Giant’s Bread. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ them just the same! Susan would say: ‘I’ll tell your mother.’ But she never did.

      Susan had at first enjoyed the position and authority she had in Nurse’s absence. Indeed, but for Vernon, she would have continued to enjoy it. She used to exchange confidences with Katie, the under-housemaid.

      ‘Don’t know what’s come over him, I’m sure. He’s like a little demon sometimes. And him so good and well behaved with Mrs Pascal.’

      To which Kate replied:

      ‘Ah! she’s a one, she is! Takes you up sharp, doesn’t she?’ And then they would whisper and giggle.

      ‘Who’s Mrs Pascal?’ Vernon asked one day.

      ‘Well, I never, Master Vernon! Don’t you know your own Nurse’s name?’

      So Nurse was Mrs Pascal. Another shock. She had always been just Nurse. It was rather as though you had been told that God’s name was Mr Robinson.

      Mrs Pascal! Nurse! The more you thought of it, the more extraordinary it seemed. Mrs Pascal—just like Mummy was Mrs Deyre and Father was Mr Deyre. Strangely enough Vernon never cogitated on the possibility of a Mr Pascal. (Not that there was any such person. The Mrs was a tacit recognition of Nurse’s position and authority.) Nurse stood alone in the same magnificence as Mr Green, who, in spite of the hundred children (and Poodle, Squirrel and Tree), was never thought of by Vernon as having a Mrs Green attached to him!

      Vernon’s inquiring mind wandered in another direction. ‘Susan, do you like being called Susan? Wouldn’t you like being called Isabel better?’

      Susan (or Isabel) gave her customary giggle.

      ‘It doesn’t matter what I like, Master Vernon.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘People have got to do what they’re told in this world.’

      Vernon was silent. He had thought the same until a few days ago. But he was beginning to perceive that it was not true. You needn’t do as you were told. It all depended on who told you.

      It was not a question of punishment. He was continually being sat on chairs, stood in the corner, and deprived of sweets by Susan. Nurse, on the other hand, had only had to look at him severely through her spectacles with a certain expression on her face, and anything but immediate capitulation was out of the question.

      Susan had no authority in her nature, and Vernon knew it. He had discovered the thrill of successful disobedience. Also, he liked tormenting Susan. The more worried and flustered and unhappy Susan got, the more Vernon liked it. He was, as was proper to his years, still in the Stone Age. He savoured the full pleasure of cruelty.

      Susan formed the habit of letting Vernon go out to play in the garden alone. Being an unattractive girl, she had not Winnie’s reasons for liking the garden. And besides, what harm could possibly come to him?

      ‘You won’t go near the ponds, will you, Master Vernon?’

      ‘No,’ said Vernon, instantly forming the intention to do so.

      ‘You’ll play with your hoop like a good boy?’

      ‘Yes.’

      The nursery was left in peace. Susan heaved a sigh of relief. She took from a drawer a paper-covered book entitled The Duke and the Dairymaid.

      Beating his hoop, Vernon made the tour of the walled fruit garden. Escaping from his control, the hoop leapt upon a small patch of earth which was at the moment receiving the meticulous attentions of Hopkins, the head gardener. Hopkins firmly and authoritatively ordered Vernon from the spot, and Vernon went. He respected Hopkins.

      Abandoning the hoop, Vernon climbed a tree or two. That is to say, he reached a height of perhaps six feet from the ground, employing all due precautions. Tiring of this perilous sport, he sat astride a branch and cogitated as to what to do next.

      On the whole, he thought of the ponds. Susan having forbidden them, they had a distinct fascination. Yes, he would go to the ponds. He rose, and as he did so, another idea came into his head, suggested by an unusual sight.

       The door into the Forest was open!

      Such a thing had never happened before in Vernon’s experience. Again and again he had secretly tried that door. Always it was locked.

      He crept up to it cautiously. The Forest! It stood a few steps away outside the door. You could plunge straightway into its cool green depths. Vernon’s heart beat faster.

      He had always wanted to go into the Forest. Here was his chance. Once Nurse came back, any such thing would be out of the question.

      And still he hesitated. It was not any feeling of disobedience that held him back. Strictly speaking, he had never been forbidden to go in the Forest. His childish cunning was all ready with that excuse.

      No, it was something else. Fear of the unknown—of those dark leafy depths. Ancestral memories held him back …

      He wanted to go—but he didn’t want to go. There might be Things there—Things like The Beast. Things that came up behind you—that chased you screaming …

      He moved uneasily from one foot to the other.

      But Things didn’t chase you in the daytime. And Mr Green lived in the Forest. Not that Mr Green was as real as he used to be. Still, it would be rather jolly to explore and find a place where you would pretend Mr Green did live. Poodle, Squirrel, and Tree would each have houses of their own—small leafy houses.

      ‘Come on, Poodle,’ said Vernon to an invisible companion. ‘Have you got your bow and arrow? That’s right. We’ll meet Squirrel inside.’

      He stepped out jauntily. Beside him, plain to Vernon’s inner eye, went Poodle, dressed like the picture of Robinson Crusoe in his picture book.

      It was wonderful in the Forest—dim and dark and green. Birds sang and flew from branch to branch. Vernon continued to talk to his friend—a luxury he did not dare to permit himself often, since someone might overhear and say, ‘Isn’t he too funny? He’s pretending he’s got another little boy with him.’ You had to be so very careful at home.

      ‘We’ll get to the Castle by lunch time, Poodle. There are going to be roasted leopards. Oh! Hullo, here’s Squirrel. How are you, Squirrel? Where’s Tree?’

      ‘I tell you what. I think it’s rather tiring walking. I think we’ll ride.’

      Steeds were tethered to an adjacent tree. Vernon’s was milk white, Poodle’s was coal black—the colour of Squirrel’s he couldn’t quite decide.

      They galloped forward through the trees. There were deadly dangerous places, morasses. Snakes hissed at them and lions charged them. But the faithful steeds did all their riders required of them.

      How silly it was playing in the garden—or playing anywhere but here! He’d forgotten what it was like, playing with Mr Green and Poodle, Squirrel and Tree. How could you help forgetting things when people were always reminding you that you were a funny little boy playing make believe.

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