I
Now that the children were getting big, it wasn’t to be called the
Nursery any longer. In fact, it was being repapered that very day: the
old scribbled Mother Goose pattern had already been covered with new
strips, damp and bitter-smelling. But Martin thought he would be able
to remember the gay fairy-tale figures, even under the bright fresh
paper. There were three bobtailed mice, dancing. They were repeated
several times in the procession of pictures that ran round the wall.
How often he had studied them as he lay in bed waiting for it to be
time to get up. It must be excellent to be Grown Up and able to dress
as early as you please. What a golden light lies across the garden
those summer mornings.
At any rate, it would be comforting to know that the bobtailed mice
were still there, underneath. To-day the smell of the paste and new
paper was all through the house. The men were to have come last week.
To-day it was awkward: it was Martin’s birthday (he was ten) and he and
Bunny had been told to invite some friends for a small party. It was
raining, too: one of those steady drumming rains that make a house so
cosy. The Grown-Ups were having tea on the veranda, so the party was
in the dining room. When Mrs. Richmond looked through the glass porch
doors to see how they were getting on, she was surprised to find no one
visible.
“Where on earth have those children gone?” she exclaimed. “How
delightfully quiet they are.”
There was a seven-voiced halloo of triumph, and a great scuffle and
movement under the big mahogany table. Several steamer rugs had been
pinned together and draped across the board so that they hung down
forming a kind of pavilion. From this concealment the children came
scrambling and surrounded her in a lively group.
“We had all disappeared!” said Bunny. She was really called Eileen, but
she was soft and plump and brown-eyed and twitch-nosed; three years
younger than her brother.
“You came just in time to save us,” said Martin gaily.
“Just in time to save my table,” amended Mrs. Richmond. “Bunny, you
know how you cried when you scratched your legs going blackberrying. Do
you suppose the table likes having its legs scratched any better than
you do? And those grimy old rugs all over my lace cloth. Martin, take
them off at once.”
“We were playing Stern Parents,” explained Alec, a cousin and less awed
by reproof than the other guests, who were merely friends.
Mrs. Richmond was taken aback. “What a queer name for a game.”
“It’s a lovely game,” said Ruth, her face pink with excitement. “You
pretend to be Parents and you all get together and talk about the
terrible time you have with your children----”
Martin broke in: “And you tell each other all the things you’ve had to
scold them for----”
“And you have to forbid their doing all kinds of things,” said Ben.
“And speak to them Very Seriously,” chirped Bunny. Mrs. Richmond felt a
twinge of merriment at the echo of this familiar phrase.
“And every time you’ve punished them for something that doesn’t really
matter----” (this was Phyllis).
“--You’re a _Stern Parent_, and have to disappear!” cried Martin.
“You get under the table and can’t come out until someone says
something nice about you.”
“It’s a very instructing game, ’cause you have to know just how far
children can be allowed to go----”
“But we were _all_ Stern Parents, and had all disappeared.”
“Yes, and then Mother said we were delightfully quiet, and that saved
us.”
“What an extraordinary game,” said Mrs. Richmond.
“All Martin’s games are extraordinary,” said Phyllis. “He just made up
one called Quarrelsome Children.”
“Will you play it with us?” asked Bunny.
“I don’t believe that’s a new game,” said her mother. “I’m sure I’ve
seen it played, too often. But it’s time for the cake. Straighten up
the chairs and I’ll go and get it.”
Seated round the table, and left alone with the cake, the lighted
candles, and the ice cream, the children found much to discuss.
“Ten candles,” said Alec, counting them carefully.
“I had thirteen on mine, last birthday,” said Phyllis, the oldest of
the girls.
“That’s nothing, so did I,” said Ben.
“Your cook’s clever,” said Ruth. “She’s marked the places to cut, with
icing, so you can make all the pieces even.”
“I think it was foolish of her,” said Martin, “because Bunny is quite
a small child still; if she has too much chocolate she comes out in
spots.”
Bunny and Joyce, at the other end of the table, looked at each other
fleetingly, in a tacit alliance of juniority. Joyce was also seven, a
dark little elf, rather silent.
“Why don’t you blow out the candles?” shrilled Bunny.
This effectively altered the topic. After the sudden hurricane had
ceased, Martin began to cut, obediently following the white spokes of
sugar.
“I wonder what it feels like to be grown up?” said Alec.
“I guess we’ll know if we wait long enough,” said Phyllis.
“How old do you have to be, to be grown up?” asked Ruth.
“A man’s grown up when he’s twenty-one,” Ben stated firmly.
“Is Daddy twenty-one?” said Bunny.
Cries of scorn answered this. “Of course he is,” said Martin. “Daddy’s
middle-age, he’s over thirty. He’s what they call _primeoflife_, I
heard him say so.”
