a rien
”; but sometimes, when her imagination got the better of her, protesting, imploring, expressing profound repugnance, and recklessly promising not only a new fife, but also a bugle, a concertina, a ukelele and even a drum. She knows that Henry, eschewing argument altogether, performed a swift and masterly retirement to that impregnable position which parents always keep prepared, and thundered: “No!
No!
NO! “at frequent intervals. She is not sure what part she herself played in the scene, except that her lines all seemed to be short and unfinished. “Henry, dear,
please
! . . .” “Tony, you must
not
! . . .” “Isabelle, I wish you wouldn't encourage . . .”

But she is quite sure that throughout the engagement Tony was the attacker, and that they really knew they were beaten before they began. To every objection he unhesitatingly produced an answer beginning with “But . . .” To every bellowed “No!” he replied indomitably with “Why not?”, and gained strength, as his adversaries weakened, from the obvious fact that they could put forward absolutely no valid reason why not. They could do nothing but shout, shudder, exclaim, wave their hands, make faces, and declare that he must be mad, it was out of the question, it was impossible, it was not to be thought of. And at last, when Henry, desperate and demoralised, unwisely exposed his flank by shifting ground and asking “How?”, Tony knew that he had them where he wanted them. He told them how.

To his astonishment and disgust, he found that his admirably simple plan of action, far from being greeted with applause, provoked a fresh outbreak of protestations. Even Aunt Isabelle finally went over to the enemy, asserting that she was a realist, she, and had never demanded that life be presented to her
couleur de rose,
but there were undoubtedly certain aspects of it from which all civilised persons agreed to avert the eyes, and the proposal of Tony, though made in all innocence, could not for one instant be entertained. Tony was annoyed by all this time-wasting chatter, but not seriously disturbed by the renewed opposition; he recognised it as being merely the sudden flare of a dying fire. And, true enough, there were only a few more flickers—a few weak, craven attempts at procrastination.

“But look, Tony,” Sue urged despairingly, “not to-night. Not to-night, darling,
please
! Dad's worn out, and so am I. It'll be . . . easier by daylight, anyhow, just wait till tomorrow . . .”

Tony stood his ground, immovable.

“To-morrow you've got to start picking and packing early—you'll say you haven't time.
I
know!”

“We-e-ll, yes, we
will
be busy in the morning—but in the afternoon we could . . .”

“Have some sense, Mum, can't you?” Tony cut in scornfully. “It'll be worse then.”

“Worse? . . .” She stared at him. Henry gave a hollow laugh, and said:

“Wake up, old girl! Worse is right. It's now or never.”

Light broke on Sue. “Oh,
dear
!” she cried. “Why do things always happen to us? Well, if we must. . . . I suppose we must. After supper, then—yes, Tony, I promise. Oh,
dear
!”

Henry stood up suddenly, swept Tony out of the way, and fetched from a cupboard the bottle of brandy they kept for emergencies. True, they had never envisaged just such an emergency as this, but the three adults immediately recognised it as one calling for the Dutch courage which alcohol supplies. Sue tossed off a stiff drink, and demanded another. Aunt Isabelle (who is practically teetotal) downed hers with an air of martyrdom, as if it were hemlock. Henry, with his glass half-way to his lips, paused and looked with disfavour at his son. “You,” he said coldly, “may have a glass of lemonade.”

But what need should Tony have of artificial stimulants? His dynamo was pounding away as strongly and steadily as ever; he had expended fabulous amounts of energy, but he still had plenty in reserve. Erect and inflexible, contemptuously observing their abject and lily-livered behaviour, he replied with dignity:

“I don't want lemonade. I only want my fife.”

It was quite dark when the little procession emerged from the back door and passed in single file along the narrow, foot-worn path. No one except Tony had felt like eating much after all, and Sue, remembering what was in store for him, had queried the wisdom of his third helping of pudding; but he had only stared, and said impatiently, “Why not? I'm hungry.” Now he strode ahead, marching fast and resolutely like a good officer who must instil confidence into his wavering ranks. Behind him—muttering that this was a nice, peaceful sort of evening for a man who had been working since dawn—came Henry with a torch. Sue followed, trying hard, now that the moment was at hand, to behave like a mother of Sparta, and not let poor darling Tony down. Aunt Isabelle (in whom the brandy seemed to have induced a mood of rather tearful sentimentality) brought up the rear, lamenting that Sue's late and so talented mother had not lived to see the incomparable resource and fortitude of this grandson, whose devotion to his art should be rewarded by the gift of a grand piano, and a musical education under the best masters of Europe.

When they reached the door, and Tony, without hesitation, entered, Sue's nerve wobbled, and she began to cry out: “Oh, no! Oh, Henry! Oh, Tony, darling! Oh, no!” Tony said sharply : “What's biting you? Here, Dad, give us the torch a sec. I've just got to see exactly where . . .”