Little Nelson Page 4

The daily woman now seemed to represent a greater threat even than that of her own brother. Might she not, for instance, enter the bedroom, if only to put something away or collect that week’s linen for the laundry? It meant, Hilda realized, that never again could she herself afford to go out while this other person, this prowler, was there within the house; and, even when at home, it meant that she herself would have to be confined to her own bedroom, virtually imprisoned there. The more she thought about it, the more she saw that long, dark avenue before her growing longer and darker every day.

  She decided, therefore, to do something about it. Never one to postpone things, she went straight down to the kitchen and braced herself ready for the confrontation.

  ‘Mrs Mewkes,’ she said, using her Brown Owl voice again, ‘I’ve been thinking. I believe we’ve been loading too much on to you. I do really. Asking you to do too much, you know.’

  ‘Asking me to do what?’ Mrs Mewkes demanded, defensively.

  ‘Too many things about the house,’ Hilda told her. ‘Like my own bedroom. They all add up. They do not give you a single moment to yourself.’

  It was not true. At Hilda’s expense, she outrageously indulged herself every day.

  ‘So in future I shall do my room myself,’ Hilda continued brightly. ‘You need not bother about it any more.’

  Mrs Mewkes made no effort to thank Hilda for her kindness, her consideration. Indeed, she did not appear even to have heard. Instead, she was looking at the pile of fresh white crusts that Hilda had just cut off Little Nelson’s bread-and-butter fingers. In all the years in which Mrs Mewkes had worked at the Vicarage she had never known crusts to be cut off in this way. Something, she told herself, was going on; probably in Miss Hilda’s room at that.

  Little Nelson himself could not have been more careful or more thoughtful. Even though his ordeal, his exile in the outside world was now over, he remained tense and timid. At the sound of a footstep on the landing, whether it was Cyril’s or Mrs Mewkes’s, he would immediately hide behind the bed or squirm his way into the wardrobe.

  The wardrobe was massive and old-fashioned. A bank of drawers ran down one side and, on the other, stood the hanging space for dresses. Little Nelson had watched, marvelling, as Hilda had been putting away her housecoat and had darted in before she could stop him. It was the far comer that he had made for, below the shoe rack and the oddments rail. And once there, he had refused to come out.

  It fitted him so perfectly that Hilda was content, at least for the time being, to let him have it for his own. She even made a point of leaving the wardrobe door ajar so that he could return to it whenever he wanted to be alone. And it moved her strangely to find that he must have rifled one of the side-drawers. Taking out a face towel, he had folded it neatly in half, as she had folded the pillow slip, to make his drawer-bed look more inviting. Little Nelson was lying down asleep on his face towel when she discovered him.

  It was all most encouraging. Bit by bit, he was beginning to relax and become more natural, climbing over the furniture, marching up and down in parade ground fashion, even sometimes rolling about on the floor like a puppy. Hilda made no attempt to restrain him.

  It was only looking out of the window that was absolutely forbidden. The last thing that she wanted was for someone, a tradesman perhaps, to glance upwards and catch a glimpse of the notorious green and scarlet. And Little Nelson seemed to understand. The most that he allowed himself when he wanted to see what was going on – and the impulse came over him at least half a dozen times a day – was to stand well to one side of the window pane, gather the long curtains around him like a toga, and peer cautiously from behind the folds. It was almost as if he were expecting something, but was not yet sure about the timing.

  It was the Albert Hall incident that served to rerouse the public. Lovers of Vaughan Williams came forward from all quarters, and the National Front joined with them in their condemnation of interference with the best of British music. Extra police were posted in SW7, and the proposal was made in the columns of the Daily Telegraph that concert tickets should in future be issued only upon production of an identity card and photograph. Nor did the authorities overlook the prevailing mood of a now anxious and apprehensive public. Legislation, accordingly, was rushed through both Houses that all gnomes should be subject, without owners’ compensation, to instant confiscation and destruction.

