Paul Kelver. Jerome Klapka Jerome

mother only shook her head and closed the door with a bang; and then the explanation of the pantomime came to me, for with such “business” – comic, shall I call it, or tragic? – I was becoming familiar; and, my mother’s hand upon my shoulder, we entered my father’s office.

      Whether from the fact that so often of an evening – our drawing-room being reserved always as a show-room in case of chance visitors; Cowper’s poems, open face-downwards on the wobbly loo table; the half-finished crochet work, suggestive of elegant leisure, thrown carelessly over the arm of the smaller easy-chair – this office would become our sitting-room, its books and papers, as things of no account, being huddled out of sight; or whether from the readiness with which my father would come out of it at all times to play at something else – at cricket in the back garden on dry days or ninepins in the passage on wet, charging back into it again whenever a knock sounded at the front door, I cannot say. But I know that as a child it never occurred to me to regard my father’s profession as a serious affair. To me he was merely playing there, surrounded by big books and bundles of documents, labelled profusely but consisting only of blank papers; by japanned tin boxes, lettered imposingly, but for the most part empty. “Sutton Hampden, Esq.,” I remember was practically my mother’s work-box. The “Drayton Estates” yielded apparently nothing but apples, a fruit of which my father was fond; while “Mortgages” it was not until later in life I discovered had no connection with poems in manuscript, some in course of correction, others completed.

      Now, as the door opened, he rose and came towards us. His hair stood up from his head, for it was a habit of his to rumple it as he talked; and this added to his evident efforts to compose his face into an expression of businesslike gravity, added emphasis, if such were needed, to the suggestion of the over long schoolboy making believe.

      “This is the youngster,” said my father, taking me from my mother, and passing me on. “Tall for his age, isn’t he?”

      With a twist of his thick lips, he rolled the evil-smelling cigar he was smoking from the left corner of his mouth to the right; and held out a fat and not too clean hand, which, as it closed round mine, brought to my mind the picture of the walrus in my natural history book; with the other he flapped me kindly on the head.

      “Like ‘is mother, wonderfully like ‘is mother, ain’t ‘e?” he observed, still holding my hand. “And that,” he added with a wink of one of his small eyes towards my father, “is about the ‘ighest compliment I can pay ‘im, eh?”

      His eyes were remarkably small, but marvellously bright and piercing; so much so that when he turned them again upon me I tried to think quickly of something nice about him, feeling sure that he could see right into me.

      “And where are you thinkin’ of sendin’ ‘im?” he continued; “Eton or ‘Arrow?”

      “We haven’t quite made up our minds as yet,” replied my father; “at present we are educating him at home.”

      “You take my tip,” said the fat man, “and learn all you can. Look at me! If I’d ‘ad the opportunity of being a schollard I wouldn’t be here offering your father an extravagant price for doin’ my work; I’d be able to do it myself.”

      “You seem to have got on very well without it,” laughed my father; and in truth his air of prosperity might have justified greater self-complacency. Rings sparkled on his blunt fingers, and upon the swelling billows of his waistcoat rose and sank a massive gold cable.

      “I’d ‘ave done better with it,” he grunted.

      “But you look very clever,” I said; and though divining with a child’s cuteness that it was desired I should make a favourable impression upon him, I hoped this would please him, the words were yet spontaneous.

      He laughed heartily, his whole body shaking like some huge jelly.

      “Well, old Noel Hasluck’s not exactly a fool,” he assented, “but I’d like myself better if I could talk about something else than business, and didn’t drop my aitches. And so would my little gell.”

      “You have a daughter?” asked my mother, with whom a child, as a bond of sympathy with the stranger took the place assigned by most women to disrespectful cooks and incompetent housemaids.

      “I won’t tell you about ‘er. But I’ll just bring ‘er to see you now and then, ma’am, if you don’t mind,” answered Mr. Hasluck. “She don’t often meet gentle-folks, an’ it’ll do ‘er good.”

      My mother glanced across at my father, but the man, intercepting her question, replied to it himself.

      “You needn’t be afraid, ma’am, that she’s anything like me,” he assured her quite good-temperedly; “nobody ever believes she’s my daughter, except me and the old woman. She’s a little lady, she is. Freak o’ nature, I call it.”

      “We shall be delighted,” explained my mother.

      “Well, you will when you see ‘er,” replied Mr. Hasluck, quite contentedly.

      He pushed half-a-crown into my hand, overriding my parents’ susceptibilities with the easy good-temper of a man accustomed to have his way in all things.

      “No squanderin’ it on the ‘eathen,” was his parting injunction as I left the room; “you spend that on a Christian tradesman.”

      It was the first money I ever remember having to spend, that half-crown of old Hasluck’s; suggestions of the delights to be derived from a new pair of gloves for Sunday, from a Latin grammar, which would then be all my own, and so on, having hitherto displaced all less exalted visions concerning the disposal of chance coins coming into my small hands. But on this occasion I was left free to decide for myself.

      The anxiety it gave me! the long tossing hours in bed! the tramping of the bewildering streets! Even advice when asked for was denied me.

      “You must learn to think for yourself,” said my father, who spoke eloquently on the necessity of early acquiring sound judgment and what he called “commercial aptitude.”

      “No, dear,” said my mother, “Mr. Hasluck wanted you to spend it as you like. If I told you, that would be spending it as I liked. Your father and I want to see what you will do with it.”

      The good little boys in the books bought presents or gave away to people in distress. For this I hated them with the malignity the lower nature ever feels towards the higher. I consulted my aunt Fan.

      “If somebody gave you half-a-crown,” I put it to her, “what would you buy with it?”

      “Side-combs,” said my aunt; she was always losing or breaking her side-combs.

      “But I mean if you were me,” I explained.

      “Drat the child!” said my aunt; “how do I know what he wants if he don’t know himself? Idiot!”

      The shop windows into which I stared, my nose glued to the pane! The things I asked the price of! The things I made up my mind to buy and then decided that I wouldn’t buy! Even my patient mother began to show signs of irritation. It was rapidly assuming the dimensions of a family curse, was old Hasluck’s half-crown.

      Then one day I made up my mind, and so ended the trouble. In the window of a small plumber’s shop in a back street near, stood on view among brass taps, rolls of lead piping and cistern requisites, various squares of coloured glass, the sort of thing chiefly used, I believe, for lavatory doors and staircase windows. Some had stars in the centre, and others, more elaborate, were enriched with designs, severe but inoffensive. I purchased a dozen of these, the plumber, an affable man who appeared glad to see me, throwing in two extra out of sheer generosity.

      Why I bought them I did not know at the time, and I do not know now. My mother cried when she saw them. My father could get no further than: “But what are you going to do with them?” to which I was unable to reply. My aunt, alone, attempted comfort.

      “If a person fancies coloured glass,” said my aunt, “then he’s a fool not to buy coloured glass when he gets the chance. We haven’t all the same tastes.”

      In the