Interlude: Awakening tfs-4 Page 2

  “Ho, ho, ho! Dog my cats!” mysteriously, to bring luck. Then, stealing back, he had opened his mother’s wardrobe, and taken a long sniff which seemed to bring him nearer to—he didn’t know what.

  He had done this just before he stood in the streak of sunlight, debating in which of the several ways he should slide down the banisters. They all seemed silly, and in a sudden languor he began descending the steps one by one. During that descent he could remember his father quite distinctly—the short grey beard, the deep eyes twinkling, the furrow between them, the funny smile, the thin figure which always seemed so tall to little Jon; but his mother he couldn’t see. All that represented her was something swaying with two dark eyes looking back at him; and the scent of her wardrobe.

  Bella was in the hall, drawing aside the big curtains, and opening the front door. Little Jon said, wheedling,

  “Bella!”

  “Yes, Master Jon.”

  “Do let’s have tea under the oak tree when they come; I know they’d like it best.”

  “You mean you’d like it best.”

  Little Jon considered.

  “No, they would, to please me.”

  Bella smiled. “Very well, I’ll take it out if you’ll stay quiet here and not get into mischief before they come.”

  Little Jon sat down on the bottom step, and nodded. Bella came close, and looked him over.

  “Get up!” she said.

  Little Jon got up. She scrutinized him behind; he was not green, and his knees seemed clean.

  “All right!” she said. “My! Aren’t you brown? Give me a kiss!”

  And little Jon received a peck on his hair.

  “What jam?” he asked. “I’m so tired of waiting.”

  “Gooseberry and strawberry.”

  Num! They were his favourites!

  When she was gone he sat still for quite a minute. It was quiet in the big hall open to its East end so that he could see one of his trees, a brig sailing very slowly across the upper lawn. In the outer hall shadows were slanting from the pillars. Little Jon got up, jumped one of them, and walked round the clump of iris plants which filled the pool of grey-white marble in the centre. The flowers were pretty, but only smelled a very little. He stood in the open doorway and looked out. Suppose! – suppose they didn’t come! He had waited so long that he felt he could not bear that, and his attention slid at once from such finality to the dust motes in the bluish sunlight coming in: Thrusting his hand up, he tried to catch some. Bella ought to have dusted that piece of air! But perhaps they weren’t dust—only what sunlight was made of, and he looked to see whether the sunlight out of doors was the same. It was not. He had said he would stay quiet in the hall, but he simply couldn’t any more; and crossing the gravel of the drive he lay down on the grass beyond. Pulling six daisies he named them carefully, Sir Lamorac, Sir Tristram, Sir Lancelot, Sir Palimedes, Sir Bors, Sir Gawain, and fought them in couples till only Sir Lamorac, whom he had selected for a specially stout stalk, had his head on, and even he, after three encounters, looked worn and waggly. A beetle was moving slowly in the grass, which almost wanted cutting. Every blade was a small tree, round whose trunk the beetle had to glide. Little Jon stretched out Sir Lamorac, feet foremost, and stirred the creature up. It scuttled painfully. Little Jon laughed, lost interest, and sighed. His heart felt empty. He turned over and lay on his back. There was a scent of honey from the lime trees in flower, and in the sky the blue was beautiful, with a few white clouds which looked and perhaps tasted like lemon ice. He could hear Bob playing: “Way down upon de Suwannee ribber” on his concertina, and it made him nice and sad. He turned over again and put his ear to the ground—Indians could hear things coming ever so far—but he could hear nothing—only the concertina! And almost instantly he did hear a grinding sound, a faint toot. Yes! it was a car—coming—coming! Up he jumped. Should he wait in the porch, or rush upstairs, and as they came in, shout: “Look!” and slide slowly down the banisters, head foremost? Should he? The car turned in at the drive. It was too late! And he only waited, jumping up and down in his excitement. The car came quickly, whirred, and stopped. His father got out, exactly like life. He bent down and little Jon bobbed up—they bumped. His father said,

  “Bless us! Well, old man, you are brown!” Just as he would; and the sense of expectation—of something wanted—bubbled unextinguished in little Jon. Then, with a long, shy look he saw his mother, in a blue dress, with a blue motor scarf over her cap and hair, smiling. He jumped as high as ever he could, twined his legs behind her back, and hugged. He heard her gasp, and felt her hugging back. His eyes, very dark blue just then, looked into hers, very dark brown, till her lips closed on his eyebrow, and, squeezing with all his might, he heard her creak and laugh, and say:

  “You are strong, Jon!”