  It was this last ukase of the Government that made Hilda take Cyril’s radio set away from him. It was Cyril’s special joy, that radio set, and its removal did not prove to be an easy one. He pleaded. He protested. He objected violently. And when, by deceit, she managed to get hold of it, he tried to snatch it back from her. But Hilda was adamant. Also, she was stronger than her brother. Forcing him roughly down onto his bed, she promised that he could have his set back again as soon as ‘all this’ – the phrase she always used when referring to the national predicament – was over, adding that in the meantime he really must learn to control himself.

  Brutal as her conduct may have seemed, it was unavoidable. She was the only one who knew how much Little Nelson cared, how deeply such items of news always upset him.

  With Cyril’s radio booming through from the adjoining room – the voice seemed to come bursting out from every sunflower in the pattern of the wallpaper – Little Nelson heard it word by word. And, when it had come to the bit about destroying any gnomes that might still be around, he had flung himself down on the rug in her bedroom, grabbing hold of the fringes and trying to cover up his head so that he could hear no more.

  Late as it was, Hilda had been forced to go back down to the kitchen again and make some more bread-and-butter fingers, just to comfort him.

  And it was not only Little Nelson who had been upset by the harshness of that piece of legislation. There was Hilda, too. She was appalled. Looking down at Little Nelson playing so peacefully on her strip of bedroom carpet, she could not believe that other people would be so cruel, so wilfully vindictive. Indeed, as a member of the human race, she felt for a moment more like a murderess than a guardian.

  But what, she asked herself, could a helpless woman, a spinster at that, do against the whole might and power of the State? Nothing, she despairingly decided. On one point, however, she was determined. If they came to take Little Nelson, they would have to take her, too. They would die together. And, in her present emotional condition it even seemed rather beautiful to think of facing the firing squad – if that was the method the troops were currently adopting – holding Little Nelson in her arms, a shawl wrapped round his shoulders, eye patch in position beneath the blindfold, and his one good hand clenched firmly in her own.

  It was in this mood of abject misery, with her mind temporarily clouded by fantasy, that the light at last came to her. Putting reason entirely to one side she repeated over and over to herself a rather disturbing lesson learnt in childhood. It was the bit about how sickly and ailing babies could be protected against the quite shocking consequences of being allowed to die un-christened.

  To think of Little Nelson utterly defenceless in the face of such a threat was too much for her. Even though she knew that Cyril did not really seem to like Little Nelson she felt sure that, as her brother, he would at least be prepared to oblige her in such a matter.

  A simple ceremony, within the confines of the Vicarage, was all that she would be asking. Any question of a small present such as a napkin ring or a silver pusher was something that she would not mention unless Cyril happened to bring it up himself.

  Cyril, however, would have none of it. He was appalled.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ he demanded. ‘Do you know what you are asking? Are you possessed, woman?’

  Hilda knew her brother only too well when he was in one of these moods. Calling her ‘woman’ was always an indication that he was striving to assert himself. Immediately she struck back. ‘Don’t start “woman-ing” me, my good man,’ she told him. ‘I’m not standing for it.’

  It was one of
their classic gambit, counter-gambit situations. And they both recognized it for the impasse that it was. Cyril saw that he would have to start again. Removing his glasses, he moved his chair nearer to her.

  ‘You are over-tired, dear,’ he told her, dropping his voice until it was scarcely more than a murmer, a loving brotherly sort of drone. ‘You must take some rest. It’s all been too much for you.’

  What he did not know – though again she had told him often enough – was that this was the tone of voice that infuriated her most. She detested it. In its way, it was worse than being reminded that she was a woman.

  ‘And it will be too much for you, too,’ she snapped back at him, ‘unless you are prepared to do something about it. I make a perfectly civil request and you start insulting me.’

  Poor Cyril. His nerves were every bit as much on edge as Hilda’s though, as a man, he could not of course afford to show it. He recognized that his duty lay in calming her, in simply keeping things going until she was in her right mind again. Accordingly, he raised his hands palms outwards to chest height as though about to pronounce a blessing, and he tried to speak.

