“I can’t take it. You must get the bicycle back.”
“There’s gratitude for you,”Wally jeered. “‘Get it back,’ he says, I know it wasn’t up to much but it was dirt cheap at one fifty and ’im that bought it knows it. ’E won’t give it to me back, ’e’s been on at me for months to sell it to ’im.”
Francesco looked at the money as if it was the crock of gold from under the rainbow.
“It is too much,” he whispered, “but some day, perhaps when we sell the picture, there will be a new bicycle for you.”
Wally did not believe any picture was worth the price of a bicycle but he didn’t say so. Instead he changed the subject.
“Now mind you, nobody isn’t to know ’ow you got the money. Nobody – not Gussie, not Anna – nobody. I just might tell me mum, for she’ll see it’s missin’, but that’s all.”
Francesco, moved almost past speech by Wally’s generosity, could only nod.
“I promise,” he whispered.
It was on the way home from school that Gussie learnt that Francesco had raised his share of the money for Anna’s lessons. Anna brought the subject up.
“I wish S’William would come home. I need a dress, Miss de Veane calls it a tunic, for dancing. School clothes is not right and I have no others.”
Gussie looked at Anna rather as a mother bird must sometimes look at its ever-hungry young.
“A tunic! Here’s me and Francesco not knowing how to earn fifty pence each week, it’s a lot of money, and now you ask for tunics!”
“Don’t worry, Anna,” said Francesco. “I have enough for three lessons without using our pocket money, perhaps that could buy a tunic. Also, I think The Aunt would help.”
Gussie had not got over his habit of sitting or lying down when he felt like it. Now he sat down on the pavement.
“What! You have money for three lessons! How?”
“I have it and that is enough,” said Francesco. Then he opened his hand and showed them Wally’s coins.
Gussie was furious. He knew in the most secret place in his soul that he was by far the smartest of the family. He had been convinced that he alone was within smelling distance of a way to raise money, and here was Francesco, so slow and so tiresome about what was right and what was wrong, with one pound fifty. In that second he knew what he must try to do. He had hesitated before but now it was certain. He got to his feet and, looking terribly proud, faced Anna and Francesco. He thumped his chest “Me, Gussie, will have enough for four lessons.”
ALTHOUGH GUSSIE HAD spoken in a bragging way about getting two pounds by Wednesday week he knew inside himself that, though he had a plan, he had very little idea how to carry it out.
At school there was quite a large group of children who lived in a block of flats just outside Fyton. These children belonged to families who had been rehoused from slum clearance areas from other parts of the country. Many of these families had settled down well and had friends all over Fyton, but there was a small element of what the police called “troublemakers”. Many of this group had younger brothers and some of these were in Gussie’s class. They were known as The Gang and Gussie admired them enormously.
To admire people does not mean they want to become your friends so, try as Gussie would, he had remained a kind of admiring hanger-on. What drew him to The Gang was not just that they appeared to share exciting secrets but that somehow all of them seemed to have money. It had been his ambition to work his way in and then to startle Francesco by throwing down a fifty-pence piece when his turn came, saying casually:“There is plenty more where that came from.”
Now the unthinkable had happened. It was Francesco who had the money while he, clever Gussie, looked as if it was he who would have to use the pocket money when his turn came.
He was faced with having to get fifty pence. Gussie considered The Gang carefully. He had not done this before, when he felt the day when he would actually have to pay for a dancing class was miles away, and indeed might never come for surely S’William would be home soon. The Gang was mostly made up of boys of nine and ten but the leaders were big boys of eleven who would soon be moving on to a senior school. These big boys would sometimes call the younger boys into a corner of the school yard and either tell them something or give them something. Gussie, on the outskirts of the group, had never known what went on, but he had succeeded in looking as if he did and that was all that then had mattered to him. But now he had to find out what went on for he was sure that whatever it was that happened had to do with money.