  He slid down at that, and rushed into the hall, dragging her by the hand.

  While he was eating his jam beneath the oak tree, he noticed things about his mother that he had never seemed to see before, her cheeks for instance were creamy, there were silver threads in her dark goldy hair, her throat had no knob in it like Bella’s, and she went in and out softly. He noticed, too, some little lines running away from the corners of her eyes, and a nice darkness under them. She was ever so beautiful, more beautiful than “Da” or Mademoiselle, or “Auntie” June or even “Auntie” Holly, to whom he had taken a fancy; even more beautiful than Bella, who had pink cheeks and came out too suddenly in places. This new beautifulness of his mother had a kind of particular importance, and he ate less than he had expected to.

  When tea was over his father wanted him to walk round the gardens. He had a long conversation with his father about things in general, avoiding his private life—Sir Lamorac, the Austrians, and the emptiness he had felt these last three days, now so suddenly filled up. His father told him of a place called Glensofantrim, where he and his mother had been; and of the little people who came out of the ground there when it was very quiet. Little Jon came to a halt, with his heels apart.

  “Do you really believe they do, Daddy?”

  “No, Jon, but I thought you might.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re younger than I; and they’re fairies.”

  Little Jon squared the dimple in his chin.

  “I don’t believe in fairies. I never see any.”

  “Ha!” said his father.

  “Does Mum?”

  His father smiled his funny smile.

  “No; she only sees Pan.”

  “What’s Pan?”

  “The Goaty God who skips about in wild and beautiful places.”

  “Was he in Glensofantrim?”

  “Mum said so.”

  Little Jon took his heels up, and led on.

  “Did you see him?”

  “No; I only saw Venus Anadyomene.”

  Little Jon reflected; Venus was in his book about the Greeks and Trojans. Then Anna was her Christian and Dyomene her surname?

  But it appeared, on inquiry, that it was one word, which meant rising from the foam.

  “Did she rise from the foam in Glensofantrim?”

  “Yes; every day.”

  “What is she like, Daddy?”

  “Like Mum.”

  “Oh! Then she must be…” but he stopped at that, rushed at a wall, scrambled up, and promptly scrambled down again. The discovery that his mother was beautiful was one which he felt must absolutely be kept to himself. His father’s cigar, however, took so long to smoke, that at last he was compelled to say:

  “I want to see what Mum’s brought home. Do you mind, Daddy?”

  He pitched the motive low, to absolve him from unmanliness, and was a little disconcerted when his father looked at him right through, heaved an important sigh, and answered:

  “All right, old man, you go and love her.”

  He went, with a pretence of slowness, and then rushed, to make up. He entered her bedroom from his own, the door being open. She was still kneeling before
a trunk, and he stood close to her, quite still.

  She knelt up straight, and said:

  “Well, Jon?”

  “I thought I’d just come and see.”

  Having given and received another hug, he mounted the window-seat, and tucking his legs up under him watched her unpack. He derived a pleasure from the operation such as he had not yet known, partly because she was taking out things which looked suspicious, and partly because he liked to look at her. She moved differently from anybody else, especially from Bella; she was certainly the refinedest-looking person he had ever seen. She finished the trunk at last, and knelt down in front of him.

  “Have you missed us, Jon?”

  Little Jon nodded, and having thus admitted his feelings, continued to nod.

  “But you had ‘Auntie’ June?”

  “Oh! she had a man with a cough.”

