Harold Page 5

  She turned away laughing now, saying, ‘Good Lord! Him in the choir. God help ’em!’

  ‘He’s got a lovely little voice.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, Mrs Leviston, ma’am, but it’s what ’e says with it or sings with it.’

  ‘Oh, Janet.’

  ‘You can say it like that, ma’am, but you’ll never make an angel out of him.’

  ‘I don’t want to make an angel out of him; anything but; I like him as he is.’

  She laughed again. ‘As I said to Hilda last night when she was on about her Indian Chief, there’s no accountin’ for tastes.’

  When I left the kitchen Sandy followed me into the study and I picked him up and when he nestled his head into my neck I walked the floor with him, rocking him gently as I would have a child. He liked this, and as I walked I talked to him: ‘Funny about Janet’s attitude to Harold, isn’t it? She’s expecting the worst. But then, so do they all. They see him as a rip, a living terror. Why is it that I see him as a little boy who needs love and gives it? I wonder what the headmaster really wants to talk about?’ I looked at the clock. It was just turned twelve. They’d be at lunch now, and anyway Janet would have mine ready in a very short time.

  I stopped my prancing and dropped Sandy to the floor, which he didn’t take to very well, so he went and curled himself up in the corner of the couch. Then I sat down at my typewriter, telling myself that I must get down to work, back into the routine I had got out of recently, for if I didn’t keep on with this present book I’d lose the theme.

  My good intentions lasted for only twenty minutes; then Janet called me to lunch, after which I got dressed for outdoors again, not in my fur coat and hat this time, but more soberly and ordinarily as befitted the mother of a little boy …

  Mr Binn seemed pleased to see me. ‘Do take a seat, Mrs Leviston,’ he said.

  But he himself did not take the seat behind his desk; instead, he sat perched casually on the edge of it, seemingly to create an atmosphere that was light and easy. Yet he was reluctant to begin the conversation, so I said, ‘Is it about Harold going into the choir you wish to see me?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, Mrs Leviston.’ His words came out on a kind of stuttering laugh. ‘Quite the reverse I would say.’

  I suddenly became cold inside. Oh, dear God, don’t let them tell me that Harold has been coming out with language again! He had promised me.

  ‘Oh, don’t look so concerned; it’s not all that serious, it’s just something that … well, we’ll have to nip in the bud, so to speak.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t what he does, as I think you might know, it’s what he says.’

  ‘Swearing?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say swearing. But you know … well, I don’t need to tell you he’s a bright little boy, in fact his teacher says he’s amazing for his age, and he’s got an imagination. Moreover he’s a bit of a comic actor, besides being something of a rhymester. And this is the point in question at the moment, so if you could help us to curb his leanings in this direction things would go along more smoothly. You understand?’

  ‘Offensive rhymes?’

  ‘Well’—again a shaky laugh—‘not exactly offensive, more crude I would say. You know what children are.’

  No, I didn’t; I only knew what Harold was, and I’d heard some of his rhymes.

  ‘You know how children get hold of a name. Look at mine for instance, Binn; my nickname’s’—he leant towards me—‘Dusty, or Three-two-one. You know, the television game.’

  Yes, yes, I knew the television game. But I waited, wanting to say, ‘Get on with it.’

  Mr Binn got on with it. ‘A lot of children do this, you know, but Harold has become quite an expert at it. Candidly I was going to speak to you some time ago but I thought it would fade away, children have phases, you know, but then two things have happened this week. A little girl, she’s a spoilt little thing I must admit, but she went home crying because the boys were chanting after her: it was a combined chorus of three or four of them, and our composer had gone to the trouble of printing it out so that his confederates could learn the words by heart.’ He now reached back onto the desk and passed me a piece of paper, saying, ‘There’s more to come, I’m afraid.’ The smile was still on his face.

  I looked at the writing on the paper. Yes, this certainly was Harold’s hand, and I read: ‘Millie Stott has two bots that she sits on a lot, so she gets spots on her bot, Millie Stott, silly clot.’

