Another Year, page 11
Mr. Matthews walked up and down the garden. He was angry with Ruth. He had expected her to applaud the tactful way he had saved Pete from embarrassment. He went in and found a piece of brown paper and tied up the hat and addressed it to “Mr. P. Brown, Harper’s Mews, Woodbank.” He took it down to the Post Office, but when he got there he brought it back again. The more he thought about what Ruth had said the more upset he felt. He had let the boy go without trying to make friends, and thrown away a golden opportunity. But he could not bring himself to return the hat in the way that Ruth suggested. Pete was no doubt wondering who the odd fish was who had sneaked off to bed and left him to find his own way out. He would look a still odder fish if he now revealed himself dramatically as the Vicar, and returned the hat with a flourish of trumpets.
He walked up and down the garden again, trying to think of some means of returning it that would appeal to Pete’s sense of humour and make a friend of him. Finally he decided to leave it over the week-end and hope for a good idea. Possible an amusing note inside the parcel would do the trick—if he could think of anything amusing enough by Monday morning.
He tried to forget about it, and settled down to write his sermon. He told himself he was being ridiculous about a drunk boy and a worn-out hat, but when he went to bed he could not sleep for thinking what a heaven-sent chance he had lost.
Next day was Sunday, and he preached as usual to Mrs. Bannister Paget and her friends. But thoughts of Pete upset his sermon. His mind was not on it: he stumbled and hesitated, and once or twice Mrs. Bannister Paget looked up and raised her eyebrows in surprise and disapproval. At Evensong the futility of it all began to boil up inside him, and on the way home with Ruth that night he boiled right over.
“I hate the sight of that insufferable gang of hypocrites,” he said—“and I despise myself for preaching to them. I believe that boy was sent to me the other night to test me: to prove whether or not I was fit to do my proper work in Woodbank. I missed the chance—and here I am, back again, preaching to that appalling woman in her purple dress. I’m no good here and I’ve no right to stay.”
“It’s a pity you sent the hat by post instead of taking it yourself,” said Ruth.
“As a matter of fact,” he confessed, “I didn’t post it. I couldn’t make up my mind.”
“If Providence sent the boy to test you,” she said, “maybe the hat was left behind to give you a second chance if you missed the first. Providence takes a lot of trouble when it wants to help you.”
“I’ll take it back to-morrow,” he declared.—“I’ll go round at five o’ clock and catch him when he comes home from the brewery.”
With his mind made up he was happy again, but he never took the hat back after all.
He was trimming the garden hedge before dinner that night, thinking what he would say to Pete next day, when Pete himself appeared, walking slowly up the lane. He was bareheaded—looking vaguely to and fro. He stopped short of the Vicarage and peered through the railings of a neighbouring house, and Mr. Matthews did not have to be a Sherlock Holmes to know what he was looking for. The sight of the Vicar would, he thought, send the boy in the opposite direction, so he waited under cover of the hedge to catch him when he was too near to get away.
Pete came on, rubbing his chin, trying to piece together his misty recollections. He got to the Vicarage and saw the chestnut tree and looked more alert. The tree apparently stirred a hazy memory, for he searched up and down the path and began to peer through the railings. Then he saw the Vicar behind the hedge, and stiffened up self-consciously and began to walk away.
Mr. Matthews saw his quarry disappearing for a second time and acted swiftly. He dropped the hedging shears and ran to the gate and called after the retreating boy.…
“Looking for your hat?”
Pete jumped. He turned round and pretended to see the Vicar for the first time. Vicars were clearly creatures to be avoided in his world, and he looked embarrassed.
“Yes,” he said. “Have you seen one?”
“A brown felt hat?”
“That’s it.”
“It’s in the house. Will you come in and get it?”
Pete looked wary. It sounded too much like the spider and the fly business. He went red and fidgeted, but stayed where he was.
“It’s in my study,” said Mr. Matthews. “I’ll go and get it for you if you like.”
The shot came off, and Pete looked slightly reassured.
“That’s all right,” he said—“I’ll come and get it.”
He followed the Vicar down the garden path and along the passage to the study. The boy, guessed Mr. Matthews, had never deliberately walked into a Vicarage in his life. He had probably not spoken to a clergyman since he was a child at school, and Mr. Matthews racked his brains for something to say to set him at his ease. He was desperately anxious to hold the boy now that he had got him, but he was not good at small talk, and “Nice evening,” was all he could think of as they entered the house. “Yes,” mumbled Pete as they walked down the passage. “Quite nice.”
The hat was on the mantelpiece, wrapped up in its parcel.
“As a matter of fact,” said Mr. Matthews—“I’ve done it up. I was going to post it back to you.”
“Thanks,” said Pete. He turned the parcel over and looked perplexed. “How did you know where to send it?” Then his eyes began to rove around the room in dawning horror. They took in the couch, and the table beside it, and the desk lamp, and the arm-chair, and for a critical moment Mr. Matthews thought he was going to turn and make a bolt for it. But he stood his ground and stared at the Vicar in astonishment.
“Was … was this where … where I …?”
“This is it,” said Mr. Matthews. “Don’t you remember me? … Uncle Dick?”
