Saplings

  Tony was not a snob. He had been to a famous preparatory school, and was going to one of the best public schools, but he was not a boy who sniffed at the thought of a grammar school. What he did sniff at was being asked to live in discomfort. The vicarage was the epitome of discomfort. Tony was revolted. He despised the dingy bedroom he shared with David. He hated his iron bedstead with its sagging frame. He turned up his nose at the one grubby, old-fashioned bathroom and the shoddy lavatories, always short of toilet paper. The meals made him feel sick and he made no attempt to disguise it.

  A family may think poorly of their home, they may admit to each other its discomforts, but throw in a critic from outside, especially a far more well-to-do critic, and there is a banding together to defend the home. The Smithson children, usually generous hearted, at the end of one day disliked Tony, and at the end of two had got together to make his life hell. They managed to keep up a semblance of cousinly feeling before Sylvia, but when she was not within earshot Tony was ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy,’ ‘Miss Tony Pansy,’ ‘How’s Fussy Drawers this morning?’ They treated him with sarcastic politeness. ‘Oh look, he’s standing. Quick, get a chair and two cushions.’ ‘He’s blown his nose. Get him a clean handkerchief, he can’t use the same one twice.’

  Tony responded, first by rudeness. ‘Well, the house is dirty, absolutely filthy if you want to know.’ Then by sloping off alone and sulking.

  Sylvia, with sad eyes, watched and listened. Tony was Alex’s boy and she and Alex had been very close to each other. She tried carefully to reason with her family.

  ‘Be nice to Tony. He’s still upset because Uncle Alex was killed.’

  For once she got no response. Her children were not going to tell her that Tony’s most hideous fault was that in criticising the house he criticised their mother. Sylvia let them know she knew all was not well.

  ‘Of course it is rather rough compared to what he’s used to. I’m not a good cook. It was bad luck you all got diarrhœa after that fish-pie. It was a Ministry of Food recipe, but I added that little bit of salmon, I expect I’d left it in the sun all day. I think it’s put Tony off.’

  It was no good, her children would not respond. She did not know what was going on, but she suspected, and she did see Tony, white and sullen, stalk off, always alone.

  One of the things Tony hated most about life in the vicarage was his Uncle Andrew’s calls to prayer. Andrew began the day with family prayers, he finished it with prayers, he ordered his household into church, not only on Sundays, but often for evensong or a Saint’s day; and he took it for granted, and this was what riled Tony most, that they all wished to pray whenever he decreed that they should.

  Tony, mooching round the fields and lanes, throwing aimless pebbles in the village pond, cutting himself switches from the hedges that he did not want and immediately threw away, brooded hour after hour on his uncle. ‘The sauce of him!’ ‘Browned off with all his praying.’ ‘Anyone would think he had bought God.’

  Andrew, as he hurried about his parish, gave thought to Tony. He did not notice anything wrong, he took it for granted the boy was happy in his house, but he was fatherless, and about to go to a public school, where dangers might await him.

  It was a Sunday night and Andrew was tired. When he was tired he forced himself to action. He undertook some task much as an early monk might have put on a hair shirt.

  ‘Come along to my study after supper, old man. I haven’t seen much of you. We must have a talk.’

  Tony quivered with horror.

  ‘What on earth about?’

  Andrew smiled gently.

  ‘About nothing on earth.’

  There was no doubt what was implied. The thought of a pi-jaw with his uncle about heaven was the final straw that was fated to fall. Tony turned crimson. His words fell over each other.

  ‘Thank you very much, I don’t want to talk about anything, and what’s more, I won’t.’

  Sylvia whispered.

  ‘Tony. Please, Tony.’

  Tony raced on.

  ‘If you want to know, I’m fed up with all this praying. I’ve been to church twice, and we had morning prayers and I’m going to bed.’

  He got up and slammed the door.

  Andrew looked after him, his face full of suffering.

  ‘Come into my study after supper, Sylvia. I want a word with you.’

