Tod had been out stalking imaginary tigers in a jungle growth of runner
beans, artichokes and gooseberry bushes, his weapon the deadly
spring-gun that would eject a mild pea at a velocity calculated to make
a dog think that a fly had tickled him. It was growing dark, and Tod had
tracked an elephant out of the artichoke forest. The tracks led Tod to
the brick wall and the front shrubbery, that most dismal and dangerous
spot in all Pentworth, where a boy had to be infinitely daring and
infinitely cautious or lose his life. Tod’s boa-constrictor lived in the
shrubbery, and fed upon the various Pentworth worthies whom Tod’s
imagination consigned to it. The Rector of St. Jude’s, Mr. Joab Twain,
the Police Inspector, old Mrs. Clutterbuck who kept the sweet shop, had
all been devoured by the great snake. Tod’s father had pretended to
wonder what the snake could have done with Mrs. Clutterbuck’s boots and
the Police Inspector’s buttons.
Tod had his head above the wall when the two men came out of the house
and stood talking in the alley-way between the railings and the shrubs.
One of the men was Tod’s father, the other a rather wild-eyed, hunted
looking little man who kept a bootshop, and whose name was Mr. Jacks.
The street lamp had been lit, and Tod could see that Mr. Jacks was
strangely excited. He held his hat in one hand, and a long black
forelock had fallen over his forehead, and he stammered slightly when he
talked.
Tod’s father had taken some white things out of his pocket, bits of
white paper that crinkled.
“It’s made to be used, old man.”
Tod’s father handed the white things to Mr. Jacks, and Mr. Jacks seemed
extraordinarily upset about something. He pocketed the paper, grabbed at
Western’s hand, and made funny noises in his throat.
“God bless you, Western. God bless you.”
Tod saw him cram his hat on his head and make a dash for the street.
Western re-entered the house.
Tod forgot the boa-constrictor, scuttled back, and went in by the garden
door. His father had just strolled into the parlour where his wife was
laying the table for supper. Tod hung back in the hall and listened.
“Poor Jacks,” said his mother.
“Poor devil! Such a good chap, and so fond of those kiddies. What an
accursed and sordid slaving this commercialism of ours can be!”
“Did you help him?”
“Yes”
“Much?”
“Ten pounds,” said Tod’s father laconically.
Tod saw his mother’s blue eyes look at his father with a moment’s tragic
dismay.
“Oh, Will!”
“I had to, dear. The poor beggar was so——”
Tod’s mother came quickly round the table and kissed Tod’s father.
“You dear? I didn’t mean——”
Western caught his wife’s hands and held them against his mouth.
“No wonder I’m always in love with you, Nan.”
No. 13 Spaniards Row had its periodic financial crisis, and Western’s
generosity to Mr. Jacks inaugurated a season of lean months. Tod noticed
various things. His father spent more time in the studio and in the dark
room, and even consented to paint the portrait of Miss Glandinning’s fat
fox-terrier. The daily glass of beer disappeared from the dinner table.
Margarine replaced butter, and jam and margarine were not allowed to
meet on the same piece of bread. The Sunday excursions were cut down to
two a month, and Tod had to wait for a new summer suit. Yet Château
Gaillard held out bravely and lost none of its happy good temper. His
mother sang or whistled softly while she worked, and she found time to
give Tod his lessons. Western had bought an old bicycle and was touring
the country, taking pictures of Heddingly Castle and Bramber Abbey,
“Sunset on Downs” and “Dawn over the Weald.” He had ideas about
developing the picture postcard trade. It was a little less obvious and
boring than photographing Pentworth in its Sunday clothes.
About that time a Mr. Hogg obtruded himself on Tod’s notice. He was a
square, red-faced man who walked with his feet set rather wide apart and
his toes turned in, rather like a duck. He had little, alert, evil eyes,
and a nose like the nose of one of those indiarubber faces that you can
flatten as you please. The young animal in Tod did not like the smell of
the man. Mr. Hogg was always turning up when Tod’s father was away, and
hanging about in the shop or the studio, making googly eyes at Tod’s
mother.
One autumn evening, just about dusk, Tod heard his mother calling him.
“Tod—Tod——”
Tod was in the garden, and there was a cry in his mother’s voice that
made him race for the house. He found her in the parlour, lighting a
candle with hands that shook a little; something black and heavy and
straight lay on the table. But Tod’s mother was not alone. A man seemed
to have fallen over one of the rush-bottomed chairs; he was picking
himself up, and as his head appeared Tod saw that his forehead was all
bloody. But it was his mother’s face that astonished and bewildered Tod.