“That’s just before your hair begins to come out in the comb,” said
Alec.
Bunny was undismayed, perhaps encouraged by seeing in front of her more
ice cream than she had ever been left alone with before.
“Daddy _isn’t_ grown up,” she insisted. “The other day when we played
blind man’s buff on the beach, Mother said he was just a big boy.”
“Girls grow up quicker,” said Phyllis. “My sister’s eighteen, she’s so
grown up she’ll hardly speak to me. It happened all at once. She went
for a week-end party, when she came back she was grown up.”
“That’s not grown up,” said Ben. “That’s just stuck up. Girls get like
that. It’s a form of nervousness.”
They were not aware that Ben had picked up this phrase by overhearing
it applied to some eccentricities of his own. They were impressed, and
for a moment the ice cream and cake engaged all attentions. Then a
round of laughter from the veranda reopened the topic.
“Why do men laugh more than ladies?” asked Bunny.
“It must be wonderful,” said Martin.
“You bet!” said Ben. “Think of having long trousers, and smoking a
pipe, blowing rings, going to town every day, going to the bank and
getting money----”
“And all the drug stores where you can stop and have sodas,” said Ruth.
“Sailing a boat!”
“Going shopping!”
“The circus!” shouted Bunny.
“I don’t mean just _doing_ things,” said Martin. “I mean thinking
things.” His eager face, clearly lit by two candles in tall silver
sticks, was suddenly and charmingly grave. “Able to think what you
want to; not to have to--to do things you know are wrong.” For an
instant the boy seemed to tremble on the edge of uttering the whole
secret infamy of childhood; the most pitiable of earth’s slaveries;
perhaps the only one that can never be dissolved. But the others hardly
understood; nor did he, himself. He covered his embarrassment by
grabbing at a cracker of gilt paper in which Alec was rummaging for the
pull.
Joyce had slipped from her chair and was peeping through one of the
windows. Something in the talk had struck home to her in a queer,
troublesome way. Suddenly, she didn’t know why, she wanted to look at
the Grown-Ups, to see exactly what they were like. The rest of the
party followed her in a common impulse. Joyce’s attitude caused them to
tiptoe across the room and peer covertly from behind the long curtains.
Without a word of explanation all were aware of their odd feeling of
spying on the enemy--an implacable enemy, yet one who is (how plainly
we realize it when we see him off guard in the opposing trench, busy at
his poor affairs, cooking or washing his socks) so kin to ourselves.
With the apprehensive alertness of those whose lives may depend on
their nimble observation, they watched the unconscious group at the tea
table.
“Daddy’s taking three lumps,” said Bunny. She spoke louder than is
prudent in an outpost, and was s-s-sh-ed.
“Your mother’s got her elbow on the table,” Ruth whispered.
“Daddy’s smacking his lips and chomping,” insisted Bunny.
“That’s worse than talking with your mouth full.”
“How queer they look when they laugh.”
“Your mother lifts her head like a hen swallowing.”
“Yours has her legs crossed.”
“It’s a form of nervousness.”
“They do all the things they tell us not to,” said Joyce.
“Look, he’s reaching right across the table for another cake.”
Martin watched his parents and their friends. What was there in the
familiar scene that became strangely perplexing? He could not have put
it into words, but there was something in those voices and faces that
made him feel frightened, a little lonely. Was that really Mother, by
the silver urn with the blue flame flattened under it? He could tell by
her expression that she was talking about things that belong to that
Other World, the thrillingly exciting world of Parents, whose secrets
are so cunningly guarded. That world changes the subject, alters the
very tone of its voice, when you approach. He had a wish to run out on
the veranda, to reassure himself by the touch of her soft cool arm in
the muslin dress. He wanted to touch the teapot, to see if it was hot.
If it was, he would know that all this was real. They had gone so far
away.--Or were they also only playing a game?
“They look as though they were hiding something,” he said.
“They’re having fun,” Phyllis said. “They always do; grown-ups have a
wonderful time.”
“Come on,”--Martin remembered that he was the host--“the ice cream will
get cold.” This was what Daddy always said.
Bunny felt a renewed pride as she climbed into her place at the end of
the table. Martin looked solemnly handsome in his Eton collar across
the shining spread of candlelight and cloth and pink peppermints. The
tinted glass panes above the sideboard were cheerful squares of colour
against the wet grey afternoon. She wriggled a little, to reëstablish
herself on the slippery chair.
“Our family is getting very grown up,” she said happily. “We’re not
going to have a nursery any more. It’s going to be the guest room.”
“I don’t think I want to be grown up,” said Alec suddenly. “It’s silly.