  Sylvia kept David downstairs and went up to talk to Tony. She sat on the side of his bed. Tony looked mulish. Sylvia had her knitting, a scarf for the Navy. Because Sylvia felt she should knit, the local woman in charge of Navy comforts gave her wool, but she always implored her not to hurry. ‘Don’t slave at it, you’ve so many other things to do.’ She was fond of Sylvia and did not even imply, ‘And I’ve other things to do than unpick your work for re-knitting.’ The present scarf was about eight inches long, and already was an inch wider than when Sylvia had cast on. Sylvia saw nothing wrong and knitted laboriously.

  ‘We can’t go on like this, Tony. You don’t like staying here. I know everything is rather a mess and I’m not a good cook. They say taking infinite pains can achieve anything, and your Uncle Andrew says prayer can, but somehow nothing works when it’s cooking. Would you like to go to one of your other aunts? I expect I could arrange it.’

  Tony wished she would leave him alone.

  ‘I never said I wasn’t liking it here.’

  ‘You don’t need to. You’re very like your father. There were four years difference in age between your father and your Aunt Lindsey, but only two between your father and myself. It threw us together, we were great friends. Of course your Aunt Selina is only two years younger than I am, but somehow she was always treated as much younger. She was the baby, you see. Your father used to look just like you do when he didn’t like anything.’

  The present faded, ushered out by Sylvia’s placid voice and the click of knitting needles. Dad’s Nan, who lived, in a cottage somewhere and whom Dad had taken them to see, was speaking. She had a thin, old voice and spoke in pauses, turning over her memories as she turned over the wools and silks in her work-bag. ‘Very like you Master Tony’s growing. . . . Your father took a while to shoot up. . . . Miss Sylvy was near as tall as he was. . . . Do you remember, Mr. Alex, that sailor suit with long trousers you had for a wedding, and how your mother bought a frock with a sailor collar for Miss Sylvia? People used to take you for twins.’

  Sylvia spoke again.

  ‘I shall ring up your Aunt Dot. I want to arrange with her to meet you in London to get the rest of your school things. She is doing your shopping when she does Henry’s. Perhaps you could go back with them.’

  Tony was at Eastbourne. He could almost smell the sea. He could hear the gentle plop of waves against rocks. What he could not hear was the tone of his father’s voice, but he could remember the words. ‘Your Aunt Sylvia’s a darling.’

  Tony’s anger and self-pity ebbed. He felt ashamed.

  ‘I don’t want to go anywhere else... there’s nothing wrong....’

  ‘It won’t be easy to arrange for you to move. Your Aunt Dot’s only got a lady-help, who isn’t a lady and doesn’t help much . . . if ever I have to go out to work I shall make it clear I’m not a lady.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ve been a bit browned off but...’

  ‘It isn’t all right. You don’t get on well with your cousins, do you?’

  ‘It’s mostly my fault.’

  ‘And you don’t understand your uncle.’

  Alex’s words floated back to Tony.

  ‘He’s a very good man. Dad told me so.’

  ‘I’ve never found knowing people are good is a help. In a vicarage you meet a great many good people. Of course it’s nice to meet them, but it doesn’t make any difference to liking.’ She held up her knitting. ‘Do you think that looks the same size all the way?’

  ‘It’s a bit wider at the bottom.’

  ‘Is it? I wonder if it matters. I expect not, the more there is of it th
e warmer it’ll be. Would you like to work for one of the farms? They need help.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I can arrange it. You can have one of the bicycles and go off after breakfast and you won’t get back until about six. They are asking for help in the papers. I will arrange for you to have your midday meal at the farm. They have lovely food on farms. They are allowed things, you know, half a pig now and again, and, I expect, slices off their sheep and cows.’

  Tony was hating himself.

  ‘The food’s all right here.’

  ‘No, it’s terrible. Would you like that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind. As a matter of fact, Mr. Phillips, he was my headmaster, he said I ought to help on the land.’

  Sylvia got up.

