Young Mrs. Savage, page 5
“It was frightful!” declared Dan. “It was beyond everything. What did he say when she taxed him with it, I wonder.”
“How should I know?” Irene replied. “They may have had a row—knowing Gilbert I should think they did. Di never said a word to me about it, not a single word. Perhaps it’s because she knew I didn’t like Gilbert. It could be that.”
Dan was silent. He really was appalled. Di must have been terribly hurt, wounded beyond endurance. No wonder she looked tired and ill.
“She might tell you about it, mightn’t she?” continued Irene. “In fact, she must tell you. You must make her speak of it, Dan. She’s got it on her mind and she can’t forget it. She would feel a lot better if she talked it over with someone—and that someone must be you.”
“I’ll try,” said Dan doubtfully.
“That’s why I came,” added Irene and, so saying, she got up and went away.
6
The children did not go back to school in the afternoon; they trooped out to the tent and Dan went with them. Christine crept through a gap in the hedge and joined the party. It was too hot for games so Dan was invited to tell them a story.
“Mummy tells us about the Dees,” said Mark. “All about how they played on the sands at Seatown and climbed the rocks and paddled and fished and went to see the lighthouse and the old castle on the cliffs.”
“The castle of the Red Douglas,” nodded Nigel.
“Of course,” agreed Dan. “It’s a fine old castle. Perhaps you’ll see it some day. The cliffs tower up from the sea and the castle is built into the solid rock. We often bicycled over and took our lunch with us. Shall I tell you about that?”
“No,” said Polly, firmly. “You see, that’s Mummy’s story. You must tell us something else.”
“Tell us about the mugs,” said Nigel.
“But I’ve told you about them already!”
“Tell us again!” demanded all the children at once.
Dan told his story again, but not so well as before. He found it boring to repeat the same story twice over. He was asked to repeat it a third time, but refused point blank.
“I like my mug best of everything I’ve got,” said Nigel, thoughtfully. “There’s something very nice about it. Don’t you think so, Mark?”
“Yes,” agreed Mark. “But I don’t like it best of all. I like my rabbits best.”
“Silly!” exclaimed Nigel. “Your rabbits aren’t lasting like a mug. Your rabbits will die and then you won’t have them, so it’s silly to like them best.”
“They know me,” explained Mark.
Dan looked at him with interest. It was as good a reason as you could get. The rabbits knew Mark; they watched for his coming; they ate dandelion leaves which he picked for them; they allowed him to handle their young. The rabbits knew Mark, so of course he liked them best . . . but Nigel did not see it in the same light; he continued to jeer.
“Smelly brutes!” cried Nigel. “Fancy liking them better than your mug!”
“They aren’t smelly!” retorted Mark.
The argument was boiling up, and Polly, who was aware that arguments between her brothers usually led to blows, began to look anxious.
“Now, listen, you two!” said Dan, raising his voice to be heard above the turmoil. “Listen to me. Everybody is entitled to his own opinion, which means you can think as you like but you mustn’t be rude. I’m going to tell you a story about an old sailor I used to know, and if you don’t shut up you won’t hear it.”
It was the voice of authority and produced instant silence.
“He was called Old Monk,” continued Dan. “He was chief carpenter in the Incomparable.”
“Chips?” asked Mark, who had read a story about a ship in The Boys’ Friend.
“Yes, but his name was Mr. Monk. He was a funny little man, hairy like a baboon, with twinkling eyes and a heart of gold.”
The little Savages settled down to listen, for this was a story after their own hearts.
“Hairy all over?” inquired Mark in awed tones.
“Yes, he even had hairs in his ears.”
“In his ears! How could he hear? Or couldn’t he?”
“He was slightly deaf,” admitted Dan. “Sometimes when you said something to him he took you up wrong.”
“What sort of things?” asked Polly. “I mean did he go to port when you said starboard—things like that?”