  His mother’s face changed, and looked almost angry. He added hastily:

  “He was a poor man, Mum; he coughed awfully; I—I liked him.”

  His mother put her hands behind his waist.

  “You like everybody, Jon?”

  Little Jon considered.

  “Up to a point,” he said: “Auntie June took me to church one Sunday.”

  “To church? Oh!”

  “She wanted to see how it would affect me.”

  “And did it?”

  “Yes. I came over all funny, so she took me home again very quick. I wasn’t sick after all. I went to bed and had hot brandy and water, and read The Boys of Beechwood. It was scrumptious.”

  His mother bit her lip.

  “When was that?”

  “Oh! about—a long time ago—I wanted her to take me again, but she wouldn’t. You and Daddy never go to church, do you?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  His mother smiled.

  “Well, dear, we both of us went when we were little. Perhaps we went when we were too little.”

  “I see,” said little Jon, “it’s dangerous.”

  “You shall judge for yourself about all those things as you grow up.”

  Little Jon replied in a calculating manner:

  “I don’t want to grow up, much. I don’t want to go to school.” A sudden overwhelming desire to say something more, to say what he really felt, turned him red. “I—I want to stay with you, and be your lover, Mum.”

  Then with an instinct to improve the situation, he added quickly “I don’t want to go to bed to-night, either. I’m simply tired of going to bed, every night.”

  “Have you had any more nightmares?”

  “Only about one. May I leave the door open into your room to-night, Mum?”

  “Yes, just a little.” Little Jon heaved a sigh of satisfaction.

  “What did you see in Glensofantrim?”

  “Nothing but beauty, darling.”

  “What exactly is beauty?”

  “What exactly is—Oh! Jon, that’s a poser.”

  “Can I see it, for instance?” His mother got up, and sat beside him. “You do, every day. The sky is beautiful, the stars, and moonlit nights, and then the birds, the flowers, the trees—they’re all beautiful. Look out of the window—there’s beauty for you, Jon.”

  “Oh! yes, that’s the view. Is that all?”

  “All? no. The sea is wonderfully beautiful, and the waves, with their foam flying back.”

  “Did you rise from it every day, Mum?”

  His mother smiled. “Well, we bathed.”

  Little Jon suddenly reached out and caught her neck in his hands.

  “I know,” he said mysteriously, “you’re it, really, and all the rest is make-believe.”

  She sighed, laughed, said: “Oh! Jon!”

  Little Jon said critically:

  “Do you think Bella beautiful, for instance? I hardly do.”

  “Bella is young; that’s something.”

  “But you look younger, Mum. If you bump against Bella she hurts.”

  “I don’t believe ‘Da’ was beautiful, when I come to think of it; and Mademoiselle’s almost ugly.”

  “Mademoiselle has a very nice face.”

  “Oh! yes; nice. I love your little rays, Mum.”

  “Rays?”

  Little Jon put his finger to the outer corner of her eye.

  “Oh! Those? But they’re a sign of age.”

  “They come when you smile.”

  “But they usen’t to.”

  “Oh! well, I like them. Do you love me, Mum?”

  “I do—I do love you, darling.”

  “Ever so?”

  “Ever so!”

  “More than I thought you did?”

  “Much—much more.”

  “Well, so do I; so that makes it even.”

  Conscious that he had never in his life so given himself away, he felt a sudden reaction to the manliness of Sir Lamorac, Dick Needham, Huck Finn, and other heroes.

  “Shall I show you a thing or two?” he said; and slipping out of her arms, he stood on his head. Then, fired by her obvious admiration, he mounted the bed, and threw himself head foremost from his feet on to his back, without touching anything with his hands. He did this several times.

  That evening, having inspected what they had brought, he stayed up to dinner, sitting between them at the little round table they used when they were alone. He was extremely excited. His mother wore a French-grey dress, with creamy lace made out of little scriggly roses, round her neck, which was browner than the lace. He kept looking at her, till at last his father’s funny smile made him suddenly attentive to his slice of pineapple. It was later than he had ever stayed up, when he went to bed. His mother went up with him, and he undressed very slowly so as to keep her there. When at last he had nothing on but his pyjamas, he said:

  “Promise you won’t go while I say my prayers!”