Gussie was popular with his class for he did not mind what he said, and often just in the way he said things the children found him funny, but he had not yet made an especial friend unless he could count Tom. Tom was a member of The Gang. He was a pale boy with hair so fair it was almost white, pale pinkish eyes behind glasses with thick lenses and a look as if he never got enough to eat. This last was not true for Gussie knew what food Tom brought for his lunch and it was enough for six of him. Gussie had sort of made friends with Tom because Tom was very fond of his curry, something his mother never put in his sandwiches, but which Aunt Mabel, forever studying, had learnt to make for the children. So Gussie now and then swapped a curry sandwich with Tom, not because he liked Tom’s meat sandwiches but because he was good-natured.
The day after Francesco’s revelation that he had £1.50, there were curry sandwiches in the children’s lunch boxes so in break time Gussie went straight to Tom.
“We’ve got curry today. It will be curried chicken for we had chicken on Sunday. Want to swap?”
Tom did, so a pact was made that the swap would take place in the classroom at dinner time. But when dinner time came Tom dashed over to Gussie.
“Come on. Swap quick. There’s a buzz. I’m wanted in the playground.”
Gussie was not having that.
“All right. I’ll come with you. We’ll swap outside.”
The Gang meeting was the same as usual. Those close to the leaders, which included Tom, clustered together in a corner. The outer ring, which included Gussie, saw and heard nothing. But this time Gussie made sure he did not lose sight of Tom. The moment The Gang broke up he had him by the arm.
“Come on and swap. I’m starving.”
Tom and Gussie sat together on one of the big coal bunkers which were near the school keeper’s house. Gussie proudly laid out three beautiful curried chicken sandwiches; his mouth watered as he looked at them. Tom pushed forward three great sandwiches of coarsely cut bread, one full of beef, one of pork and one of cheese. Gussie shuddered but he took them.
“Bit of all right your auntie’s sandwiches,” said Tom with his mouth full. “but it’s odd you don’t ’ave school dinners like the others from The Crescent.”
Gussie groaned.
“The food we eat at The Uncle’s is terrible. That cabbage! But school meals – no, that is not to be endured. The Aunt knows this. What were you saying to The Gang?”
Tom took another enormous mouthful of sandwich.
“Nothin’ you want. You see, you got no money. We was given some thin’s to sell like.”
Tom looked around to see nobody was watching them.
“Mostly thin’s the girls like.” He whipped a scarf out of a pocket. It was bright green with squirly patterns on it. “This is just one, we got ’em in all colours.”
“Then you sell them?”
“That’s the ticket. Mind you, it’s fair do’s for they’re cheaper than they are in the shops.”
“But where do you get them from?”
Tom looked vague.
“That’s up to the leaders. Maybe they’re what’s called rejects from a factory.”
“Then if you sell them do you get the money for them?” Gussie asked.
“That’s the ticket. They cost fifty pence and if I sells one I get ten for meself. It soon mounts up.”
Gussie could imagine that it did. He could imagine too how many such scarves Mrs Wall might sell on her stall. W
hy, he only had to sell five and he would have fifty pence.
“I would like to sell such scarves,” he said.
Tom looked doubtful.
“Who to?”
“Well there is The Aunt, she will buy one, and there is someone else I know who might buy many.”
Tom finished the last curry sandwich and started off on a beef one.
“I can’t get you scarves nor nothin’ else to sell jus’ like that. I got to tell somebody you’re willin’, then, if he says ‘yes’ you swears a vow to obey the leaders even in the face of death. Then they cuts your arm so your blood mixes with their blood. Then they sets you a task and if you do that OK you’re in.”
Gussie was enthralled. Just for the right to sell a few scarves it sounded wildly exciting.
“When can you tell the somebody? Because I want to have fifty pence earned by the Wednesday after this one.”
Tom went on chewing.
“That should be easy. But mind you’re sure you want to do it, for if you wasn’t to keep the vow ’avin’ made it they’d kill you, straight they would.”
Gussie was carried away by the whole idea of joining The Gang. He thumped his chest.