“Goodness, no!” exclaimed Dan. “Monk never steered the ship, and anyway ships aren’t steered like that. I mean,” said Dan looking round at the four eager faces in some desperation, “I mean there’s a telegraph on the bridge and—”
But the little Savages were more interested in Old Monk than in the manner of steering a ship. “What sort of things?” asked Nigel. “Tell us one thing that you said and he thought you said something else.”
Dan racked his brains. “Well, one day I said to him, ‘That grey cat is a marvellous mouser,’ and he yelled back, ‘What, scarlet trousers? I never did see a cat with scarlet trousers, Mr. Bell!’”
Every one laughed inordinately at this somewhat feeble jest. The boys rolled over and over in paroxysms of mirth.
“Can’t you see it?” gasped Polly. “A dear little grey cat with scarlet trousers on!”
“Did he have a parrot?” asked Christine, when she had recovered from the joke.
“A parrot!”
“Yes, you know—like John Silver—that said: ‘Pieces of eight.’”
Hitherto Dan had stuck to fact in his description of the old seaman, but he realised that facts would never satisfy the appetites of his young companions. The well of truth would soon run dry; he must draw upon his imagination . . . and being somewhat elated by the reception of his story about the little grey cat, he felt quite competent to improvise.
“A parrot? Of course,” nodded Dan. “But Old Monk’s parrot said ‘Splice the main brace,’ which is the most popular order in the Navy (all right, Nigel, you’ll see why in a minute). Well, one day when we were lying off a coral island in the South Sea, Old Monk brought his parrot on deck. He was a very kind-hearted old man, you see, and he thought the parrot would enjoy the sunshine. The parrot sat on Old Monk’s shoulder for a few minutes and then suddenly it gave a loud squawk and spread its wings and flew up into the air. It flew round the ship and then across the water and disappeared amongst the palm trees. Old Monk was dancing about in a frightful state of mind and shouting, ‘Man overboard!’ and before you could say Jack Robinson backwards some of the matelots had lowered a boat.”
“Why?” inquired Nigel.
“Well, they do,” replied Dan. “I mean, you always lower a boat if a man falls overboard . . . and of course they thought that’s what had happened . . . and seeing the boat there, ready, we decided to row across to the island and try to find Methuselah. All parrots are very old,” continued Dan, forestalling the question which was hovering upon Nigel’s lips, “so that was why Monk called his parrot Methuselah.”
“What was it called when it was young?” asked Mark.
“Woodley,” replied Dan, without hesitation.
“Oh, do shut up, Mark!” said Polly, forestalling another interruption. “We want to hear what happened to Methuselah on the island.”
“Yes—well—” said Dan, racking his brains furiously. “We landed on the lovely, white, sandy beach and walked up to the nearest palm tree, and there we stood in the shade wondering what to do. It was Mr. Monk who suggested we should spread out and search the island thoroughly, calling to Methuselah as we went, and as nobody had a better idea that was what we did. The sailors enjoyed it, of course (sailors like anything different for a change). Off they went, crashing through the tropical undergrowth and shouting ‘Methuselah!’ at the top of their lungs. After I had searched about a bit I went back to the beach where we had landed, and waited near the boat. It was terribly hot.
“One by one the sailors gave up the search. None of them had seen Methuselah nor heard him, but that was not surprising because the vegetation was so thick that he could have hidden in it very easily. We had to get back to the ship before dark and darkness falls very suddenly in the tropics, but—”
“Why?” asked Mark with interest.
Dan paused to explain the reason, but the remainder of his audience fell upon Mark as one man, telling him to shut up and let the story-teller go on.
“Mr. Monk asked leave to stay the night on the island,” continued Dan. “He thought Methuselah might come to him when he was alone, so we left Mr. Monk there and rowed away. I must say I wasn’t very happy about it and when I saw him standing there on the beach all by himself I wished I had stayed to keep him company. ‘’E’s all right, sir,’ said one of the sailors. ‘There’s no flies on ’im. I wouldn’t mind a night on a coral island myself.’”