  “I promise.”

  Kneeling down and plunging his face into the bed, little Jon hurried up, under his breath, opening one eye now and then, to see her standing perfectly still with a smile on her face. “Our Father”—so went his last prayer, “which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Mum, thy Kingdom Mum—on Earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily Mum and forgive us our trespasses on earth as it is in heaven and trespass against us, for thine is the evil the power and the glory for ever and ever. Amum! Look out!” He sprang, and for a long minute remained in her arms. Once in bed, he continued to hold her hand.

  “You won’t shut the door any more than that, will you? Are you going to be long, Mum?”

  “I must go down and play to Daddy.”

  “Oh! well, I shall hear you.”

  “I hope not; you must go to sleep.”

  “I can sleep any night.”

  “Well, this is just a night like any other.”

  “Oh! no—it’s extra special.”

  “On extra special nights one always sleeps soundest.”

  “But if I go to sleep, Mum, I shan’t hear you come up.”

  “Well, when I do, I’ll come in and give you a kiss, then if you’re awake you’ll know, and if you’re not you’ll still know you’ve had one.”

  Little Jon sighed, “All right!” he said: “I suppose I must put up with that. Mum?”

  “Yes?”

  “What was her name that Daddy believes in? Venus Anna Diomedes?”

  “Oh! my angel! Anadyomene.”

  “Yes! but I like my name for you much better.”

  “What is yours, Jon?”

  Little Jon answered shyly:

  “Guinevere! it’s out of the Round Table—I’ve only just thought of it, only of course her hair was down.”

  His mother’s eyes, looking past him, seemed to float.

  “You won’t forget to come, Mum?”

  “Not if you’ll go to sleep.”

  “That’s a bargain, then.” And little Jon screwed up his eyes.

  He felt her lips on his forehead, heard her footsteps; opened his e
yes to see her gliding through the doorway, and, sighing, screwed them up again.

  Then Time began.

  For some ten minutes of it he tried loyally to sleep, counting a great number of thistles in a row, “Da’s” old recipe for bringing slumber. He seemed to have been hours counting. It must, he thought, be nearly time for her to come up now. He threw the bedclothes back. “I’m hot!” he said, and his voice sounded funny in the darkness, like someone else’s. Why didn’t she come? He sat up. He must look! He got out of bed, went to the window and pulled the curtain a slice aside. It wasn’t dark, but he couldn’t tell whether because of daylight or the moon, which was very big. It had a funny, wicked face, as if laughing at him, and he did not want to look at it. Then, remembering that his mother had said moonlit nights were beautiful, he continued to stare out in a general way. The trees threw thick shadows, the lawn looked like spilt milk, and a long, long way he could see; oh! very far; right over the world, and it all looked different and swimmy. There was a lovely smell, too, in his open window.

  ‘I wish I had a dove like Noah!’ he thought.

  “The moony moon was round and bright, It shone and shone and made it light.”

  After that rhyme, which came into his head all at once, he became conscious of music, very soft-lovely! Mum playing! He bethought himself of a macaroon he had, laid up in his chest of drawers, and, getting it, came back to the window. He leaned out, now munching, now holding his jaws to hear the music better. “Da” used to say that angels played on harps in heaven; but it wasn’t half so lovely as Mum playing in the moony night, with him eating a macaroon. A cockchafer buzzed by, a moth flew in his face, the music stopped, and little Jon drew his head in. She must be coming! He didn’t want to be found awake. He got back into bed and pulled the clothes nearly over his head; but he had left a streak of moonlight coming in. It fell across the floor, near the foot of the bed, and he watched it moving ever so slowly towards him, as if it were alive. The music began again, but he could only just hear it now; sleepy music, pretty—sleepy—music—sleepy—slee….