  ‘Good. I’ll arrange it tomorrow. That’ll mean no weekday services, and perhaps sometimes you’ll work on Sundays. Your uncle will quite understand... it’s a national emergency. He will want to talk to you sometime. He feels he must.’ She wandered over to the window and peered out. ‘Queer having it light almost all night. Your father used to have a game he played during a lecture from your grandmother. He filled his right hand pocket with dried peas and moved them, one by one, to the other pocket. It had to be done without any one noticing. The game was to get them all moved by the time the lecture was over. Of course now the peas would have to go back to the kitchen as they’re food.’ She came back to the bed and stooped and kissed Tony. ‘Good-night.’ She crossed to the door and opened it. ‘Don’t lie awake. We’ll all manage better tomorrow.’ She hesitated, torn by her loyalties. ‘Your father did not really understand your uncle either.’

  XLV

  Bertie was practising. Kim leant on the top of the Bechstein grand. Bertie shook his head at him.

  ‘You mustn’t interrupt. I’ve got to play this at the rehearsal this afternoon. Selina’s coming. I must play well.’

  ‘But I want to know something. Do you honestly and truthfully like playing the piano?’

  Bertie went on practising, but he considered his answer. He was a musical child. From babyhood he had liked sounds, the rhythm of wheels, wind in the trees; he had made up tunes to go with them. His father, with a Welshman’s love of music, had encouraged him first to sing, and then, when he was four, to play the piano. It had been fun. It was Selina who conceived she had given birth to a prodigy. It was Selina who, almost tone deaf herself, saw that this rare little boy must be given a special education so that his wonderful talent could flourish. There was an understanding between Bertie and his father. They never put it into words but they each knew the other knew that Selina’s dreams would come to nothing. That no matter how hard he worked Bertie would never be better than good second-rate. Arthur had a dislike of too much boarding school, he thought it was time enough for his son to be sent as a boarder when he was old enough for his public school, so it suited him that, with his musical education as an excuse, Bertie should attend a day school. If it were not for the boy’s music he felt Selina’s family would talk them into sending the child to a preparatory boarding school, they did not believe boys could be educated at home. As a small child, over-sensitive, spoilt and made to look foolish by fancy dressing and long hair, Bertie had been thoroughly disliked by all his cousins. They found him a weakling, apt to burst into tears and run to his mother at the first sign he was not to have his way. Kim, baby though he was when he had last seen his cousins, had subconsciously disliked both Fiona and Bertie, but for his own reason, which was, they took the limelight from himself. Meeting them again, he found he not only liked them but was interested. Fiona was now fourteen and Bertie twelve, but they were more like grown-up people. Talking together they had a mature outlook which astounded Kim. He was always struggling to understand them.

  ‘Go on, tell, Bertie. You can’t like it. Nobody could like spending hours and hours in their holidays doing that.’

  Bertie stopped playing.

  ‘I like playing the music I want to play, but I suppose I don’t like exercises, they’re necessary though to make my fingers supple and all that.’

  Kim beat his fists on the top of the piano.

  ‘Still I don’t see. What’s it for?’

  Bertie tried to think of a way of expressing his feeling for music in some medium Kim could understand, but there was none. Everything Kim did he did without struggle. If struggle were necessary, presumably Kim would not bother. He played a bar or two from a concerto.

  ‘I like that. I couldn’t play it if I hadn’t done a lot of these.’ He played an exercise.

  Kim flung himself about in his effort to understand.

  ‘But you can get a gramophone record if you want to hear it.’

  Bertie returned to his practise. He and Fiona had discussed Kim. He had brilliance and personality, they were fascinated by him. He had just had his eleventh birthday, they thought he was very young for his age in spite of the fact that, as far as lessons went, he was ahead in many subjects of either of them. He took it for granted that if he wanted a thing sufficiently he could have it. He knew nothing of limitations to achievement. He seemed to suppose that he was not in games teams, or a champion boxer, merely because he was uninterested, that if he were interested he would be unbeatable.

