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Cook’s mother had been ill and died. Nurse did not answer. Instead she said sharply:
‘The boot-bags out of the bottom drawer, Susan. Step lively now, my girl.’
‘Nurse, will your mother—’
‘I haven’t time to be answering questions, Master Vernon.’
Vernon sat down on the corner of a chintz-covered ottoman and gave himself up to reflection. Nurse had said that her mother wasn’t a hundred, but she must, for all that, be very old. Nurse herself he had always regarded as terribly old. To think that there was a being of superior age and wisdom to Nurse was positively staggering. In a strange way it reduced Nurse herself to the proportions of a mere human being. She was no longer a figure secondary only to God himself.
The Universe shifted—values were readjusted. Nurse, God, and Mr Green—all three receded, becoming vaguer and more blurred. Mummy, his father, even Aunt Nina—seemed to matter more. Especially Mummy. Mummy was like the princesses with long beautiful golden hair. He would like to fight a dragon for Mummy—a brown shiny dragon like The Beast.
What was the word—the magic word? Brumagem—that was it—Brumagem. An enchanting word! The Princess Brumagem! A word to be repeated over to himself softly and secretly at night at the same time as ‘Damn’ and ‘Corsets’.
But never, never, never must Mummy hear it—because he knew only too well that she would laugh—she always laughed, the kind of laugh that made you shrivel up inside and want to wriggle. And she would say things—she always said things, just the kind of things you hated. ‘Aren’t children too funny?’
And Vernon knew that he wasn’t funny. He didn’t like funny things—Uncle Sydney had said so. If only Mummy wouldn’t—
Sitting on the slippery chintz he frowned perplexedly. He had a sudden imperfect glimpse of two Mummies. One, the princess, the beautiful Mummy that he dreamt about, who was mixed up for him with sunsets and magic and killing dragons—and the other—the one who laughed and who said, ‘Aren’t children too funny?’ Only, of course, they were the same …
He fidgeted and sighed. Nurse, flushed from the effort of snapping to her trunk, turned to him kindly.
‘What’s the matter, Master Vernon?’
‘Nothing,’ said Vernon.
You must always say ‘Nothing.’ You could never tell. Because, if you did, no one ever knew what you meant …
Under the reign of Susan Isabel, the nursery was quite different. You could be, and quite frequently were, naughty. Susan told you not to do things and you did them just the same! Susan would say: ‘I’ll tell your mother.’ But she never did.
Susan had at first enjoyed the position and authority she had in Nurse’s absence. Indeed, but for Vernon, she would have continued to enjoy it. She used to exchange confidences with Katie, the under-housemaid.
‘Don’t know what’s come over him, I’m sure. He’s like a little demon sometimes. And him so good and well behaved with Mrs Pascal.’
To which Kate replied:
‘Ah! she’s a one, she is! Takes you up sharp, doesn’t she?’ And then they would whisper and giggle.
‘Who’s Mrs Pascal?’ Vernon asked one day.
‘Well, I never, Master Vernon! Don’t you know your own Nurse’s name?’
So Nurse was Mrs Pascal. Another shock. She had always been just Nurse. It was rather as though you had been told that God’s name was Mr Robinson.
Mrs Pascal! Nurse! The more you thought of it, the more extraordinary it seemed. Mrs Pascal—just like Mummy was Mrs Deyre and Father was Mr Deyre. Strangely enough Vernon never cogitated on the possibility of a Mr Pascal. (Not that there was any such person. The Mrs was a tacit recognition of Nurse’s position and authority.) Nurse stood alone in the same magnificence as Mr Green, who, in spite of the hundred children (and Poodle, Squirrel and Tree), was never thought of by Vernon as having a Mrs Green attached to him!
Vernon’s inquiring mind wandered in another direction. ‘Susan, do you like being called Susan? Wouldn’t you like being called Isabel better?’
Susan (or Isabel) gave her customary giggle.
‘It doesn’t matter what I like, Master Vernon.’
‘Why not?’
‘People have got to do what they’re told in this world.’
Vernon was silent. He had thought the same until a few days ago. But he was beginning to perceive that it was not true. You needn’t do as you were told. It all depended on who told you.
It was not a question of punishment. He was continually being sat on chairs, stood in the corner, and deprived of sweets by Susan. Nurse, on the other hand, had only had to look at him severely through her spectacles with a certain expression on her face, and anything but immediate capitulation was out of the question.
Susan had no authority in her nature, and Vernon knew it. He had discovered the thrill of successful disobedience. Also, he liked tormenting Susan. The more worried and flustered and unhappy Susan got, the more Vernon liked it. He was, as was proper to his years, still in the Stone Age. He savoured the full pleasure of cruelty.
Susan formed the habit of letting Vernon go out to play in the garden alone. Being an unattractive girl, she had not Winnie’s reasons for liking the garden. And besides, what harm could possibly come to him?
