His feeling for individuals of the species which, as a species, he heart ily despised, was a strange blend of contempt and respect, detachment and affection. He despised us for our stupidity and fecklessness; he respected us for our occasional efforts to surmount our natural disabilities. Though he used us for his own ends with calm aloofness, he could also, when fate or our own folly brought us into trouble, serve us with surprising humility and devotion.
His growing capacity for personal relationships with members of the inferior species was shown most quaintly in his extraordinary friendship with a little girl of six. Judy’s home was close to John’s, and she had come to regard John as her private property. He played uproarious games with her, helped her to climb trees, and taught her to swim and roller-skate. He told her wildly imaginative stories. He patiently explained to her the sorry jokes of Comic Cuts. He drew pictures of battle and murder, shipwreck and volcanic eruption for Judy’s sole delight. He mended her toys. He chaffed her for her stupidity or praised her for her intelligence as occasion demanded. If any one was less than kind to her, John rushed to her defence. In all communal games it was taken for granted that John and Judy must be on the same side. In return for this devotion she mauled him, laughed at him, scolded him, called him “stoopid Don,” showed no respect at all for his marvellous powers, and presented him with all the most cherished results of her enterprise in the “hand-work” class at school.
I once challenged John, “Why are you so fond of Judy?” He answered promptly, imitating her unusually backward baby speech, “Doody made for be’n’ fon’ of. Can’t not be fon’ of Doody.” Then after a pause he said, “I’m fond of Judy as I’m fond of sea-birds. She does only simple things, but she does them all with style. She be’s Judy as thoroughly and perfectly as a gannet be’s a gannet. If she could grow up to do the grown—up things as well as she does the baby things, she’d be glorious. But she won’t. When it comes to doing the more difficult things, I suppose she’ll mess up her style like—like the rest of you. It’s a pity. But meanwhile she’s—Judy.”
“What about yourself?” I said. “Do you expect to grow up without losing your style?”
“I’ve not found my style yet,” he answered. “I’m groping. I’ve messed things pretty badly already. But when I do find it—well, we shall see. Of course,” he added surprisingly, “God may find grown-ups as delightful to watch as I find Judy; because, I suppose, he doesn’t want them to have a finer style than they actually have. Sometimes I can feel that way about them myself. I can feel their bad style is part of what they are, and strangely fascinating to watch. But I have an idea God expects something different from me. Or, leaving out the God myth, I expect something different from me.”
A few weeks after the murder, John developed a surprising interest in a very homely sphere, namely the management of a house. He would spend an hour at a time in following Martha the maid about the house on her morning’s work, or in watching the culinary operations. For her entertainment he kept up a stream of small talk compounded of scandal, broad humour, and chaff about her “gentlemen friends.” The same minute observation, but a very different kind of talk was devoted to Pax when she was in the pantry or the larder, or when she was “tidying” a room or mending clothes. Sometimes he would break off his tittle-tattle to say, “Why not do it this way?” Martha’s response to such suggestions varied from haughty contempt to grudging acceptance, according to her mood. Pax invariably gave serious attention to the new idea, though sometimes she would begin by protesting, “But my way works well enough; why bother?” In the end, however, she nearly always adopted John’s improvement, with an odd little smile which might equally well have meant maternal pride or indulgence.
Little by little John introduced a number of small labour-saving devices into the house, shifting a hook or a shelf to suit the natural reach of the adult arm, altering the balance of the coal-scuttle, reorganizing the larder and the bathroom. He tried to introduce his methods into the surgery, suggesting new ways of cleaning test-tubes, sterilizing instruments and storing drugs; but after a few attempts he gave up this line of activity, since, as he put it, “Doc likes to muddle along in his own way.”
After two or three weeks John’s interest in household economy seemed to fade, save for occasional revivals in relation to some particular problem. He now spent most of his time away from home, ostensibly reading on the shore. But as the autumn advanced, and we began to inquire how he managed to keep himself warm, he apparently developed a passion for long walks by himself. He also spent much time in excursions into the neighbouring city. “I’m going to town for the day to see some fellows I’m interested in,” he would tell us; and in the evening he would return tired and absorbed.
It was toward the end of the winter that John, now about ten and a half, took me into his confidence with regard to the amazing commercial operations which had been occupying him during the previous six months. One filthy Sunday morning, when the windows were plastered with sleet, he suggested a walk. I indignantly refused. “Come on,” he insisted. “It’s going to be amusing for you. I want to show you my workshop.” He slowly winked first one huge eye and then the other.
By the time we had reached the shore my inadequate mackintosh was letting water through on my shoulders, and I was cursing John, and myself too. We tramped along the soaked sands till we reached a spot where the steep clay cliffs gave place to a slope, scarcely less steep, but covered with thorn bushes. John went down on his knees and led the way, crawling on all-fours up a track between the bushes. I was expected to follow. I found it almost impossible to force my larger bulk where John had passed with ease. When I had gone a few yards I was jammed, thorns impaling me on every side. Laughing at my predicament and my curses, John turned and cut me adrift with his knife, the same, doubtless, as had killed the constable. After another ten yards the track brought us into a small clearing on the steep slope. Standing erect at last, I grumbled, “Is this what you call your workshop?” John laughed, and said, “Lift that.” He was pointing to a rusty sheet of corrugated iron, which lay derelict on the hillside. One end of it was buried under a mass of rubbish. The exposed part was about three feet square. I tugged its free end up a couple of inches, cut my fingers on the rusty jagged edge, and let go with a curse. “Can’t be bothered,” I said. “Do your own dirty work, if you can.”
“Of course you can’t be bothered,” he replied, “nor would anyone else who found it.” He then worked his hand under the free corners of the sheet, and disentangled some rusty wire. The sheet was now easily lifted, and opened like a trap door in the hillside. It revealed a black hole between three big stones. John crawled inside, and bade me follow; but before I could wedge my way through he had to move one of the stones. I found myself in a low cave, illuminated by John’s flash-light. So this was the workshop! It had evidently been cut out of the clay slope and lined with cement. The ceiling was covered with rough planks, and shored up here and there with wooden posts.
John now lit an acetylene lamp, which was let into the outer wall. Shutting its glass face, he remarked, “Its air comes in by a pipe from outside, and its fumes go out by another. There’s an independent ventilation system for the room.” Pointing to a dozen round holes in the wall, “Drainpipes,” he said. Such pipes were a common sight on the coast, for they were used for draining the fields; and the ever-crumbling cliff often exposed them.