She was angry, with an anger that was new to the child; her face was all
stark and white and blazing, and her eyes looked like two bits of
shining glass.
“This man has insulted your mother, Tod. Never forget it.”
Then Tod’s father appeared out of the sudden dusk, like Ulysses from out
of the sea.
“Hallo, what’s this, Nan?”
“We owe this man money, Will. He has got to be paid.”
“Of course, he’ll be paid.”
Tod’s mother blazed at them both.
“To-night, at once—now! He came here and asked me to pay him
with—myself. Tod, dear—come to me.”
Tod saw his mother’s anger leap to his father and set him afire. He had
never glimpsed his father like that before, and it made him afraid. He
ran to his mother, and was caught up and carried out of the room.
The affair ended there, so far as Tod was concerned. He heard strange
noises in the house, a voice that howled, the sound of heavy blows. The
street door banged. Then there was silence.
Tod’s father had lit the lamp when Tod and his mother returned to the
parlour. A broken chair lay in a corner, and the cloth had been dragged
from the table. Western was whistling softly. Tod saw his eyes light up
strangely directly his mother entered the room.
“That was all my fault, Nan. And, by God, I shan’t forget it.”
Tod felt rather forgotten for a moment. His mother was weeping, and
Tod’s father was saying all manner of strange things, and holding her as
though he never meant to let her go again. Tod noticed that the knuckles
of his father’s right hand were all red and raw.
“Now, what about supper? Sit down, dearest. Come along, Tod, my man;
we’ll lay the table.”
In the pantry Tod asked his father a question.
“What did the man say to Mother, Daddy?”
“I hope you will never know, my boy. Now then, hand out the bread from
that pan.”
Various familiar pieces of furniture disappeared from No. 13 Spaniards
Row during the next two weeks. The oak chest on the landing was carried
away by two men in dirty white aprons, and placed in a cart. The grand
father clock went with it, looking very moon-faced and melancholy and
ready to break into tears. Tod lost his temper over the rape of the poor
grandfather clock, and challenged the two men.
“What are you doin’ with our furniture?”
“You go and ask that respec’ble father of yours, cocky,” said one of the
men roughly.
Tod glared at him.
“Your teeth’s all black,” he retorted, “why don’t you clean ’em like a
gentleman?”
His mother looked rather sad for two days, but Tod noticed that his
father was very loving with her, and could hardly bear her out of sight.
Tod’s father had all sorts of pet names for his mother, and some of the
names seemed to come out of the Bible—at least Tod thought so. His
mother’s eyes would grow all strange and deep and shimmery when Tod’s
father called her by these names: Sometimes she would answer him with,
“You dear old Quixote,” and Tod tried to find out what a Quixote was.
He asked Mrs. Clutterbuck at the sweet shop, the lady who had been
devoured by the imaginary snake, but Mrs. Clutterbuck did not help him.
“Aven’t got any. We don’t stock it.”
Which was a subtle and innocent gibe at the psychology of Pentworth.
The first tragedy of Tod’s life followed swiftly upon the brown heels of
the autumn. Western, pedalling that old bicycle of his down Castle Hill,
collided at the crossroads with Pentworth’s latest mechanical sensation,
the motor-car from Pavitt’s Brewery. William Western was rushed home to
Spaniards Row in the car that had smashed him, and that night he lay in
the long, low room that overlooked the street, dying. Tod had not seen
him. The dazed and uncomprehending child had been seized on by Mr. Jacks
and carried off to that gentleman’s bootshop. Mr. Jacks seemed very
upset about something, and kept pulling that forelock of his and
uttering strange blasphemies. He stodged Tod with sweets, and talked all
sorts of comforting and mendacious nonsense to the child.
“Yes, Daddy’s all right. See him to-night, Tod, old man. Best man in the
world your daddy; best chap that ever was.”
About seven o’clock somebody rang Mr. Jacks’ bell, and Mr. Jacks went to
answer it.
“Western wants to see his boy,” said a voice.
“I’ll bring him myself,” said the keeper of the bootshop.
Tod did not realise what was happening to the life of No. 13 Spaniards
Row. Mr. Jacks held his hand and appeared unable to speak coherently
when he delivered Tod to his mother. Nancy Western bent down and kissed
Tod, and her mouth felt very cold. Her eyes had a strange look, as
though they were frozen, and her face was all stiff and expressionless.
Tod did not understand how great and piteous his mother’s courage was.
She took Tod to his father, and Tod was a little frightened. His
father’s face was the colour of linen, and the big eyes all big and
misty. He lay with the clothes turned back off his chest, and just
breathed and looked, and there was a queer spasm in his breathing.
“Oh, Daddy!”
His mother held him back.