‘You won’t go near the ponds, will you, Master Vernon?’
‘No,’ said Vernon, instantly forming the intention to do so.
‘You’ll play with your hoop like a good boy?’
‘Yes.’
The nursery was left in peace. Susan heaved a sigh of relief. She took from a drawer a paper-covered book entitled The Duke and the Dairymaid.
Beating his hoop, Vernon made the tour of the walled fruit garden. Escaping from his control, the hoop leapt upon a small patch of earth which was at the moment receiving the meticulous attentions of Hopkins, the head gardener. Hopkins firmly and authoritatively ordered Vernon from the spot, and Vernon went. He respected Hopkins.
Abandoning the hoop, Vernon climbed a tree or two. That is to say, he reached a height of perhaps six feet from the ground, employing all due precautions. Tiring of this perilous sport, he sat astride a branch and cogitated as to what to do next.
On the whole, he thought of the ponds. Susan having forbidden them, they had a distinct fascination. Yes, he would go to the ponds. He rose, and as he did so, another idea came into his head, suggested by an unusual sight.
The door into the Forest was open!
Such a thing had never happened before in Vernon’s experience. Again and again he had secretly tried that door. Always it was locked.
He crept up to it cautiously. The Forest! It stood a few steps away outside the door. You could plunge straightway into its cool green depths. Vernon’s heart beat faster.
He had always wanted to go into the Forest. Here was his chance. Once Nurse came back, any such thing would be out of the question.
And still he hesitated. It was not any feeling of disobedience that held him back. Strictly speaking, he had never been forbidden to go in the Forest. His childish cunning was all ready with that excuse.
No, it was something else. Fear of the unknown—of those dark leafy depths. Ancestral memories held him back …
He wanted to go—but he didn’t want to go. There might be Things there—Things like The Beast. Things that came up behind you—that chased you screaming …
He moved uneasily from one foot to the other.
But Things didn’t chase you in the daytime. And Mr Green lived in the Forest. Not that Mr Green was as real as he used to be. Still, it would be rather jolly to explore and find a place where you would pretend Mr Green did live. Poodle, Squirrel, and Tree would each have houses of their own—small leafy houses.
‘Come on, Poodle,’ said Vernon to an invisible companion. ‘Have you got your bow and arrow? That’s right. We’ll meet Squirrel inside.’
He stepped out jauntily. Beside him, plain to Vernon’s inner eye, went Poodle, dressed like the picture of Robinson Crusoe in his picture book.
It was wonderful in the Forest—dim and dark and green. Birds sang and flew from branch to branch. Vernon continued to talk to his friend—a luxury he did not dare to permit himself often, since someone might overhear and say, ‘Isn’t he too funny? He’s pretending he’s got another little boy with him.’ You had to be so very careful at home.
‘We’ll get to the Castle by lunch time, Poodle. There are going to be roasted leopards. Oh! Hullo, here’s Squirrel. How are you, Squirrel? Where’s Tree?’
‘I tell you what. I think it’s rather tiring walking. I think we’ll ride.’
Steeds were tethered to an adjacent tree. Vernon’s was milk white, Poodle’s was coal black—the colour of Squirrel’s he couldn’t quite decide.
They galloped forward through the trees. There were deadly dangerous places, morasses. Snakes hissed at them and lions charged them. But the faithful steeds did all their riders required of them.
How silly it was playing in the garden—or playing anywhere but here! He’d forgotten what it was like, playing with Mr Green and Poodle, Squirrel and Tree. How could you help forgetting things when people were always reminding you that you were a funny little boy playing make believe.
On strutted Vernon, now capering, now marching with solemn dignity. He was great, he was wonderful! What he needed, though he did not know it himself, was a tom-tom to beat whilst he sang his own praises.
The Forest! He had always known it would be like this, and it was! In front of him suddenly appeared a crumbling moss-covered wall. The wall of the Castle! Could anything be more perfect? He began to climb it.
The ascent was easy enough really, though fraught with the most agreeable and thrilling possibilities of danger. Whether this was Mr Green’s Castle, or whether it was inhabited by an Ogre who ate human flesh, Vernon had not yet made up his mind. Either was an entrancing proposition. On the whole he inclined to the latter, being at the moment in a warlike frame of mind. With a flushed face he reached the summit of the wall and looked over the other side.
And here there enters into the story, for one brief paragraph, Mrs Somers West who was fond of romantic solitude (for short periods), and had bought Woods Cottage as being ‘delightfully remote from anywhere and really, if you know what I mean, in the very heart of the Forest—at one with Nature!’ And since Mrs Somers West, as well as being artistic, was musical, she had pulled down a wall, making two rooms into one and had thus provided herself with sufficient space to house a grand piano.
