“This book is all scribbled in,” Mary complained. She began to turn at random, reading the neat hand that had been Walter’s at twelve: “ ‘Shows foresight,’ ” she read. “ ‘Local color. More color. Building up the color. Does not wish to let women interfere with his career.’ That’s underlined, Uncle Walter,” she said, breaking off. “ ‘A deceiver. Kim’s strong will — or white blood? Generous renunciation. Sympathetic. Shows off. Sly. Easily imposed on. Devout. Persistent. Enterprising.’ ”
“That will do,” said Frank. “ ‘Shows off’ is the chief expression where you’re concerned.”
“Those notes were how Kipling was introduced to me, and I used them when I was teaching Angelo,” said Walter. “Angelo doesn’t like Kipling, either. You can keep the book, if you want it.”
“Thank you very much,” said Mary automatically. She placed the book more or less where it had been, as if she recognized that this was a bogus gesture.
“Thank you, darling Walter,” said Eve, and she picked up the book and stroked the cover, dirtying her hand. “Johnny will love it, later on.”
Walter’s first dinner invitation of the autumn season arrived by post eight days after the Osborns had gone. In the same mail were three letters, each addressed by his sister. Eve thanked him for his great kindness; he would never know what it had meant, the holiday it had been. They were in a hotel, and it was a great change from the south. In a P.S. she said they were moving to the new farm soon. The children were their great worry. She went on about schools. The postscript was longer than the body of the letter.
The other two envelopes, although addressed by Eve, contained letters from Mary and Johnny. The boy spelled difficult words correctly, simple words hopelessly, and got his own name wrong.
“Dear Uncle Walter,” he wrote. “Thank you for letting us stay at your house.” A row of dots led out to the margin, where he had added, “and for Kim.” The text of the letter went on, “It was the most exciting, and enjoyable time I have ever had. Please tell Angelo on the way back we were fined for overtaking in a village, but we got safley out of France. I hope the hamster is well and happy. Tell Angelo there are two very small kittens down in the kitchin of the hotel where we now rent two rooms. They are sweat, white, snowballs, also there is a huge golden labridore, he is very stuppid. Love from Johny.”
The girl’s letter had been written on a line guide. Her hand was firm. “Dear Uncle Walter,” she said. “Thank you for letting us sleep in your house and for everything too. We had a lovely time. Will you please tell Angelo that on the way to Paris Daddy was fined 900 francs for overtaking in a village. He was livid. On Monday I had two teeth out, one on each side. I hope the hamster is healthy. Will you please tell Angelo that our trunks have arrived with my books and he can have one as a present from me, if he will tell me which one he likes best.
Successful Show Jumping
Bridle Wise
Pink and Scarlet
The Young Rider
“These are my favorites and so I would like him to have one. Also, here is a poem I have copied out for him from a book.
FROM THE DREAM OF AN OLD MELTONIAN
by W. Bromley Davenport
Though a rough-riding world may bespatter your breeches
Though sorrow may cross you, or slander revile,
Though you plunge overhead in misfortune’s blind ditches,
Shun the gap of deception — the hand gate of guile.
“Tell Angelo we miss him, and William of Orange, and the hamster too. Thank you again for everything. Your affectionate niece, Mary.”
Walking to the kitchen with the letters in his hand, he tried to see the passionate child — dancer, he had thought — on the summer beach. But although eight days had passed, no more, he had forgotten what she was like. He tried to think of England then. Someone had told him the elms were going, because of an American disease. He knew that all this thinking and drifting was covering one displeasure, one blister on his pride: It was Mary’s letter he had been waiting for.
“These letters are intended for you,” he said, and put them in Angelo’s hands. “They were addressed to me by mistake. Or perhaps the family didn’t know your full name. I didn’t know you were interested in horses, by the way.”
Angelo sat at the kitchen table, cleaning the hamster’s cage. Mme. Rossi sat facing him. Neither of them rose. “Master-servant,” Eve had said. She ought to have seen Angelo’s casual manner now, the way he accepted his morning’s post — as though Walter were the servant. The boy’s secretive face bent over the letters. Already Angelo’s tears were falling. Walter watched, exasperated, as the ink dissolved.
“You can’t keep on crying every time I mention the children,” he said. “Look at the letters now. You won’t be able to read them.”
“He is missing the family,” Mme. Rossi said. “Even though they made more work for him. He cries the whole day.”
Of course he was missing the family. He was missing the family, the children were missing him. Walter looked at the boy’s face, which seemed as closed and vain as a cat’s. “They meant more work for you,” he said. “Did you hear that?”
“We could have kept the children,” Angelo mumbled. His lips hung open. His face was Negroid, plump. One day he would certainly be fat.
“What, brought them up?”
“Only for one week,” said Angelo, wiping his eyes.
“It seems to me you overheard rather a good deal.” Another thought came to him: It would have been a great responsibility. He felt aggrieved that Angelo did not take into consideration the responsibilities Walter already had — for instance, he was responsible for Angelo’s being in France. If Angelo were to steal a car and smash it, Walter would have to make good the loss. He was responsible for the house, which was not his, and for William of Orange, who was no better and no worse, but lay nearly paralyzed in a cardboard box, demanding much of Angelo’s attention. Now he was responsible for a hamster in a cage.
“They would have taken me on the farm,” Angelo said.
“Nonsense.” Walter remembered how Eve avoided a brawl, and he imitated her deliberately mild manner. He understood now that they had been plotting behind his back. He had raised Angelo in cotton wool, taught him Kipling and gardening and how to wash the car, fed him the best food … “My brother-in-law is Irish,” he said. “You mustn’t think his promises are real.”
The boy sat without moving, expressionless, sly. He was waiting for Walter to leave the room so that he could have the letters to himself.
“Would you like to go home, Angelo?” Walter said. “Would you like to go back and live in Italy, back with your family?” Angelo shook his head. Of course he would say no to that; for one thing, they relied on his pocket money — on the postal orders he sent them. An idea came to Walter. “We shall send for your mother,” he said. The idea was radiant now. “We shall bring your old mother here for a visit. Why not? That’s what we shall do. Bring your mother here. She can talk to you. I’m sure that is all you need.”
“Can you imagine that lazy boy on an English farm?” said Walter to Mrs. Wiggott. “That is what I said to him: ‘Have you ever worked as a farmer? Do you know what it means?’ ” He blotted imaginary tears with his sleeve to show how Angelo had listened. His face was swollen, limp.
“Stop it, Walter,” said Mrs. Wiggott. “I shall perish.”
“And so now the mother is coming,” said Walter. “That is where the situation has got to. They will all sit in the kitchen eating my food, gossiping in Calabrian. I say ‘all’ because of course she is bound to come with a covey of cousins. But I am hoping that when I have explained the situation to the old woman she can reason with Angelo and make him see the light.”