  What could I say? It was so silly, so childish. There was only one thing I was thankful for: he had used bot instead of bum or, even worse still, arse. I looked at the headmaster and when he said, ‘Silly, isn’t it?’ I nodded. Then his tone altering, he said, ‘Yes, it’s silly to us but to a little girl being followed by three or four boys chanting that in the street, you can understand she would arrive home crying. It resulted, of course, in a visit from her mother; but I’m afraid that is not all.’

  I bit my lip, and when for the moment he didn’t continue to speak I felt like actually shouting, ‘Well, let’s have it!’

  ‘You have met Miss Scottie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you straight away, she is quite fond of Harold, but she has to chastise him very often. One of Miss Scottie’s main endeavours is to instil good manners into her pupils, so every morning she insists that they stand up and greet her with “Good morning, Miss Scottie.” And yesterday morning she was a little late going to her class and as she approached it she heard chanting, and there was the bold Harold conducting a chant which went: “Good morning, Miss Scottie. If you hit us again with the ruler you’ll end up in the cooler”.’

  He laughed outright now, saying again, ‘Sounds so silly, doesn’t it? But as you can imagine it’s very difficult to keep discipline against an opponent like Master Harold. From what I understand about the matter, she had tapped his hand with his ruler some time before when she found him eating chewing gum.

  I drew in a deep breath. Chewing gum. I’d forbidden him to buy chewing gum after I’d found it stuck on the corner of his dressing table and then between the leaves of a book.

  But Mr Binn now came off the edge of the desk and faced me. ‘There is something slightly more serious, innocent in a way, yet with repercussions that I am afraid could bring many parents about my ears, especially, as you know, as this is a Church School.’

  I felt sick.

  ‘As you know I had hopes of Mr Stevens taking him into the choir, and yesterday afternoon he called to see Miss Dixon. She was taking the singing class. Harold was present. As Mr Stevens wished to discuss something with Miss Dixon they walked into the corridor. I happened to come along at that moment and the three of us stood talking until we heard giggles, then smothered laughter coming from the music room. I myself glanced through the window and saw a small figure doing what I suppose would be called a turn for the rest of the class.’ He paused here. ‘I can still smile at his impression of Mr Frankie Vaughan doing his act. The small figure was leaning back, his legs kicking out, he was waving an imaginary straw hat and he was singing—’ He stopped.

  My voice was harsh now as I said, ‘I’m waiting for the worst; you’d better finish.’

  ‘Well’—he paused—‘you know his signature tune, “Give me the moonlight, give me the girl, and leave the rest to me”?’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘Well—’ I watched him wet his lips before he said, ‘add to those lines—’ Again he paused; then slowly he brought out the words, ‘And I’ll put a bun in your oven straight after tea.’

  If Gran and George had been here they’d have howled with laughter; if Nardy had been here he would have covered his eyes and choked; but there was only me, and I certainly didn’t laugh. I didn’t smile. I turned my head to the side and looked through a tall window to where the children were stampeding into the school yard.

  ‘You can understand my situation?’

  I lo
oked back at him and muttered, ‘Yes. What … what do you intend to do?’

  ‘Well, really, I’m going to leave that to you. The little fellow has no idea of the implication of his rhyme.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be his rhyme,’ I put in quickly; ‘it’s what he’s heard his uncles say, at least one of them who considers himself a mimic.’

  ‘Oh? I’m sorry this situation has arisen, but, you see, this is a Church School and … and we have standards. Oh, I know children say naughty things, but I’m afraid our dear little Harold is a connoisseur in that direction. Anyway, do you think you can help him curb his exuberance?’

  ‘I’ll try. I have, so far, succeeded in stopping him swearing. At least I think I have.’

  ‘Well that’s good; so we’ll leave the matter in abeyance for a time, shall we?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He opened the door for me, saying kindly now, ‘Try not to worry too much about the matter; we shall do our best at this end. We do know the circumstances of your taking him under your wing and I can assure you we will help to turn him into a good Christian individual.’

