The world is a mirror into which we gaze and see the reflection of
ourselves. So far to Peter it had been a foreground of small boys and
their sisters, with a background of occasional adult relatives. But now,
like a fledgling which has grown to strength lying snugly in its nest,
he had looked out and seen the leafy distance below him. His curiosity
was roused; the commonplace was a wonderland. What went on down there?
Where did the parent birds go, and how did they find their way back?
What was the meaning of this sun-and-shadow landscape that people called
“living”? Because he was young, when he looked out of the nest, the
distance below him seemed full of youngness. All that had happened up to
now, the collapse of Aunt Jehane's fortunes, the imprisonment of
Uncle Waffles, his father's problems and the marriage of Grace to her
policeman, were mere stories which he had heard reported. There was
a battle called life, going on somewhere, in which he had never
participated. He was tired of being told about it. He wanted to feel
the rush of wind under his outspread wings; this afternoon, in a gust of
vivid and personal experience, he thought he had felt it. What was
it? By what name should he call it? Because he was only fifteen, love
sounded too large a word. And yet----- If it wasn't love, what was it?
All along the dusty summer road, through the golden evening, as he
tricycled back to London, he argued with himself. Kay interrupted
occasionally and he answered, but his thoughts were elsewhere. They had
discovered the gray-built city of Reality, and went from door to door
tapping, demanding entrance. Ignorance had kept him unadventurous and
contented; his contentedness was breaking down--he was glad of it.
The urgent need was on him to explain creation and his presence in the
world. How were people born? Why did they marry? How did they get money?
The child's mind, like the philosopher's, goes back to fundamentals. All
this outward pageant which had passed before his eyes for fifteeen
years as a sight to be expected, had suddenly become packed with hidden
significance. What was the meaning of this being born, this getting
and spending, this disastrous and glorious loving, struggling and being
buried? There was no one to whom he dared go for an answer; he must find
the explanation within himself. In the isolation of that thought he
felt a great gulf opening between himself and his little sister, between
himself and everyone he loved. Whether he liked it or not, one day he
must grow into a man; he was elated and terrified by the certainty. And
all the while, set to the creaking music of the lumbering tricycle, one
word sung itself over and over, “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.”
[Illustration: 0283]
No one, looking at his childish face, would have guessed the grave
suspicions and wild hazards that walked in the desperate loneliness
of his imagination. It was the key to existence that he sought. He had
arrived at that crisis of soul and body, when every child is driven out,
a John the Baptist, into the wilderness of conjecture, there to live on
the locusts and wild honey of hearsay, till he finds the fruit of the
Tree of Knowledge.
As they neared the suburbs, a stream of bicyclists--city clerks riding
out with their sweethearts--met, engulfed and gave them passage. After
all, it was a merry, laughing world! Above the tinkling of bells,
evening birds were calling. All these people, how did they live? Where
did they come from? Had they, too, slept and been awakened questioning,
because a girl had touched them?
Down the road he saw his aunt's cottage. Riska would be there by the
gate, sitting behind her table spread with cakes, mineral-waters and
glasses. He recalled all the things he had heard said of her, things to
which he had paid no attention--that she was a born flirt and that her
mother was teaching her to catch men. As they came up, she lifted her
soft eyes and let them rest on him with contemptuous affection. Why did
she do that? Why did she always seem to despise and tolerate men and
boys? A bicyclist, who had ridden past, turned his head, caught sight of
her and came back slowly. Peter felt that it was not thirst, but Riska's
prettiness that had recalled him. He felt angry with Riska--unreasonably
angry, for she had said and done nothing.
“We're late,” he told her; “we can't stop.”
She nodded. She didn't care. Her whole attitude seemed to tell Peter
that he wasn't worth wasting time on. Just as the pedals had begun
to turn, Glory came out and stood in the porch. She waved to him and
shouted something. He called to her that they were in a hurry. Further
down the road, he turned his head; her eyes followed him.
It was nearly dark when they reached Topbury. Lamps stood like marigold
splashes on the dusk in a quivering line along the Terrace. In the
garden he found his parents, sitting close together beneath the
mulberry-tree like lovers. They drew apart as Kay ran up to them.
“You're late, children.” It was his mother talking. “We were getting
nervous.”
He kissed her; for a moment, the old sense of security returned.
“It's time Kay was in bed.”
She crossed the gravel path with her arm about the little girl, and
disappeared up the white stone steps to the house.
Far away, as of old, like waves about the foot of a cliff, the roar
of London threatened. It seemed to be telling him that he would not be
always sheltered--that one day he would have to launch out, steering in
search of the unknown future by himself. It was not the boldness, but
the loneliness of the adventure that now impressed him.
“Father.”
“Yes.” The voice came to him out of the darkness. “What does it feel
like to become a man?”
