Unfinished Portrait

Nurse said: ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure. I didn’t know.’

‘Well, you get on out of it. Quick, now.’ As they turned to go his voice called after them: ‘I’ll boil you alive. Yes. I will. Boil you alive if you’re not out of the wood in three minutes.’

Celia stumbled forward tugging desperately at Nannie. Why wouldn’t Nannie go faster? The man would come after them. He’d catch them. They’d be boiled alive in a great pot. She felt sick with fright … She stumbled desperately on, her whole quivering little body alive with terror. He was coming—coming up behind them—they’d be boiled … She felt horribly sick. Quick—oh, quick!

They were out on the road again. A great gasping sigh burst from Celia.

‘He—he can’t get us now,’ she murmured.

Nurse looked at her, startled by the dead white of her face.

‘Why, what’s the matter, dear?’ A thought struck her. ‘Surely you weren’t frightened by what he said about boiling—that was only a joke—you knew that.’

And obedient to the spirit of acquiescent falsehood that every child possesses, Celia murmured:

‘Oh, of course, Nannie. I knew it was a joke.’

But it was a long time before she got over the terror of that moment. All her life she never quite forgot it.

The terror had been so horribly real.

On her fourth birthday Celia was given a canary. He was given the unoriginal name of Goldie. He soon became very tame and would perch on Celia’s finger. She loved him. He was her bird whom she fed with hemp seeds, but he was also her companion in adventure. There was Dick’s Mistress who was a queen, and the Prince Dicky, her son, and the two of them roamed the world and had adventures. Prince Dicky was very handsome and wore garments of golden velvet with black velvet sleeves.

Later in the year Goldie was given a wife called Daphne. Daphne was a big bird with a lot of brown about her. She was awkward and ungainly. She spilled her water and upset things that she perched on. She never became as tame as Goldie. Celia’s father called her Susan because she ‘flounced’.

Susan used to poke at the birds with a match ‘to see what they would do,’ as she said. The birds were afraid of her and would flutter against the bars when they saw her coming. Susan thought all sorts of curious things funny. She laughed a great deal when a mouse’s tail was found in the mousetrap.

Susan was very fond of Celia. She played games with her such as hiding behind curtains and jumping out to say Bo! Celia was not really very fond of Susan—she was so big and so bouncy. She was much fonder of Mrs Rouncewell, the cook. Rouncy, as Celia called her, was an enormous, monumental woman, and she was the embodiment of calm. She never hurried. She moved about her kitchen in dignified slow motion, going through the ritual of her cooking. She was never harried, never flustered. She served meals always on the exact stroke of the hour. Rouncy had no imagination. When Celia’s mother would ask her: ‘Well, what do you suggest for lunch today?’ she always made the same reply. ‘Well, ma’am, we could have a nice chicken and a ginger pudding.’ Mrs Rouncewell could cook soufflés, vol-au-vents, creams, salmis, every kind of pastry, and the most elaborate French dishes, but she never suggested anything but a chicken and a ginger pudding.

Celia loved going into the kitchen—it was rather like Rouncy herself, very big, very vast, very clean, and very peaceful. In the midst of the cleanliness and space was Rouncy, her jaws moving suggestively. She was always eating. Little bits of this, that, and the other.

She would say:

‘Now, Miss Celia, what do you want?’

And then with a slow smile that stretched right across her wide face she would go across to a cupboard, open a tin, and pour a handful of raisins or currants into Celia’s cupped hands. Sometimes it would be a slice of bread and treacle that she was given, or a corner of jam tart, but there was always something.