I don’t believe they have a good time at all.”
This was a disconcerting opinion. Alec, as an older cousin, held a
position of some prestige. A faint dismay was apparent in the gazes
that crossed rapidly in the sparkling waxlight.
“I think we ought to make up our minds about it,” Martin said gravely.
“Pretty soon, the way things are going, we _will_ be, then it’ll be too
late.”
“Silly, what can you do?” said Phyllis. “Of course we’ve got to grow
up, everyone does, unless they die.” Her tone was clear and positive,
but also there was a just discernible accent of inquiry. She had not
yet quite lost her childhood birthright of wonder, of belief that
almost anything is possible.
“We’d have to Take Steps,” cried Alec, unconsciously quoting the enemy.
“We could just decide among ourselves that we simply wouldn’t, and if
we all lived together we could go on just like we are.”
“It would be like a game,” said Martin, glowing.
“With toys?” ejaculated Bunny, entranced.
Ben was firmly opposed. “I won’t do it. I want to have long trousers
and grow a moustache.”
Martin’s face was serious with the vision of huge alternatives.
“That’s it,” he said. “We’ve got to know before we can decide. It’s
terribly important. If they _don’t_ have a good time, we’d better----”
“We could _ask_ them if they’re happy,” exclaimed Ruth, thrilled by the
thought of running out on the veranda to propose this stunning question.
“They wouldn’t tell you,” said Alec. “They’re too polite.”
Phyllis was trying to remember instructive examples of adult
infelicity. “They don’t tell the truth,” she agreed. “Mother once said
that if Daddy went on like that she’d go mad, and I waited and waited,
and he did and she didn’t.”
“You mustn’t believe what they say,” Martin continued. “They never tell
the truth if they think children are around. They don’t _want_ us to
know what it’s like.”
“Perhaps they’re ashamed of being grown up,” Ben suggested.
“We must find out,” Martin said, suddenly feeling in his mind the
expanding brightness of an idea. “It’ll be a new game. We’ll all be
spies in the enemy’s country, we’ll watch them and see exactly how they
behave, and bring in a report.”
“Get hold of their secret codes, and find where their forces are
hidden,” cried Ben, who liked the military flavour of this thought.
“I think it’s a silly game,” said Phyllis. “You can’t really find out
anything; and if you did, you’d be punished. Spies always get caught.”
“Penalty of death!” shouted the boys, elated.
“It’s harder than being a real spy,” said Martin. “You can’t wear
the enemy’s uniform and talk their language. But I’m going to do it,
anyhow.”
“Me too!” Joyce exclaimed from the other end of the table, where she
and Bunny had followed the conversation with half-frightened excitement.
“I want to be a spy!” added Bunny.
“Mustn’t have too many spies,” said Alec. “The enemy would suspect
something was up. Send one first, he’ll see what he can find and report
to us.”
It was not clear to Bunny exactly who the enemy were or how the spying
was to be carried out; but if Martin was to do it, it would be well
done, she was certain. Spying, that suggested secrecy, and secrecy----
“Martin has a little roll-top desk with a key!” she shouted. “Daddy
gave it to him for his birthday.”
“Oh, I forgot,” said Phyllis. She ran out into the living room, and
returned with a large parcel. “Many happy returns,” she said, laying
it in front of Martin. If you listen intently, behind the innocent
little phrase you can overhear, like a whispering chorus, the voices of
innumerable parents: “And don’t forget, when you give it to him, to say
_Many happy returns_.”
The others also hurried to get the packages that had been left in the
vestibule. There was a great rattling of paper and untying of string;
an embarrassed reiteration of thankyous by Martin. He felt it awkward
to say the same thing again for each gift.
Hearing the movement in the dining room, the grown-ups had now come in.
“Such a pretty sight.”
“I love children’s parties, their faces are always a picture.”
“Martin, did you say thank you to Alec for that lovely croquet set?”
“This is what _I_ gave him,” said Ben, pushing forward the parcheesi
board.
“The girls are so dainty, like little flowers.”
“Who is the little dark one, over by the window?”
“That’s Joyce.--Why, Joyce dear, what are you crying about?”
The strong maternal voice rang through the room with a terrible
publicity of compassion. The children stared. Bunny ran and threw
her arms round her friend, who had hidden her face in the curtain.
Bunny thought she knew what was wrong. Joyce had forgotten to bring
a present, and was ashamed because all the others had done so. The
miserable little figure tried to efface itself in the curtain; even
the tiny pearl buttons at the back of her pink frock had come undone.
Things that are close to us, how loyal they are, how they follow the
moods of their owners.
“There, there, honey, what’s the trouble? After such a lovely party?”
This was authoritative pity, threateningly musical.