“You do not worry. Me, Gussie, when I swear a vow I swear it. The vow is kept.”
THE NEXT DAY Sir William’s letter came. Aunt Mabel had it in her apron pocket. She gave it to Francesco when he came in from school.
“It’s from Sir William, it’s got his name on the back. Take it upstairs to read. I don’t know why but just hearing his name upsets your uncle. Luckily he hasn’t seen it.”
The three children went into the boys’ bedroom. It was of course the letter Sir William had written on the aeroplane and forgotten to post for six weeks. Francesco read it out loud to the other two. The beginning part saying he would not be away long and that when he came back he would ask permission from their uncle to take them out was received with interruptions from Gussie.
“How does he mean ‘not away long’? Already it is months.”
“I do not believe he is ever coming back.”
“Why does he say nothing of our picture?”
The last part made Anna turn quite white with excitement.
If, Anna, you are not fixed up with a suitable dancing teacher I hear very good accounts of a Madame Scarletti. I looked her up in the telephone book. She has a studio at 45 Bemberton Street, Chelsea, London. I gather she is very old but still one of the best teachers in the world.
“Madame Scarletti!” Anna whispered, as if they were magic words. “One of the best teachers in the world.”
Gussie, who had been lying on the floor, jumped to his feet.
“You be quiet,” he shouted at Anna. “You cannot go to Madame Scarletti until the picture is sold. And now I do not think it ever will be sold because I think S’William has stolen it. Always you want something. First it is private lessons. Then it is a tunic. Now it is a Madame who lives in London where you cannot get …”
Gussie might have shouted more for he was very angry, but the door opened and Aunt Mabel, looking worried, peered in.
“Oh, don’t quarrel, dears. We could hear you in the lounge with the door shut, and you know how your uncle dislikes noise.”
Gussie was so angry with Anna that he might have gone on shouting, only Anna and her one-track mind prevented him. S’William’s letter and Gussie’s shouts had reminded her of her tunic.
“Aunt Mabel, I need a tunic for dancing.”At the mention of dancing Aunt Mabel’s head looked like disappearing, for, though she knew that somehow Anna was learning, she did not admit even to herself that she knew that she knew. But Anna was too quick for her. She darted to the door and gripped Aunt Mabel by a sleeve of her jersey. “It is simple to make and the material need cost very little, or we have our pocket money which could buy it.” Gussie groaned. “But now I must have a tunic because …”
This time it was Francesco who interrupted for he felt sure Anna, in her excited state, was going to mention Madame Scarletti.
“She does need a tunic,” he said quietly. “Perhaps she could explain after tea before the English lesson.”
Aunt Mabel nodded.
“A tunic. You shall have it, Anna.” Then she was gone.
This dramatic disappearance made Gussie forget he was angry.
“You see,” he said. “Is she not exactly as a mouse who has seen a cat?”
Francesco opened the door of the cupboard in which they kept Sir William’s address under the lining paper and put Sir William’s letter beside it.
“Now we must get ready for tea and the English lesson,” he said. Then he added in what he was afraid was becoming a special older brother voice: “Now don’t forget, either of you, no one – no one at all must know what is in that letter. If it is necessary some day Anna may have to go to London but no one, not even Wally’s mum would agree to that if they knew.”
The children always had their tea in the kitchen. This meant Cecil had his tea in peace alone with Mabel and the children, provided they kept their voices down, could talk as much as they liked. As well, in their opinion, they had much better food all of a savoury nature, whereas in the lounge there was thin bread and butter and a horrible cake full of seeds. That day of course they talked about the letter. Francesco for once did most of the talking.
“It does not matter yet, Anna, how well this Madame Scarletti teaches. You cannot see her because you cannot go to London. But when there is holidays perhaps a way can be found. Now you have Miss de Veane and that is enough.”
“I should think it was,” Gussie growled. “At fifty pence each week. And if you saw this Madame Scarletti I should think she would cost five pounds each week.”