And Celia would carry off her prize into the garden and up into the secret place by the garden wall, and there, nestled tightly into the bushes, she would be the Princess in hiding from her enemies to whom her devoted followers had brought provisions in the dead of night …

Upstairs in the nursery Nannie sat sewing. It was nice for Miss Celia to have such a good safe garden to play in—no nasty ponds or dangerous places. Nannie herself was getting old, she liked to sit and sew—and think over things—the little Strettons—all grown-up men and women now—and little Miss Lilian—getting married she was—and Master Roderick and Master Phil—both at Winchester … Her mind ran gently backwards over the years …

Something terrible happened. Goldie was lost. He had become so tame that his cage door was left open. He used to flutter about the nursery. He would sit on the top of Nannie’s head and tweak with his beak at her cap and Nannie would say mildly: ‘Now, now, Master Goldie, I can’t have that.’ He would sit on Celia’s shoulder and take a hemp seed from between her lips. He was like a spoilt child. If you did not pay attention to him, he got cross and squawked at you.

And on this terrible day Goldie was lost. The nursery window was open. Goldie must have flown away.

Celia cried and cried. Both Nannie and her mother tried to console her.

‘He’ll come back, perhaps, my pet.’

‘He’s just gone to fly round. We’ll put his cage outside the window.’

But Celia cried inconsolably. Birds pecked canaries to death—she had heard someone say so. Goldie was dead—dead somewhere under the trees. She would never feel his little beak again. She cried on and off all day. She would not eat either her dinner or her tea. Goldie’s cage outside the window remained empty.

At last bedtime came. Celia lay in her little white bed. She still sobbed automatically. She held her mother’s hand very tight. She wanted Mummy more than Nannie. Nannie had suggested that Celia’s father would perhaps give her another bird. Mother knew better than that. It wasn’t just a bird she wanted—after all, she still had Daphne—it was Goldie. Oh! Goldie—Goldie—Goldie … She loved Goldie—and he was gone—pecked to death. She squeezed her mother’s hand frenziedly. Her mother squeezed back.

And then, in the silence broken only by Celia’s heavy breathing, there came a little sound—the tweet of a bird.

Master Goldie flew down from the top of the curtain pole where he had been roosting quietly all day.

All her life Celia never forgot the incredulous wonderful joy of that moment …

It became a saying in the family when you began to worry over anything:

‘Now, then, remember Goldie and the curtain pole!’

The Gun Man dream changed. It got, somehow, more frightening.

The dream would start well. It would be a happy dream—a picnic or a party. And suddenly, just when you were having lots of fun, a queer feeling crept over you. Something was wrong somewhere … What was it? Why, of course, the Gun Man was there. But he wasn’t himself. One of the guests was the Gun Man …

And the awful part of it was, he might be anybody. You looked at them. Everyone was gay, laughing and talking. And then suddenly you knew. It might be Mummy or Daddy or Nannie—someone you were just talking to: You looked up in Mummy’s face—of course it was Mummy—and then you saw the light steely-blue eyes—and from the sleeve of Mummy’s dress—oh, horror!—that horrible stump. It wasn’t Mummy—it was the Gun Man … And you woke screaming …

And you couldn’t explain to anyone—to Mummy or to Nannie—it didn’t sound frightening just told. Someone said: ‘There, there, you’ve had a bad dream, my dearie,’ and patted you. And presently you went to sleep again—but you didn’t like going to sleep because the dream might come again.

Celia would say desperately to herself in the dark night: ‘Mummy isn’t the Gun Man. She isn’t. She isn’t. I know she isn’t. She’s Mummy.’

But in the night, with the shadows and the dream still clinging round you, it was difficult to be sure of anything. Perhaps nothing was what it seemed and you had always known it really.

‘Miss Celia had another bad dream last night, ma’am.’

‘What was it, Nurse?’

‘Something about a man with a gun, ma’am.’

Celia would say:

‘No, Mummy, not a man with a gun. The Gun Man. My Gun Man.’

‘Were you afraid he’d shoot you, darling? Was it that?’

Celia shook her head—shivered.

She couldn’t explain.

Her mother didn’t try to make her. She said very gently:

‘You’re quite safe, darling, here with us. No one can hurt you.’

That was comforting.