Pete stared blankly at the Vicar in his sedate black Sunday suit.
“Who’s Uncle Dick?” he asked.
“I don’t know! … but that’s what you called me!”
Pete’s eyes were popping out of his head. “You!” he gasped.—“It … it … it was you that evening?”
“I found you outside. You’d had a gay evening and … well … I think you’d have done the same for me.”
The boy stiffened and squared his shoulders. His pride was telling him to be defiant. He towered above the Vicar with a “Fighting Cocks” look in his face—then suddenly he coloured up and lowered his head.
“I’m sorry I gave you all that trouble,” he said.
“No trouble at all,” declared Mr. Matthews—“to tell you the truth I quite enjoyed it. It’s rather dull being Vicar in a place like this. It took me back to my days at College and made me feel quite young again.”
Pete did not know what to make of this. He looked at the Vicar suspiciously—then for the first time he smiled. His sober smile, thought Mr. Matthews, was quite as charming as his drunk one.
“You don’t mean you ever got like that!” he said.
“Between ourselves,” said Mr. Matthews—“I was chased on one occasion by a policeman and escaped up a tree in the park.”
Pete laughed. “Well,” he said—“thanks awfully for what you did—and thanks for my hat. I’ll be getting along, sir. Good night.”
“Have a glass of beer before you go,” said Mr. Matthews quickly.
Pete went back into his shell. “Not now, thanks,” he answered.
Mr. Matthews opened a cupboard. “I’m having one myself,” he replied. “I’ve just been preaching. It’s thirsty work on a warm night.”
He did not like beer on an empty stomach, but he poured himself a glass. “I wish you would,” he said. “I shan’t drink it all.”
Pete relaxed a bit. “Well,” he said—“if you’re having one—all right … thanks.”
He poured Pete a glass.
“Well, here’s luck.”
Pete mumbled something and politely sipped his beer. Silence fell, and they both stood fidgeting with the glasses in their hands. For the life of him Mr. Matthews could not think of anything to say. There was something cheap about bringing up Pete’s hectic evening and joking about it again: he could not talk about “The Fighting Cocks” or Joe Briggs, and there was no other common touch between them. The weather was inept and the church inopportune. He had no notion of what Pete’s interests were beyond fighting and drinking and betting on the dogs. Probably there were none. He saw the boy getting restless and ill at ease: in a minute he would finish his beer and go. He saw Pete, for the second time, on the point of moving away into a world that was closed to him. This time it would probably be for good, and he searched desperately for something that would start an easy conversation. He thought of inviting Pete to sit down and make himself at home, but Pete would take that as a prelude to a lecture, and escape at speed.
In after-days—when he thought back upon the strange events that sprang from his meeting and friendship with Pete, Mr. Matthews gave first credit to the oar that hung upon the study wall.
At Oxford he had rowed in his College second boat. The crew had not been a specially good one, but with a bit of luck they had made five bumps and gone head of the second division. By custom they had received their oars as trophies of victory with the blades artistically inscribed with the College crest and a record of the crew and the Colleges defeated. For twenty years the oar had decorated the study wall at Little Stanton, but it seemed out of place in the gloomy atmosphere of the Woodbank Vicarage and Mr. Matthews had consigned it to the box-room. It was Mr. Goatley who insisted upon hanging it in the study. “It’s a fine souvenir,” he said. “It’ll look well over the fireplace and brighten up the room.” And over the fireplace the oar had gone.
If Pete had not glanced up and seen it as he put his empty glass down, he would have said “thank you” and gone for good. But Pete glanced up and saw the oar and it caught his interest.
“I won that rowing in my College boat,” said Mr. Matthews. “If you make five bumps, or go head of the river, they let you keep your oar as a souvenir.”
“What do you call a bump?” asked Pete.
“At Oxford the river’s too narrow to row races abreast,” said Mr. Matthews. “So you start one behind the other and race after each other. If you catch the boat ahead, you bump it, and next night you start ahead of it and race for the next. It sounds rather silly—but it’s tremendously exciting when you do it.”
Pete went closer and looked at the dark blue blade.
“What are all those names on it?” he asked.
“Those are the crew with their rowing weights. We were a light crew that year. I rowed No. 7 at ten stone ten, and the heaviest man was only twelve three.…”
“I’m thirteen nine,” said Pete proudly.
“They’d put you in the middle of the boat. You’d make a good oarsman. You’re the right build for rowing”—and a sudden possibility went racing through his head.
“Have you ever rowed?” he asked.
“No,” said Pete—“they do have some kind of race on the river—up by the tannery. I’ve never seen it, though.”
“It’s a grand sport,” said Mr. Matthews. “It needs so many things—skill and strength and watermanship and guts: team-work above all. To be in a boat with seven other men rowing perfectly together—it kind of sings to you—it’s the finest feeling I’ve ever known in my life. And when you beat another crew in the last few yards of a mile race—you feel like kings!”
Pete did not answer. He was looking at the leather binding on the oar. “I guess you do,” he said at last.