“You must be very quiet, dear. Sit down. Daddy wants to talk.”
The dying man’s eyes were all anguish and tenderness.
“Let him kiss me, Nan.”
Tod kissed his father, and Western spoke to him in a small and husky
voice.
“Take care of Mummy, Tod; there never was such a mother as Mummy. She’s
been the Faery Queen to me. I’m going away on a long journey, Tod, and
you’ve got to be a man.”
Tod choked a little.
“I’ll look after Mummy till you come back, Daddy.”
“Nan, I can’t bear it,” said Tod’s father, and Mother took Tod away.
Mr. Jacks was waiting, and trying to light a pipe that kept going out.
“Will you keep him to-night?”
“Anything,” said Mr. Jacks; “much better if it had been me. Silly sort
of world, anyway. Tod, ol’ man; let’s go and have some toffee.”
“I can see Daddy in the morning,” said Tod.
“Yes, dear.”
Mr. Jacks carried him off, seeing that Tod’s mother was breaking, and
that her thoughts were with her man.
Tod would eat neither sweets nor supper that night, and sat in the
shopkeeper’s own chair, asking interminable questions. “Where’s Daddy
going? Will he be away long? What’s Daddy in bed for? Has he broken his
leg? What’ll they do to the man who did it?” Mr. Jacks had always known
himself to be a coward, but he felt more afraid of hurting that child
than he had feared anything in his life before. Little Tod Western would
have to be told the truth, and Mr. Jacks saw himself breaking the news
to the boy.
Tod fell asleep at last in the arm-chair, and Mr. Jacks spent the night
on the hard and shining black sofa, dozing off and waking with a start,
to find the child still sleeping. It was one of the longest nights of
the man’s life. He crept out of the room before daylight, and pottered
about in the kitchen, lighting the fire and getting breakfast ready.
About seven someone rang the bell, and Mr. Jacks went to the side door.
“Mr. Western’s dead,” said a voice.
“Is he?” said Mr. Jacks blankly.
“Mrs. Western wants you to tell the boy.”
“Damn,” said Mr. Jacks. “Yes, I’ll do it.”
He kept Tod in the sitting-room, and his own children in the kitchen.
Tod ate quite a good breakfast, and Mr. Jacks gave him buttered toast,
sardines, and an egg. Tod kept asking when he might go and see his
father, and old Jacks, seizing the desperate courage of a tender-hearted
man, lit a pipe and dragged Tod on to his knee.
“Tod, ol’ man—damn this pipe! The smoke gets into a chap’s eyes. Tod,
ol’ man, your father has gone away.”
“Gone away? Where’s he gone to?”
“Heaven, Tod, ol’ man. And you’ll go there some day and see him.”
The child’s eyes were round and staring. He did not speak for a moment,
and then he clutched one of Jacks’ hands.
“Daddy’s dead!”
“Yes, dear; he’s gone to heaven.”
Before Mr. Jacks could grapple the crisis, the child was off his knee
and out of the door.
“Tod, ol’ man, Tod——”
But the boy did not heed him. The street door stood open at the end of
the passage, and Tod dashed out into the misty November sunlight, a
strangely silent child with the face of an old man. Mr. Jacks faltered
at the street door.
“He’s gone to his mother,” he said to himself; “she’ll want him.”
But Tod had not gone to his mother. He ran out of the town and down the
hill to the meadows along the river. The grass was all wet and grizzled
with early frost, and the great elms were dropping their yellow leaves
to a light breeze. And Tod ran wild along those meadows, silent no
longer, but wailing and calling his father. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. Come
back, Daddy, oh, come back.” His child’s anguish seemed tireless and
unending, and even when the movement of grief ebbed in him, he lay on
the wet grass under an elm tree and sobbed.
Tod remained lost all that day, but about dusk someone saw him toddling
like a little ghost up the lane to Spaniards Row. He went in by the
garden door, and there were no lights in the house. His hands fumbled at
the door of the parlour and opened it, almost without a sound.
Someone was sitting by the window, a shadowy figure, with a white face.
It was Tod’s mother, and she was alone, and of a sudden Tod’s little
heart went out to her like a bird to its mate.
“Mummy!”
“Tod!”
He ran to her, and was caught in her arms. She asked no questions, but
held him to her and kissed him again and again. Her tears were on his
face, and her breath came in great gasps. Tod had never been kissed in
such a way before. Somehow it made him think of that day in the Yerrow
woods when he had seen his father kissing his mother like that. Strange,
passionate kisses, beyond the soul of a child.
“Mummy!”
Her broken words fell on him like her tears.
“His boy! You are him. O God, how can I bear it!”