  I did not even wish him goodbye. I walked along the corridor, passing scampering children. A good Christian individual, Harold. Anyway, where was he?

  I was in the school yard now, and for a moment I felt like Janet: when I got hold of him I’d box his ears right and left … No, I wouldn’t; that had never done any good … There he was, near the gate talking to two boys of his own age.

  ‘Harold!’

  He turned round towards me, ‘Oh. Hello. I didn’t know you were ’ere. Why’d yer come? I can go ’ome on me own … This is me muvver.’ The last statement was made to his two companions, and under other circumstances I would have felt a surge of pride for he usually had difficulty in calling me mother, except when it was preceded by Mrs Nardy.

  ‘He’s Robbie Tennant and ’im’s John Rankin.’ He was stabbing his finger towards each boy now. ‘They’re me friends.’

  The boys stared at me; one sniffed, the other said, ‘’Allo, missis,’ which made me realise just how quickly Harold’s speech reverted when he was among his schoolmates; and I had been congratulating myself on the way he had seemingly responded to my correcting his speech.

  ‘Come along,’ I said. Harold now grabbed my hand and walked from his friends without more ado.

  It wasn’t until we had entered the house that it dawned upon him I hadn’t spoken all the way from the school, and, stopping his chattering, he looked up at me, saying, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter when you get your hat and coat off and come into the study.’

  Within seconds he had followed me along the corridor and into the room. When I sat down on the couch and he went to sit beside me I pulled him upwards and made him stand in front of me. And after a moment of staring at him I said, ‘You’ve done it again, haven’t you?’

  ‘What, me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘I’ve never swored, I mean sweared … I’ve never sweared at school. I never ’ave.’

  ‘You may not have sworn but you have written silly things, and encouraged the other children to say them, and said objectionable things.’

  ‘Object … what object … able things?’

  ‘We’ll come to that part in a moment.’

  I reached out to my bag on the table, opened it, then handed him the piece of paper that the headmaster had given to me.

  ‘Who wrote that?’

  He looked at it, then looked at me and said, ‘It was only in fun.’

  ‘I see nothing funny about it. It is crude and rude. And what is more, you intended to hurt the little girl. I’m ashamed of you, going along the street bawling that out at a little girl.’

  ‘She’s not a little girl, an’ she’s daft.’ He was bristling now.

  ‘And I suppose Miss Scottie is daft too?’

  ‘No, she’s not, she’s all right.’

  ‘Then why did you make silly rhymes up about her?’

  He moved from one foot to the other, pushed out his lips, looked to the side, then said, ‘Well, she hit me on the knuckles with the ruler and it hurt.’

  ‘You must have been doing something wrong for her to do that.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was only—’ He stopped, then stood staring at me, and I moved my head twice as I ended for him, ‘Only sticking chewing gum on the lid of your desk and soiling the books with it. What did I tell you about chewing gum?’

  ‘I never bought it.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Harold, else I’ll become angry with you.’

  ‘I’m not lyin’ to yer.’ There it was again; that’s because he was angry. ‘I don’t tell lies. I don’t.’

  That had been true up till now; I’d never found him out in a lie.

  ‘I didn’t buy it. Millie Stott gave me a stick.’

  ‘Oh’—I raised my eyebrows—‘Millie Stott. That’s the little girl you don’t like, the one you made the rhyme up about, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then if you don’t like her why did you take the chewing gum from her? You shouldn’t accept gifts from people you don’t like.’

  ‘I didn’t take it, she pushed it into my pocket. And I don’t like her, she’s soppy. She wants to be me girlfriend.’

  ‘Your … your girl … friend?’

  He wriggled self-consciously, and even as I said, ‘I can’t understand why a sweet little girl would want you for a boyfriend,’ I knew I could understand perfectly well the attraction of this tough little individual; but up till now I had dealt with the simple things, now I had to tackle the more serious bit.