Anna looked trustingly at Francesco.
“It is knowing she is there that is mattering. I do not know how Miss de Veane thinks, if she thinks wrong I now know where else I can learn.”
Gussie leant across the table.
“If The Uncle had heard how you spoke that English, Anna, I think he would have a fit and perhaps die, which, though a good idea, would mean you couldn’t learn at all for we would have no home.”
Aunt Mabel asked no questions about the tunic. She accepted the pattern Anna gave her and said when ready she would put it on her bed.
“Now be careful in your English lesson,” she warned all three children. “Your uncle is still a little upset by the noise you made upstairs.”
As it turned out, the noise Gussie had made had good results. As it was getting towards Christmas Uncle Cecil was getting busier, for all the charities he worked for sold things like Christmas cards at Christmas and that meant a lot of work for the Treasurer. He had come in tired that afternoon with a bit of a headache and Gussie’s shouts from upstairs had been the last straw. Over tea he had thought seriously about the children’s English. There was no doubt about it – all three had greatly improved. His lessons consisting of conversation on intelligent subjects, such as “Tell me what impressed you most in Istanbul?” or “What do you know about the Magna Carta?” were succeeding. Gussie’s replies to any question were painfully frivolous, but on the other hand his English was quite fluent. Perhaps the day had come when the lessons could be given up and he could leave the children’s English to their teachers at school, so when the children were sitting in a row on the velvet sofa he said:
“Francesco, do you think your English has improved?”
Francesco felt worried. If he said it had The Uncle might be angry and say it was still terrible. But if he said it was still bad he might think they had not worked during his lessons.
“I hope it is better.” Francesco spoke with caution. “It should be with the conversation lessons as well as school.”
“And what do you think, Augustus?”
“I think we speak so good – I mean well – that soon it is us who will be giving English lessons.”
“And what do you think, Anna?”
Anna was so scared during English les
sons she always spoke in a whisper.
“I know I speak better, a teacher at school told me so.”
Cecil could hardly resist letting out a sigh of relief. He had found the English lessons a great trial and he was thankful from the bottom of his heart that no one had made him a schoolteacher. He was thankful too that he and Mabel had no children, but he was still furious at the bad luck which had landed his robbing wastrel of a brother’s children on him.
“I agree with your teacher, Anna,” he said, “so I have decided this will be your last lesson. Instead ask your teachers for books from the school library. There is nothing like reading a good book to improve your English. Now go to your rooms and start your homework. And go quietly.”
All the children crept up to the boys’ room. Then, when the door was shut, stuffing their handkerchiefs in their mouths to shut out the sound of laughter, they rolled on the floor, occasionally snatching out their handkerchiefs to say “A good book!” “The last lesson!” They did not know it but it was the first time they had laughed like that since the earthquake and they didn’t even notice there was no Christopher to say, “Shut up, you kids, I will have hush.”
TOM, THOUGH HE preferred to remain in the background, did speak to The Gang’s leader about Gussie. This was a big boy called Wilf. He had dirty fair hair which nearly reached his shoulders and he wore a jersey with a skull and crossbones woven on to it. All the smaller boys were scared of him, for if they displeased him he didn’t wait to hear an excuse but out came his fists and he was a good boxer.
There was never a teachers’ meeting but Wilf’s name came up, for all the teachers considered him a menace and longed for the day when he would move on to another school.
“I’m sure he’s a bad influence,” the headmaster was always saying. “And I shouldn’t wonder if he was a thief. Any day I’m expecting to hear he’s in juvenile court.”
Tom had sold his scarf, so it was easy for him to speak to Wilf for he had to see him to give him the money. Passing over the money was always done when nobody was about, but Wilf had several tough friends who watched out for him to see if the coast was clear. The Gang had a pass sign of thumping one fist on the other. Tom gave this sign and was allowed into the senior classroom where Wilf was sitting alone at his desk. Tom came up to the desk and laid down forty pence.