It was the early morning of the last day of the year. Staring out into
the street, Teddy flattened his nose against the window. He was doing
his best to make himself inconspicuous; neither Jane nor his father had
yet noticed that he was wearing his Eton suit on a week-day. That his
father hadn’t noticed was not surprising. For Jane’s blindness there was
a reason.
Jane’s method of clearing the table would have told him that last night
had been her night out. She would be like this all day. Dustpans would
fall on the landings. Brooms would slide bumpity-bump down the stairs.
The front-door bell would ring maddeningly, till an exasperated voice
called not too loudly, “Jane, Jane. Are you deaf? Aren’t you ever
going?” It was so that Vashti might not be kept waiting that Teddy was
pressing his nose against the window.
This was to be his great day, when matters were to be brought to a
crisis. In his secret heart he was wondering what marriage would be
like. He was convinced he would enjoy it. Who wouldn’t enjoy living
forever and forever alone with Vashti? Of course, at first he would miss
his mother and father--he would miss them dreadfully; but then he could
invite them to stay with him quite often. He was amused to remember that
he was the only person in the world who knew that this was to be his
wedding day. Even Vashti didn’t know it. He was saving the news to
surprise her.
At each new outburst of noise his thoughts kept turning back to
speculations as to what might have caused this terrific upsetting of
Jane. She herself would tell him presently; she always did, and he would
do his best to look politely sympathetic. Perhaps her middle-aged suitor
from the country had pounced on her while out walking with her new young
man. He might have struck him--might have killed him. Love brought her
nothing but tragedy. It seemed silly of her to continue her adventures
in loving.
Crash! He spun round. The tray had slipped from Jane’s hands. In a mood
of penitence she stood gaping at the wreckage. His father lowered his
paper and gazed at her with an air of complete self-mastery. He was
always angriest when he appeared most quiet “Go on,” he encouraged.
“Stamp on them. Don’t leave anything. You can do better than that.”
“If I don’t give satisfackshun----” Jane lifted her apron and dabbed at
her eyes. “If I don’t give satisfackshun-----”
Teddy heard his father strike a match and settle back into his chair. In
the quiet that followed, Teddy’s thoughts returned to the channels out
of which they had been diverted.
Funny! Love was the happiest thing in the world, and yet--yet it hadn’t
made the people whom he knew happy.
Harriet was in love; and Hal with Vashti; and Vashti----
He remembered another sequence of people who hadn’t been made happy by
love. Mrs. Sheerug hadn’t, even though she was the daughter of a Lord
Mayor of London and had run away with Alonzo to get him. Mr. Hughes
hadn’t, for his Henrietta had gone up in a swing-boat and had failed
to come down. Most distinctly Jane hadn’t. And his mother and his
father--concerning them his memories contradicted one another. Was
Dearie afraid of the ladies who came to have their portraits painted?
Why should she be, when Jimmie Boy was already her husband?
He shifted his nose to a new place on the window; the old place was
getting wet.
And then there was Mr. Yaffon. Mr. Yaffon lived next door and seemed to
sum up the entire problem in a nutshell.
His neighbors accounted for his oddities by saying that long ago he had
had an unfortunate heart affair.
He had a squeaky voice, was thin as a beanpole and very shabby. His legs
caved in at the knees and his shoulders looked crushed, as if a heavy
weight was perpetually pressing on his head. He didn’t go to business
or paint pictures like other people. In winter he locked himself in a
backroom and studied something called philosophy; the summers he spent
in his garden, planting things and then digging them up. He was rarely
seen in the street; when he did go out his chief object seemed to be to
avoid attracting attention. By instinct he chose the side which was in
shadow. Hugging the wall, he would creep along the pavement, wearily
searching for something. At an interval of a dozen paces a fox terrier
of immense age followed. Teddy had discovered the dog’s name by accident
He had stopped to stroke it, saying, “He’s nearly blind, poor old
fellow.” Mr. Yaffon had corrected him with squeaky severity: “Alice is
not a fellow; she’s a lady-dog.” That was the only conversation he and
Mr. Yaffon had ever held. Since then, without knowing why, he had taken
it for granted that the adored one of the unfortunate heart affair had
been named Alice. He accounted for their separation by supposing that
Mr. Yaffon’s voice had done it. The reason for this supposition was the
green parrot.
The green parrot was a reprobate-looking bird with broken tail-feathers
and white eyelids which, when closed, gave him a sanctimonious
expression. When open, they revealed Satanic black eyes which darted
evilly in every direction. During the winter he disappeared entirely;
but with the first day of spring he was brought out into the garden and
lived there for the best part of the summer. From the bedroom windows
Teddy could watch him rattling his chain and jigging up and down on
his perch. He would make noises like a cork coming out of a bottle and
follow them up with a fizzing sound; then he would lower his white lids
in a pious manner and say, deep down in his throat, “Let us pray.” He
seemed to be trying to create the impression that, whatever his master
was now, there had been a time when he had been something of a hypocrite
and a good deal of a devil.
But the parrot’s great moment came when his master pottered
inoffensively up the path towards him. The bird would wait until he got
opposite; then he would scream in a squeaky voice, an exact imitation of
Mr. Yaffon’s, “But I love you. I love you.” The old gentleman would grow
red and shuffle into the house, leaving the bird turning somersaults on
his perch and flapping his wings in paroxysms of laughter.
That was why, whatever calamity had occurred, Teddy supposed that Mr.
Yaffon’s voice had done it Try as he would, whichever way he turned, he
could find no proof that love made people happy. That didn’t persuade
him that love couldn’t. It only meant that grown people were stupid. In
his experience they often were.
The bell of the front door rang. It rang a second time.
“Who is it?” asked his father.
Teddy turned; his face was glowing with excitement. “It’s Vashti.”