  That gesture, however, was another thing that Hilda had never been able to stand about him.

  ‘And don’t start flapping your big silly hands at me,’ she told him. ‘That’s not going to get you anywhere. All I want to know is, will you or won’t you?’

  On the other side of the partition wall, Little Nelson was listening hard. He could not understand most of it because they were talking so fast. Even so, it was better than if they had been mumbling. More than once he heard the words ‘that creature’ coming from Cyril’s lips. He was now more than ever glad that when the opportunity had arisen, he had bitten him.

  What the Vicar might or might not be prepared to do entirely escaped him. It could not be handing him over to the Emergency Patrols because it was Hilda who was so ardently pleading for it. Perhaps, he found himself hoping, it was to get rid of Mrs Mewkes; sack her on the spot with exactly one week’s notice. But even that seemed unlikely. Clearly Hilda and her brother were talking of other matters and, of these, Little Nelson did not understand one word.

  ‘Go back and open your Prayer Book,’ the Reverend Woods-Denton was urging his sister. ‘See what it says. And then think of what you are asking me.’

  ‘What’s the Prayer Book got to do with it? Little Nelson’s in danger,’ he could hear Hilda’s voice saying. ‘The circumstances are entirely different. The Prayer Book doesn’t even mention gnomes. Not once.’

  There was a pause. Then suddenly he heard Hilda say: ‘Very well, then. If you won’t, I will. It says that in the Book. I can, you know.’

  This was followed by the sound of Cyril’s door being slammed behind her, and Little Nelson hurried back to his picture bricks just to show that he had not been listening.

  Hilda’s preparations kept Little Nelson fascinated. He watched her bring the bamboo side-table round to the end of the bed and proceed to spread out a plain white dinner napkin. Why she should have gone to the trouble entirely escaped him. He had rather liked the prettily embroidered runner that had been there before, and he was sorry to see it go. But he could tell from the expression on Hilda’s face that it would never have done for what was about to happen. And when he saw her take up a pair of candlesticks from the dressing table and set them out like two sentinels on duty, he was more impressed than ever. What really puzzled him, however, was the bowl of clean water that Hilda brought through from the bathroom. It could not, he assured himself, be anything to do with washing because, so far as he could remember, he had not done anything all day that was likely to make him the least bit dirty. Completely bewildered, he decided the only thing to do was to sit back and await developments.

  And when they came, he was more confused than ever. First, she picked him up. That was something he always enjoyed. It was very restful and comforting, and he liked to turn himself over on his side and snuggle up against the ribbed woollen cardigan that she wore.

  But today it was apparently going to be different. Instead of holding him in front of her so that he could see what was going on, she simply cradled him up as though he really were a baby. Then, to his astonishment, she dipped her finger tips into the bowl of water from the bathroom and began sprinkling him. Hilda’s bedroom was hot, even stuffy, and the drops of water on his face and forehead were like little icicles. Naturally, he protested. He began to struggle. But he was surprised to find how strong she was. Held as firmly as that, he was helpless. There was nothing for it but to let her do whatever she wanted with him. Besides, she was talking, and he was trying hard to understand what it was all about.

  ‘I name you Little Nelson,’ he heard her tell him. ‘You are one of us, no matter what happens. Nothing can ever take you away from us. That’s what I want you to remember. You’re ours now and always and for ever.’

  When at last she put him down, Little Nelson wiped his face on his sleeve and shook himself because he felt wet all over. But he could not settle down again. The whole experience had been too disturbing. And when Hilda had to leave the room for a moment, he climbed up on to the bamboo table just to get a better view of things. Once there, the bowl and the candlesticks delighted him and he decided that if sprinkling with cold water were part of the game, he might as well join in and do it too.

  Left to himself he decided to paddle about in it. He put first one foot and then the other. Next, he stood upright. The bowl was cold and shiny and he liked the feel of it. It reminded him of the smooth edge of the pool where he had been brought up. Carried away by the sheer pleasure of the sensation, he began to jump up and down. The bowl broke under him. That frightened him.