Dan paused again. It was rather curious, but he could actually see that sailor in his mind’s eye, and he could see the lascivious-looking sailor who replied with a reference to the dusky maidens who might (if Mr. Monk were lucky) share his vigil. Yet Dan had made up the whole thing out of his head . . . or out of the hotch potch of memories and stories and scenes and personalities which were stowed away inside his head.
“Go on,” said Polly, urging him. “What did the other sailors say? Did they all think it would have been nice to spend the night there?”
“Most of them,” said Dan, abandoning the idea of dusky maidens as being unsuitable and searching for something in their place. “There was bread-fruit and coconuts and other sorts of fruit—which would be a nice change—but none of them would have liked a week alone on a coral island, and that’s what Mr. Monk had let himself in for! Yes,” said Dan, nodding portentously, “yes; he was marooned there for a whole week. A gale got up in the night and the Incomparable had to stand off until the wind abated and the sea went down. At last we managed to get back to the island and we rowed ashore . . . and there was Mr. Monk waiting for us on the beach with Methuselah sitting on his shoulder. Mr. Monk looked just as usual, quite calm and composed. He had not been in the least worried, and he was not the least excited at seeing us again. He was just as neat and tidy, and his eyes twinkled as brightly as ever. I thought Methuselah looked a bit ashamed of himself—and no wonder!
“Afterwards Mr. Monk told me exactly what had happened. That very first evening when the boat had gone, Mr. Monk made a little fire of driftwood, just to keep him company, and he was sitting near it eating bread and milk (breadfruit and coconut-milk, of course) when suddenly he heard a well-known voice remark; ‘Splice the main brace!’ Methuselah was sitting on the branch of a tree and watching him. Now, of course, ‘Splice the main brace’ means a tot of grog all round and Mr. Monk had no grog. The only thing he could do was to split another coconut and offer that instead. Methuselah seemed quite pleased—I expect he liked it better than grog, really. He flew down from the tree and shared Mr. Monk’s supper. There was no bother after that. Methuselah stayed with Mr. Monk and didn’t fly away again; as far as I could make out they had a very happy time together.”
Dan was rather pleased with his effort. He began to think he had mistaken his vocation in life. Perhaps he was a sort of Somerset Maugham and had never known it! Perhaps, even now, it was not too late to develop his latent talent! Dan toyed for a moment with the idea of chucking his new job at the shipping office in Leith and devoting himself to literature . . . however, there was a snag: one had to have money to buy food.
The audience was extremely appreciative and having listened to every word of the story with bated breath it was now anxious to be informed as to the manner of Mr. Monk’s life whilst marooned upon the island: had he made a little house for himself and Methuselah? Had he bathed in the lagoon? Had he caught any fish? Had he seen any savages? Were they cannibals or not? Dan answered as best he could, drawing more and more freely on his imagination (which was astonishing its owner by its wide range and fertility) and before Dan had finished with him Mr. Monk had become a legendary figure, large as life but not quite natural.
“That’s all,” said Dan at last. “It’s somebody else’s turn now. It isn’t fair for one person to do all the entertaining. We have sing-songs in the Navy; they’re sort of concerts where everybody does his share.”
Nobody else had the slightest wish to entertain the company so they drew lots with little sticks to decide who should be first.
When Mark saw that he had drawn the longest stick he became very red in the face and his eyes bulged. Dan, seeing his dismay, was filled with compunction and would have cancelled the sing-song then and there if he could have done so—but it was too late. Despite his dismay Mark had no intention of shirking.
“It’s a poem,” said Mark. He rose and, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, said very rapidly and indistinctly: “Go, lovely rose; tell her that she wastes her time (gasp) and me that now she knows when I remember her (gasp) to thee how fair and sweet she seems to be.”
“He learnt it at school,” said Polly, proudly.
Dan felt his diaphragm tremble with internal laughter. “Splendid!” he cried, and clapped loudly. Everybody followed his example.
“I wonder what it means,” said Christine, with a thoughtful air.