And at the identical moment that Vernon reached the top of the wall, several perspiring and staggering men were slowly propelling the aforesaid grand piano towards the window since it wouldn’t go in by the door. The garden of Woods Cottage was a mere tangle of undergrowth—wild Nature, as Mrs Somers West called it. So that all Vernon saw was The Beast! The Beast, alive and purposeful, slowly crawling towards him, malign and vengeful …
For a moment he stayed rooted to the spot. Then, with a wild cry, he fled. Fled along the top of the narrow crumbling wall. The Beast was behind him, pursuing him … It was coming, he knew it. He ran—ran faster than ever—His foot caught in a tangle of ivy. He crashed downwards—falling—falling—
CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_9fc96e72-29a7-5a13-a54e-dcde3fe48e11)
Vernon woke, after a long time, to find himself in bed. It was, of course, the natural place to be when you woke up, but what wasn’t natural, was to have a great hump sticking up in front of you in the bed. It was whilst he was staring at this that someone spoke to him. That someone was Dr Coles, whom Vernon knew quite well.
‘Well, well,’ said Dr Coles, ‘and how are we feeling?’
Vernon didn’t know how Dr Coles was feeling. He himself was feeling rather sick and said so.
‘I daresay, I daresay,’ said Dr Coles.
‘And I think I hurt somewhere,’ said Vernon. ‘I think I hurt very much.’
‘I daresay, I daresay,’ said Dr Coles again—not very helpfully, Vernon thought.
‘Perhaps I’d feel better if I got up,’ said Vernon. ‘Can I get up?’
‘Not just now, I’m afraid,’ said the doctor. ‘You see, you’ve had a fall.’
‘Yes,’ said Vernon. ‘The Beast came after me.’
‘Eh? What’s that? The Beast? What Beast?’
‘Nothing,’ said Vernon.
‘A dog, I expect,’ said the doctor. ‘Jumped at the wall and barked. You mustn’t be afraid of dogs, my boy.’
‘I’m not,’ said Vernon.
‘And what were you doing so far from home, eh? No business to be where you were.’
‘Nobody told me not to,’ said Vernon.
‘Hum, hum, I wonder. Well, I’m afraid you’ve got to take your punishment. Do you know, you’ve broken your leg, my boy?’
‘Have I?’ Vernon was gratified—enchanted. He had broken his leg. He felt very important.
‘Yes, you’ll have to lie here for a bit—and then it will mean crutches for a while. Do you know what crutches are?’
Yes, Vernon knew. Mr Jobber, the blacksmith’s father, had crutches. And he was to have crutches! How wonderful!
‘Can I try them now?’
Dr Coles laughed.
‘So you like the idea? No, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit. And you must try and be a brave boy, you know. And then you’ll get well quicker.’
‘Thank you,’ said Vernon politely. ‘I don’t think I do feel very well. Can you take this funny thing out of my bed? I think it would be more comfortable then.’
But it seemed that the funny thing was called a cradle, and that it couldn’t be taken away. And it seemed, too, that Vernon would not be able to move about in bed because his leg was all tied up to a long piece of wood. And suddenly it didn’t seem a very nice thing to have a broken leg after all.
Vernon’s underlip trembled a little. He was not going to cry—no, he was a big boy and big boys didn’t cry. Nurse said so—and then he knew that he wanted Nurse—wanted her badly. He wanted her reassuring presence, her omniscience, her creaking, rustling majesty.
‘She’ll be coming back soon,’ said Dr Coles. ‘Yes, soon. In the meantime, this Nurse is going to look after you—Nurse Frances.’
Nurse Frances moved into Vernon’s range of vision and Vernon studied her in silence. She too, was starched and crackling, that was all to the good. But she wasn’t big like Nurse—she was thinner than Mummy—as thin as Aunt Nina. He wasn’t sure—
And then he met her eyes—steady eyes, more green than grey, and he felt, as most people felt, that with Nurse Frances things would be ‘all right’.
She smiled at him—but not in the way that visitors smiled. It was a grave smile, friendly but reserved.
‘I’m sorry you feel sick,’ she said. ‘Would you like some orange juice?’
Vernon considered the matter and said he thought he would. Dr Coles went out of the room and Nurse Frances brought him the orange juice in a most curious-looking cup with a long spout. And it appeared that Vernon was to drink from the spout.
It made him laugh, but laughing hurt him, and so he stopped. Nurse Frances suggested he should go to sleep again, but he said he didn’t want to go to sleep.
‘Then I shouldn’t go to sleep,’ said Nurse Frances. ‘I wonder if you can count how many irises there are on that wall? You can start on the right side, and I’ll start on the left side. You can count, can’t you?’
Vernon said proudly that he could count up to a hundred.
‘That is a lot,’ said Nurse Frances. ‘There aren’t nearly as many irises as a hundred. I guess there are seventy-nine. Now what do you guess?’
Vernon guessed that there were fifty. There couldn’t, he felt sure, possibly be more than that. He began to count, but somehow, without knowing it, his eyelids closed and he slept …