  To his great relief, however, Hilda did not seem to be even the least bit angry. She was even smiling as she mopped up the mess. Indeed, she even appeared to have forgotten all about him. Down on her knees beside him she might have been a hundred miles away. And she was deep in conversation with someone whom he couldn’t see.

  ‘It wasn’t wrong what I did, was it?’ she kept asking. ‘I only did it because I love him so much. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? There can’t be anything wrong with loving someone, I mean. And don’t let them take him away from me. I am all he’s got. He needs me. Needs me so badly. You do understand, don’t you?’

  She was still going on about it, still asking those questions when Little Nelson made his way over to the wardrobe. All in all, it had been an exhausting day and he decided that the best thing to do would be to make an early night of it. He was getting more than worried about Hilda. All that talking-to-herself stuff was a bad sign. And she seemed so jumpy nowadays, as though she must have something on her mind. Little Nelson could not make out what it was. He had, of course, known how much she must have missed him when he went off with the others. He would far rather have stayed where he was. He was very fond of Hilda and had hated leaving her. But the others had been so insistent. The tone of their whistling had become downright menacing. But he had made a special point of coming back again. So it couldn’t be that, he told himself.

  And if only she would have been prepared to let up for a single moment. All those bread-and-butter fingers, for instance: so far as he was concerned he would have been perfectly happy just to get on with his games, entirely uninterrupted by meal times, with only an occasional stroll on the landing or a trip downstairs when bed-sitter life became a bit too cramping. But really he was too tired to bother. He put his head down on his folded-up face towel. And by the time he woke up things had taken a turn for the better.

  It was the Northamptonshire Incident that changed matters. A large and isolated orphanage for handicapped children had gone on fire and was burning fiercely. The call to the local Fire Brigade, nearly eleven miles away, was in process of being answered – or, at least, the agonized Matron so hoped. Meanwhile, the flames were licking up the Victorian pine panelling and searching for their freedom through the timbers of the roof. From the dista
nce, the whole turreted mansion looked like a pumpkin lantern lit up at Hallow E’en.

  The orphanage had, of course, its own complement of fire-fighting equipment. This consisted of a wooden trolley with a two-handed pump mounted in the middle, and a row of brass buckets hanging down each side. The buckets were kept beautifully polished and the woodwork, up to the same standard of polish as the buckets, was in orphanage colours, khaki and dark brown.

  It was the hose that was the trouble; mounted on a separate trolley and with the maker’s optional spray or jet-attachment, there was simply not enough of it. It did not reach anywhere. Down at the end of the lane by the pond, where there wasn’t anything to put out, the machine could fling up glittering cascades of water into the air like a happily spouting whale. It could have extinguished a furnace. But within the confines of the orphanage all that it could do was to drench, and keep on drenching, the already sodden day nursery and the reception hall.

  In consequence the situation was alarming. Matron, nursing staff, and ward maids did what they could, but they were all elderly. The gate-keeper was over seventy, and the porter over eighty, some said over ninety. The steepness of the staircase and the heavy buckets were too much for them. The utmost that they could do was to use the service lift at the back to bring down the orphanage treasures – the founder’s terracotta bust, the gold plated key used at the opening, and an autographed letter from the Lord Lieutenant – shuddering to think what would happen if the fire reached the packed dormitories piled up three storeys high over in the west wing.

  From sheer exhaustion they retired to the front step, and collapsed there, helpless in despair.

  Then, suddenly, through the gate which led to the kitchen garden, came a mob of small, eager figures. More and more came trooping through until a score of them were standing there on the lawn of the doomed orphanage. And it was obvious that they were not there simply for the idle fun of it, the excitement. There was a strange orderliness about it all. One by one, they fell into rank and without hesitation marched into the blazing building. Snatching up the discarded fire buckets, they proceeded to pump water into them until they were one-third full.