“It’s poetry, of course,” replied Polly, surprised that her friend should be so dense.
Christine had drawn the second longest stick. She was a trifle reluctant to do her part, but the others were insistent.
“Mine isn’t real poetry,” said Christine. “I mean it’s quite easy to understand.” And having made this apology she recited as follows:
I wonder if you feel like me
When aunts and uncles come to tea.
In spite of smiles and friendly looks,
In spite of toys and picture books
You wish that they would go away—
And all because of WHAT THEY SAY.
First Aunt Belinda says, ‘Poor Rose!
I wonder where she got that nose.’
Aunt Alice adds, ‘She’s very small—
Not like our family at all.’
And Uncle Ned says, ‘Little girls,
When I was young, had pretty curls.’
Now Aunt Belinda’s nose is blue.
Just like the mandrill at the Zoo.
Aunt Alice is extremely fat;
(I wouldn’t like to be like that!)
And Uncle Ned, who talks of hair
He hasn’t any, anywhere!
But these are things they’ll never know
’Cos you’re too nice to tell them so.
(At least, I hope you are.)
Christine sat down amidst satisfactory applause. She smiled her pleasure. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said. “My Aunt Dora is rather like that. I mean, she’s always saying she wonders why my hair doesn’t curl like Mummy’s; one day she said to Mummy, ‘My dear, I’ve just seen it! She’s got poor old Cousin Eleanor’s mouth.’”
Christine had put on a very affected, grown-up accent to mimic her aunt and the result was most entertaining. Perhaps Dan was more amused than the others; he was certainly more surprised, for he had put Christine down as rather a dull little girl, a little white mouse, and here she was blossoming into an actress!
“So then,” continued Christine, unsmilingly; “then Mummy said, ‘It can’t be poor old Cousin Eleanor’s mouth; she uses it herself five times a day at least!’”
Dan laughed. “Mummy is a match for Aunt Dora!”
“Oh yes; Mummy is a match for any one,” said Christine proudly.
Dan was hoping for more in the same manner, but the other children were getting restive; especially Mark, who having gone through the ordeal himself, was determined nobody should escape.
“It’s Polly’s turn now,” said Mark. “Polly can say ‘We are Seven.’”
“But I’m not going to!” declared Polly. “It’s a dreadfully wet sort of poem. I’m going to stand on my head; will that do?”
Dan said it would do, admirably.
Polly tucked the skirt of her cotton frock inside her knickers and stood on her head with her long, thin legs straight up in the air. Then she turned two Catherine wheels rapidly and expertly. It was an exceedingly good performance and her uncle was interested to observe that she was not in the least out of breath at the end of it. He was able to applaud with a clear conscience.
Nigel was the last to perform. Unlike the others, he had been awaiting his turn with impatience. He rose as Polly sat down and stood for a few moments looking up at the trees.
Then, without any explanation, he opened his mouth and sang:
There’s a Friend for little children
Above the bright, blue sky . . .
Dan found it inexpressibly moving. He was always moved by a boy’s voice, and this voice was pure and true, every note as clear as the note of a bird. He was carried away so that when the hymn was finished it was a moment or two before he remembered to join in the applause.
“I sing well, don’t I?” said Nigel, looking at him.
“Very well,” replied Dan, soberly; he could say no less, but the spell was broken. Dan seemed to see Gilbert—not Nigel—standing there (Gilbert with his red-gold head: Gilbert with his straight back and his long legs) and he seemed to hear Gilbert saying, “Good sing-song, wasn’t it? The matelots fairly eat me, don’t they? As a matter of fact, they’re pretty good judges of singing; they know jolly well when they hear something absolutely first chop, matelots do.”
Nigel was not only like Gilbert, thought Dan, he was Gilbert in miniature. He had all Gilbert’s physical characteristics . . . and Gilbert’s vanity. Had he inherited Gilbert’s other peculiarities? Dan hoped not. Dan did not want to see another Gilbert, and certainly not in the guise of Dinah’s child.