“Feel like, Peter! I don't understand.”
“To have to--to have to fight for oneself?”
His father leant out and touched him. “Have you begun to think of that
already? Fight for yourself! You won't have to do that for a long while
yet.”
“But----.” Peter allowed himself to be drawn into the arms of the man
who had always stood between him and the world. “But when the time
comes, I don't want to fail like----,” he was going to have said like
Uncle Waffles, but he said instead, “like some people.” And then, after
a pause, “I feel so unprepared.”
“We've all felt that way, sonny. Somehow we get the strength. You'll get
it.”
Peter sighed contentedly. He was again in the nest with the
creeper-covered walls about him. The strained note had gone out of his
voice when he spoke now. “There's so much to learn. It seems so strange
to think that one day I'll have to grow up, like you, and marry, and
earn money, and have little boys and girls.”
His father laughed huskily. “Very strange! Strange even to me,
Peter--and I've done it: And, d'you know, there are times when even a
man looks back and is surprised that he's grown up. He feels just what
you're feeling--the wonder of it. It seems only the other day that I
was as small as you are; and only the other day that I was frightened of
life and what it meant. Are you frightened?”
For answer Peter stood up. “Not so much frightened as puzzled.”
His father rose and led him out from beneath the leaves, which crowded
above their heads. He pointed up past the roofs of houses. “We couldn't
see them under there,” he said. “Every night they come to their places
and stand, shining. Some one sends them. Some one sent you and me,
Peter. We don't know why. There are people who sit always under
trees and never look up. They'll tell you that there aren't any stars
overhead. We're not like that. We know that whoever is careful enough
to hang lamps on the clouds, is careful enough to watch over us. So we
needn't be afraid of living, need we, old chap?”
Peter pressed his father's hand. “I'll try to remember.”
That night, when the house was all silent, he crept out of bed. Leaning
from the open window, he looked down on London, stretching for miles and
miles, with its huddled roofs spread over its huddled personalities.
Why were things as they were? If some one lit lamps in the heavens and
followed each life with care, why did four women, who loved children,
sit forever with their arms empty, while one sang of the sweet fields
of Eden; and why did Uncle Waffles-----? The questions were unanswerable
and endless. And then, in defiant contrast, there came bounding into
his memory the courageous figure of the Faun Man, with his cavalier
attitudes and strong determination to make of life a laughing affair.
The night quickened; the ghostly feet of a little breeze tiptoed across
the tree-tops, causing their leaves to rustle. From the far distance,
the throb of belated traffic reached him like the beat of a muffled
drum. He heard London marching to the martial music of struggle; his
heart was stirred. Life was a fight--well, what of it? When his time
came, he must be ready. He looked again at the stars, remembering what
his father had said. One need not be frightened. And then he looked away
into the blackness; somewhere over there the houses ended and the wide
peace of the country commenced. Somewhere over there was Cherry.
He waited impatiently for his next half-holiday, when he would be free
to tricycle out. When he went, she was not in the Haunted Wood; nor the
next time, nor the next. He wanted to ask the Faun Man, but postponed
through shyness; he was afraid his secret would be guessed. He was
always hoping and hoping that he would find her behind the green wall
of leaves, where the little river ran. One afternoon, when tea was ended
and Kay and Harry had gone out, he asked, “Does the girl who broke your
pictures never come here now?”
The Faun Man looked up sharply and stared, trying to guess behind the
question.
“I wasn't very decent to you that day, was I? And I was beastly to her.”
“I think she was sorry,” said Peter softly. “I wish you'd let her----.
Does she never come here now?”
The Faun Man leant forward across the table, with his face between his
long brown hands. “Did you like her, Peter?”
“Yes.”
“Very much?”
Peter lowered his eyes. “Very much.”
When he dared to glance up, he found that the Faun Man wasn't laughing.
He reached out his hand to Peter. “You're young,” he said. “Fifteen,
isn't it? Well, she's a year older. It's dangerous to like a girl very
much--especially a little wild thing like Cherry. I'm a man and I know,
because I, too, like some one very much; and it doesn't always make
me happy. You'll like heaps of girls, Peter, before you find the right
one.” He felt that Peter's hand had grown smaller in his own and was
withdrawing. “You think it isn't true?” he questioned. “You think it
wasn't kind of me to say that? And you want to see her?” Peter gazed out
of the cottage window to where sunlight fell aslant the Haunted Wood.
Why should he want to see her more than anyone in the world? But he did.
And he knew that because he was so young, most people would consider
his desire absurd. But the Faun Man, who found so much to laugh at, was
regarding him seriously. “And you want to see her?”
Peter whispered, “Yes.”