  Fiona came in. She had on her practise clothes of pink tights and a black tunic. Her practise bar, flanked by long mirrors, was at the far end of the playroom from Bertie’s piano. She pushed Kim aside and gripped the piano for support while she limbered up. She raised her voice.

  ‘Shut up a moment.’ Bertie took his hands off the notes. ‘I’ve broken the news.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘I eased her into it. I said that Madame thought I would do better as a ballet teacher. I’d dance sometimes.’

  ‘Did she mind?’

  ‘It went fairly well. I think we were right, she half knew.’

  ‘Do you think she’s guessed about me?’

  Fiona lifted her left leg over her head.

  ‘I’m not sure about that but I shouldn’t wonder. As I’d promised you I’d find out I said that I might take a pupil on Saturdays after you’d gone to Sherborne. I might too. I’d like to find out if I can teach.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That it might be a good idea.’

  Kim’s eyes were racing to and fro. He could only see part of Fiona’s face, but he could see all of Bertie’s. He could contain himself no longer. He beat the top of the piano with his fists.

  ‘Tell me. Don’t leave me out. What are you talking about?’

  Fiona answered.

  ‘Selina has always wanted me to go on the stage. She was going to get an appointment for me to dance for Ninette de Valois. I had to stop her.’

  ‘Who’s Ninette de something?’

  ‘Sadler’s Wells. She wanted me to join that ballet.’

  Kim gasped at her.

  ‘Sadler’s Wells! Well, isn’t that what you want?’

  Fiona went across to her bar and laid her left hand on it. She put her feet into the first position, and bent her knees. Then suddenly straightened and turned and leant against the bar facing Kim.

  ‘I expect you’d better understand. Selina may say something to you about us.’

  Kim had been instructed as soon as he reached the Llewellyns’ home to call his aunt by her Christian name. ‘The children used to call me Mummy, but it sounds silly now. I’m more like a sister to them than a mother. People often think I’m their elder sister.’ Kim left the piano and slid across the playroom.

  ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘Selina has always thought that I was going to be a star. You know, like Margot Fonteyn. Well, I won’t. I’ve quite good technique, but I’d never get anywhere.’

  Bertie left his piano and joined them.

  ‘Just the same here. She thought I was going to be a top-notch soloist.’

  ‘Well, how d’you know you both aren’t going to be?’

  Fiona rose on t
o her points.

  ‘Bertie’s musical.’

  Kim hated not to understand.

  ‘Well, if he’s musical, all the more reason.’

  Fiona spoke slowly, as if she were forcing each word into Kim’s head.

  ‘That’s why he knows. Arthur’s musical. He’s always known. It was only Selina who ever thought anything else.’

  Bertie said:

  ‘We thought she’d get hold of the idea gradually. Then suddenly, over these rehearsals, she met a woman who knows somebody to do with Sadler’s Wells.’

  Fiona came off her points.

  ‘And that put the lid on it.’

  Kim thought he saw what they meant.

  ‘So now you’ve told her, and you needn’t practise ever any more.’

  Bertie looked at Fiona.

  ‘It’s no good. He can’t understand.’ He turned to go back to his practise. Then a thought struck him. ‘We were telling you because of Selina. She’s likely to be a bit disappointed, we’ll have to ease her along. Arthur being away and all that.’

  Kim bounced over to Fiona and shook the practise bar.

  ‘But we’re children. It’s us that people have to bother about. Children don’t have to bother about grown-up people.’

  Fiona gave a slight, despairing shrug of her shoulders. She left her bar and came to the middle of the room.

  ‘You might play “Sugar Plum” for me, Bertie, so we don’t muck it this afternoon.’ She grinned at him. ‘It was the thought that Selina would shame me by making me do that in front of Ninette de Valois that made me have enough courage to speak.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘You go down to the kitchen, Kim, and talk to Mrs. Biddle, you know she adores you and you’ve to see me do this at rehearsal this afternoon.’