Bunny pressed her warm lips against a wet petal of nostril.
“Martin doesn’t mind,” she whispered. “He _hates_ presents.”
Joyce could feel powerful fingers buttoning the cool gap between her
shoulders. When that was done she would be turned round and asked what
was the matter.
“Perhaps she has a pain,” boomed a masculine vibration. “These parties
always upset them. Worst thing for children.”
Joyce could smell a whiff of cigar and see large feet in white canvas
shoes approaching. Best to face it now before worse happens. She turned
desperately, hampered by Bunny’s embrace, almost throttling her in
an excess of affection. Breaking away she ran across the room, where
Martin and the boys were averting their eyes from the humiliation of
the would-be spy. She thrust into his hand a tiny package, damp now.
“It was so small,” she said.
A moment of appalling silence hung over the trembling pair. Martin
could feel it coming, the words “What do you say, Martin?” seemed
forming and rolling up over his head like opal banks of summer storm.
Yet he could not have said a word. He seized her hand and shook it,
with a grotesque bob of his head.
“Such a little gentleman, how _do_ you train them? I can’t do anything
with Ben, he’s so rough.”
Joyce was blotted out by a merciful hooded raincoat. As she struggled
through its dark rubber-smelling folds she could hear voices coming
down from above.
“Alec, say good-bye to your little cousins--no, we must say your _big_
cousins, mustn’t we?”
“Thank Mrs. Richmond for such a nice party.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Richmond, for such a nice party.”
“Martin, you haven’t opened Joyce’s present.”
“I don’t want to open it,” murmured Martin sullenly. Then he knew he
had said the wrong thing.
“Don’t want to open it? Why of course you want to open it. We don’t
measure presents by their size, do we, Joyce?”
Joyce, almost escaped, was drawn again into the arena.
“Come, Alec, we’ll see what Joyce has given Martin and then you must
go.”
“I can’t untie it, the string’s wet,” muttered Martin.
The watching circle drew closer.
“Wet? Nonsense. Here, give it to me.”
Unfolding of sodden paper. A mouse of soft grey plush, with little
glassy eyes and a long silky tail. And two wheels under his stomach, a
key to wind him by.
“Why, it’s the mouse we saw in the window at the cigar store. Joyce was
crazy about it.”
“You see, Martin, she’s given you a mouse because she wanted it so much
for herself.”
“It isn’t very much, my dear, but there’s so little to choose from,
here in the country.”
“It’s like the mice we had on the nursery wallpaper,” said Bunny,
praising valiantly.
“Wind it up and see it run.”
There are some situations that, once entered, must be carried through
to the end. Martin wound. He could tell by the feel of the key that
something was wrong.
“I’ll play with it later,” he said.
“Don’t be so stubborn, Martin. We’re all waiting to see it.”
Joyce’s gaze was riveted on the mouse. She remembered the ominous
click in its vitals, when she had been giving it an ecstatic trial.
But perhaps Martin, with the magic boys have in these matters, could
make it go again, as it went--so thrillingly, in mouselike darts and
curves--on the cigar-store floor.
Martin put it down, giving it a deft push. It ran a few inches and
stopped.
“It runs fine,” he said hastily. “But it won’t go here on the rug.”
“Let’s see it,” said Ben, whose mechanical sense was not satisfied by
so brief an exhibition.
“It’s mine,” snapped Martin fiercely, and put it in his pocket.
“We really must go,” said someone.
“Would you each like a piece of Martin’s cake to take home?”
“Oh, no, thank you, I think they’ve had plenty.”
“Did you make a wish?”
“No, we forgot,” said Martin.
“Oh, what a pity. When you blow out the candles on a birthday cake you
should always make a wish.”
“Will it come true?”
“If it’s a nice wish.”
“Light them again and do it now,” said one of the parents. The drill
must be finished.
“Yes, do, before the children go.”
“Will it work if you light them again?” asked Martin doubtfully.
“Every bit as well.”
The ten candles were reassembled on the remaining sector of cake, and
Martin, feeling very self-conscious, stood by while they were relit.
His guests were pushed forward.
“All ready? Blow!”
There was a loud puffing. Bunny’s blast, a little too late, blew a
fragrant waver of smoke into his face.
“Did you wish?”
“Yes,” said Martin, “I----”
“You mustn’t tell it! If you tell, it won’t come true.”
But he hadn’t wished, yet. He wanted to wait a moment, to get it just
right. As the children turned away, trooping toward the door, Martin
made one hasty movement that no one saw. With a quick slice of the
sharp cake-knife he cut off the tail of the plush mouse. Now it would
always serve to remind him of the tailless mice in the room that was no
longer a nursery. Then, with the snuff of smoking candles still in his
nose, he wished.