The Faun Man's eyes filmed over in that curious way they had. He said:
“I want you to trust me. There are reasons why you can't see her. I've
sent her away because I think that it's best. I can't tell you why or
where I've sent her; or what right I have to send her. But I want you to
know that I don't smile at you for liking her. It doesn't matter how old
or young we are; when love comes, it always hurts. And it seems just as
serious whether it comes late or early. But some day I'll let you see
her. To you at fifteen, some day seems very far from now. But if you
wait, and still think you care for her, I'll let you see her when the
time comes. I don't think we ought to speak of this again till then.
We'll keep it a secret which we never discuss; but we'll each remember.
Is that a bargain?”
Peter had no other choice than to accept. They shook hands.
Shortly after this Kay and Peter went away to a farm in North Wales
for their summer holidays. Their first intention on their return was to
visit the Faun Man and Harry. On going to the stable, they found that
the tricycle was no longer there. Their father was very mysterious and
unconcerned when they told him; evidently he knew what had happened.
“All right,” he said, “just wait a day or two. You'll see--it'll come
back.”
And one morning it did come back, ridden by a man with a face all
smudges, who presented a bill for payment. It had entirely transformed
itself, like a widow-lady who had been brisked up by an unexpected offer
of marriage. From a sober, old-fashioned tricycle it had taken on an
appearance almost modern and festive. Its handle-bars had been replated;
its framework re-enameled; its tall wheels cut down; its solid tires
removed and replaced by pneumatics. It sparkled in the sun, as though
defying butcher-boys to jeer at it. The man, with the face all smudges,
wheeled it through the stable into the garden; he left it beneath the
mulberry-tree, and there the children, on arriving home from school,
found it.
“Why, it's a new tricycle!”
Peter looked it over, “No, it isn't, Kitten Kay. It's the old one
altered.”
Their mother, hearing their shouts, came out into the garden, nearly as
excited herself. They had visions of spinning out to the Happy Cottage
at the breakneck speed of eight miles an hour. While they clambered on
to it, examined it and spotted new improvements in the way of a lamp and
saddles, she explained to them how it had happened. “It's your father's
doing. He meant it as a surprise. He thought the old tires made it too
heavy, so----.”
Kay interrupted. “Oh, Peter, do let's take it out on to the Terrace and
try it.”
As they wheeled it down the gravel path between the geranium beds, they
chattered of how they would surprise Harry. But Harry was fated never
to see it. On the Terrace, when they had mounted, while their mother
watched them from the window, they found that everything was not well.
The man with the face all smudges had been wise in demanding his money
before his handiwork was tested. He had cut the wheels so low that,
where the road was uneven, the pedals bumped against the ground.
Life had, indeed, become serious for Peter; through his father's
well-intentioned kindness, his means of communication between reality
and fairyland had been annihilated. For a time it looked as though so
small an accident as the indiscreet remodeling of a tricycle had lost
for him forever the new friendships formed at the Happy Cottage.
But one evening a dinner was given by Mr. Barrington to a famous man
whose work he was anxious to publish. Kay and Peter were allowed to see
him after dessert.
The moment Peter's head appeared round the door the famous man rose up
and shouted, “Hulloa, young 'un, so at last I've found you! Where the
dickens have you been hiding?”
Mr. Barrington lay back in his chair, his arms hanging limp on either
side, the image of amazement. He heard his son explaining: “It was the
tandem trike. Father wanted to be kind to us and----. Well, after he'd
had it improved, it wouldn't work. And so, you see, there was no way of
getting to you.”
The Faun Man spread out his long legs, laughing uproariously; until the
appearance of the children, he'd been most scrupulously conventional
and polite. “But, Peter, an immortal friendship like ours cut short by a
tandem trike! You little donkey, why didn't you write?”
Kay rose up in her brother's defence. “He isn't a little donkey. We
were all to be pretence people, don't you remember? We didn't know your
address.”
The Faun Man stroked his chin and lengthened his face. “If you'd left
me alone much longer,” he said, “you wouldn't have found me; I'm moving
into London.”
Then their parents began to ask questions; the story of Friday Lane and
the mouth-organ boy came out.
That evening, after Lorenzo Arran had said good-by, he turned back to
his host, just as the door was closing.
“Oh, I say! One minute, Barrington. That matter we were discussing
yesterday--let's consider it settled.”
Barrington watched the tall, lean figure go striding down the Terrace.
He was so taken up with watching, that he didn't know that Nan had
stolen up behind him until she touched his hand. He turned; his mouth
was crooked with amusement. “Did you hear that? He agrees--I'm to
publish for him. And it's Peter's doing. One never knows where that boy
won't turn up.”
And Peter, snuggled cosily in bed, was wondering whether, now that he'd
found the Faun Man, he'd refind Cherry. He reflected that when life
could play such tricks on you, a lifetime of it wouldn't be half bad. He
was no longer frightened to remember that, whether he liked it or not,
he must grow up.