“I’ve got a piece of land by the river,” said Mr. Matthews, “there’s a boat-house on it, with an old four-oared racing boat inside that belonged to a rowing club that used to be there once. How about getting a few fellows together and cleaning up the boat and trying it out? If you get along all right you could fix up some races with the clubs at Putney and have some good fun.”
He saw the wary look come back in Pete’s face and guessed what he was thinking.
“It wouldn’t be a church club—I wouldn’t interfere myself: you’d run it on your own.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much of that,” said Pete slowly—“I don’t think I’d have the time.”
“What time d’ you leave your job?”
“Five o’ clock.”
“You could be down at the boat-house by half-past. You could practice for an hour and be off by seven. Why not walk over to-morrow night and have a look round?—I don’t even know whether the old boat will float yet, but we could soon find out. There’s a changing-room there—with showers and everything. It’s a fine place really—I’ve got a feeling you’d like it.”
Pete hesitated. He was thinking hard. He glanced once more at the oar on the wall, with its coloured crest and the names in gold.
“All right,” he said at last—“I’ll walk over. I don’t promise I can do it, though.”
“To-morrow?—about five o’clock?”
“Okay.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Matthews put on his sports shirt and grey flannels and went down to the boat-house in good time to have a look at the four-oared boat before Pete arrived. He had seen it under an old tarpaulin and paid no attention to it before. He pulled the cover off with some misgivings, for the boat could not have been in the water for years, and everything depended on whether it would float. From what he could see through the dust and cobwebs it looked all right, and he sorted out some oars from a pile of odd ones in a corner. The equipment was good enough, and everything now rested upon Pete.
He had been elated by his success with the boy on the previous night, but he did not feel too confident about seeing him again. A lot might have happened since Pete had left the Vicarage. He might have got drunk again at “The Fighting Cocks” and forgotten all about it—or he might have told his friends and been laughed out of getting mixed up with the Vicar. But he hoped devoutly that the boy would come. He had a feeling that Pete was the leader of a gang. If he could win him, he might win them all.
He heard five o’clock striking in the town and went on to the balcony to watch for Pete across the allotments. He reckoned it would take him about ten minutes to get there.
He thought of the Club they might build up if Pete got keen and brought the other boys along. He could rub up his memories of rowing and coach them into a polished crew and take them to race in the Thames Regattas. He thought of the pleasure of working with them and the friendships he might make with them: the summer evenings teaching them to row, and suppers in the club-room in the winter. They could fry sausages over the oil stove and bake potatoes and have a sing-song afterwards, and billiards, possibly, if he could get a table. He built castles in the air, and pictured the day when they might have a waiting list of boys who would count it an honour to belong.
Everything depended on Pete, but at ten past five Pete had not come. At twenty-past there was still no sign of him, and at half-past it began to rain. It rained so hard that Mr. Matthews could scarcely see the gate that Pete would come by. He went into the boat-house and watched out of the window for another ten minutes. He watched the puddles growing on the dismal path, but Pete still did not come. He waited a little longer, then gave it up and went into the kitchen, where he had prepared some tea. He turned out the stove and put the plate of biscuits away. He was disappointed but not much surprised. He had thought all along that it would not come to anything. He put on his mackintosh and locked the door and started sadly home.
He was half-way across the allotments when he heard a shout. He stopped and turned round, and the world lit up again, for there was Pete coming from a different direction down a lane beside the trees. He had his old worn-out hat on the back of his head, and he waved and came through the pouring rain with his coat wide open as if the sun were shining.
“Sorry,” he said—“I got held up. Am I too late?—Have you got to go?”
“Not at all!” said Mr. Matthews. “I’ve plenty of time. I was afraid the rain had put you off.”
“I don’t mind the rain,” said Pete. “A lorry came in. I had to help unload it.”
They walked back together across the allotments. Pete seemed rather ill at ease, and looked around him as if he were afraid of being seen in such unusual company.
“Let’s have a look at the boat before we do anything else,” said Mr. Matthews.
He pushed back the rusty doors of the lower boat-house and they went inside.
“There’s no light laid on,” he said. “I’ll get an oil lamp in the town to-morrow.”
The boat lay on an upper rack in the darkness at the farther end. It was an old, heavy-built clinker boat, coated with the dust of years. The riggers were painted black and red and a small flag of the same colours was painted on the bows.
“What would these colours be?’ asked Pete.
“I imagine they’re the Grasshoppers Rowing Club that used to row here years ago. What d’you think of the boat?”
“You know more about it than I do,” said the boy.
“From what I can see it’s sound enough,” said Mr. Matthews—“built by Sims of Putney—one of the best boat-builders on the river. It’s bound to leak a bit until the wood swells, but I don’t see any reason why we can’t use it.”
“Is it yours?” asked Pete.
“Well,” said the Vicar—“I rented the land, and the boat-house with it. Nobody said anything about what was inside the boat-house and I don’t suppose anybody knew there was a boat here—so why raise the point?”
Pete laughed. “That isn’t the way for a clergyman to talk!” he said.
“If you could find a couple of boys and bring them along to-morrow,” suggested Mr. Matthews. “We’ll lift the boat down and have a good look inside it.”
Pete was intrigued: he began peering up inside the boat and feeling the riggers.