  ‘About this imitation of yours, when you were doing Frankie Vaughan.’

  ‘I can do him as good as Uncle Max.’ His face was bright.

  ‘Maybe, but you don’t sing the right words.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I do, Mrs Nardy, I do: Give me the moonlight, give me the girl and leave the rest to me … ’ He was standing still, but his body was moving with the words when I stopped him here, saying, ‘Yes, that’s what Frankie Vaughan sings, but not the next line.’

  ‘What?’ He screwed up his face. ‘And I’ll put a bun in your oven straight after tea. Not that line?’

  ‘Definitely not that line.’

  ‘He does! Frankie Vaughan does.’

  ‘He doesn’t!’ My voice was a bawl now, matching his. ‘Your Uncle Max made that line up and it’s not nice, in fact it’s very nasty.’

  He put his head on one side and looked at me as if he was sorry for me because I didn’t know what I was talking about. Then he said, quietly for him, ‘But Gag puts buns in the oven every Sunday mornin’ before she puts the meat in, and we have ’em for tea, and there’s never any left, and she goes on about it.’

  I closed my eyes for a moment against the transient innocence of the young. Then I said softly, ‘The buns that Janet … I mean your grandmother puts in the oven are not the same as those referred to in the line that your Uncle Max sings. Do you understand?’ I asked while knowing at the same time that he didn’t understand. And he shook his head before asking quietly, ‘They’re not Sunday buns?’

  ‘No, they’re not Sunday buns.’

  ‘What kind of buns then?’

  Oh, dear me! Where did I go from here? Could I say to this small boy that the bun he was singing about referred to a baby? No, I couldn’t, for his mind, being as alert as it was, would certainly go ferreting further were I to attempt to explain, so I said, ‘It’s just a word that refers to something else that isn’t nice, nasty.’

  He stared at me in perplexity for a moment. ‘Like swearin’?’ he said.

  I paused before saying, ‘Yes, yes, in a way, but more so … nasty.’

  ‘Than swearin’?’

  ‘Yes, than swearing.’

  ‘And you don’t want me to say it any more?’

  ‘I’d be happy if you didn
’t.’

  ‘But I can still do Frankie Vaughan?’

  ‘Oh yes, you may still do Frankie Vaughan.’

  He smiled now. That was that for him, the chastisement was over, and immediately he leant towards me, his finger crooked, his head poked out. His voice had changed and he said, ‘Here a minute. Here a minute; there’s more. I had a letter from me mother.’

  ‘My mother,’ I said.

  ‘Me mother,’ he said, as he went through the motion of pulling out the imaginary letter. And it was such a good imitation of Jimmy Cricket that I burst out laughing, pulled him towards me and hugged him, and he, putting his arms around my waist, hugged me in return. Then pushing him abruptly from me, I said, ‘I want you to promise me something, really promise me.’

  His face was bright, his eyes were shining, he said nothing, but waited.

  ‘I want you to promise you’ll not make up any more rhymes about the children at school or the teachers. Promise?’

  He nodded readily, saying, ‘All right, all right, I’ll promise. Stick me finger in me eye, spit and swear I hope to die.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what we say when we promise, and if we break it we’ll drop down dead.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, before you decide to drop down dead I think we had better have some tea, hadn’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’ He jumped away and made for the door. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Go into the kitchen and see.’

  We had just finished our meal when the bell rang and I stopped Harold from dashing into the hall by saying sharply, ‘Stay put!’

  When I entered the outer hall I was surprised to see Tommy stepping out of the lift.

  I greeted him with, ‘You’re early.’

  ‘I’ve been seeing an author, quite near.’ He came towards me and, bending, he kissed me on the cheek. As he was taking off his overcoat Harold appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, that would be splendid. Please.’

  ‘Okay.’ Harold disappeared, and as we walked towards the drawing room Tommy said, ‘He seems to be in good form.’